“But I didn’t.”
The queen smiled and poked a finger against Regan’s ribs. The girl bent away, pressing her mouth closed against laughing too brightly. Dalat’s second daughter wore a more formal dress than even her mother, long and dyed bold purple. Brona knew—because she had repeatedly cast spreads of holy bones on behalf of each princess of Innis Lear—that this one carved her place already, as a partner and prop, mother or lover, perhaps even a witch herself. A consort, but never a true queen.
That destiny belonged to the unborn princess, or perhaps that first daughter, the ferocious warrior who even now cut across the lane outside Brona’s cottage, wooden sword in hand, meeting the boisterous Earl Errigal stroke for stroke.
Brona groaned as she settled onto the floor, her knees bent and splayed to the side, soles of her feet together. The princess eyed her suspiciously, judging the witch’s improper attire, but Brona wrinkled her nose and smiled; Regan mimicked the exact same position with the limber ease of childhood.
“Are we casting bones now?” Dalat’s daughter asked, leaning toward Brona eagerly, yet managing to keep her voice smooth.
“As the princess commands,” Brona replied, holding out her hand.
Regan hopped up to fetch Brona’s bag of bones, reverently offering them to the witch before resuming her seated position.
“Would you like a reading for yourself?” Brona asked.
The princess’s brow wrinkled as she thought. She glanced at her mother and Dalat lifted her eyebrows and nodded, giving Regan what permissionshe liked. But the princess, all of six years old, touched her flat little stomach and said, “For the babies.”
Brona painstakingly shifted her own seat until she leaned the small of her back against the mattress, where Dalat could put a hand between her shoulder blades, connecting the friends in spirit. Then the witch removed her cards and bones from the leather pouch. She set the bone, crystal, and antler holy bones along her thighs and began to shuffle the cards. Closing her eyes, Brona thanked the stars and worms of her heart for a friend like this queen, vivacious and cunning and gentle, who loved her enough to tuck herself away from the king and his kingdom—all the business Dalat herself saw to on behalf of her absent-minded husband—in order to comfort Brona through her first pregnancy. The witch sighed deeply as she shuffled, casting her thoughts too inside her, toward her little son. Brona listened to the threads of light and earthly shadows weaving around him, those that stretched toward Dalat behind, weaving about the queen’s third daughter.
The witch of the White Forest held her eyes shut as she spread the cards in a spiral. “Choose a bone,” she instructed the queen and the princess. Both did, the former taking the crystal saint of stars, the later picking up a pale bone carved like a leaf: the Worm of Birds. Brona tossed the remaining seven bones across the spiral of cards. “Now,” she said, “please put your bones down where you will. Dalat, yours will be for your daughter, and Regan, if you will bless my son with your casting.”
Regan’s eyes lit up with pride and she bent over the spread in contemplation. The queen put her saint of stars bone against the card for the Bird of Dreams. The princess glanced up at her mother, then Regan reached out, nearly setting the chosen worm bone against the Tree of Thorns card—but a hesitation shifted her hand eastward, and she placed it instead against the linked corners of two others; Tree of Ancestors and Bird of Rivers. “Is that all right?” the princess whispered.
“Of course,” Brona whispered back. “You have rootwater in your heart. You know where these bones belong.”
The princess nodded slowly.
The witch slid her gaze over and around the cards. “What do you see, little witch?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, and feel, and listen, and there will be something.”
Regan glanced to her mother.
Dalat encouraged, “Go on.”
“Here,” said the witch, pointing to the Bird of Dreams card. Silver lines of moonlight wove throughout the feathers of an elegant songbird, and itsshadow was a raven of stars and blood. “What does this card your mother chose tell you about your baby sister, with words or in feelings.”
The young princess pursed her lips.
“Do not think too long,” Brona counseled.
Regan closed her eyes and breathed slowly, lips parted as if to taste the fire-warmed air. “I can’t trust her,” she whispered.
“What!” Dalat frowned.
“She’s not real!” Regan glanced at her mother in a panic. “I’m sorry, that’s…”
“Of course she is real.”
The witch hummed, studying the delicate crystal saint of stars where it lay against the card, connecting the wings of the moonlight songbird and its bloody raven shadow. “She is only a future now,” Brona said. “Nothing but a promise, growing and wanting. But that future she is will be made by our pasts, entwined together—our pasts and our loves and troubles. She is a dream.”
Seeming relieved by the longer, magical explanation, Regan looked to her mother again, for forgiveness.
“I am willing to love a dream,” the queen said.
Regan hugged herself. “I don’t know how.”
