“It’s seductive.”

“Aye, and no harm there as long as you hold your purpose and your promises.”

Now that candlelight, the crackling fire joined the quiet sunlight, she saw the room with its beamed ceiling and rough planked floor arranged into sections. Hanging herbs and flowers, bowls and jars of roots, powders, pale or bold liquids held one area; jars and bowls of crystals and stones, others in freestanding hunks or spears took up another. Dozens of candles, white, black, every color she could name, grouped together on shelves.

A third made a home for tools—pots, more bowls and jars yet to be filled, paddles and spoons, wands, knives with straight or curved blades. A doorless sort of cubby held various fabrics and yarns and ribbons. A book, not unlike the one Marg had given her, stood atop it.

The air smelled dreamily of the herbs—potted and thriving—on the wide sill in front of the window that faced the curving stream.

“Are those cauldrons?”

“They are. Did you study the list of tools in your book?”

“Yes. Cauldrons, bowls, bells, candles, wands, the ritual knives—athames—brooms, goblets, swords.”

“It’s time you learned to use them. Today, we’ll make charms for calm minds, calm hearts, fertility, safe journeys, good fortune, and protection.”

Herbs and crystals, ribbons and cloths—and, above all, Breen learned, intention. It seemed very basic, but she learned quickly the wrong crystal, the wrong herbs in a charm could draw evil rather than repel it, could cause a sleepless night instead of a restful one.

“Now keep this, of your own making.”

Breen took the small purple pouch she’d sewn and filled. “For protection,” she remembered. “I already have this.” She touched the gemstone she wore.

“And now a charm bag as well. Do you remember what you filled it with?”

“Yes, I think. Betony and sage, a piece of amber, one of malachite, another of tourmaline—black tourmaline,” she corrected. “A little shell and a broom straw. And I chanted: By my will, repel all ill. With this charm, protect from harm.”

With a simple nod, Marg gave approval. “Well done. Very well done.”

“What will you do with the others?”

“Give or trade as needs be. A young were I know is hoping for a child. I’ll gift her the fertility charm. But for now, we purify our tools, and put it all away.”

“I don’t suppose you could teach me a spell first.”

Marg laughed. “Mo stór, and so I have. A charm is but a spell in a pouch.”

“A spell in a pouch.” Finding that delightful, she slid it into her pocket. “We didn’t do any love spells. I’d think they’d be popular.”

“A charm or spell to draw another’s attention, to encourage another to look and see—these are common. But a true love spell? These are forbidden, as to bind a heart to you with magick removes choice.”

“I get that. Do they actually work?”

“Sometimes all too well, and always, always with a hard price. A woman might forsake her family, a man might strike down a rival. The bespelled might turn on the bespeller in a fit of jealousy, all twisted from magicks. A heart can go mad with love, after all.”

She could believe it even without personal experience.

“It’s so much about healing, protecting, bringing comfort—everything you’ve taught me so far. When I was little, I wanted to be a vet—an animal doctor. Not just because I loved animals, but because they need someone to take care of them.”

“You have healing in you. I can help bring some out, but Aisling is stronger there.”

They put away cloth and crystals and candles. Breen watched as Marg bathed the scissors and needles they’d used in water drawn in moonlight, how she wiped them dry with a white cloth.

“Now, you’ll take some air, clear your mind. You might walk to see Morena, or Aisling. Then I can show you how to make a wand.”

“You make them?”

“I could give you one, and will, but the making of your own imbues it with your self, your heart, your power. You’ll choose the wood, the stones, the carvings. Your wand is an extension of the magicks inside you.”

“I’m not very crafty,” she began as they walked outside. “Arts and crafty, I mean. Sewing those pouches was pretty much the top of my skill level.”

“And you did well there, didn’t you? Ah, we have company, it seems.”

She recognized the black stallion, unless he had a twin. Standing beside him outside the cabin was a smaller horse. She recognized the type from her young teen’s love affair with horses as a buckskin.

“That would be Keegan’s Merlin, the black beauty there.”

“Yes, I saw him impregnate a mare this morning. She seemed agreeable.”

“Ah, so he’s mated with Mahon’s Eryn then. That’s a fine thing. The handsome gelding is one of Harken’s. He’s called Boy—from Good Boy, as he is one. If the pair of them are inside with Sedric, we won’t find a crumb of those biscuits left.”

Inside, Keegan sat by the fire with Sedric—and Bollocks. The two men each had a tall mug—a tankard, Breen supposed.

“And here they are,” Sedric announced. “I’ve plied Keegan with a mug of ale to keep him from interrupting your work.”

“And fine work it was. I’m told your Merlin did his job of work just this morning.”

“He did at that, and successfully.”

“It took. That’s grand then.”

“Isn’t it too early to know?”

Keegan glanced at Breen. “Harken says she’s carrying, and he’d know.” He rose then, polished off the ale. “I brought Boy, as she has to learn to ride, and Harken says he’d suit her for it.”

“A riding lesson,” Marg said before Breen could object, “a patient and gentle one, would be a fine way for Breen to get some air after being closed up in the workshop.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“Walking won’t take you as far as a good horse.” Keegan cocked his head at her. “Sure you’re not afraid to sit one?”

“Since I haven’t sat on one, that I remember, I don’t know.”

“Best find out then. It’s good ale, thanks.” He started out, stopped to kiss Marg’s cheek, then continued on.

“You loved riding as a child,” Marg told her. “It’s in you.”

“Maybe.” As she stepped out, she had to remind herself she liked horses. What she didn’t like was the idea of getting thrown, or losing control and having a horse run off with her bouncing all over the saddle.

“He knows his job,” Keegan told her. “But you’ll make him anxious if you get up on him all quivering.”

“I’m not quivering.” Maybe a little—inside. But she stepped up.

“You’ll want to mount from his other side, unless you want to ride facing his arse.”

Great start, she thought, and went around to the other side of the horse. “There’s no horn on the saddle. You know, something to grab on to.”

“You’re not in your Wild West with the lasso. I’ve been there,” he added. “It’s a vast place, it is, and I see the purpose of those big, heavy saddles there, but that’s a different world. You’ll have a rein in each hand. You’ll pull the left to go left, right to go right, both to stop. Put your foot in the stirrup and swing your other leg over.”

“Give her a leg up, as a gentleman would,” Marg called from the doorway, but Breen swung her leg over and managed to plant herself.

“Other foot in. Aye, that’s the right length for you. A rein in each hand. Hold them like this.”

He showed her, and because he seemed patient enough, she concentrated on relaxing.

Keegan swung on the leather duster, then mounted Merlin, turned him around. “Left rein, smooth and easy to turn him.”

“Just a walk now, Keegan, till the girl finds her seat. And have her back by the evening meal.”

“She’ll be fine, don’t fret. Heels down, knees in.”

She was riding a horse, Breen thought, and it was . . . okay.

When they got to the road, she turned him again—to the right this time. It didn’t seem so hard, at least not at this pace, this easy clip-clop under a sky that had gone pale blue, and through air that had warmed since the rain ended.

She glanced down to see Bollocks trotting along beside her.

“The dog’s with us. Is that all right?”

“The horses don’t mind dogs; the dog doesn’t mind horses.”

He made her stop, then start again. Made her stop, then get the horse to back up, then go forward. He turned off the road onto a trail that wound through woods where the light went soft and the air cooled.

She saw something come out of an enormous tree before racing away in a blur.

“Elves—some young ones—playing.”

“But . . . was he in the tree?”

“Of.”

A bear ran across the trail, then stopped to give them a good look. Breen’s throat slammed shut so her scream came out as a gurgle. And the bear raced off into the trees.

“That—”

“A were, and a young one. They’re just having a lark in the woods. You’ll need to get used to seeing such things.”

“How do you know if it’s a were or an actual bear that wants to eat you?”

“Bears, those that are the animal only, are more interested in berries than in you. But if you cross paths with one and he takes a dislike to you, you’ll know quick enough.”

He turned to her, as at ease on the stallion as another might have been in a BarcaLounger. “That’s why you learn the sword, the arrow, how to ride at a gallop as well as magicks. It’s survival and it’s duty.”

“I made charms today.”