“I’ll let myself out, and see you in the morning.” He started to go, turned for a moment just to look at her. So bright, so pretty, with all the flowers beside her. “You deserve all, Iona, and not a bit less.”
She closed her eyes when she heard the front door close behind him. It was so hard to stand firm, to do and say what she knew was right when her heart ached. When her heart yearned to take less, and make do.
“Not with him,” she murmured. “Maybe with anyone else, but not with him. Because . . . there’s only him.”
She’d leave the flowers on the table, for everyone to enjoy. But before she went back to the workshop to cleanse her tools, she found a tall, slim vase, chose three flowers—a magick number—and, sliding them in, took them to her room where she’d see them before sleep. Where she’d see them when she waked in the morning.
19
AS SPRING SPREAD OVER MAYO, THROUGH THE GREEN FORESTS, over the lush hills, rains came soft and steady. Wildflowers rose and opened to drink, gardens burst to glorious life. In the fields lambs bleated, ducks plied the lough, while the forest filled with birdsong.
Iona planted flowers and vegetables and herbs with her cousins, scraped mud off her boots, put in long hours at the stables, long hours with the craft.
Bealtaine with its maypoles and songs came and went, and brought the solstice closer.
As the days lengthened, she often rose before dawn and worked well into the night, using the energy that fueled her to push harder.
And in the rain and the mud, she learned how to handle a sword.
Though she couldn’t imagine herself in an actual sword fight, she liked the way it felt in her hand. Liked the heft of it, and the fact that—small but mighty—she could strike and block.
She’d never be in Meara’s league. Her friend resembled an Amazon warrior even more with her hair braided back and a sword in her hand. But she learned—angles, footwork, maneuvers.
Within the thin veil Branna conjured she sliced and parried while Meara, relentless, drove her back. While the swords sang and Meara shouted insults or instructions, Branna sat on a garden bench like some exotic housewife, calmly peeling potatoes for dinner.
“Put your shoulder into it!”
“I am!” Winded, and seriously starting to ache, Iona shifted her weight, tried to advance.
“Come at me, for feck’s sake. I could slice off your limbs like you were Monty Python’s Black Knight.”
“It’s only a flesh wound.” Giggles caught her, distracted her, and Meara moved in like a demon.
“Mind the . . .” Branna sighed hugely as Iona lost her footing and fell backward into a massive spread of wild blue lobelia.
“Ah well.”
“Ouch. Sorry.”
“You’ve got the basics well enough.” Sheathing her sword, Meara held a hand down to help pull Iona to her feet. “And you take your lumps like a woman. You’ve good speed and agility, and endurance enough. But you’ve no killer in the blood, and so you’ll always be bested.”
Iona rubbed her butt. “I never planned on killing anyone.”
“Plans change,” Branna pointed out. “Fix those flowers now, as it’s your rump that crushed them.”
“Oh yeah.” Iona turned back to them, considered.
“No.” Branna snapped her fingers. “Don’t stop and think, just do.”
“I’m just catching my breath.”
“You may not have time for that. Sword, magick, a blend of both. And wit to tie them together. Just do.”
So she held out her hands in instinct rather than plan. The crushed blue flowers plumped.
“I gave them a little boost while I was at it.”
“So I see.” With a faint smile, Branna plied her paring knife.