The violet gown was beyond repair.There was not enough of the skirt intact to furnish anything save this outfit for Róise. Perhaps I was foolishly sentimental to want to save it. I had not known Anluan’s mother, and she was long gone. But people had loved her. I rolled the gown up. Later, I would find a way to use it.
The sun was warm. The garden was peaceful. I could happily have stayed here all afternoon, doing nothing in particular. But the library door stood open and my work lay ready within.
There’s a hammering on the door. Nechtan feels his blood boil and makes himself take several slow breaths. The preparations must be perfect; he cannot afford any loss of control. He strides over, slides the bolt and whips the door open. “What?” he barks, glaring into the pasty features of his temporary steward, a man whose name he cannot quite recall.
“My lord, I very much regret the interruption, but—”
“Out with it! What is so important that you break my specific orders not to disturb me?”
“Lord Maenach is here, my lord. Not with a raiding party; he’s come with a group of councillors and kinsmen. There’s a priest with them, and Lord Maenach’s wife.They want to talk about an agreement, a treaty. Lady Mella said I must disturb you, since this is—”
“Go,” says Nechtan. “You’ve done as you were instructed.” He shuts the door in his servant’s face.
Aislinn is making the wreath. A lamp burns on the shelf above her workbench, its warm light transforming the soft mass of her hair to a glinting veil of gold. He wants to run his fingers through it, to gather the silken strands, to tug and make her cry out. Observing the neat, meticulous movement of her hands as she threads this most magical of herbs into the garland of winter greenery, eyeing the pleasing curves of her young body beneath the plain working clothes, he wants more than that. But he’s learned to suppress the stirrings of his body. To ruin his great work for the sake of such fleeting pleasure would be the act of an ordinary man, a weak man.
He turns his back on Aislinn. On his side of the workroom, three grimoires lie on the table, each open at a familiar page. The first:
“My lord, you need not read those again.” It seems Aislinn has eyes in the back of her head.“You’ll be using the other spell, the one you got from the monastery. The writers of those books have it wrong. I would wager none of them has put his theories to the test.They claim to be expert, but their writings are those of men who lack the courage to make their dreams reality.”
Nechtan smiles without turning. Aislinn is devoted; she’s giving him back his own arguments. “Quite true,” he tells her. “But we could have missed some small detail.This must be flawless, Aislinn.”
“It will be.” Her voice is shaking with emotion. Briefly, this perturbs him. He suspects that even if he had told her everything, instead of only the information she needs, she would still be prepared to comply with his wishes. She would do anything for him.Yet his little assistant is no dumb animal, following its owner out of blind instinct. Aislinn is quick, apt, quite a scholar in her limited way. Clever, but not too clever, Nechtan reflects, turning to watch her again as she weaves a white cord through the wreath, then ties the ends in a complex, particular knot.The ritual object resembles a headdress for a bride.
“All Hallows’ Eve.” Aislinn’s voice trembles as she hangs the wreath on a peg, next to the other items they will be using. “I can hardly believe it. My lord, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for letting me be a part of this great work.”
Another knock at the door.
“By all the powers,” Nechtan roars,“what have I done to deserve this? My house is full of fools!”
“Shall I answer, my lord?”
