unfamiliar bed with his legs stretched wide apart, tied to the bed so that he couldn't move them. His wrists had also been tied so that he couldn't touch himself, couldn't feel with his fingers what they had done to him, what they'd taken from him, how they had mutilated him. He lay there alone in the darkness in the worst pain he had ever known in his short life, screaming and sobbing, not even able to wipe the snot from his own nose. And somehow, that seemed like the greatest betrayal of them all, that his mother had not been there to comfort him and soothe away his tears. Would Elena walk away from her crying child? Was that what all mothers did in the end?
The moon hung below the ice in the small bog pool, swelling up even as he stared down at her, as if she would burst open and thousands of baby stars would come tumbling out and wriggle away like tiny silver fishes into the black waters. Was Athan wriggling his way into Elena even now in the darkness, his sweat running over her pale skin, his hands on her breasts, making her giggle, making her moan and beg? Her lace floated in front of him. He could see her naked body thrusting up towards Athan.
In a fury Raffe raised the torch and smashed it down on the moon in the water. The ice splintered and stinking muddy water splashed up his legs and on to his face. The flames were doused and he shivered in the cold hard silver of the starlight.
But like a good sharp slap, the cold water had done its work; it had brought Raffe to his senses. Elena was gone now and that was for the good. He might glimpse her from time to time in the village, but she would not be living under his nose, for ever reminding him of what he couldn't possess; and in a few years, after she'd borne more brats, when her figure had thickened and the children and her husband had cut wrinkles into her face, why, he'd probably not even recognize her, much less want her.
Trying in vain to convince himself that he no longer cared, Raffe strode fiercely back towards the manor, the moon obstinately keeping pace above him, lighting his path and mocking his attempts to smash her. With every stride Raffe took away from Elena, he tried to make the picture of her in his head more bloated, aged and unlovely. He painted her red hair grey. He gave her sagging breasts and a huge mole, and then pulled out even her grey hair, making her as bald as an egg, but still he couldn't wipe the girl from his mind.
Mortals are fools to a man: they believe that if only they can convince themselves of anything they will make it so, but they can never quite convince themselves enough.
Day of the New Moon,
April 1211
Yew - Mortals do not sit in its shade, nor place their beehives near it, lest the bees make poisoned honey. Nor do they drink from a bowl of its wood.
For those who would use a yew sprig in magic, the sprig must be not owned, bought or begged, but stolen in secret from a graveyard. If a maid would dream of her future husband, she must sleep with the stolen sprig under her pillow. If a mortal loses anything which is dear to him, he must hold a branch of yew before him as he walks and the yew will lead him to that which he seeks. When it is close upon the thing that is lost, the yew branch will wriggle in his hand as if he held a serpent.
For in the wood of the yew the spirits of the earth, both malicious and benevolent, may be bound fast and imprisoned for a hundred years.
The Mandrake's Herbal
The Quickening
The tiny room is crowded with pots, baskets and dyed linen strips hanging from the rafters. She impatiently tears down the cloth and kicks the boxes aside. She is looking for a cradle, but there isn't one. She is determined to find the child. How dare they try to keep it hidden from her? The wail grows louder. The source is only inches away, but still she can't see it, nothing but a stack of baskets covered with cloths like those hanging all around. As she stares, one of the baskets trembles. Did they really think