The knife twisted as he said the words Fin used to say to her. My love, my share of life.
“Do you think that weakens me? Tempts me to open to you? You are all I despise. You are why I am no longer his.”
“You chose. You cast me away.” Suddenly he was Fin at eighteen, so young, so full of grief and rage. “What would you have me do? I never knew. I never deceived you. Don’t turn from me. Don’t cast me aside.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Branna heard herself say. “I gave myself to you, only you, and you’re his blood. You’re his.”
“I didn’t know! How could I? It came on me, Branna, burned into me. It wasn’t there before—”
“Before we loved. More than a week ago, and you said nothing, and only tell me now, as I saw for myself. I am of the three.” Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them thicken her voice. “I am a Dark Witch, daughter of Sorcha. You are of Cabhan, you are of the black and the pain. You’re lies, and what you are has broken my heart.”
“Weep, witch,” he murmured. “Weep out the pain. Give me your tears.”
She caught herself standing in front of him, on the edge of her ground, and his face was Cabhan’s face. And that face was lit with the dark as the red stone glowed stronger.
Tears, she realized, swam in her eyes. With all her will she pulled them back, held her head high. “I don’t weep. You’ll have nothing from me but this.”
She jabbed out with the garden knife, managed to stab shallowly in his chest as she grabbed for the pendant with her other hand. The ground trembled under her feet; the chain burned cold. For an instant his eyes burned red as the stone, then the fog swirled, snapped out with teeth, and she held nothing but the little knife with blood on its tip.
She looked down at her hand, at the burn scored across her palm. Closing her hand into a fist she drew up, warmed the icy burn, soothed it, healed it.
Perhaps her hands trembled—there was no shame in it—but she picked up the flowers, the wineglass she’d dropped.
“A waste of wine,” she said softly as she walked toward the house.
But not, she thought, a waste of time.
She’d stirred the potatoes, taken the bread from the oven, and had poured a fresh glass of wine before the rest of her circle began wandering in.
“What can I do,” Iona asked as she washed her hands, “that won’t give anyone heartburn?”
“You could mince up that garlic there.”
“I’m good at mincing, also chopping.”
“Mincing will do.”
“Are you all right?” Iona said under her breath. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m right enough, I promise you. I have something to tell all of you, but I’d as soon wait until I have this all done.”
“Okay.”
She focused on cooking, on letting the voices flow around her while she worked. She didn’t have to ask for help—others set the table, poured wine, arranged food on platters or in bowls.
“Do you have a marketing list?” Meara asked as those bowls and platters made their way around the table. “And if not, if you could make one, I’ll be doing the marketing for you—unless you object.”
“You’re doing my marketing?”
“The lot of us will be taking turns on it, from now on. Well, as long as you’re stuck doing most of the cooking. It’s gone past cleaning up after being a fair trade-off. So we’ll see to the marketing.”
“I have a list started, and planned to go to the market tomorrow.”
“It’ll be my turn for that, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure it’s fine with me.”
“If there’s anything you want taken into your shop, I can haul it in for you at the same time.”