“Ye might, but you’re standing in naught but a patch of honeysuckle, and that’s best gathered at night.”
“For a spell?” Gillian asked.
The old woman chuckled. “For a child in the village with a cough. Steep the leaves and flowers with honey. Your sister would know that. She knows plants and their healing powers almost as well as I do myself.”
“Oh.” Gillian felt a trifle foolish.
“I’m a midwife, lass, not a witch. Ye’ve no cause to fear me. There’s magic in all living things, power that can harm or heal. It must be respected, treated with care,” Moire said more gently and began to cut the plant. The sweet scent of flowers filled the air.
She found Gillian’s hand in the dark, pressed a sprig of blossoms into it, and folded her fingers over it. The scent was heady, cloying.
“They say that if ye take honeysuckle blossoms into your house, ye’ll wed within a year. It will draw true love to ye. Do ye want that?”
Gillian took a breath. Yes.Oh, yes. “You’re the second person today to tell me I’ll wed within the year.”
“Does that please ye?” Moire asked.
Gillian didn’t answer. Instead, she looked down the path that John had taken, but there was no gleam of blond hair, no sound of footsteps.
The old midwife laughed at her silence. “’Tis no matter. The goddess knows, even if ye don’t.”
She shooed Gillian away. “Ye’d best go in where it’s safe.”
And Gillian went, hurrying down the path with her heart still beating fast, and a sudden longing for the safety of her bed.
