I lowered my hand and let the birthmark stay as it was. The world moved back into motion, and the shepherd blinked in surprise.
Some impulse caught me, and I looked coyly out from underneath Bess’s lashes. Mayhap I could distract the man, make him forget whatever brief lapse of my glamour he might have seen. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know what to call me but have not told me what to call you.” My pulse quickened, and my cheeks warmed. Such boldness had never been my wont, however strangely natural it felt.
He straightened then, squaring his shoulders, and puffing out his chest like a proud bird of prey. I noted how close his jerkin fit him, how his pushed-up sleeves revealed forearms corded with muscle. “You may well use my occupation, Shepherd, since my father has not given me his name. And my Christian name is Thomas.”
I had not a Christian name, nor was I the Bess he thought I was. The knowledge freed me somewhat, kept away my shyness and concern over what others might think. “Thomas.” I tasted it on my tongue, like the juice of some forbidden fruit. “Thomas Shepherd.” It seemed too humble for him, somehow. He had such assurance, such charm. A shepherd with the manner of a king. He should be Dumuzi, or Endymion, the consort of a goddess.
Not standing here talking to a lowly farmer’s daughter like Bess. Like me.
Then again, I was not sure I still was the lass I had been before. Somehow, standing next to the handsome shepherd, for the first time I felt seen.
The gate to the kirkyard creaked open, and the first of the mourners began to leave. Mairi’s body rested in the ground, and my brothers had covered the grave with dirt. Some of my straggling relations lingered, making the sign of the cross over their breasts. Before long, the family would depart the kirkyard, and I must join their assembly, if I hoped to discreetly insert myself into their midst.
I did not want to go. I would linger here, talking to the comely shepherd, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the beauty of the day.
Perhaps I was the brazen sinner Eamon feared I would turn out to be. It was not in me then to care.
I straightened, lifting my chin like a fine gentlewoman, as though I were garbed in the finest silk, and not my best and darkest dress. “Well, then, Thomas Shepherd,” I said, “I hope we meet again under better circumstances.”
He nodded then took my hand in his own. His fingers were strong, elegant though calloused. He raised my hand to his lips, warm and soft as they brushed against me, then he gingerly lowered his hand and released me, never once moving his eyes from my face. “Till the next time, lass.”
Who do you become when everyone who told you what you were is gone?
Anyone you want.
And despite everything—my mixed heritage, my fae vulnerabilities, and my magicless state—something inside me began to believe he was right.
Four
Thud!
Diving after a sobbing bairn, I looked up in time to see Mairi’s favorite pitcher fall off the table and shatter upon the rush-strewn floor. A lad of perhaps eight, freckled and with my eldest brother’s stubborn set to his jaw, stuck his tongue out and rushed out the door, an older boy trailing behind him. I didn’t know whose he was. I never knew whose they were. I had too many siblings, and my responsibilities around the cruck house gave me too little time to care.
Morven and I had spent nigh on a month cleaning up after these loathsome creatures, and my patience was being sorely tried. Not only was the house full of children, rowdy, noisy, and mischievous, but their parents also used Mairi Grieve’s funeral as an excuse to indulge in vices of the worst sort. They paid their own children very little mind. Bess will look after them, they would say. We deserve some respite, and after all, Bess has no children of her own. Not a one of the siblings would raise a hand to help me with the cooking or cleaning, and if I dared to ask them, they begged off on the excuse of grief. Had they treated their own mother thus?
In fact, they often had. I recalled how Mairi was always sweeping away the goose pats Tavish dragged across the floor, how Sorcha had moved far away and, until the funeral, had not been home in five years. Mairi’s children had always been such ingrates, as I recalled.
I had sat by her bedside for many years, alone.
I sighed and wiped an arm across my forehead, went for a broom to sweep up the mess.
On wobbling legs, the weeping child took a step towards the broken crockery, and then another. I had but a moment to determine it would be faster to grab him than to sweep up the broken pitcher, so I enfolded him into my arms.
Tears rolled out from the little one’s big green eyes, and he opened his hand to show me a shard of broken crockery he had picked up, and the cut it had left on his wee finger.
“Och, sweeting, what happened?” I asked. “Did ye cut yourself? ’Tis all right. We can fix that.” I cooed and nuzzled him under his chin. He smelled of green grass and sweet porridge, was soft and warm in the circle of my arms.
With the bairn propped on my hip, I rummaged about in the pantry for Mairi’s hare’s foot clover salve. I unearthed the jar and set the wee lad on the table to apply it. “Show me where it hurts, love.”
The lad held up his finger to show me.
I rubbed the ointment upon it, tearing off a bit of my kerchief to make a bandage, wrapping it around, and finishing with a kiss. “All better now?”
He nodded and grinned, holding out his little arms to give me a big hug.
I lifted him again and kissed him on the cheek.Perhaps here’s one relative I do not mind so much.
I stared daggers at the door through which the older boys had just escaped. “Tavish!” I yelled out into the yard, hoping I might at last drag him away from my sister Sorcha’s ale. “Your lad knocked over the pitcher. Come clean it up!”
