Heart's Blood

The kitchen was down another hallway and through a heavy oak door. A meager fire struggled on the hearth. On a well-scrubbed table lay the bundle of supplies Magnus had carried up from the village, its contents as yet unpacked. My companion hung a kettle from an iron support over the hearth and added wood to the fire. I watched him, my head full of awkward questions.

Magnus rummaged on a shelf, produced a little box and spooned something from it into an earthenware cup. As he worked I looked about me, noticing that this chamber, too, had its mirror, a three-sided, polished piece of some dark metal I could not identify. It seemed an ordinary one, the reflection showing a section of wall and roof, but the light was odd, as if the image within the metal showed the room at a different time of day or in a different season. It was hard not to stare at it.

“This is a restorative mix,” Magnus said, stirring. “Should put a bit of heart back into you.You look as if you need it.” When the kettle was steaming, he filled the cup and put it on the table beside me. “It’s safe to drink,” he added. “By the way, you might want to avoid looking in the mirrors for a while.They can be confusing.You’ll get used to them in time. If you stay, that is.”

“I see.” It was troubling how strongly the polished surface drew the eye, as if it might have enticing secrets to yield. I changed the subject.“Are you the one who tends the herb garden, Magnus?” I asked. “Irial’s garden, is that what it’s called? I noticed it’s quite well kept compared with . . .” My voice trailed away as I realized the implied insult in my words.

“That garden’s his domain,” Magnus said. “But I do everything else.” He glanced around the kitchen, plainly seeing it through my eyes. It was clean but remarkably bare, the shelves near empty, the cooking pans, platters and cups lined up neatly. My sister’s kitchen, at home in Market Cross, had been a place of warmth and light, savory smells and bustling activity. That was before Father died; before Maraid abandoned me to Ita and Cillian. Going into that kitchen had felt like being hugged against a mother’s heart.This chamber was cold, despite the fire.There was no heart here.

“I meant no criticism,” I said awkwardly.

“Not your fault, is it? At least, now you’re here, I can take looking for a scribe off my list of duties. That’s if he’ll have you. I’d best go and speak to him.”

I sat alone before the fire while he went off to find his master. I tried the herbal draft, which was bitter but not unpleasing. I imagined Maraid here, setting a jug of wildflowers on a shelf, hanging a bright weaving on a bare wall, singing as she chopped onions and leeks for a pie. But then Maraid would never be in my current situation. She was far too practical. All she had done was fall in love with a traveling musician and end up poor. She’s her mother all over again, I could hear Ita saying. A slut born and bred, can’t help herself. And you’ll be the same, mark my words.Your kind of looks attract the wrong sort of man, the sort with only one thing on his mind.

I was about halfway through the drink when my gaze crossed the mirror once again and I saw reflected in it the form of a woman standing very still in the doorway behind me. Somehow she had got there without a sound. I jumped up, spilling the contents of my cup. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking around for something to clean up with. “You startled me.” When she did not reply, I added, “My name is Caitrin, daughter of Berach. I’m here about the scribing job.”

She stood watching in silence as I found a cloth and wiped the tabletop. Under her scrutiny I straightened, turning to face her. This was no serving woman. Her manner was regal and her clothing, though plain to the point of severity, was expertly cut and fashioned of finest wool. The gown was dove grey, the overdress a slightly darker shade; her hair was concealed by a light veil. Under its neat folds her expression was coolly judgmental. Anluan’s wife? She was quite young, perhaps not much older than me. How old was the chieftain? Between the unkempt hair, the scowl and the oddity of his features, all I could say was that he was probably no more than thirty.

The woman clasped her hands together, gazing at me with lustrous gray eyes. Her features were neat and small. She held herself very straight. Anluan’s sister, perhaps? Could she be Magnus’s daughter?

“I’m just waiting for Magnus to come back,” I said, forcing a smile. “He said I could sit here.”

The woman did not smile. “I’m sorry,” she said crisply. “We won’t be needing you.”

After a moment’s stunned silence, I protested. “Magnus implied that I could have the job if I was able to do it. I should at least be given a trial—”