“Goodbye, Kaetha.”
Before he turned away, she thought that he had looked at her differently, as if they were strangers, even though they’d been friends for years.
“Shall we meet up again tomorrow?” she asked.
Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. He had already reached his front door.
TWO
Visitation
The low sun fought feebly against the oncoming darkness as Kaetha trudged up the road. Muffled chatter – baby crying – dog barking – axe biting into wood. Sounds of everyday life swam around her from the cottages and workshops, from the lives of the villagers she now feared to run into. She halted, her gaze caught by a bunch of leaves which hung from a hook on a door, scraping softly against the wood in the breeze. Another, she thought, lowering her eyes as she passed other dwellings which had long since kept similar hangings on their doors. Someone peered at her through a window shutter, disappearing when she glanced back at them. She felt a tight knot in her stomach long after she’d left the village behind her.
Stroud, the steward, let her in through the heavy oak door of Feodail Hall, his bushy grey eyebrows raised at the sight of her. Her teeth chattered as she entered, her boots muddying the floor rushes. Ignoring his questions about where she’d been, she raced across the hall and disappeared behind hangings of fur and screens of painted linen.
After changing into dry things and squeezing her damp hair with a cloth, she began to warm up again and collapsed onto her bed, breathing in the calming fragrance of the rosemary and lavender strewn amongst the rushes. That reminded her. Opening up her bag, she was surprised that most of the herb bundles that she’d collected that day were still intact, although sopping. She shook them before pegging them onto the twine which stretched between a linen screen painted with blue birds at the foot of Morwena’s bed and one covered in red cats in front of hers.
The hall was lit by the crackling hearth fire in its centre and the branches of beeswax candles which stood in brass stands along the oak table at the far side of the room, though shadows still lurked up in the soot-stained rafters. Kaetha sat cross-legged by the fire, absently rearranging her family of stone wildcats. They’d been her favourite toys when she was little and Morwena insisted they were kept there. As a child, Kaetha would refuse to go to sleep unless the wildcats were all together and all warm by the fire.
She smiled at the memory, though it didn’t stop her thoughts from returning to Raghnall’s words that day. They echoed through her mind and she kept on seeing Archie’s face before he turned from her. He was afraid of me. The Fuathan had stared, as if there was something strange about her. What if there was?
“I won’t ask you where you’ve been,” said Gwyn. Kaetha hadn’t noticed her entering the hall. “I don’t want you to be tempted to lie.” Gwyn was looking at the wax-coated wooden tablet she used for listing larder stocks. Kaetha rolled her eyes. Organising the food was Beathag’s job and she knew the servant fought hard to maintain a degree of control in her role.
The firelight picked out the growing streaks of grey in her guardian’s wiry, brown hair which was scraped back and pinned severely to her head. Kaetha knew her to be only seven years older than Morwena, though the lines on her brow made the gap in age appear greater.
“You know you shouldn’t be out when it’s getting dark.” Gwyn pouted and squinted in concentration as she scratched another word into the tablet. “I’m disappointed.”
Kaetha couldn’t be bothered to think up any defence. “I’m sorry,” she said, staring into the fire, hearing how she didn’t sound convincingly apologetic.
“And your boots,” Gwyn added. “I’ll not have you getting them into such a filthy state, lass.”
“I’ll clean them.” A heavy silence followed.
Gwyn narrowed her eyes at her. “Is everything alright?”
“Aye. Fine.” Kaetha picked at her fraying cuff.
Gwyn took a seat near her, drumming her fingers on her lap, making the petals of the crownstar flower tattoo on her wrist twitch uneasily. Unconsciously, she tugged her sleeve down to cover it. “I was worried until Stroud said you’d returned. I thought you might have got into some sort of trouble.”
“I was just out walking. You really shouldn’t worry so much.”
Gwyn straightened up, her lips pursed as though she’d eaten a sour gooseberry. “Has anyone upset you?”
“No.”
As they sat in silence, Kaetha wondered if she should tell Gwyn about the Fuathan, about her suspicions, about all that Raghnall had said, but, as she took in the stern cast of her features, she kept her mouth shut, wishing that Morwena were here instead for her to talk to. If she opened up to Gwyn about these things, she would probably just get angry.
A frown turned the corners of Gwyn’s mouth and she twisted her gold ring, the sole piece of jewellery she wore. “You don’t feel able to share your thoughts with me.”
“My thoughts aren’t important,” Kaetha replied, getting up.
“Where are you going?”
“To prepare some herbs.”
It was quiet in the pantry, except for the grinding of pestle against mortar. As Kaetha worked, she stared through the open shutters at a scattering of stars. The door behind her creaked.
“It’s late. You should go to bed,” said Gwyn.
“Soon.” She felt Gwyn’s closeness as she peered over her shoulder.
“I hope you’ve left some of that on the plant. I told Beathag to cook the side of salmon tomorrow.”
“There’s plenty,” said Kaetha.
“What’s this for?”
“Archie’s Ma mentioned the other day that the baby’s suffering from colic and hiccoughs.
