The Lady of the Sorrows

Maeve, however, was not to be swayed.

"You shall not leave here until the healing is complete. Think you that I want to see good work ruined? Settle down—you're like a young horse champing at the bit. Even Fig's getting ruffled." The lizard, dozing fatly by the fire, adeptly hid its agitation. In the shadows the swanmaiden stirred and sighed.

Three days stretched to five, then six. The weather raged again, battering at the walls of the cottage.

At nights a nimble bruney would pop out from somewhere when it thought the entire household asleep, and do all the housework in the two-roomed cot with amazing speed, quietness, and efficiency. Under Maeve's instructions the girl feigned sleep if she happened to waken and spy it. Its clothes were tattered and its little boots worn and scuffed. When it had finished, it drank the milk set out for it, ate the bit of oatcake, and disappeared again, leaving everything in a state of supernatural perfection.

Tom Coppins, the quiet lad with great dark eyes, was both messenger and student to the carlin, performing errands that took him from the house, aiding her in preparing concoctions or helping her treat the ailments and vexations of the folk who beat a path to her door: everything from gangrene and whooping cough to butter-churns in which the butter wouldn't "come," or a dry cow, or warts. Someone asked for a love potion and went away empty-handed but with a stinging earful of sharp advice. From time to time Maeve would go outside to where her staff was planted in the ground and come back carrying leaves or fruit plucked from it—potent cures. Or she would tramp out into the woods and not return for hours.

More and more, the carlin allowed Imrhien to wield her voice; it was exhilarating to converse freely; such a joy, as if the bird of speech had been liberated from an iron cage. Little by little she told her story, omitting—from a sense of privacy if not shame for having been so readily smitten—her passion for Thorn.

When the tale had been recounted, the old woman sat back in her chair, rocking and knitting. ("I like to be busy with my hands," she had said. "And it sets folk at ease to see an old woman harmlessly knitting. Mind you, my needles are anything but harmless!")

"An interesting tale, even if you have left out part of it," Maeve commented. Her patient felt herself blush. Maeve's perceptiveness was disconcerting. "So now you still have three wishes, eh? Isn't that right? That's how it usually goes—yan, tan, tethera. No, there is no need to reply. You wish for a history, a family, and something more—I see it in your eyes. Mark you—remember the old saw, Be careful what you wish for, lest—"

"Lest what?"

"Lest it comes true."

The carlin completed a row of knitting and swapped the needles from hand to hand.

"Now listen," she continued. "I do not know who you are or how to get your memories back, but I do ken that this house, since five days ago, is being watched."

"Watched? What can you mean?"

"I mean, spied upon by spies who do not know they have been spied. And since they began their enterprise not long after you arrived, I deduce that it is you they are after. Nobody gets past my door without my allowing it—the world knows that. Therefore, these observers must be waiting for you to come out. What think you of that, eh? Are they friends of yours, wanting to protect you, or are they enemies?"