“To make a red-headed child,” she explains slowly, “a man must couple with a woman during her cycle. ’Tis monstrous wicked.”
“Don’t you mean menstruous?” I mutter.
Her mouth tightens.
“Whatever.” I shove a dish at her. “Thanks for the help.”
So much for bonding.
By the time I’m on the road back to Donag’s cottage, I am done in.
This place? This time? I don’t belong here.
And I will leave.
Callum’s looking for a portal. But I won’t just wait around. I bet I can find a spell.
When I reach the empty cottage, I don’t waste time. I search.
I drop to my knees beside Donag’s cot, feeling along the floor until my fingers brush something solid. Wood and leather. My pulse kicks up. It’s a chest. “Bingo.”
I drag it out, but it’s locked.
Which means it’s exactly where she hides all her witchy stuff.
It takes me thirty seconds to pop the crude clasp. Child’s play for someone who’s been picking locks since kindergarten, Janet’s favorite form of childcare having been to lock me out so I could “take the air.”
My excitement builds—only to crash when I see what’s inside.
Wool. Stacks and stacks of wool.
I shove aside blankets and shawls, grumbling. I’ve been freezing since I got here, meanwhile she’s hoarding enough fabric to start a shop.
Then something in the corner catches the light. Leather.
A book? A grimoire? “Hello,” I whisper with a grin. But when I pull it free, the thing unrolls. I yelp, flinging it away. Not a book. A strip of hide—some kind of strap or belt, made from an animal’s skin. One side lumpy, the other lightly furred, the whole thing reeking of fish and rot.
“So disgusting.” I wipe my fingers on my skirts, shuddering, and keep digging.
Then I find it.
My belly flips. “I did not need to see this.”
A wedding dress. The linen, yellowed with age, is delicate and lovely, embroidered with tiny flowers along the bodice. It’s folded carefully, lovingly, like a preserved memory.
Hermemory.
Callum said her husband was killed. Recently. I run a fingertip along the fabric, and the emotional impact hits like a blow. A young girl’s hopes and dreams, tucked away in a chest.
For a moment, I can see her: the younger Donag, bent over this fabric, stitching those tiny flowers herself. The whisper-thin sleeve slides from my touch, revealing something else.
A tiny pair of baby booties.
My throat tightens. “Aw, hell, Donag.”
Did she have to go and become a human being? I know she doesn’t have kids. I asked Callum. These were never worn.
I finger the soft yarn, unevenly dyed in shades of gold. My gut sinks. “This sucks.”
