Derwyn had not lived near the village in years. That Mam could not remember… it made Branwen feel ill. Mam was forgetting more and more.
“Mam,” said Branwen, voice gentling. “Derwyn sent word that he cannot meet us tonight.”
Mam went still. “He did?”
“Yes.” Branwen took her mother’s arm, gently steering her back toward home. “We’ll see him tomorrow.”
A year ago, Branwen would have balked at telling such a lie. But since Mam had first begun to forget, Branwen learned that evenings were the worst of it. Something in the shifting light seemed to make Mam restless and uncertain, her memories waning.
Evenings were a time for magic and forgotten things.
Mornings brought remembrance.
Branwen woke early, boiling water for tea and grumbling when Palug wound between her legs and meowed for cheese.
Mam was awake. She was bright-eyed, sitting beside the fire as she braided her white hair. “Good morning,” she said. “When did you return from the village?” There was no hint of the confusion from last night. And perhaps that was the most painful part—thesemoments when all was well. Branwen wanted to cling to them, to hold on to these mornings tightly enough that they might never slip away.
To keep her hands busy, Branwen picked up a small knife and an apple and began to slice. While she did notlie, she chose her truths. “Late,” she replied, popping a bit of apple into her mouth.
“And did you find the barwn’s lad?”
Branwen grimaced.
“I can’t tell if you’re making that face because you found him or not,” said Mam, raising one pale brow.
“I found him.” Branwen twirled the small paring knife through her fingers. “… Or rather, parts of him.”
“Poor lad.” Mam finished the braid, letting it rest against her lean shoulder. She gestured for Branwen to come closer. “He should have known better than to venture into Annwvyn on a Hunt year.”
“According to Ifor’s cook, the Wild Huntwashis aim,” Branwen said as her mother began to braid her hair. Mam’s fingers were swift and sure, and the slight graze of fingernails against Branwen’s scalp made her shiver. Mam had been the one to teach Branwen how to braid her hair, how to keep it from being snagged in a bowstring or falling into her eye. When she had been a child, she had sat between her mother’s knees while she plaited her hair every morning. These days, Branwen mostly tended to her own hair. But the touch was familiar and comforting, and she leaned into it. “He thought he could win it.”
Mam shook her head. “Foolish child. I pity his father, though. No one should ever live through the loss of their child.” She folded the braid, making a crown of it, and pinned the hair in place. She nodded in satisfaction.
It was such a small little expression, but it made a lump rise toBranwen’s throat. These moments when her mam mothered her were becoming rarer and rarer. Part of her wanted to cling to them, to cling into her mam’s lap and be a child again. And another part of her wanted to recoil, to brace herself for the inevitable loss when Mam no longer remembered her.
Branwen’s nails dug into her palms. “I need to bring a few things to Rhain. Can you feed the chickens?”
“Of course. And then I have a few shirts to mend,” said Mam, waving her off. “How do you rip so many of them? Do you swim through briars?”
Branwen thought of the clawed fingers of the cyhyraeth.
“Yes,” she said airily. “Briars.”
Rhain had lived on the next farm over for as long as Branwen could recall. He had always been cantankerous, old, and yet surprisingly formidable. He taught Branwen how to hunt and fight. He had taken a liking to her when she was a child. While her bluntness seemed to irritate some villagers, Rhain only let out a hoarse chuckle when Branwen returned one of his barbs with her own.
Branwen brought a basket of apples and a loaf of bara cymysg. The maslin bread was a little stale, but the apples were crisp and sweet.
Rhain was weeding in his garden. He had fashioned an overturned barrel into a table, and a few of his tools sat upon it. His back and shoulders were a little bowed, and his hair looked like old cobwebs, but his eyes were sharp. “Morning, girl,” he said. His gaze settled on Palug. “You brought the monster, I see.”
“Be polite or he might devour your sheep,” said Branwen solemnly. Palug regarded the old hunter for a moment, then head-butted Rhain’s knee. Rhain reached down to rub the cat’s ears.
“Can’t you use that eye of yours to tell if he’s truly magic?” he asked. He was one of the few people who knew the truth. He was trustworthy—and besides, he had no one to tell but his chickens.
Branwen tapped the corner of her right eye. “I could. Only trouble is all cats are a little bit monstrous. Hard to tell if he’s more monster than the rest.”
Rhain grumbled softly beneath his breath. “What brings you here so early?”
“Mam wandered off again,” said Branwen. “Last night.”
