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“Marlowe, this is Branwen,” Damian said.

“Nice to meet you.”

She smiled and her eyes sparkled in the warm lamplight. She motioned for us to sit down at the table, where three mugs were poured.

“I’ve been expecting you for a long time,” she said.

I sat down and glanced at the tea.

“Don’t worry, this one doesn’t purge,” Damian said.

After we’d sipped a little, she piped up.

“So you buried that fox, my grandson spilled his blood, and you sealed it.”

I paused. It was an odd way to start a conversation.

“Yes,” I said. “I felt bad.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” she said, bluntly. “What you’re doing, these things need appropriate initiation.”

I glanced at Damian. He was looking at the tea in his mug, listening.

“I understand,” I said. It was the only part I understood.

“So. Damian has explained his predicament. And yours.”

I hesitated. My gaze drifted to the Celtic fox on the wall. “Some of it.”

She smiled then. “And you didn’t run away.”

“No.”

Branwen paused. “Damian, the screen door…”

Damian stood up. “I’ll get the tools from the truck.”

“Thank you, dear.”

When he was out of earshot, Branwen let her hands, which looked like they’d been gardening for forty years, sit loosely around her mug.

“Some things are better discussed among women,” she said. “He carries pain like a blade in his ribs. He’s spent his entire life trying not to flinch.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“You came with questions,” Branwen said, like she’d known what they were as soon as I’d walked in the door. “We can start with those.”

I let the mug sit warm between my hands.

“The Bridegroom,” I said.

The stove popped. Branwen glanced at the flames licking the firewood.

“That’s what they call him now. But that’s not his original name.”

“No?”

“My mother told me his real name when I was twelve. His name is Verzeal, but we don’t say it unless it’s strictly necessary.”