The conversation was stilted. Mam was mostly concerned with the immediate aftermath: talking to their other neighbors, what to do with the chickens and the late harvest. Branwen simply listened, too tired to do anything else. When the dishes were clean, she brewed hot water, letting the sleeping herbs steep before giving the tea to Mam. Mam took it with a murmured thanks, not bothering to ask what was in it. A few months ago, she would have asked—but at some point, Branwen had become the head of their little household. It was disconcerting to realize that she held most of the power here.
When Mam retired to her bedroom, Branwen turned to Gwydion. He sat before the fire, gazing into the flames. “Sit with me,” he said, patting the place beside him. “We should talk.”
Branwen plopped down. Palug was in her lap before she could so much as blink. Her fingers wove through his black-and-white fur. He seemed to sense her grief; he head-butted her chin and purred loudly.
“Those herbs you gave your mother,” Gwydion said. “They induce deep sleep.”
She looked at him sharply. “I would not expect a nobleman to know much of herbs.”
“I garden,” he said.
She held back a snort. From what she’d seen him do with that tree, it was an understatement. She looked down at the brace he wore on his right hand. It looked like half a glove, wood keeping his fingers from bending too far in either direction. The leather was tanned and soft with age. He had clearly worn it for years. And itwas that small detail that made her trust him—he knew something of pain.
“She has the memory sickness,” Branwen said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And strangely, she believed him. “She seems fine.”
Branwen shook her head. “Evenings are when it starts. She will be restless, forgetful, and she might wander. Once, she went to the village and could not recall the way home. I don’t dare leave for too long for fear of what would happen.”
“That is why you worked for the barwn,” said Gwydion, “because you needed coin to buy herbs that might put her into a sleep before the forgetfulness takes her.”
“It’s not a perfect solution.” Branwen’s fingers tightened on Palug, and the cat twitched in protest. He leapt from her lap and settled before the fire. “But even healers can only do so much.” She exhaled hard. “Now, since we are being truthful with each other. What you did with the oak tree… I’ve never seen the like.”
“Most haven’t,” he agreed.
“You’re a diviner.” He was not the first she’d seen. Branwen had glimpsed a diviner two years before in one of the western port cities. She had been a young woman dressed in a brown cloak and simple blue gown. As she moved, gold seemed to trail from her fingertips—lasting only a few heartbeats before it faded. The young woman had looked as though she yearned to remain unseen, and Branwen had let her go.
Branwen knew the comfort of being able to pass unnoticed. She wouldn’t deny another that mercy.
Gwydion warmed his hands over the fire. “You sound rather certain.”
“I am,” said Branwen. “No one but one of the folk or a diviner could have enchanted that tree.” She frowned at him. “Are you an oak diviner?”
He barked out a startled laugh. “Ah—no. Not oaks specifically. Plants and trees.” He let his hands fall into his lap. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Now, another truth. You’re no ordinary huntress.”
It was her turn to say, “You sound rather certain.”
“That hound,” he said. “I could not see it until it was slain. But you saw it, even at a distance. The way you focused on it… you knew where to strike.” Gwydion spread his hands as though in supplication. “And—forgive me for saying it, but I was under the impression you had only one eye.”
Unthinkingly, she reached up and touched the corner of her right eye. Her blindfold was still tucked into her pocket. She’d forgotten to put it back on.
For a moment, she considered lying. But untruths had never come easily to her.
“I can see magic,” she said.
He frowned. “No human can see magic.”
Branwen rose to her feet. She kept pots of mint on the windowsill for tea and to tease Palug.
She plucked two leaves, then sat down before the fire. She held out the mint leaves. “Use your magic on one of them. I won’t look while you’re doing it.”
Gwydion appeared unconvinced, but he took them.
“You want proof,” she said. “I’ll give it to you.”
She closed her eyes and waited. After a long, skeptical moment, he said, “All right.”
Branwen opened her eyes and surveyed the mint leaves. There was no telltale glitter of golden magic.
