“That’s kind,” she paused. “Archie’s a good friend, isn’t he?”
Kaetha continued to crush the herb, releasing its oils which glinted in the candlelight. “Dill’s an anti-witch plant, they say.”
Gwyn hesitated. “Some people say.”
“Some hang bunches of it on their doors.”
“Dalrathans and their odd superstitions.” Gwyn tutted.
“Don’t forget that I’m one of them.” With her finger, Kaetha pushed a blob of mushed dill from the side of the pestle back into the mortar. “Some hang ferns or rowan twigs on theirs,” she continued. “They think the plants will protect them. They feel they need protecting.”
“I think you’ve worked that enough,” Gwyn said. “But wait to boil it in the morning when Beathag puts the porridge on.” Gwyn handed Kaetha a small rushlight and blew out the candle on the table. A sliver of light from the hall grew as Gwyn opened the pantry door.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” said Gwyn, a note of surprise in her voice.
She couldn’t say why but, concealed by semi-darkness, Kaetha found it easier to talk. “Is there a chance that— my father or mother— might have had magic?”
Gwyn closed the door again. “Hush, lass,” she said in a whisper. “Servants’ ears are everywhere.”
“I think it’s important. I wish I could know about them.”
Gwyn studied her face before replying. “Your mother and father worked the land. They were from the town of Bris. They died from fever and a traveller brought you here, hoping to find a home for you. All he knew about your parents was that they were good, respectable people.”
“You’ve told me all that before.”
“Really, Kaetha, you’ve no reason to concern yourself with your past. You’re safe and loved and well looked after now, aren’t you?”
“Aye.”
“And that’s all that matters. Now,” she said, her tone signalling an end to the conversation, “time for bed.”
Kaetha dreamt that a stranger lurked in the shadows of the hall and she woke in the darkness with that feeling still clinging to her. She sat up, shivering in a draught of chill air, the back of her neck tingling. She pulled her kirtle and gown over her smock, yet the cold sensation grew stronger, creeping down her spine just as it had by the river. She took a cloak from Morwena’s bed and wrapped it around her but that didn’t stop the strange shiver either.
A current of air swirled, playing at the ends of her hair. She knew now that she was sensing a Fiadhain, a creature of magic, although she couldn’t see it.
“Who’s there?” she said.
“Don’t be afraid,” a voice whispered.
“I’m not,” she said, motionless as she gripped the cloak. Should I call out to Gwyn or Stroud or Beathag? She kept quiet. She could see little in the darkness but patches of the linen screens which caught the glow from the hearth, gold illuminating the wings of birds between slices of shadow. “What do you want, Fiadhain?” She wondered if anyone else would hear them.
“I have a message from your mother.”
She almost forgot to breathe. “Impossible.” She had no mother.
“Something has happened,” the Fiadhain hesitated. “This will be hard for you to hear.”
Did this Fiadhain speak the truth? Was he really passing on a message from her mother? If so, the message surely would have been sent long ago. So why was he speaking so urgently? Could her mother still be alive? Kaetha took a deep breath, shapeless thoughts pushing in from the edges of her imagination. She got out of bed and opened the wooden shutters of a small window, letting in a shaft of moonlight, but the figure she had been sure was standing but a few feet from her was nowhere to be seen.
“Show yourself,” she said and then she was buffeted by a blast of wind as something like feathers or tendrils of mist cut through the air, sweeping upwards and outwards as if drawing a curtain, trailing smoke-like waves of bluish grey. In moments, a figure like that of a man emerged from the haze. The robes he was draped in looked as fine as dove wings, his skin was cloud white and his ashy, flyaway hair flowed past his shoulders. His pale eyes fixed her with a wide stare like that of a bird of prey. There was also something birdlike about the delicate, angled bone structure of his face. Kaetha held his gaze. So this is an Annisith? A creature of air, she thought, thinking back to more of Morwena’s Edonian tales. In the stories, Annisiths usually helped the hero or heroine in some way but sometimes they were not to be trusted, reading people’s thoughts and betraying them or conjuring storms which destroyed buildings or sank ships.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I wish I could break this news more gently but there really isn’t time. I must get back to her. Kaetha, your mother is dying.”
“What?” she breathed.
“She thought – perhaps – that you might have already suspected,” he continued. “But, you see, in the end, she didn’t want to die without you knowing the truth.”
Her throat felt constricted, her chest tight. How could it be that her mother had been alive all these years and she only knew of it now, when it was too late? “The truth of who she is?”
The Annisith nodded. “It’s Morwena. She’s your mother.”
She ought to have felt shocked. But she didn’t. Hearing this unearthed truth was like recognising a familiar face. She’s my mother. Her heart swelled with a warm glow but it was instantly shot through with pain and she gripped the edge of the bed to stop her hands from trembling. “She—” Kaetha took in a gasp of air. “She’s my—” Her mind swam with questions. “She’s dying?”
“She wanted me to tell you
