‘Well stuff your bloody warnings, you mad bitch! You’ll regret being the Maiden, that’s for sure – you’ll regret that alright. Come on, lads, the three old girls should be finished their Dark Moon stuff now. Let’s go and have a pipe with them and see what they’ve come up with.’
They shoved her in through the garden gate and went on up the lane, laughing.
As Imbolc approached, Leveret became more and more nervous. She somehow managed to conceal the livid bruising and her scraped skin, and Maizie teased her about becoming so modest all of a sudden. She tried not to flinch as her mother fiddled about with the bodice of the dress, pinning and tucking the white material tight so it fitted her snugly over the fine camisole, clucking and tutting and loving every minute of it. Leveret, meanwhile, stood like a stone statue hoping for a miracle to make them choose somebody else at the last minute.
She had to practise the chants and steps endlessly, with the other girls giggling and chattering around her and enjoying themselves no end. Little Celandine beamed at her constantly, desperate for Leveret to notice her special dance and make some comment. But Leveret was so wrapped up in her own despair that she didn’t realise. There were even a couple of practices with Kestrel which she found a terrible ordeal. He was as charming as ever, making all the girls laugh with his jokes, and couldn’t understand why Leveret wasn’t bowled over too.
‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered once, as they stood in the sidelines waiting for their cue. ‘Didn’t you want me for the Archer?’
‘No, no, it’s not that,’ she whispered back. ‘I just wish I wasn’t the Maiden. I hate it.’
He stared at her in complete astonishment.
‘But all the girls want to be the Bright Maiden!’
‘Not me.’
The afternoon before Imbolc just as they’d all returned from the woods after picking snowdrops for the head-dresses, Marigold came bustling in, rosy-cheeked from the bitter wind and searching for Leveret.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear!’ she gasped, relieved at having found the girl. ‘I just had a message from one o’ the painters in the Circle. Can you go up there quick? There’s some trouble with our Magpie and he’s upset. They can’t get through to him and they want you to try and make him understand. They said he’s done the painting all wrong but he won’t let ’em wash it off.’
Afraid for Magpie and glad of the excuse to get away from the stifling excitement and high-pitched anticipation in the Barn, Leveret pulled on her cloak and ran as fast as she could up to the Stone Circle. Poor Magpie – she’d not seen him all week as she’d been so busy, but she’d meant to go and see his paintings and tell him how proud she was of him. She felt terrible for neglecting him and now worried that he’d messed up his chance to be useful in the community. She met Merewen halfway up the Long Walk, puffed out from running most of the way and trying to ignore her stomach and back which hurt badly with every lungful of air she took. Merewen was stomping towards her, cloak billowing out behind her.
‘Ah, Leveret – good! They say you’re the only one he listens to. Come and see if you can talk some sense into the boy.’
‘Has he really messed it up?’ she gasped, in agony now from the great breaths she gulped in. It had been a mistake to run so fast with her injuries.
‘No, no, the boy’s brilliant – perhaps the best artist Stonewylde’s had. Love his style – completely natural. ‘Tis not that. He’s got confused and thinks it’s the Equinox and he’s painted the wrong symbol, right behind the bloody Altar Stone too so everyone’ll see it. He won’t let us clean it off, though, and he’s yowling and guarding it with his body. We don’t want to manhandle the boy – see if you can talk some sense into him, will you?’
When they entered the Circle, Leveret saw a whole group of people gathered around the great stone. As she drew closer she saw Magpie in his painter’s smock facing them all, arms outstretched to shield his painting and screeching in panic.
‘Come on, lad,’ growled Greenbough. ‘Stop making that noise and let us clean it off. Nobody’s angry with you, ‘tis just the wrong picture for Imbolc.’