She smiled when Teagan wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, when Eamon spread a blanket over her lap. But when she started to reach for the cup Brannaugh brought, her daughter held it back. Then squeezed at the flesh around the cut on her hand until three drops of blood plopped into the cup.
“Blood is life.”
Sorcha sighed. “It is, aye. It is. Thank you.”
She drank the potion, and slept.
2
FOR A WEEK, THEN TWO, SHE WAS STRONG, AND HER POWER HELD. Cabhan battered at it, he pushed, he slithered, but she held him back.
The blackthorn bloomed, and the snowdrops, and the light turned more toward spring than winter.
Each night Sorcha watched for Daithi in the fire. When she could, she spoke to him, risked sending her spirit to him to bring back his scent, his voice, his touch—and to leave hers with him.
So to strengthen them both.
She told him nothing of Cabhan. The magicks were her world. His sword, his fist, even his warrior’s heart could not defeat such as Cabhan. The cabin, hers before she’d taken Daithi as her man, was hers to defend. The children they’d made together, hers to protect.
And still she counted down the days to Bealtaine, to the day she would see him riding home again.
Her children thrived, and they learned. Some voice in her head urged her to teach them all she could as quickly as she could. She didn’t question it.
She spent hours at night in the light of the tallow and the fire writing out her spells, her recipes, even her thoughts. And when she heard the howl of the wolf or the beat of the wind, she ignored it.
Twice she was called to the castle for a healing, and took her children so they could play with the other youths, so to keep them close, and to let them see the respect afforded the Dark Witch.
For the name and all it held would be their legacy.
But each time they journeyed home, she needed a potion to revive the strength sapped from the healing magicks she dispensed to those in need.
Though she yearned for her man, and for the health she feared would never be fully hers again, she schooled her children daily in the craft. She stood back when Eamon called to Roibeard—more his than hers now, as it should be. Watched with pride as her baby rode Alastar, as fierce as any warrior.
And knew, with both pride and sorrow, how often Brannaugh and her faithful Kathel patrolled the woods.
The gift was there, but so was childhood. She made certain there was music, and games, and as much innocence as she could preserve.
They had visitors, those who came for charms, for salves, who sought answers to questions, who hoped for love or fortune. She helped those she could, took their offerings. And watched the road, always watched the road—though she knew her love was still weeks from home.
She took them out on the river in the little boat their father had built on a day of easy winds when the sky held more blue than gray.
“They say witches can’t travel over water,” Eamon announced.
“Is that what they say then?” Sorcha laughed, lifted her face to the breeze. “Yet here we are, sailing fine and true.”
“It’s Donal who says it—from the castle.”
“Saying it, even believing it, doesn’t make it truth.”
“Eamon made a frog fly for Donal. It was like boasting.”
Eamon gave his younger sister a dark look, would’ve added a poke or pinch if his mother hadn’t been watching.
“Flying frogs might be fun, but it isn’t wise to spend your magick for amusements.”
“It was practice.”
“You might practice catching us some fish for supper. Not that way,” Sorcha warned as her son lifted his hands over the water. “Magick isn’t every answer. A body must know how to fend for himself without it as well. A gift should never be squandered on what you can do with your wit and your hands or your back.”