recalled every tiny detail of that passionate consummation so strongly that he groaned aloud and quickly opened his eyes, wishing she were here right now. Then he shook his head impatiently; no, not here in the open with the weather so crisp. She deserved better – only finest linen sheets and goose down pillows for his Sylvie. Only the safe cocoon of softness, comfort and luxury; she must be treated with the utmost care, even though he was still angry with her.
Yul watched the black-robed figures, skull masks in place, slowly shuffling around the labyrinth on the Village Green towards the great wicker dome in the centre. He shuddered, hating everything about the Samhain rituals. He was still haunted by nightmares where he relived the lurching movement of the sledge being dragged inexorably towards the centre of the labyrinth in the grotesque Dance of Death. He still endured horrible flashes from that night of Jackdaw’s leering face, Magus laughing with glee, the funeral pyre so high above him and pale bodies in their white tunics lying motionless beside him as that dark figure stalked the Circle. Yul shuddered again.
Next year it’d all be gone and he couldn’t wait – nor could he wait for Clip to leave. Yul had never trusted him, not since he’d hypnotised Sylvie into submitting to Magus’ torture on the rock at Mooncliffe every month. Yul had no patience with Clip’s weaknesses and vacillations and little respect for him. He’d found it so difficult to hold his tongue while Clip dithered, growing older and vaguer by the year. He resented Clip’s interference and his influence over Sylvie and longed for the day when he would take up the reins of power. Yul knew in his very marrow that this was his destiny, and Clip had blocked it for too long.
He stepped forward slightly from the shadows of the yew tree, absently watching the cloaked figures on the Village Green, fingers drumming against his thigh. He must go into the Great Barn soon to see the children’s Samhain drama. Celandine and Bluebell were both in it, although at four years old, Bluebell’s part was limited to that of an acorn. He smiled, remembering how excited the girls had been that morning. Celandine was part of the autumn wind dance and had been prancing around the Hall for weeks, practising her twirling and whooshing. As magus he must watch and applaud all the children but he wished there was time to return to the Hall first. He was waiting for something important and needed to check his e-mails. Yul tried to put it to the back of his mind; Harold would phone down to the Barn if it came through and Sylvie was right – he did need to sort out his priorities. This was what really mattered; celebrating the festival, not business deals going through.
They’d had the most awful argument on the night of the last Council Meeting. Yul had tried to hide his anger but they knew each other too well for deception and she’d been just as angry with him. They’d hurled accusations at each other and then taken their fight away from their sleeping children to his office downstairs, where it had continued to rage. Sylvie shouted that he was a control freak like his father and had forgotten what mattered at Stonewylde; he yelled that she was as woolly and soft as her father and had no idea how to run their community.
She’d stood, hands on hips, her hair wild about her flushed cheeks and eyes flashing sparks of rage and the row had ended abruptly. Overwhelmed by desire for her, he’d manoeuvred her onto the large sofa and made love to her as passionately as he’d argued with her only minutes before. Her furious protests had been quenched by his greedy mouth and in moments they both knew that her resistance was merely token, and soon abandoned. But afterwards, as their breathing returned to normal and their heated bodies cooled, she’d made it clear that she was still furious about his arrogance at the Council meeting.
‘Remember, Yul,’ she’d flung at him, ‘that Clip could decide to sign it all over to me alone. Remember that before you attempt to shut me out altogether. You may channel the Earth Magic but I’m the heir to Stonewylde, not you. Stop trying to push me out!’
As she’d struggled out of his grasp and adjusted her twisted clothing, he’d been so tempted to fling back an