by Anne Bishop
A month after that, Adolfo returned to the village, a prosperous man who simply wanted to make peace with his estranged family. It was almost touching to see how the gentry in the neighborhood worried about him as he grieved. When he left a week later, all he took with him was his young nephew and the boy’s nurse.
Adolfo still stared at the fire.
“You hated me because I revealed your secret, because I couldn’t hide what I had inherited from you,” he said to the mother who was long dead. “You let my father do monstrous things to me in his attempt to win back your love — and retain the wealth you provided. I have used everything he taught me, Mother. I have refined those crude lessons into something elegant. And I use what I learned against your kind. You could have loved me. Because you chose hate instead, I will not suffer a witch to live. I promise you that before I’m done, there won’t be one of your kind left.”
Chapter Thirteen
She wasn’t being deceitful, Dianna assured herself as she and the borrowed mare left Ahern’s farm and trotted toward Brightwood. She just didn’t see any reason to tell Lucian she had met Ari — or that she had decided to go back to the cottage today. It had nothing to do with his returning to Ari’s bed each night, but he would assume it did, and then they’d quarrel about it and he wouldn’t listen, and she didn’t want to quarrel with her twin about some … human.
Besides, why should Lucian be the only one to find some distraction these days? Aiden had instructed every bard in Tir Alainn to send him any information they might hear about witches or wiccanfae. The only things that had been passed to him were the songs he’d already heard, but they told the Fae nothing except that they had an enemy in the human world capable of destroying the Fair Land.
They had lost more Clans over the past few days. More pieces of their land were suddenly gone. And there were still no answers.
I am the Huntress, and I am helpless, Dianna ranted silently. How can we fight something when we don’t even know what it is? How can we find these wiccanfae if we don’t know what they are or where to look? It’s like trying to fight a shadow that sucks the life out of whatever it brushes against.
So why shouldn’t she spend a little time satisfying another curiosity. She was curious about Ari. And she was wondering why, if Lucian was finding Ari’s bed so pleasurable, he seemed troubled by it.
As they passed a marking stone, the mare pricked her ears and quickened her pace. Dianna didn’t rein her in. It was already midmorning. Having to wait until Lucian returned to Tir Alainn so that he wouldn’t ask questions about where she was going — and why — and then riding to Ahern’s farm and back to Brightwood had wasted enough time.
Ari was working in the low-walled garden, wearing the same shabby clothes. She looked up when she heard the horse, then smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
“Do you live out here?” Dianna asked, guiding the mare to the wall.
“At this time of year, yes,” Ari said. She petted the mare’s nose. “It’s planting time, and I’ve still got a lot of seeds and seedlings to get into the ground.”
Dianna looked at the still-empty sections of the garden. “If it’s so much work, why plant so much?”
A little puzzled, Ari replied, “To have enough food to last through the winter.”
“But —” What had looked like a large plot of land a moment ago suddenly seemed smaller. “Can you harvest enough from this?”
Ari’s smile now held a hint of worry. “Usually. Some years are better than others. I also pick apples, strawberries, and raspberries. Some blueberries, too, but I’m not fond of them, so I leave most of them for the birds and the Small Folk to harvest. I have a beehive as well, and they share their honey with me. And I trade some baking and honey to Ahern for eggs and milk … and a bit of meat. It gets me by.”
All of that, and more, was there for the asking in Tir Alainn, Dianna thought. The Fae didn’t wonder if there might be enough. There was always more than plenty.
“It was kind of you to stop by during your ride,” Ari said. Her smile seemed a little forced, a touch impatient.
So much for my assuming she would be delighted to entertain a gentry lady coming for a visit, Dianna thought. Courtesy forbids her from saying out loud, “Go away and let me do my work,” but her eyes say it all the same. In another minute, even courtesy won’t keep her standing at the wall. She’ll phrase it more politely, but she’ll tell me to go away. She will. I haven’t dealt with many humans. I’ve never wanted to. But they’ve crossed my path enough for me to know she’s different. Why is she different?
“I’ll help you plant the garden,” Dianna said impulsively.
Ari’s mouth fell open. “You — You’re going to help me plant? You’re going to dig in the dirt?”
“Why not? You do it, and it doesn’t seem to have any ill effects.”
“But … but … you’re a lady.”
She already found the pretense of being a gentry lady sufficiently tiresome to welcome shedding it. “I may be a lady, but I’m also a woman.” She smiled, but she knew her eyes revealed a bit of the Huntress. “I’m not as weak as you seem to think I am.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re weak,” Ari said hurriedly. “It’s just —” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Well,” she said after a long pause, “the work will go faster with an extra pair of hands.”
“That’s fine then. I’ll —” — find some way to get out of this fiend-made saddle without falling on my face or making a fool out of myself.
Ari seemed to be considering the same problem. “How do ladies dismount when a gentleman isn’t around to help?”
With no charm and little grace, Dianna thought sourly, suddenly understanding Ahern’s malicious amusement when he saddled the mare for her that morning. The other day she had simply scrambled out of the saddle in order to reach Ari before the girl fell. Today, dismounting didn’t seem as easy.
“Maybe you could use the wall?” Ari said hesitantly. “Or the chopping block out back?”
Dianna frowned at the wall. It was high enough for her to step onto it — as long as the mare cooperated. She brought the mare around so that the animal stood next to the wall. “Hold her head.”
When Ari had a firm grip on the reins, Dianna carefully dismounted, stepping onto the wall. Half turned to keep one hand on the saddle for balance, she wobbled on the wall, wishing the round, uneven stones offered better footing. She shifted one foot, planted it firmly on the hem of her riding habit, lost her balance, and, with a small scream, fell across the mare’s back.
The mare swung her hind quarters away from the wall, taking Dianna with her.
“Oh, dear,” Ari said in a choked voice.
Silently cursing Ahern, Dianna slid off the mare’s back, then glared at her companion. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I wouldn’t, Mistress. Truly I wouldn’t.” Ari clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.
“Not Mistress, just Dianna.” Brushing at her skirt, Dianna took the mare’s reins in her other hand. “Mistress is a lady who has to remain dignified and polite even under these circumstances. Dianna does not. Since I’m not feeling dignified or polite at the moment …”
“Yes.” Ari cleared her throat. “I understand. Why don’t we take the mare around back and let her graze.” She studied Dianna’s riding habit. “And we should find something for you to wear so that you don’t get your clothes dirty.”
“Fine,” Dianna said, looking at her clothes. As if that mattered now. Then she whispered in the mare’s ear, “If you don’t behave, I’ll feed you to my shadow hounds.”
After tying the mare outside the cow shed, Dianna followed Ari to a bedroom off the main living room.
“Isn’t it unusual to have a bedroom in this part of a house?” Dianna asked, looking around. In a Clan house, none of the private suites were connected to the communal rooms. Perhaps human cottages were built differently because they were so mu
ch smaller?
“It’s the crone’s room,” Ari replied. “At least … it is when there are three,” she finished quietly. She hurried through the arch that led to another room.
While Ari rummaged around in the other room, Dianna studied the bedroom — but slid her eyes quickly past the bed.
Tie the knots and fiddle them, Dianna thought crossly. Being Lucian’s sister didn’t make her less a woman, and any woman worthy of her gender would be curious about what was taking place in that bed, especially if she knew the man involved was the Lightbringer. Especially after spotting the gold filigree necklace set with amethysts that was on the dressing table. That was a trinket that was usually considered sufficient for a parting gift after a brief, pleasant affair. She didn’t think Lucian was ready to part quite yet since there were still several days before the dark of the moon. Was he preparing the way to be able to continue the affair when his promised time was done?
“This will do … I think,” Ari said, returning to the room with a pile of clothing.
Dianna turned away from the dressing table and the thoughts that were making her uneasy. The bards knew enough stories and songs about Fae males becoming ensnared by human females. The lesson in all those stories, which were always tragic, was to enjoy and move on — and not look back. To linger too long was to become trapped by feelings that were best left unfelt, to be lured into wanting things that were best left unwanted.
Pushing away the desire to rush back to Tir Alainn and demand that Lucian tell her his intentions, which would only make his refusal to discuss it a certainty, Dianna took the clothing Ari was holding.
“They were my mother’s,” Ari said. “She was taller than me, so I think her things will fit you better. I’ll see to the mare while you change.”
By the time Dianna exchanged her riding habit for the loose-fitting tunic and trousers, the mare was staked to a long lead in the meadow, contentedly grazing, and Ari was back in the garden.
“Your mother and I may have been the same height, but her figure was more … generous,” Dianna said, pinching the fabric under her breasts and holding it out before releasing it.
“She was the mother of the three,” Ari said, sadness shadowing her eyes for a moment. “She looked … ripe.”
Dianna narrowed her eyes. That was the second time Ari had mentioned “the three.” And there was something about the way she said it that made Dianna sure it wasn’t a meaningless phrase. “Who is the third?”
“The maid,” Ari said, busily digging a small hole. “There have always been three. Now only the maid is left.”
Dianna knew she was prodding a bruise, if not an open heart wound, but she didn’t stop. “What happened to the mother and the crone?”
“They died.”
Dianna looked around, feeling as if the landscape had shifted on her somehow. The cottage wasn’t a manor house, but it was considerably bigger than most of the cottages that were scattered around the countryside. “If you do the work in the garden, who tends the house and does the rest of the work?”
“I do.” Ari planted a seedling in the hole she’d just dug. “Although the cottage is tended better in the winter than in summer.”
“Then you’re alone here. Truly alone.”
Ari sat back on her heels. “The Great Mother is always here. And so are the ones who came before me. It is not our custom to set up markers, but when I take a walk around Brightwood, I can tell when I pass a place where one of us was laid to rest.”
“But —” She’d seen human burial places. Of course there were markers, and land set aside for that purpose. “So parts of Brightwood are sacred ground?”
“Brightwood is one of the Old Places,” Ari said gently. “All of it is sacred ground. To some people anyway.” She took a breath and blew it out. “Would you like to plant some seeds?”
What a strange girl, Dianna thought a few minutes later as she followed Ari’s instructions for planting peas. She talks about “the three” and sacred ground and being able to tell where the dead rest even when there are no markers. I’ve never heard anyone talk this way. I’ll have to ask Lyrra if she’s ever heard anything like this. She spends more time among humans because of her gift as the Muse. The three. Why is that significant?
“Dianna … you’re planting them too close together. They can’t grow that way.”
Dianna glanced at Ari, then looked away to hide her rising temper. How dare the girl chastise her — her! — when she was willing to help? So a few wouldn’t grow. What difference —
If she goes hungry this winter because I’m playing with her survival, will I still say “what difference?”
“I’m sorry,” Dianna said. And she was sorry. But she wasn’t sure if it was because she had been careless in the planting or because she cared about what could happen to Ari because of it. She unearthed the peas, then sat back on her heels. “My mind wandered, and I stopped paying attention to what I was doing.”
“It’s easy enough to do that,” Ari said with a smile. “I do a fair amount of dreaming when I’m working in the garden.” She hesitated. “You could do that row over. No harm’s done.”
Dianna shifted until she was sitting more comfortably. She shook her head. “I’ll just keep you company for a while.”
Watching Ari for a few minutes was soothing. She didn’t hurry through the planting, but she had a rhythm to her movements that allowed her to accomplish more than Dianna would have thought possible in a short amount of time.
When soothing changed to boring, Dianna shifted restlessly. She was reluctant to help again because she didn’t want to feel responsible if the harvest was poor, but she didn’t want to just sit there. She should leave, and would have left already if she’d gotten the information she’d come for. Besides, she wanted the novelty of planting something.
“Would you like to plant the flowers?” Ari asked.
“Flowers?” Boredom vanished. Flowers were just prettiness, weren’t they? They wouldn’t be important. She could plant them, and it wouldn’t make any difference if some of them didn’t grow.
“I plant flowers around the cottage, but I won’t be able to do that until the vegetable garden is in.”
Dianna hesitated. “If some of them don’t grow, it won’t make the winter harder, will it?”
Ari shook her head and smiled. “I use some of them to dye my wool, but there’s always plenty. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Dianna followed Ari out of the garden gate to the readied ground that formed a border around the cottage. At the front corner, she could see plants already growing.
“Those are perennials,” Ari said. “They come back year after year. On this side of the cottage, I plant new every year.”
“Why?”
Ari shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “The perennials represent continuity and the pleasure of seeing the familiar renew itself. This bed represents the excitement and potential of the new and unknown.” She picked up a small basket next to the flower bed and brushed a finger over the bundles of cloth inside. “These are the different seeds I collected last fall. You take a bundle and scatter the seeds over the flower bed. Some years I scatter them in clusters so that there are distinct areas that are all one flower, and other years I scatter them throughout the bed so everything is mixed together.”
“Which way should I do it?” Dianna asked.
“Whichever way pleases you. There are three exceptions.”
Naturally, Dianna thought a little sourly. It couldn’t just be easy and fun.
Ari held up one bundle. “The marigolds need to be planted in the front because they’re short.” Dropping that bundle back in the basket, she picked up two more. One was tied with white thread, the other yellow. “These need to be planted in the back of the bed because they need to climb. It’s easier if you plant them first.”
Dianna looked at the trellis that ran across the whole side of the cottage. “What are they?” she asked, taking the bundles.
/> “Moonflowers and morning glories.” Ari hesitated, then mumbled, “I plant the moonflowers to honor the Lady of the Moon.”
“Really?” Delighted, Dianna studied the bundle with more interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them.” She glanced slyly at Ari, and teased, “If the moonflowers are for the Lady, are the morning glories for the Lightbringer?”
Oh, how Ari blushed over that question. She stammered out the instructions for how deep and far apart to plant, then bolted back to the vegetable garden.
Amused by Ari’s reaction, Dianna turned her attention to the important business of planting her moonflowers.
After several minutes of debating with herself about whether to plant moonflowers along half the wall and the morning glories along the other half or mix them, she decided to alternate. That way the whole wall would be filled with flowers morning and evening. And it would be a truthful representation of the way she and Lucian were with each other. One claimed the day, the other the night, but their lives were intertwined because they were twins.
“Is there a problem?” Ari called out.
“Just planning,” Dianna said.
Ari smiled and returned to her work.
After carefully planting the moonflower and morning glory seeds, Dianna spent several minutes frowning at the rest of the flower bed, trying to picture how it should look. She’d been frustrated to discover the seeds in the other bundles didn’t give her a clue about what the flowers would be, and Ari, who probably knew each one, hadn’t labeled any of the bundles.
Clusters, she finally decided, then went to work.
She was finishing the row of marigolds in the front of the bed when she noticed Ari leaning against the garden wall, smiling at her.
“I’m going to move the mare so she can graze in a fresh piece of the meadow. Then I’ll see what I can find for us to eat. I’m afraid it will be simple fare. I haven’t spent time cooking these past few days.”
“Simple sounds wonderful,” Dianna said, getting to her feet. Noticing a gold chain around Ari’s neck that disappeared under the tunic, she realized this was a good way to ask a few questions.
