if that doesn’t work. And it would be for me—as the one who has to look out for them—to fight if there’s no other way. I never had to put that to the test. But I believe, I do, that I’d have done whatever I could to protect them.”
“For this you train?”
“Yes. Yes, as a teacher you do.”
“This isn’t so very different. A sword wouldn’t be your only weapon. You have a strong weapon inside you—to use as a weapon only to protect.”
“I want to learn more about that.”
“So we will. First, I’ve done some reading myself. Your book.”
“Oh.”
“You gave me leave to read it, and so I did.” She looked down at the dog, smiled. “Oh, she’s got you, my man, down to the bone. You have skill with words, mo stór, and that’s a magick as well. Twice I read it through, and I laughed, and I thrilled to our boy’s adventures. So brave and true in the story, just as he is, and sweet of heart even when foolish.”
Marg reached over, patted Breen’s hand. “That’s the truth I promised you, not just a nan’s sentiment. Now, did you send it away to the people who make books?”
“No, I . . .” When Marg’s eyebrows rose up, Breen nodded. “You’re right, they can only say yes if they read it. I’ve done the research on how to submit, so I’ll do it tonight. I’ll just do it.”
“There now, a next step taken. So we’ll take another ourselves. Bring your tea.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out to where I do more than make teas and kitchen magicks.” Marg rose. “We could say we’re off to school.”
“Like Hogwarts?”
“Oh, and sure those are some fine stories. But no, for this, it’s only you and only me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They went out, then along a path deeper into the woods, beyond the lean-to where the horse dozed to where the stream curved under a small, arching stone bridge.
Another stone building stood, one half the size of the cottage. Unlike at the cottage, the thick door, covered with carvings, remained closed. Still, flowers spilled out of window boxes on either side of the door.
They crossed the bridge while a delighted Bollocks splashed into the stream.
Marg sent him an indulgent look. “He’ll be fine out here.”
“It’s like a workshop?”
“So it is, as it’s work we do inside. Give me your hand, child.” And she pressed Breen’s hand to the door under her own. “Now the door will open for you as well.”
It did, just like that, opened without a sound.
The sun eked in enough for Breen to make out worktables, shelves full of jars, dried herbs and plants hanging from lines. A couple of wooden chairs and stools.
“Light the fire.” Marg tapped her chest. “From here.”
Like a test, Breen thought, and had to push through nerves as she stepped over to the hearth. She’d practiced, she reminded herself. Last night, again this morning.
So she closed her eyes, visualized the fire, and calmed her mind until she felt heat. And drew that heat up, from belly to heart, from heart to mind.
Just a flicker, weak at first, but she pulled more, opened her eyes. The peat caught, simmered, shimmered, then burned full.
“Well done. Well done indeed. Now the candles. Above you.”
Breen looked up and saw more than a dozen candles in an iron ring. “They’re farther away than I’ve done.”
“Distance is no matter. Light the candles.”
She drew in breath, drew up the heat, and the candles flamed.
“There, you see, you’ve learned by doing what’s already known to you.”
“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