for there were no secrets between them.
I wanted to talk to Conor, but he was busy. Much of the ordering of preparations fell to him, and he had little time to spare between the supervision of the kitchen, the airing of linen, the last minute sprucing up of stables and yard. I caught up with him briefly the second evening between supper and bedtime, in a dim corner of the great stairs. It was a good vantage point without much echo, and for once there was nobody else around. I looked at my brother afresh, imagining him in a druid’s white robes, his glossy brown hair plaited and tied with coloured cord in the fashion of the wise ones. He had a serenity of gaze, a far-seeing look that you never saw on his twin’s face, for Cormack was a man of action who lived for the moment.
‘I’m sending for Father Brien, Sorcha,’ he said gravely. ‘Do you think he will come?’
I nodded. ‘If it’s just for the day, for the wedding ceremony, then he will come. Who are you sending?’
He looked at me, reading the unspoken question in my eyes. ‘I suppose it will have to be Finbar, if I can find him. There is certainly no possibility of your going back, Sorcha. She is watching you closely. You must take great care.’
‘You feel it too then?’ I was suddenly cold, looking up into my brother’s pale face.
He was calm as always, but his unease was palpable. He nodded.
‘She watches those of us who are the greatest threat, and she reads us accurately. Diarmid and Cormack are nothing to her, poor innocents, and she sees no threat in Padriac, young as he is. But you, and Finbar, and myself – we have enough strength, perhaps, to resist her if we stand together. That makes her uncomfortable.’
‘Liam?’
Conor sighed. ‘She tried her charms on him too, make no doubt of it. She discovered soon enough that he was cut from different cloth. Liam fights her in his own way. If he could gain Father’s ear, he might speak a word of warning and be heeded. But he, too, has his weak point. I do not like the way this is heading, Sorcha. I wish you had been able to stay away.’
‘So do I,’ I said, thinking of the work I had abandoned. Still, at least Father Brien would be coming, and could give me news.
‘Sorcha.’
I looked up at Conor again. He must have been struggling with himself – not sure how much to tell me, lest he should frighten me.
‘What?’
‘You must be very watchful,’ he said slowly. ‘They will wed, I have no doubt of it. Whether or not we speak to Father alone before that day, the result can hardly be different now. What could we say? Lady Oonagh sets not a foot wrong; our fears are based on fantasy, he would tell us, on the wish to resist change, on ignorance. For once she has hold of you, you no longer see her true self. She clothes herself in a mist of glamour; the weak and the vulnerable have no chance.’
‘And after they are married?’
Conor’s lips became a thin line. ‘Perhaps then we will see something of the truth. Believe me, if I could send you away before then, I would do so. But Father is still head of this household, and such a request, so close to his wedding day, would seem passing strange. I will look out for you as best I can, and so will Liam; but you must be careful. As for Finbar …’
‘Who is she, Conor? What is she?’ In my newfound knowledge of Conor, I thought he could answer my question if anyone could.
‘I can’t say. Nor can I be sure of her reasons for doing this. We have no choice but to wait, hard as that may be. There may be some pattern to this so large, so complex that only time will make it clear. But it is too late to prevent the marriage. Now off you go, little owl – you look as if some sleep would do you good. How was he?’
I knew what he was talking about, despite the sudden change of tack.
‘He was mending well enough, until I was forced to leave. Could even that have been part of her plan?’
‘She could hardly have known of it. Best not to add that to your worries. It sounds as if you have done some good; perhaps now he can heal himself, with Father Brien’s help. And there are others who can guide him to safety. Maybe it’s time to let go, and tend to yourself. Go on, off to bed with you.’
The next day there was a bit of sun, weakly filtering between the ever-present clouds, and I set to work in my garden, determined to make up to it for the way I had neglected it. I tied my hair up with a strip of cloth, put on an old sacking apron and armed myself with knife and spade. Overgrown lavender and sprawling wormwood got a good trimming; weeds were rooted out and paths swept clear. As I worked steadily on, my mind slowly began to lose the confusion of fears and worries that plagued it, and the task in hand became all that mattered.
At length it was tolerably tidy, and I fetched the assortment of bulbs I’d lifted last season to dry out for re-planting. Daffodils in the biggest basket; then crocuses, iris, lilies of five different kinds. Some, too, that would grow as well in the wild reaches of the forest as in my sheltered beds: pigs-ears, faery chimes, and the slender pale bulbs of mind’s-ease. Throw a handful of its leaves on your camp fire at night, and you would sleep so well you would never awaken.
Padriac had fashioned me a little tool of birch wood, for making the planting holes. As I moved around the garden, digging, setting each bulb in its place with care, smoothing the rich soil back over them, tucking them in for the winter, I recalled Conor’s words to us on the day Padriac had offered to make this for me. Don’t cut the live wood, he’d said. Find a limb that wind or lightning has taken from the tree, or a birch that has fallen in a great storm. Cut your wood from that if you can. If you must cut new wood, be sure to give due warning. The forest’s gifts should not be taken without a by-your-leave. All of us knew this lesson. There would be a quick word, and whether it was to the tree herself or to some spirit that dwelt within, probably made no difference. And sometimes, a small gift was left – nothing of great cost, but always something of significance to the giver – a favourite stone, a special feather, a shining bead of glass. The forest was always generous in her favours to the seven of us, and we never forgot it.
It made sense, now, that Conor had been the one to teach us this lesson.
I had almost finished; I knelt to plant the last few crocuses amongst mossy rocks which would shelter them, later, from the chilly breezes of spring. Crocuses are early risers. The door from the stillroom swung open with a creak.
‘My lady?’ It was a very young maidservant, nervous and ill at ease. ‘The lady Oonagh wants you, please. Straight away, she said.’ She bobbed an apology for a curtsy, and fled.
I had been almost happy. Now, as I knelt there with my hands covered in soil and my hair tumbling down, my heart grew cold again, even in the centre of my own quiet place. I could not shut her out, not even here.
I walked back between the lavender beds. They had bloomed well this year, and remnant flower spikes still released a memory of summer into the air as I brushed past them. Inside, I scrubbed my hands, but the nails were still black. I tidied my hair as best I could and hung the apron on a peg. Well, that would have to do. There were limits to the amount of trouble I would take for the lady Oonagh.
She’d been given the best chamber, one whose narrow windows gave a view of the lake and caught the afternoon sun. She was waiting for me, standing demure by the bed, with rolls of cloth and laces and ribbons strewn around her. Her auburn hair outshone the brightest of these adornments, trapping the light in its dark tendrils. She was alone.
‘Sorcha, my dear! What took you so long?’ It was a gentle enough reprimand. I advanced cautiously across the stone floor.
‘I was working in my garden, my lady,’ I said. ‘I did not expect to be called.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, and her gaze travelled over me from tousled head to muddy feet. ‘And you nearly thirteen years old. It comes of growing up in a houseful of boys, I suppose. But we’re going to change all that, my dear. How disappointed your mother would have been, to see you so wild, and on the