Part XII: The Nature of Things

Bronwyn’s face grew pale and thin in the following weeks, but she did not show any of the telltale signs of a child. She became despondent when Tristan stopped his nightly visits for dinner; she made crêpes several times after that but he never showed up. Her disappointment on these nights was almost painful for Enru to watch, knowing he had a part in breaking her heart for the first time.

Bronwyn, he said one morning, as she scrubbed the breakfast dishes, humming off-key a slow dirge. Is something the matter?

Bronwyn stopped scrubbing, and looked at her cat. “Is something the matter?” She laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not yet a woman able to make my own choices.” She resumed scrubbing furiously.

Meekly Enru said, You can make your own choices. We just think you should be…informed…before you make such momentous decisions.

“’Informed’?” spat Bronwyn. “About what?”

Enru was silent a moment. I cannot tell you. It is not my place. But I shall arrange it so that you are able to face Tristan.

Bronwyn stopped scrubbing again, but this time she embraced the cat with her wet soapy hands, much to his dismay. “You would really do that for me?” she asked.

Only if you let go of me, threatened the feline, but his voice was amused.

Enru was true to his word; he got Bèatrix to give permission for him to accompany Bronwyn on a ride through the forest one day in early spring. The air was almost balmy; a gentle breeze played in branches turning yellow with sap.

Bronwyn rode Trylla; the old mare seemed to have developed a fondness for the young woman, and the constant riding gave the horse much-needed exercise.

They left after the breakfast dishes were done and the laundry was finished; the sheets hung in the pale sunshine to dry. The path was muddy with the melting snow, making it treacherous for Trylla’s old ankles. Bronwyn had to dismount several times to lead her through the mire. But her heart was singing along with the chickadees that flocked around the trees lining the path.

Tristan sensed Bronwyn’s approach before he heard her arrival, whistling at the birds. He stood, swathed in thick white gauze to protect himself from the bees, and threw up a shield to block her path.

Bronwyn was plodding along the drier part of the path when all of a sudden Trylla stopped, stumbling as though she’d run into something. Immediately alert, she used her inner sight to scan the area and found the shield.

“Tristan?” she called softly. Enru slipped past the shield on ahead, investigating with his tail twitching. He returned moments later, trotting around the bend.

He’s beekeeping at the moment. He put up the shield to protect you so you wouldn’t get stung. He sat at Trylla’s feet patiently, squeezing his eyes as he basked in the sun.

Bronwyn waited several long minutes until the shield disappeared in a flash. She urged Trylla forward abruptly, and the horse nearly trod on Enru. He leapt out of the way with a yelp, switching his bushed tail angrily.

A little warning next time, he said irritably, following Trylla’s heels. Bronwyn ignored him as she saw Tristan, coming out of his cottage with a soft smile on his face.

“Bronwyn,” he said happily, and lifted her from her horse. She couldn’t resist a giggle as he swung her around, her red skirts billowing. “I haven’t seen you in several months. How have you been?”

Bronwyn’s face glowed despite herself. “You’d know how I’ve been if you hadn’t started sulking and avoiding me,” she said.

Tristan looked guilty as he set her down, his hands remaining firmly on her slender waist. “I know,” he said meekly. “I’m sorry.” He brightened. “But you came to see me. That has to mean something.”

Bronwyn narrowed her eyes at him. “Aye, it means something. It means that you and I have a problem.”

Tristan’s heart plummeted; the bright day seemed grayer all of a sudden. “What is it, Bronwyn?”

Bronwyn avoided his gaze. “I can’t stand not seeing you, but Bèatrix hates it so when you drop by.” She shuffled her feet, embarrassed.

“Well, Bèatrix will just have to get used to it because I intend to start eating your dinners.” Tristan smiled down at Bronwyn, lifting her chin with his finger. “Speaking of food, I shall make you lunch. I have fresh clover honey.” He turned toward the house, leading her in by the hand.

Bronwyn stayed until the shadows grew long and blue toward the east. “I’ll take you back to Willowood on Jethro,” decided Tristan, sitting up in bed and pulling on his trousers. He tossed Bronwyn her corset and motioned her to turn around. He laced and tied it quickly, expertly, and Bronwyn winced, thinking of all the other corsets he’d had to retie quickly. She pulled her dress over her head slowly as he padded into the kitchen, stirring up the fire to warm the room for her. Once dressed, she followed him, sitting in her customary place at the table.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Tristan, setting a cup of bitterroot tea with cream before each of their places and lighting his pipe.

“I just keep thinking about all the other girls you’ve had. How old are you, anyway?” she asked. Tristan shifted his gaze uncomfortably and mumbled something unintelligible. “What?” asked Bronwyn, leaning forward.

“Forty-seven,” he sighed. He took a long hit on his pipe, blowing the smoke out in puffy fat rings.

“Forty seven.” Bronwyn sat back, saying the word to herself. “And how many…No, don’t answer that.” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to know. I just won’t think of it anymore. I’ll pretend it’s just you and me.”

Tristan regarded her sadly. “It isn’t,” he said regretfully. “I need to tell you something; I’ve been putting it off all day, and Enru would be…displeased…if I didn’t tell you.” He sipped his bitterroot.

“Well, what is it?” asked Bronwyn impatiently. She watched him take another hit off the pipe.

“I’m a Warlock,” he said bluntly. Bronwyn’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, gods, don’t tell me Enru forgot that part of your training, too!” he exclaimed, slapping the table angrily. He regarded Bronwyn, the heat fading from his eyes. “A Warlock is the male equivalent of a Sorceress. They’re very rare; the men usually self-destruct long before they reach that level of training. Many of them become brilliant war generals; we’re very good at strategy. Unfortunately, most of the generals came to light fighting against another Warlock run amok.” He sighed heavily. “Your father was a Warlock,” he said after a pause. “His name was Deryan. He killed his familiar to be with your mother.”

Bronwyn recoiled in horror. “What? Why would he do that?” she cried out. Even thinking about Enru sick or hurt tore her apart inside; she couldn’t imagine intentionally killing him. “I can’t-"

“I’m not asking you to!” interrupted Tristan sharply. “Never would I ask that. It is a terrible, grievous sin. It marks you as a child born of blood sacrifice.”

Bronwyn began to shake, feeling cold all over. “Why…How…Why did he kill his familiar, though?” she asked. “What did that accomplish?”

“His familiar was a beautiful cougar named Nadua. Your mother-she was terrified of cats, and the cougar was too much. She wouldn’t have your father if the cougar was to be around, and a familiar will never leave its master. They serve you until they die.” Tristan’s voice was solemn.

“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t hate Enru,” she said after a while. “Because I would never, ever…” Her voice broke.

“I would not ask you to,” said Tristan. “I know the pain of losing your familiar.” Bronwyn looked at him, and he nodded, once. “Her name was Dharia, and she was a beautiful peregrine falcon.” His tone made the subject closed.

Bronwyn was afraid to pry; all these revelations about Tristan and his nature frightened her. He had powers; she’d known that, but it takes a lot of Ability to reach Sorceress-or Warlock-stage. She knew; every night after magical training she felt absolutely sucked dry. On the worst days, when she could barely summon the energy to breathe, she wondered if she really was Sorceress material, or if Enru and Bèatrix were trying to stretch her too far.

“Shall I take you home?” asked Tristan. Bronwyn glanced at him; the warmth was back in his face, the joy at seeing her.

“It’s my turn to cook for you,” she replied, smiling back at him.

Part XI: Contemplations

Bronwyn lay in the twilight, vaguely aware that she’d been awake for a while, but she didn’t feel inclined to move. Her eyes blinked sleepily in the dim light, and she floated for a while on the edge of consciousness, thinking about the night before, with Tristan.

He’d shown her so many things, so much tenderness, and it felt impossible to believe he’d been that way with so many girls. By his own admission, though he sounded ashamed of it. But, she couldn’t help wondering, did he mean that about feeling how it was…bigger? Was it just her, and her first puppy love, or was it really something different?

Enru jumped lightly on the foot of her bed. Are you awake? His voice was quiet and gentle.

Bronwyn nodded and rolled over, reaching out to scratch his ears. “I’m sorry, Enru,” she said after a while. “I’ve been horrible to you, and you’re only trying to protect me.” She sighed, sitting up.

I was, replied Enru. He extended his neck, and Bronwyn smiled, rubbing under his chin. But there comes a point, you know?

“I know. I crossed a line.” Bronwyn twisted her mouth, pushing him over and rubbing his belly.

Several. Oh, yeah. Enru stretched out his legs luxuriously. He allowed her to pet him a few more minutes before he rolled away, sitting up and washing a paw. Dinner is ready, by the way, if you’re hungry, he said. Shall we?

“I think that’s a good idea,” answered Bronwyn, raising her eyebrows as she felt her stomach growling. She’d eaten nothing but crêpes and sausage all day long.

Bèatrix fixed her with a cool stare when Bronwyn entered the kitchen, her dress and apron neatly arranged. She’d even adjusted her hem several inches lower, and she tugged her skirt over her knees when she sat down.

“Bèatrix, I’m sorry. I broke my promise to you,” she said dully. She hated apologizing; she hated the feeling of shame that washed over her now.

“Bah. ‘Tis forgotten; I know you’ve learned your lesson. Besides, you’re a woman now, and free to do as you please.” Bèatrix waved a large wooden spoon. She turned back to the stove, stirring a tomato sauce in the pan. Bronwyn stared at the wooden table.

“I was unforgivably rude,” she offered miserably.

“Rude is a matter of opinion,” said Bèatrix gravely as she boned fish for frying in a skillet. “I happen to empathize with your emotional state at the time, so it doesn’t bother me.” Bronwyn was silent. “I mean it, Bronwyn. Don’t worry. All is forgiven.” She set a plate of fish before her and drizzled a creamy tomato sauce over it. Bronwyn picked up her fork and began eating somberly, already filled with dread at the nausea that suddenly gripped her.

She suffered through an agonizingly quiet dinner, painfully without Tristan’s presence. He knew better than to come around for quite some time; Bèatrix would be after his head for a while. She knew he was lying low for his own sake, and hated him for it. Coward, she thought bitterly. It was all nothing to him, a night of sport and play.

She finished picking at her meal and stood. “Enru, would you like to walk with me?” she asked softly, stroking the cat’s head.

All right, he said, exchanging glances with Bèatrix. Her lips pursed and she raised an eyebrow at the feline: He would be informing her of anything Bronwyn told him. He looked away shiftily, unwilling to make the promise. Bèatrix sighed and began collecting the plates.

“Go,” she was all she said. “Don’t be out too late.”

Bronwyn was quiet for most of the walk, around the edge of the Willowood property. She wavered between confiding in Enru and suspecting him of being Bèatrix’s stooge. She couldn’t decide whether to trust him or not.

Is there something on your mind, Bronwyn? asked Enru finally, when they came back within sight of the main farmhouse. If you want, I will give you my word as your familiar that it will remain in my confidence. He looked at her solemnly with his green eyes.

“What exactly is the realm of my power?” asked Bronwyn finally, pausing and scooping a handful of snow.

Healing, in general, replied Enru, twitching his ears as he picked his way through the snow. Why?

“Is there a specific reason that Bèatrix is a midwife, and I am her apprentice?” asked Bronwyn, licking some of the clean snow from her fingers.

Well, it is the best occupation for a female Healer, said Enru, looking up at her. She concentrated on the snow in her hand, forming it into a compact ball. She mulled this over in her mind as she smoothed the snowball.

“All right,” she said finally. She hurled the snow as far as she could into the treeline. She began walking again, crunching back toward the house.

Enru followed her leaping from bootprint to bootprint, brooding on his mistress’s strange behavior.

Part X: Consequences

He took her to the moon and back, and it was late morning by the time they finally awoke. Bronwyn blinked awake, smelling something fantastic cooking. She sat up, and the bedclothes fell away from her, revealing to her her nakedness and reminding her abruptly of the previous night’s activities. She flushed, but her clothes were neatly folded at the end of the bed, and the door was closed.

She dressed quickly, and combed her hair with her fingers before braiding it in its usual plait. Straightening her dress, wishing for her apron, a cloak, more layers than she had, she opened the door and peeked into the kitchen.

Tristan was at the stove, an apron haphazardly tied around his waist. His brow was furrowed; he was tilting the skillet in swift circular motions. Every other breath he would take up whistling part of a tune, and then stop absentmindedly.

She smiled to herself, standing a little straighter. He wouldn’t make her feel dirty or ashamed. Pushing the door all the way open she strode across the room and sat at the table, conscious of a new tenderness between her legs.

“Awake at last,” said Tristan, turning his head and throwing her a smile. He returned to his task; flipping the thin pancake out of the skillet, he added it to a small pile on a plate, covering it with a towel, and then adding another ladleful of batter to the pan. “I’m making breakfast.”

“I see that,” said Bronwyn, amused. “And what are we having?”

“They’re called crêpes. I have blackberry jam and sweet cream for them, and sausage in a moment.” He completed another of the crêpes and paused, pulling down another skillet and popping several links of sausage on it, setting it on a burner. A small spark of magical energy and a flame was lit underneath the pan, and the sausages began to sizzle.

“Smells wonderful.” Bronwyn breathed deeply the aromas emanating from the stove and watched Tristan cook, the graceful way he moved, the odd tune he was half-whistling.

She glanced out the window and took in a sharp breath. The snow was very deep; several feet at least. And the frost lacing the glass indicated a very frosty temperature. She shivered just thinking about the miserable time she’d have getting back to Willowood.

“Don’t think about going just yet,” said Tristan, setting the platter of crêpes and a jar of dark jam on the table. He took a few more trips to bring the sausage, bread and butter and the cream over, and finally sat, smiling brightly at Bronwyn.

“Shall we eat?” he asked. She nodded mutely, and he showed her how to put butter, cream and jam in the middle of the crêpe and roll it up, drizzling it with more cream. They ate with gusto, every last crêpe and sausage link.

Bronwyn sat back with a sigh, gazing fondly at Tristan. “So what now?” she asked with a vague gesture.

Tristan gazed out the window for a moment, chewing the edge of his lip in thought. He sighed and pulled from the pocket of his apron a pipe and a leather pouch of pipeweed, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. He took several deep, pensive puffs before answering. “We have to get you back to Willowood.”

“Yes,” said Bronwyn. She waited.

“How did you get away last night?” Tristan’s gaze flickered toward her for a moment when he asked this.

Guiltily Bronwyn chuckled. “I spiked dinner with sleeping herbs. I think Enru caught on, but only after he’d eaten three helpings, and was already half-asleep.” Tristan grinned.

“Of all the ways of sneaking out, that was probably the most sure, except you didn’t plan for the snow.”

Bronwyn sighed. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “I wasn’t watching the weather, I was trying to slip the herbs into the food without being caught.” Her tone was rueful.

“You were incredibly ingenuous, and I am proud of you,” said Tristan, taking her hand. “We just have to get going soon, if we’re to make it back before dark. It’s past noon already.”

Bronwyn blinked in surprise. “Already?” she asked in disbelief. Tristan nodded, laughing at her discomfiture.

“Yes. You slept very late, my darling.” Bronwyn froze for a split second, the term of endearment hanging in the air, before she forced herself to forget it. He probably told every village girl that he loved them, she thought to herself viciously. Her smile became brittle and she dodged his gaze.

She couldn’t deceive him, though. He tilted his head, catching her chin in his hand. “What is it, Bronwyn?” he asked gently. She shook her head, forcing away the tears that threatened to spill. Something was different, she sensed, and it made her irritable that the fragile budding relationship was somehow altered.

“All right,” said Tristan, lifting his hands defensively. “You don’t have to tell me, but I do wish you would.” He regarded her for a moment, but her expression stubbornly did not change. “Bundle up,” he finally said. “I’ll go saddle Trylla and Jethro so we can get started back to Willowood.” He stood and donned a heavy dark red cloak, leather gloves and his boots. Bronwyn watched him prepare in silence, and when the door had shut after him with a firm click she let out a watery sigh, and let the tears flow for a moment.

He was acting as though he cared, that what he had said last night was true. But Bronwyn couldn’t afford to delude herself-she’d broken her promise to both Enru and Bèatrix, and she felt shameful of that.

She donned her own dark blue cloak and riding boots slowly, making sure her face was dry of tears before she stepped outside, making sure the door was latched firmly behind her.

Tristan was patting Trylla’s neck, as she stamped nervously in the snow. “She doesn’t like the way the snow slides underfoot,” explained Tristan, giving Bronwyn a boot up into the saddle. Bronwyn looked around.

“Where’s Jethro?” she asked. Tristan lifted the broom in his hand.

“I’ll go on foot and make a path for Trylla. She's skittish today, and it’s deep.” His manner was brusque, curt almost.

“Thank you,” said Bronwyn rather frostily. Two could play that game. They maintained a cool silence the long frigid ride home, and only when Bronwyn almost slipped dismounting did any of the former friendliness burst forth.

Her left foot caught in the stirrup, and she nearly fell flat on her back but Tristan caught her easily, dropping the broom into a snowbank.

“Easy there,” he said, and Bronwyn winced at the wrenched muscle in her leg, right up the inside of her thigh to her groin. She limped inside, and Bèatrix looked up, eyes snapping. They softened-minutely-as she saw the young woman’s injury, but she was clearly upset.

Gods damn it all, thought Bronwyn. She was very tired and not at all in the mood to deal with Bèatrix.

Where were you? demanded Enru, leaping onto the table. He paced agitatedly. What happened?

“I went for a ride last night; I couldn’t sleep,” said Bronwyn dully. “I got caught in the storm and Tristan saved me.”

‘Tristan saved you’ my ass! spat the cat. His fur was bristling with anger. You went up to see him and didn’t plan for the storm, you little tramp!

“Enru!” said Bèatrix sharply, but it was too late. Rage was rising in Bronwyn, and her face grew red.

“Yes, I saw him, and yes, I spent the night, and yes, I have joined the ranks of stupid village girls!” she cried, fists clenched. “I don’t care!” She strode past Bèatrix toward her bedroom, pausing at the door and turning. Her posture softened. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said cryptically, and went to go sleep in her bed.

Part IX: The Breaking of Many Things

But nothing Enru or Bèatrix said would dissuade Tristan. He felt something different when he was around Bronwyn, not just the physical attraction to her body, but something else, something bigger, beyond all of them. He knew, somehow, that she was right.

And so he continued, in small, unobtrusive ways, to show her that he was still there, he remembered her. He knew his own reputation in the village; scores of girls had had their hearts and reputations broken because of him, over the years, and by now his former flames were mothers with daughters of their own they were warning away from him.

He didn’t care about that now. He kept on, bringing small surprises to Bronwyn. Once, a jar of honey, so sweet it seemed sinful. Occasionally, he would rise before even she did and have the fire ready for her in the morning, though he was always careful to be gone before she woke. She rarely saw him, but he made his presence known to her.

It was in October, when his small gifts became sporadic due to the harvest, that Bronwyn finally decided to take matters into her own hands. She was eighteen, by now; her birthday had passed unobserved in mid-August. A woman, by the law and the eyes of everyone. So one night, she added some herbs that induced sleep into the herbs, and breathed a hefty sigh of relief when Tristan did not appear. She did not partake of the dinner herself, claiming a stomachache, and went to bed early, waiting for Enru and Bèatrix to start their snoring competition. It wasn’t long before the rafters were shaking.

Smiling to herself, Bronwyn slipped out of bed, sliding on her dress and cloak silently, clutching her riding boots in her hand. She went to the kitchen, where the embers kept it warm, and finished dressing in there. The door to the yard swung open easily; Tristan had oiled it several days before.

The night was cold, but Bronwyn saddled Trylla quickly and mounted, and in a matter of minutes she was following the path up the mountain to Tristan’s little cottage. The moon was full, lighting her path with its cool silvery light, sparkling in the frost that touched the grass.
A light was burning in the window when Bronwyn finally came in sight of Tristan’s cottage. The beehives glimmered whitely like ghosts as she dismounted and took off Trylla’s saddle, placing a blanket over the horse’s back from the pack she’d slung over her shoulder as she left.
The door to the cottage opened, and Tristan came out, holding a candle aloft. It danced in the soft breeze, casting crazy shadows over the ground.

“Hello?” he called, his voice guarded. “Is anyone out there?” He paused, his breath coming in clouds as he took a few steps toward Bronwyn. She stood tall, walking forward to meet him.
“Hello, Tristan,” she said softly, her voice husky.

He nearly dropped the candle in surprise. “Bronwyn!” he whispered loudly, though there was no one within several miles to hear them. “What are you doing here?” He looked at Trylla, already dozing in the chill night air.

“I’ve come to see you. It seems there is a conspiracy to keep us apart.” She paused, searching his face. “Are you unhappy with me?” she asked.

Tristan stared at her, his face still stricken with the shock of her clandestine visit. “Of course not,” he said, recovering himself. He gave her a warm smile. “Let’s get you out of the cold, shall we?”

A few flakes of snow fell in the crystalline air and Bronwyn smiled, brushing them off his shoulders. “All right. It’s starting to snow, anyhow.”

“I’ll take Trylla to my stable. It’s small but she’ll fit in with Jethro, no problem. You go on inside and get warm; you must be freezing.” Tristan took Trylla’s lead rope and led her away. Bronwyn slipped inside the door to his cottage, finding the teakettle screaming and two mugs set out on the table.

Smiling to herself, Bronwyn set about pouring the tea into a pot and steeping the leaves into a potent herbal drink. While it brewed she sliced some coarse brown bread and retrieved some butter from the cooler to spread on it. As she was arranging all this on the table Tristan came in, stamping.

“The snow is really coming down,” he said with a worried frown. “You should be getting back.”
“I just got here,” objected Bronwyn softly. “Besides, the tea is ready. At least a cup?” He reluctantly nodded, and sat across from her, holding the warm mug in his cold hands. Bronwyn regarded him with gleaming dark blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked at last, and Bronwyn set her mug down, watching the swirl of the amber liquid within.

“I haven’t seen you in several months, but I’ve seen signs of you. The kitchen door hinges being oiled, jars of honey appearing in the kitchen…” She smiled at him. “And there were two mugs out when I came in. Were you expecting company?”

Tristan opened his mouth, seeing the trap. “I was meditating and I saw you on the path, and I saw the storm coming, so I figured I might as well get the tea going.”

Bronwyn reached across the table and touched his hand. “Thank you,” she said quietly, watching him.

He smiled and looked at where her hand was reaching for his, and he gave in, clasping her fingers around his. He raised his eyes to hers and sighed. “You’ve probably heard all kinds of rumors about me,” he said heavily.

“I don’t believe a single one,” declared Bronwyn abruptly. Tristan winced.

“You should,” he said swiftly, loudly. “Most of them are true. I’ve hurt a lot of girls, and their-our children.”

Bronwyn was silent, pale-faced. “How many?” she said brusquely., her hand tensing in his. He set his mug down and cupped her hand in both of his.

“Seven, eight, by last count. Could be as high as a dozen," said Tristan miserably. He stroked her fingers, unable to meet her gaze.

“Let me ask you something,” said Bronwyn after a pause. Tristan glanced at her, and she held his eyes, looking at him steadily. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Tristan feigned ignorance, but Bronwyn caught him. She shook her head violently.
“You know what. It’s-it’s like…” She broke off, not wanting to sound trite like the older girls at Appleby Manor.

Tristan spared her. “Yes,” he said, dropping her hands and grabbing his mug again. He looked at the tea inside, and back at her. “Is that what you wanted? That I think of you every waking moment? Or that when I see you about your duties I wonder and hope that you’re thinking of me?”

Bronwyn’s heart leapt in her throat but she shook her head. “No. It’s bigger than that. It feels like a great storm is gathering, like there’s electricity in the air. It gets hard to breathe, like it’s humid, and everything becomes sharper, more detailed.” She pursed her lips, withdrawing her hands to her lap, staring at the contents of her own mug.

“Yes,” murmured Tristan. “I don’t want to but I do.” His voice broke and Bronwyn looked at him sympathetically.

“I bet Bèatrix threatened you to keep you away from me, didn’t she?” she asked gently. Tristan nodded. “And you promised, and want to respect that promise. She made me, too,” she said, and Tristan chuckled, grabbing a slice of bread and stuffing it in his mouth, chewing in silence.

He swallowed and took a draught from his mug. “So where does that leave us? We’re already betraying our word by being here together, and by the looks of it, you’ll end up here for the night. It’ll be too dangerous at night to go down the mountain.”

Bronwyn stood, gathering the empty mugs. “Well,” she said. “It’s bound to be a cold night. Shall I get a stew going?” She raised her eyebrows, purposefully ignoring the bed just visible in the room over Tristan’s right shoulder.

“I think the time for food is passing,” said Tristan, standing and facing her. She stared at him, ghost-pale and trembling. He took the mugs gently from her grasp and setting them on the table, then gathered her hands in his, looking at them. “Your hands were so soft and pretty when you came here…Now they’re losing that delicacy, but you can tell how fine-boned you are.” He squeezed them gently, feeling the small bones move beneath his fingers.

“Tristan-“ said Bronwyn, suddenly unsure, but he looked at her, a glance so swift and fierce that it pierced her soul. He drew her close and kissed her, gently at first, then rough.

Bronwyn embraced him with enthusiasm, feeling the lean muscles beneath her palms. She sighed, melting against him, and he grabbed a candle from the table, leading her to the bedroom.
Bronwyn ignored all the alarm bells ringing in her head, all the honest parts of her integrity, and willingly followed him.

Part VIII: Honesty Is Not the Best Policy

Tristan took Bronwyn home after he fed her fried eggs, onions, bacon and toast. She was comfortably full and more than a touch sleepy; this was the most exertion she’d had since she’d overstretched her powers with Millie Thatcher.

Bèatrix was waiting for them, sitting on a bench out front in the sun. “Ah,” she said softly when they approached, “The fine Mistress has come home at last.” Bronwyn dropped her head meekly, biting her tongue. “How kind of you to deign arrive on time for a meal!”

Lunch, thought Bronwyn, mortified. She had taken to preparing all the meals for the family, and had totally forgotten to make something ahead of time for Bèatrix.

“I am sorry, Bèatrix,” she said. “I-forgot.”

“We lost track of time up on the trail,” said Tristan smoothly. “I’m sure we’re all starving now.” Bronwyn looked at him but nodded, feeling how full she really was.

“I’ll get some water boiling,” she said, moving to dismount, but Bèatrix waved her off.

“You think I’m so helpless I can’t make a simple meal for myself?” she complained. “You’ve been spending too much time with Tristan. He’s always telling me I need to retire.”

“She always tells me this is her retirement.” Tristan twisted a smile at Bèatrix, dismounting easily. Bronwyn had a little more trouble; her legs were still sore from the long morning ride.

“Aye, a comfortable enough life it is, birthing the occasional baby, living simply in the countryside, not bothering no one…” Bèatrix shrugged. “I like it.” She fixed Bronwyn with a stern eye. “You, however, miss, have been bothering someone, and it needs to stop.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Bronwyn timidly, trying to lead her horse away, trying to hide behind Trylla.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Bèatrix with a sigh. “Tristan will put up Trylla, won’t you, boy?” Tristan nodded and shrugged.

“Sure, Bèatrix. Anything for the Sorceress.” He took Trylla’s reins from Bronwyn, and his hand brushed hers. She felt the point of contact on her skin burn after he was gone, and she resisted the urge to touch it, rub it, kiss it.

Once Tristan had rounded the corner of the house to the barn, Bèatrix looked at Bronwyn. “Inside,” she said tersely. “Now.”

Bronwyn sighed and obeyed, pulling her apron from its hook just inside the door and tying it on out of habit.

“Sit,” commanded Bèatrix, entering behind her and closing the door firmly. Bronwyn glumly sat on the bench in front of the table, leaning her elbows on it and resting her chin in her hands. Enru was perched on the opposite side of the table, and he wouldn’t look at her. He exuded an injured silence that infuriated Bronwyn.

Bèatrix sat next to Enru, filling her pipe and lighting it. She puffed a few smoke rings thoughtfully before she spoke. “Bronwyn,” she said, and her voice was surprisingly gentle. “I know what you feel towards Tristan. It has to stop. Now, before it goes any further. He is not the sort of man you deserve.”

“Isn’t he your great-great-great-grandson?” asked Bronwyn. Bèatrix nodded.

“Aye, he is, and many more greats beyond that. But he-he is not a gentleman. He could get you with child and think nothing of going off with a milkmaid from the village while you were in labor. He has done it before, to too many girls, and I will not see him ruin you!”

Bronwyn shook her head; this was not right, that didn’t describe the Tristan she knew. “He’s nice to me,” she said finally. “He shows me things.”

“Enru can show you, or I can. He should know better than to even talk to you, let alone whisk you off to gods know where without letting anyone know. If the village knew, your reputation would already be ruined.”

Bronwyn stared at Bèatrix. “Why would I care about my reputation in the village?” she asked, perplexed. The incident with Thomas and Millie Thatcher was the only contact Bronwyn had had with the village in the nearly six months of her residence.

Because reputations travel, and especially bad ones. Someday you will need to find a husband and settle with a family for a while, to continue the line of Sorceresses. Without a good reputation, you cannot find a good, decent husband who would take care of you as you deserve. Enru’s voice was sad. He finally looked at Bronwyn. And that’s all I care about, for while you have your family I cannot guard you, I cannot be with you.

Bronwyn stood. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll stay away from Tristan,” and her voice was sad, too, because he was...She sighed. Tristan was Tristan, and she would miss him.

The next morning Bronwyn had already forgotten their plan to trap Bèatrix in her daily deception. She was frying some bacon and cornmeal together when the door opened, and he appeared. Her heart leapt, then sank, because she remembered her promise to Enru and Bèatrix.

But he barely glanced at her. That must be the construct, Yldan in disguise, or whatever, thought Bronwyn, watching the figure out of the corner of her eye. She filled a mug with warmed cider and placed it in front of him.

“There you go, Tristan,” she said cheerfully-and loudly. Bèatrix appeared within two minutes, and Enru twined around her ankles. She dropped him a piece of sausage, humming quietly, for now she remembered, and knew the real Tristan would be showing up shortly.

She set the plates, heaping with steaming food, on the table, and sat herself down, looking around. She waited, and waited, and finally the three humans began to eat. Enru sat on Bronwyn’s lap, purring softly when she fed him bits of bacon and sausage and egg.

The real Tristan did not show up for breakfast, and Bronwyn’s heart was heavy as she began clearing the empty plates and setting them in the basin of soapy water for washing.

Enru sat before the fire, watching her as she scrubbed. He could tell that she was upset, but marked it down as Tristan’s silence at breakfast. He hadn’t even greeted Bronwyn today.

After the dishes were done, Bronwyn set to sweeping the kitchen, opening the door wide to let the sweet summer air in. She was banking the fire, letting the embers smolder for when she needed to stir it up again for supper, when there was a soft knock on the doorframe. She stood, turning, and smiled self-consciously. Tristan was standing in the doorway, a large basket of fragrant herbs and flowers in his hands.

“These are for Bèatrix. She’ll show you how to dry each one, and explain what they’re for.” He set the basket on the table, and, mindful of Enru, Bronwyn smiled faintly.

“Thank you, Tristan,” she said formally, and turned. His eyes watched the way the skirt of her dress swirled around her hips, and when she knelt before the fire his eyebrows arched up.

Abruptly he felt a sharp pain in his calf, and he looked down. Enru was biting him. That’s enough, Tristan, he said. You’ve delivered your goods, now be on your way.

“All right, all right,” grumbled Tristan, throwing Bronwyn’s backside one last wistful glance as he left the kitchen.

And you, sashaying around to catch his attention. Enru leapt on his mistress’s shoulders, and she stood carefully, scratching his ears.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked innocently. “I was sweeping the embers into the fireplace.” She smiled as she pulled several red roses from the basket, separating them out carefully.

“Those aren’t for you,” said Bèatrix irritably. “They’re for the rosehips, and the petals. They make good tea.”

“Right,” said Bronwyn with a straight face. She didn’t believe a word of it; there were rosebushes aplenty right next to the house, in the garden by the gate. He didn’t need to find such perfect specimens when there were many more adequate ones so close by.Bèatrix, of course, knew this too, and she resolved to have a stern talk with Tristan about his wooing of her Apprentice.

Part VII: A trick discovered

Enru waited until Bronwyn was fast asleep before he leapt lightly off her bed, padding toward the kitchen where he knew Bèatrix waited for his report. And, he reflected, my dressing-down. I seriously screwed up this time…

Sure enough, Yldan was waiting, perched above the fireplace. Bèatrix sat before the fire, smoking her pipe reflectively. The owl ruffled his feathers to acknowledge the cat’s entrance, but Bèatrix didn’t say anything for a long minute, her eyes fixed on the leaping flames.

“She doesn’t remember her life before her Introduction,” she said finally, her words weighted. “Whatever happened to erase her memory?”

Enru sat on his haunches, wrapping his tail around his back paws. His ears flicked back, and he ducked his head. She almost did not survive the process, he said. She was so small, so frail…It took nearly all my own life-force to keep her alive, in this realm of existence, just until the completion.

“And you had no assistance? Why did you not come here?” Bèatrix finally fixed the cat with one of her Stares.

Enru hung his head further. She is not of your province, Bèatrix. She came from the West, in the mountains. A small valley, fertile enough to support a village, but totally isolated. It was where her father chose to take her mother.

And who was her father? Yldan murmured, stretching his wing.

His name is Deryan. His familiar was a cougar.

Bèatrix sucked in a breath; Deryan was a very powerful Sorcerer, one who had disappeared nearly twenty years ago. He’d stopped coming to Councils, and concealed his Abilities so that they could not be tracked. The Council, including Bèatrix, had thought he had died somehow, because his familiar’s corpse had been found. A beautiful feline, powerful and sleek and sinewy with muscle, her half-eaten body had been found by its magical signature with its throat slit. They never found Deryan’s body.

He killed Nadua? Grief and sorrow colored the owl’s voice. She was so beautiful…

“To kill your familiar is to renounce the Path of Sorcery,” said Bèatrix solemnly. “Is Deryan alive still?”

I do not know. I took Bronwyn from him when she was still very small. I couldn’t risk my own life; I couldn’t risk her becoming him. Enru’s voice broke. I think her mother knew that her familiar would be feline; she was terrified of cats, and wouldn’t have any even in the barn.

“And so that is why her training has been so haphazard?” asked Bèatrix. Enru flattened his head in humiliation again.

Forgive me, Bèatrix, but it took some time before I could lead her to Appleby Manor, and even there, as you saw, her power keeps bursting through. It isn’t consistent, so her training hasn’t been consistent.

“We’ll have to work on that, now won’t we?” said Bèatrix grimly.

After three days Bronwyn was able to walk to the kitchen to take her meals, and go for short strolls in the yard. She tired quickly, though, and Enru was very firm when he ordered her back to bed.

This was incredibly frustrating for Bronwyn, because it seemed any time she got near where Tristan was caring for the horses, or feeding the chickens, or milking the cow, or chopping firewood, Enru decided it was time to go back inside.

Once, though, she managed to slip away without her cat hounding her heels. She made sure her hair was only partially plaited, the waves spilling over her shoulders, glistening with dark red highlights in the high summer sun. She meandered over to the horse paddock, patting the old grey mares, offering them a few apples.

“You have a way with the animals,” commented Tristan. Bronwyn spun and smiled self-consciously, dropping her last apple. “Like Bèatrix.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m nowhere near as good,” demurred Bronwyn, but her heart was pounding at his praise. She peeked at him through her eyelashes, and he was smiling gently at her. She turned a little, conscious of how her skirt swished around her knees, and how his eyes glanced at her bare legs appreciatively. “What are you doing today?” she asked.

“Not much. Most of my chores are done for the day, and I saw you here talking to Naden and Trylla,” he said, gesturing toward the mares, who were both whickering at him. “So I decided to say hello. I haven’t seen much of you since…” He fumbled for the words.

“Since I nearly killed myself out of sheer stupidity?” asked Bronwyn, but she was smiling as she said it. “Enru’s been on my heels since. I haven’t had a moment’s peace!”

Tristan looked uncomfortable for a second as he said, “I’m sure he’s just worried about you. You know, making sure you don’t find a sparrow with a broken wing and try to save its life.” She chuckled.

“What if I were to saddle Trylla and my gelding and we went on a ride?” asked Tristan suddenly.
Bronwyn felt a wave of shyness roll over her, but she boldly accepted. “I think I would like that very much,” she said. “Let me go get my riding boots and my cloak.”

“Surely you don’t need your cloak. It’s such a beautiful day, and I won’t have you long.” He winced, knowing that if Enru had caught that slip of the tongue the cat would have his head. And his balls.

But Bronwyn didn’t catch it; either she was too engrossed in the concept of riding alone with Tristan, or she was too naïve to understand the innuendo. Probably both.

Bronwyn managed to elude Enru and Bèatrix both for long enough to slip in and out of the house and retrieve her riding boots. She rounded the corner of the barn and there was Tristan, Trylla saddled and waiting patiently next to his spirited gelding, Jethro. Tristan assisted her into the saddle and then mounted himself, leading the way to a path that wound into the woods at the northern edge of the property.

Before long, the pair were deep in the forest, following a trail that was barely there, and Bronwyn looked about. The woods seemed almost eerie; she’d never wandered this far away from the safety of Bèatrix’s home.

“Where are we going?” she asked, but Tristan merely turned in the saddle and threw her a grin.
“It’s a secret. It’s my own place that not even Yldan will really go. He doesn’t like the noise, he says.” They trotted on for several hours, the miles passing beneath the horses’ hooves easily.
Just when she was going to suggest a break, they broke through the treeline into a great field, strewn quite liberally with wildflowers of all types, their blossoms bobbing ponderously in the breeze. As they moved across the grass, Bronwyn became aware of a great thrumming, a deep buzz that she felt in her chest.

Tristan led her to a small cottage, in front of which was a number of wooden boxes. There was what appeared to be a black cloud swarming around the boxes, and they had nearly come upon the cottage when Bronwyn realized what they were.

Bees.

“A beekeeper?” she asked wonderingly. Tristan didn’t seem the type.

“The preferred term is apiarist, but yes, I keep bees. I collect their honey and wax for Bèatrix, and these wildflowers are mixed with wild herbs, so I can help keep her stores supplied.”

“Do you live here?” asked Bronwyn, gesturing at the cottage.

“Yes, I do.” Tristan dismounted and led Jethro and Trylla to the hitching post. “Would you like to see inside?” he offered, rather shyly.

“Oh, yes!” said Bronwyn, sliding off Trylla before he could assist her. She felt an inquiring tug in her mind, but ignored it. It was Enru, trying to find her, and she wasn’t going to help him, not now, anyway. Maybe later.

Tristan led Bronwyn inside. There was a large central room, with just one door leading to the bedroom. She sat at the table at his insistence while he began making preparations for tea.

The kitchen was small and neat; a fireplace stood against the shared wall between the two rooms, and a wooden table, smaller than Bèatrix’s, stood in the center. There were shelves with some earthenware mugs and plates arranged carefully on their surfaces, and some decorative tiles were propped along the mantel.

It was a fairly bare room, but it was clear it was tidy and well-kept. Bronwyn accepted the mug of tea from Tristan and sipped it carefully, suddenly extremely self-conscious.

“So how do you protect yourself from the bee stingers? Do you use your Ability?” she asked, trying o find a topic of discussion.

Tristan laughed. “No, that would take entirely too much energy. I use woodsmoke to make them sleepy, and I have a special suit to protect me so they don’t crawl in my clothes.” He began chattering about his bees while Bronwyn surreptitiously watched him.

It was the first real opportunity she’d had to study the young man, and she took full advantage now. His skin was pale, like hers; his eyes dark liquid brown, sometimes gold, and his hair was dark like hers. His hands, his whole body, was long and slender, yet strong. He had the general aura of a powerful feline, relaxed for now, but ready to spring and kill in an instant.

Tristan had fallen quiet, watching Bronwyn watch him. She didn’t realize for several moments that they were staring at each other, and when she did, she flushed and looked away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think me terribly rude.”

“No,” said Tristan softly, surprising her. “I think you’re beautiful.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but now it was out, it felt right. “Around Enru and Bèatrix you’re very self-controlled, as though you’re trying to impress them. Here, you’re just…you.” He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Do-do you like what you see?” whispered Bronwyn, unable to look at him.

He reached across the narrow table and touched her chin, the swiftest of contacts, but it went through her like an electric jolt. “I like it very much.” She met his eyes, then, and they leaned toward each other.

What in the name of all that is sacred are you doing here? Enru’s voice was outraged, and out of breath. The two humans sprang apart; Tristan stood and walked a few paces away, trying to catch his breath.

“Enru!” groaned Bronwyn, thoroughly irritated. “I might ask you the same thing!”

You are not well enough to be traipsing all over the Province, Bronwyn. I am lucky that Yldan saw Trylla hitched outside, else I might never have found you. I certainly would never have looked for you here, Enru said nastily.

“Well, you can just go back on home, then, can’t you. Now you’ve found me, you can unfind me.”

No, Bronwyn. You need to come home. Bronwyn’s face burned. She felt like an errant child in the face of Enru’s scolding, and she hated it.

“For gods’ sake, Enru, I am seventeen years old! I am a woman by anyone’s standards, and I will not take orders from a thrice-damned cat!”

Enru was quiet; Bronwyn closed her mouth. She knew she had gone too far; she knew that Enru had her best interests at heart. Yes Mistress, he said meekly, slinking out of the room.

Bronwyn sat in silent surprise. Enru had never given in so easily, and it made her suspicious now.

“You had better go home and tend to his ego,” said Tristan after a moment. “That one is prideful and you shamed him in front of his sworn archenemy.” He chuckled, reaching into a cabinet and withdrawing a handful of onions. “Would you like to stay for a moment and eat first?”

Bronwyn couldn’t answer; her stomach growled loudly before she could open her mouth. She giggled, blushing a little. Tristan laughed aloud. “I’ll have you fed quickly, and there are swifter ways back to Bèatrix’s than the one we took.” He pulled a copper-bottomed skillet from a shelf above the potbellied stove and a knife from the butcher block. A pat of butter was thrown into the skillet, melting as it heated as he began to slice the onions very thinly.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” said Bronwyn in surprise. Tristan nodded, throwing the onions in the skillet as he sliced. “I thought you came to Bèatrix’s for every meal because you couldn’t.”

“I don’t come to Bèatrix’s for every meal.” Tristan turned and frowned. “I come for dinner, yes, but none of the others.”

Bronwyn shook her head. “I see you every morning,” she said with half a smile, puzzled. “And usually for lunch. We all sit at the table and…” But Tristan was shaking his head. “I rarely come to Bèatrix’s for lunch, and never for breakfast. I’m not up that early.”

“Then who is it who comes to breakfast and lunch? You’re not very talkative; I’ve always assumed you were thinking about your…duties…” Bronwyn trailed off, utterly confused.

“I’ll bet that it’s Yldan. In construct.” Bronwyn narrowed her eyes, thinking.

“Why in the world would she have you around more than you actually are? If anything, you would think she’d be like Enru and discourage any relationship between us.” She bit her lip.

“I don’t know, honestly, and I don’t much care. But now that we know about it, we should…mess with her a little.” Tristan raised an eyebrow, turning back to the stove and poking at the onions, grabbing the handle of the pan and flipping them around a bit.

“What did you have in mind?” asked Bronwyn, a wicked gleam in her eye.

Part VI:Millie Thatcher's Baby

“Gods above!!” bellowed Millie, hanging onto the knotted sheets for dear life. They had one end tied to the bedpost; the other she pulled on as she bore down. Bronwyn laid a cool wet cloth on her forehead, making soothing noises.

“Ah, Millie, ‘tis not all that bad now, just breathe deep, love, and I’ll get you some more kingsfoil for the pain.” Millie nodded, gasping as her eyes bulged in agony. Bronwyn turned, opening the jar easily and extracting a thick stem of kingsfoil, knowing that chewing even the dried stems would release the pain-relieving and muscle-relaxing compounds. She slipped it inside Millie’s mouth. “Bite, love, bite hard and suck on it!” Millie obeyed, and Bèatrix looked up from her position at the foot of the bed.

“I can see his little head now, Millie, and fine dark hair she’s got.” Bèatrix knew, of course that it was a girl, but she always took care to mix the genders when she talked about an unborn baby, as though she didn’t know.

“Shh, Millie,” soothed Bronwyn in almost a singsong voice. “Your baby’s head is out, and a fine daughter or son she will be.” Millie screamed and gave one last great push, and suddenly the baby was in Bèatrix’s hands, bloody and wet, covered in a caul. Bèatrix whipped it off and busied herself cleaning the infant, while Bronwyn whispered words of congratulations and praise in Millie’s ear.

But Millie didn’t hear any of it. She had passed out, and now, unseen by Bèatrix busy with her daughter, she was bleeding, slowly at first, but then great red squirts began pulsing from between her legs.

Bronwyn saw them and cried out, causing Bèatrix to turn her head. In what seemed like a dream Bronwyn reached out, her hands crackling with blue energy, focusing it at the blood as she ran to the foot of the bed. She stuck her hands deep inside Millie, her eyes closed and her energy seeking the source of the blood, healing the torn tissue and restoring rent blood vessels.
Bèatrix watched her charge apprehensively. This was most unusual; Bronwyn had shown hardly any inclination toward the Path of Healers before now, and Bèatrix had been increasingly worried that Enru had been mistaken in his assessment.

But this, this was amazingly complicated and energy-consuming, what Bronwyn was doing. The older woman reached out and touched her shoulder, lending her own strength to the younger woman.

A good twenty minutes passed before Bronwyn collapsed against her mistress, exhausted, and Millie took a breath and began whimpering. Her eyes opened and she looked about, taking in Bèatrix holding her Apprentice up and dragging her to a chair.

“Wh-what happened?” mumbled Millie Thatcher.

Bèatrix turned her head slowly, her blue eyes burning with anger. “My Apprentice nearly killed herself Healing you,” she said, her voice smoldering. But though Millie was the recipient, she was not the intended target of Bèatrix’s rage.

She shrank against the pillows, white as ever, and glanced at the wailing infant. “Is that-?”

“Your daughter, a fine healthy girl.” Bèatrix’s expression softened. “Here…” Leaving Bronwyn propped against the chair, she wrapped up the baby and handed her to her mother. “You know what to do. I imagine she’ll be hungry.” Millie beamed down at her new child and began cooing at her while Bèatrix gathered up her herbs.

Master Thatcher, Thomas by name, peeked in through the doorway. “Millie?” he whispered.

“A girl!” she cried joyously. “Finally, a little girl of my own!” The Thatchers had five sons.

“Master Thatcher, I would appreciate it if you would harness my mares again. My Apprentice has taken ill and needs to be transported back home as quickly as possible."

Thomas Thatcher took one look at Bronwyn, pale and unconscious at the small dressing table in their bedroom, and nodded.

“Aye, Bèatrix, I’ll get you girls saddled. Jonathan!” he called loudly. A boy of twelve appeared at the door, hay sticking out of his straw-blonde hair. “Go harness the midwife’s mares to her wagon. Quickly now, they have a sick one on their hands!” The boy disappeared with a flash and patter of bare feet, and Bèatrix gently lifted Bronwyn’s head, crooning softly in her ear.

In minutes the boy was back and helped carry Bronwyn to lay in the hay he’d placed in the wagon’s bed. He held her with exaggerated care, as though she was made entirely of glass, and it was clear by the expression on his youthful face that he was stricken by her.

Bèatrix climbed into the driver seat and took up the reins. “Congratulations, Master Thatcher. Do come see me if your wife or daughter have any trouble.” She gave him a brief smile and then was off, clicking the horses into a canter.

Bronwyn was lost in a swirl of blue patterned light. It was almost as though she were swimming in a deep, clear lake, the bottom sandy, the waters still and crystalline. She heard a few muffled sounds, but they were very far away, and it was so comfortable here…She lay her head down, sinking deeper, watching the light play…

A sharp pain brought jagged flashes of red across her vision, and she was going up, up, up…the world was becoming lighter, then…

She opened her eyes and it was very bright. Squinting, Bronwyn lifted her hand, surprised at how heavy it was, to shade her face.

She is awake, said a voice, unfamiliar, with some relief. Welcome back, little one.

Bronwyn? Enru sounded terrified. She blinked, and he was crouched on her chest, his nose almost touching hers. Are you alright, Bronwyn?

“Don’t speak, child.” Bèatrix’s voice was extremely weary. She sounded, for the first time since Bronwyn had known her, old. “You delved too deeply into your well of abilities to save Millie Thatcher. She didn’t deserve it, not your life.”

“My life?” croaked Bronwyn.

“Hush. Yes, your life. If I hadn’t been there you would have poured your entire life’s energy into her to stop her bleeding. Sometimes you need to know the herbs and other healing ways before you use your Ability.”

Indeed. You delved so far into your inner wellspring that in order to restore you, Bèatrix needed my help and Enru’s. Bronwyn moved her hand; the voice was emanating from a great horned owl perched on the foot of her bed. Noting her confusion, the owl seemed to smile. I am Yldan, Bèatrix’s familiar. I dwell in the forests about here, keeping tabs on the surrounding area. Bèatrix is the Guardian of this province.

Bronwyn was quiet. Guardians were very powerful, and why she hadn’t realized this before struck her as odd. But before she could comment on it Tristan appeared in the doorway. Enru curled protectively on his mistress’s chest, glaring at the young man.

Bèatrix rose, holding out her arm. Yldan fluttered to it, carefully gripping her with his sharp talons. “I shall take my leave now,” she said gracefully, and nearly floated out of the room, leaving an almost tangible aura of smugness in her wake. Tristan pulled back to allow her to pass, then hung in the doorway.

“I see you’re awake,” he said softly. Enru noted the hammering in Bronwyn’s chest and glared harder at Tristan as he took a few shy steps forward. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He looked down awkwardly.

“Thank you,” whispered Bronwyn. She felt incredibly weak, but Tristan’s presence gave her enough strength to sit up a little, dislodging Enru, who settled in her lap.

“Listen, Bronwyn, I wanted to apologize for the other day. You were right; to insult a familiar is to insult his Sorceress. I am sorry.” His eyes dropped and his pale cheeks flushed, just a little.
Bronwyn waved her hand slowly, dismissing his apology. “No worry. ‘Tis already forgotten.” She smiled at him, and Tristan felt a strange twinge in his belly. Her dark hair, usually plaited severely away from her face, now fell in dark glossy waves that spilled over her pale shoulders, and her dark blue eyes sparkled.

“Bèatrix says you did very well, until you overexerted yourself,” offered Tristan.

“Oh, did she?” asked Bronwyn. “I’d never seen a birth before. I was so very scared at first, but then I guess my Gift took over.” She stopped self-consciously, blushing a little.

“Yes, she said you took care of Millie Thatcher so well.” The way he said her name made Bronwyn tilt her head.

“Do you know Millie?” she asked, curiously, but also trying to sound casual.

Tristan snorted. “Aye, I do, and a dumber girl you couldn’t find. She’s not Thomas Thatcher’s first wife,” he said. “She’s his third. He’s had boys by all of them, and Millie’s had seven stillbirths, premature all of them. You’d think she’d take the hint and stop breeding, or trying to.”

“She seemed nice,” said Bronwyn timidly. “She was trying very hard.”

“Oh, aye, because of the rumors of Thomas’s second wife. She couldn’t bear him children, and he needed sons to run his farm, so rumor has it that he went out of the province to see a witch and she had five boys in five years before the sixth killed her, and him with her.”

Bronwyn stared in horror at Tristan. “Why are you saying these things?” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “That’s so awful!”

Tristan burned with shame. “I am sorry, Bronwyn,” he said rather earnestly. “I did not intend to upset you. I just…Millie is not very smart. And she got herself in a world of trouble when she lay down with Thomas Thatcher and got herself with child before they were even betrothed. A bad way to start a marriage; the child did not survive. Nor did any after till now. And you helped to save her life.” Tristan smiled and patted her foot; he’d shuffled forward to the edge of the bed.

Bronwyn considered this, and smiled. “I did. I did something good, didn’t I?” Tristan nodded and smiled back.

How touching, interrupted Enru. Bronwyn, you should get back to sleep. You need to replenish your energy; you’ll be bedridden for days as it is.

“Days!” cried Bronwyn in distress. “I’ll get so bored!”

“I’ll bring you some of my books,” said Tristan.

And you can practice your mending and other lessons. Like meditation. Enru snorted softly; Bronwyn didn’t have the attention span for meditation. In any case, I think this visit should be over soon.

“Alright,” said Tristan, raising his hands in mock defense. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He smiled at Bronwyn again, his manner remarkably warmed since the beginning of her visit.

Bronwyn slid back down in the covers, closing her eyes with a happy sigh. She felt so girlish and stupid, but, she thought with glee, I think he likes me…