Marilynn Byerly, Anita Lynn, Katherine Greyle, Lucy Grijalva, Bonnie
Hamre, Judith Hershner, Candice Kohl, and Alice Gaines Chambers

ISBN 1-893896-20-X, ImaJinn Books
July 2004, Trade Paperback
List Price: $13.75 At ImaJinn: $11.00
Ebook Price: $6.00

When all seems lost and mere mortals despair, the hand of fate delivers a magical gift -- a needle made of gold, designed to last through the ages. From woman to woman, it passes through generations, mending hearts as well as cloth.

THE STORIES:

"Galiene's Needle," by Katherine Greyle (Arthur's England, The Magical Past)
THE MAGIC OF LOVE, OR THE LOVE OF GOLD?
One lady, two of Arthur's knights, and all the gold the mystical Isle of Avalon can offer. Who will find the true treasure? And who will be doomed forever? On Avalon, the answer is never what it seems.

"Eye of the Beholder," by Candice Kohl (England, 1160)

CAN A WOMAN BRING HER SOUL MATE BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH WHEN LIFE CONSPIRES TO KEEP THEM SEPARATED?
Discovering a nearly dead man lying in the road near the family's keep, Grace of Oxley is determined to save him. She enlists the help of an old crone, using the woman's golden needle to sew his wounds closed and rare potions to treat his injuries. Though Grace believes it is her friend's sorcery that saves Sir Cedric, it's Grace's love that weaves a magic spell around the two.

"The Christening Gown" by Judie Hershner (New England, 1694)
Faith Barnhill's prayer was to see her employer, Jonathan Hanley, accept his baby daughter and give her a name befitting her sweet nature. She never dreamed the prayers she included with each stitch of the babe's christening gown to bring her the greatest Joy imaginable.


"All that Glitters," by Bonnie Hamre (Oregon, 1853 )

WILL THE RIGORS OF THE OREGON TRAIL HARDEN A YOUNG BRIDE'S RESISTANCE TO THE JOURNEY OR HELP HER LISTEN TO HER HEART?
When honeymooners Thomas and Roseanne Jennings set out for Oregon, dreaming of a better life, neither is prepared for the physical and emotional difficulties they'll face. A magical gold needle seams them together, but with a series of mishaps teaching them the fragility of life, is their love too delicate to make their dreams a reality?

"The Golden Hour," by Lucy Grijalva (Benicia, on the San Francisco Bay, Spring 1943)

IN A WORLD AT WAR, SHE'D ALREADY LOVED ONCE . . . AND LOST
After losing her fiancé at Pearl Harbor, Marlene MacDonald is afraid to love again. Her old friend Jack Doretta is determined to show her how wrong she is. But can he succeed in claiming her heart and soul before he ships out again?

"Ebony and Ivory," by Anita Lynn (Inglewood, California, 1953)

CAN THEIR MARRIAGE SURVIVE A BABY?
Mark and Ruby made a pact when they married not to have any children so that no child of theirs would have to bear the stigma of mixed blood. When Ruby shares the news of her pregnancy with Mark, she expects him to be upset, but not to the extent that he can't accept it. Will the gold needle which Ruby uses to sew baby clothes allow her to see the future of the child she carries? And is Mark part of that future?

"Sleepless Beauty," by Marilynn Byerly (Moravia, N.C., 2040)

A VIRTUAL FAIRY TALE OR VIRTUAL NIGHTMARE?
Insomniac Gates Longstreet seeks treatment at a clinic which uses a combination of virtual reality and dream therapy. Through a series of virtual fractured fairy tales shared with her business associate Marcus Alden and Dr. Dewitt Cramer, she must discover the emotional pea under her mattress which keeps her awake and the real-life hero in her own tale.

"The Homecoming," by Alice Gaines Chambers (Earth, 3000)

HER HOME OR HER HUSBAND?
Alana Millerson is about to lose her husband, Garth. He wants to leave an Earth that has become barely habitable for the promise of a new planet, and a fearful Alana refuses to go. But an antique tapestry and enchanted needle offer her a different vision of her husband's future world than the hardships she has envisioned.

What the Reviewers are Saying

"Eight talented authors combine their storytelling skills to create a consecutive series of tales that are filled with warmth, joy and magic. The presence of the needle makes this anthology very cohesive and loads of fun to read. An ideal anthology for romance fans!"
Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times

"The only overt magical constant is the true magic of love in every story. ... (E)ach of the stories makes for worthwhile reading, and though penned by very different writers, the golden needle holds them all together to form a coherent tapestry."Amanda Killgore, Huntress Reviews

"BY FATE'S HAND is one of the most well done anthologies ever produced. The consistencies of the stories, the order of the journey the readers are lead on, as well as the intriguing theme of the needle, make this an anthology not to miss. All the authors shine with their writing talents. From the Prologue to the Epilogue, the flow of the stories and the authors' abilities to bring it all together, enriches the quality of this remarkable creation of love, joy, magic and its twists and turns." Tracey West for The Road to Romance

"A recommended addition to the electronic keeper shelf."SF Romance

"Each story captures the times perfectly, creating in a short space people you genuinely care about. Marilynn Byerly, Anita Lynn, Katherine Greyle, Lucy Grijalva, Bonnie Hamre, Judith Hershner, Candice Kohl and Alice Gaines Chambers weave a tapestry that fits together seamlessly, creating a picture of beauty, hope, and the thought that even when all else fades, love will endure." Affaire de Coeur

"BY FATE'S HAND is a wonderful collection of stories woven together by and around a magical needle that helps people to find the wisdom to achieve happiness. Readers of all romantic genres, from historical to futuristic, will find something to enjoy in this heartwarming book." Kathy Samuels, ROMANCE REVIEWS TODAY

PROLOGUE
"The Gift"
by
Marilynn Byerly
 

The Fates' Grove on Mount Olympus
The dawning of the Christian Age

Magic flared in Clotho's cupped hands in a blaze of golden light, then faded to a hard sliver of gold. She stared down at what she had made. Would it be all she wished? Would it be the proper gift?

"Is it done?" With unseemly speed for a matron, her elder sister Lachesis ran across the moonlit Sacred Grove toward her.

Clotho sagged wearily down to her knees beside the moon pool and bowed her head. Her gift burned white hot with magic against her cradling palm.

"Is it done, spinner?" Her eldest sister Atropos hobbled to her and nudged her thigh with a bone cane. Her voice cracked with age, "Is it done?"

"It is done." Clotho held out her hands.

"A needle, 'paaah.'" Atropos spat.

Lachesis knelt and rested her hand on Clotho's arm. "It is a beautiful thing, youngling. You should be proud."

"A needle for mortal maids to make pretty things with." Atropos sneered. "A worthy gift, indeed, from our flighty baby sister."

"A needle can mend wounds so the body becomes whole," Lachesis countered.

Before Atropos could make another scathing remark, Clotho said, "I wished for much more than a needle. I wished for many things."

"What did you wish, little sister?" Lachesis asked.

"I wanted something that held a bit of each of us to go beyond when we are no more."

"When we cease because no mortal believes in us," Lachesis agreed.

"The sharp point is my contribution to that needle." Atropos cackled with amusement.

"No, eldest sister. From Lachesis, I chose wisdom. She has the wisdom to see within each mortal."

Atropos grunted in agreement.

"From you, I chose your great compassion." Clotho smiled up into Atropos' stunned face.

"I cut the thread of each mortal's life and bring death, and you call me compassionate?"

"You sharpen your scissors and pray for a swift and painless end. Death is not cruel, it is part of the tapestry of life."

Atropos shook her gray head. "Why is it, then, that you cry for the pitifully short thread of the sickly babe, or the maiden dead before reaching womanhood?"

"I cry for them, but I also cry for myself, and for you, my sisters. I cry for a life given but never savored. For Lachesis, I cry for her motherly heart and love, and her eternally empty womb. I cry for you, Atropos, for your aged infirmities, when you have never known youth or comfortable middle age. For myself, I cry because this young girl's body, just beginning to ripen, will never know a lover's touch, or his kiss. Will never know the love of one heart for another for all time. That is why I cry."

Swiping a tear from her own cheek, Atropos lowered herself gingerly to her knees so that the three women faced each other in a circle. "You become eloquent, child."

Lachesis took her sisters' hands. "We are one."

They chanted together the ritual words, "We are one together, we are one with the tapestry of life."

"My yearning for love is what I offered of myself." Clotho gazed at the magical gift. "I chose a needle because of the threads we weave to create the tapestry of all life. Each thread is one person's part of that tapestry, and the needle will help each to choose the right direction for her own portion of that great picture."

"It is a good gift." Lachesis hugged Clotho. "A very good gift."

"But what does your magical needle do?" Atropos asked.

Blushing, Clotho admitted, "I'm not certain."

"Then we must ask the moon pool." Lachesis motioned toward the water in front of them.

"Yes." Clotho leaned toward the silver waters of the scrying pool. "I ask for visions of the future, Sister Selene, Goddess Moon. I ask for visions of the future that my needle touches, visions that will tell me the true nature of this gift I offer mortals. I ask most humbly, Goddess Moon."

The three Fates leaned closer.

The silvered waters rippled and forms began to take shape within....

EXCERPTS FROM THE SHORT STORIES

Once upon a time, four hours before their deaths, two of Arthur's knights greeted the day with joy and satisfaction. One emerged from a tavern wench's bed, his fiery hair a riot of uncombed curls, his face split into a hearty grin. The other stepped out of a priest's hole, his huge frame stooped from the hours of prayer, but his eyes shiny and bright like freshly polished brass.

Then the Picts came.

When the raid was over, the knights were dead, their bodies gone. The village priest said prayers for them because he had seen them die. The sinner had been pierced through the chest, falling headfirst into the water while his blood poured into the sea. The shriven one had been cut in half lengthwise, his armor and his size no help against the Pict's heavy sword.

So the priest said prayers, imploring God to take their souls into His mighty hand. But the prayers were in vain. The knights' spirits could not go to Heaven nor were they owned by Hell.

They had gone somewhere else entirely.
 

"Eye of the Beholder," by Candice Kohl (England, 1160)

Without asking permission, he undid the girdle at her waist and tugged her tunics over her head. They were both naked now, yet she felt no shame, only wonder.

He embraced her again, and this time nearly all their unencumbered body parts fitted together nicely, including their lips. She felt drunk on the scent of him. She clung to him while he steadied her, despite his roaming hands and heated kisses. When her knees buckled, he eased her to the mossy ground. He did things, unfathomable things, to her flesh. Unable to stop herself, she strained toward him till he covered her, took her, and joined her, making them as one.

"The Christening Gown" by Judie Hershner (New England, 1694)

No excerpt available

"If you won't talk to me, Rosie, how can I say I'm sorry?"

Thomas Jennings scowled at his wife walking on the other side of the oxen team. He felt guilty enough. Did she have to rub it in? "Look at me. You haven't said a word since last night--"

She glared. "You hurt me! You did it deliberately."

"Aw, Rosie, not on purpose." Heat crept up the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to--"

"Well, you did!"

"I tried to make up this morning, you know that. But all you'd do is putter with those blasted pots and pans--"

She stopped, fists propped on her hips. "You want something to eat when we stop for the nooning, don't you?"
"Yes, but--"

"If I knew what you were going to do to me, I'd never have married you. Never! Not in a million years."

He flinched. "It's too late to cry over things you can't change." He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, then kicked at a clod of dirt. "It was my first time, too."
 

"The Golden Hour," by Lucy Grijalva (Benicia, on the San Francisco Bay, Spring 1943)

Jack was still limping as they turned onto G Street. His hand rested on her shoulder, with his fingers stroking invisible lines across her collarbone. She shivered and he pulled her a little closer, which just made her shiver again. He smelled so good that she wanted to inhale him.

Since when had she ever been so affected by him? She'd always liked him, trusted him; she'd relied on his friendship after her world had fallen apart on December 7, 1941; and yes, maybe she'd come to lean on his presence in her life too much. But now it was his turn to lean on her. And she was thinking thoughts no nice girl should. She slipped an arm around his waist, just to offer him a bit more support. Her boardinghouse was half a block down, saving her from her delinquent thoughts.

"Marlene--"

"Come in--"

He stopped her words with a hand on her cheek, gentle as a whisper. Even in the near-total darkness, his smoky brown eyes held her gaze. Her face turned up to meet his. She could almost feel his lips on hers. She could almost taste him, whiskey-flavored and warm, asking her without words to open up to him and everything that came with him.

But she didn't want everything that came with him or anyone like him. She didn't want the war intruding on her life again.

"Ebony and Ivory," by Anita Lynn (Inglewood, California, 1953)

Curious, Ruby studied the needle, held between thumb and index finger. What an unusual color, gold versus the usual silvery steel. Was it really a sewing needle? Yes, it had an eye, so she guessed it would work as well as any. She threaded the needle, lined up the edges of two pieces of the kimono, and slid the needle into the fabric to start the first seam.

Immediately, she was overtaken by the strangest sensation she'd ever experienced-- a feeling akin to weightlessness. At the same time, the room began to shimmer, and her vision lost focus. . . .

She was no longer in her living room. Looking around, she recognize her whereabouts-- a hospital room. Before she could do more than wonder what she was doing here, a nurse entered, carrying a small bundle in her arms.
 

"Sleepless Beauty," by Marilynn Byerly (Moravia, N.C., 2040)

Gates landed on her rump on a forest floor then clambered up and brushed herself off. In this fairy tale, she wore a long red cape, and a wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checkered napkin sat beside her.

"Little Red Riding Hood, oh brother!" She grimaced with disgust then noticed the slinky red dress she wore underneath the cape. "Well, that's certainly an improvement."

"It certainly is," Dr. Cramer said huskily behind her.

She turned toward him. "You're a wolf!"

He stood upright like a man, but his feet were paws, and he wore an ascot and an old-fashioned smoking jacket which came to his thighs. His long, bushy tail wagged while he smoothed the gray fur around his muzzle and pointed ears with his hand.

"You look charming, Red.. Ravishing." His wolfish gaze caressed her as he licked his lips. More predatory male then predator, he began to stride toward her.

She backed away until she hit a tree.

He leaned forward and rested his hand on the tree by her head. "You're so beautiful. I want to eat you up. You like bad boys, I can tell, and I'm the baddest boy in fairy tales, Red. That's why Alden was being so damn annoying. He wanted to get your attention, and he succeeded. I saw how you were ogling him."

Heat flamed her cheeks. "Marcus is my friend, and he was trying to help. Besides, I don't date business associates."

"How about friendly wolves? Want to hear me howl? Better yet, I'll make you howl... with pleasure." His free hand moved up her ribs toward her breast. "Come on, give the Big Bad Wolf a kiss. He's big in all the right places."

"The Homecoming," by Alice Gaines Chambers (Earth, 3000)

It had been weeks since the night Garth had taken her to the holo-palace, and he grew a bit more distant with every day. Tonight he was rather late coming home again. A few minutes later than he had been the night before, which in turn had been a few minutes later than the night before that. He was leaving her by degrees, it seemed, and she could do nothing to keep him. Worst of all, he'd hardly touched her since that night.

Alana looked down at the canvas in the lap. As the real Garth slipped away, the one represented in thread grew more distinct. He stood, fully dressed, in the middle of that sun-drenched meadow. She couldn't mistake his image, as much as she hadn't wanted to stitch it there. The gold needle she was holding at the moment had made her put her own husband in a place that she herself had no intention of ever seeing. That same needle drew her -- day and night, now -- to complete the picture, as thought it knew her fate better than she did.

Garth was going to leave her.