PROLOGUE

Dunniwerth Castle, Scotland

January, 1629

“Is she going to die, Betty?”

The child, Anne, stirred in her bed.  The low murmurs summoned her from sleep.  At first she thought it was the distant rumble of thunder.  But it wasn’t an oncoming storm, only a soft impassioned whisper that seemed to brush against her cheek.  She turned and cuddled into the soft down pillow.  There was warmth beneath the covers, and safety within this room.  But outside the chamber, the world was a bitterly cold place as Dunniwerth shivered beneath a mantle of snow.  The moon waned, the chill air frosted the lips and made painful the breath. 

“Oh, my little love, I do not know.  But I must go and be with her now.  You must be strong and brave, Stephen.”  A faint scream punctuated her words. 

“I will, Betty.”

Anne was enticed into awareness by the sound of a boy’s voice.  Young, still, with a hint of what it might be when he grew to manhood. She rubbed her fists against her eyes, then blinked them open and yawned.  It was dark, perhaps even midnight when the world should be shadowed and still.  Instead, there were people in her room. 

Anne sat up and peered through the opening of the bed hangings at the foot of the bed.  There was no one there.  Her parents slept on the other side of the castle, their chamber reached through a long and wide hallway that loomed with shadows and drafts.

It was only the edge of a dream, she told herself, and lay back against her pillow, wrapping her arms around it. 

“Please.  Do not let her die.” 

She blinked and sat up again.  A frown marred her eight year old forehead as she scrambled to the side of the bed.  She pulled open the hangings but there was no one there.  She slipped from the bed, made a face as her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, then pulled the extra wool blanket from the foot of the bed. Wrapping herself in it, she scurried to the window.

She had to stand on her tiptoes in order to open the latch.  The shutter opened silently on oiled hinges.  From here she could see the moonlit outline of a sentry on Dunniwerth’s square tower, his breath a whisper of white against the dark sky.  But no one stood on the walk outside her window.  She closed the shutter and darted to her chamber door. 

She drew it open, peered outside.   The hallway was empty, save for a sentry seated on a stool near her parent’s door.   She lifted her hand in a wave, but he did not respond.  Hamish was asleep again. 

It was only a dream.  

She was Anne Sinclair, the only child of Robert Sinclair, laird of Dunniwerth.  She was very much her father’s daughter, and he highly prized courage.  For that reason, she always pretended not to be afraid of storms, and dared herself to touch bugs.  Now she pushed aside the bed hangings and slipped into her bed again, cuddling beneath the covers.  But instead of laying down and pulling the blanket over her head, which was what she dearly longed to do, she scooted along the soft feather mattress until her back was against the carved headboard.  Her arms went around her blanketed knees as she stared into the chilled darkness. 

It was only a dream.  And just like a storm it has passed.   There is nothing to be afraid of, Anne. 

“I will be very good if you let her live.  I’ll not go to Langlinais, and I’ll be more diligent with my Latin.   I’ll try to like my father.  Only, please, let her live.” 

Ian told her that ghosts liked to frighten young girls.  But Ian was a ten year old bully who liked to frighten her.  

They wait until you’re asleep, Anne, and then creep up to the side of your bed all soft and silent like. If your foot falls over the edge, they gnaw on it.  

They know if you’ve disobeyed, and come to punish you. 

They’d like you, Anne.  You’ve eyes like a puppy.  They’d make you one of them and laugh about it. 

She should waken her mother.  She would come into the bed with her, reassure her with a soft voice.  But Anne was eight, not a bairn. 

Was it Ian, come to play a trick on her?  Her father would not take kindly to anyone invading the sleeping rooms of Dunniwerth, let alone a boy who had made her life miserable ever since she could remember.  He was a bully, was Ian, and she tried to ignore him when she could. 

Anne clenched her fist tight against her mouth until her teeth bit against her knuckles.  There, in front of her, at the end of the bed, the air seemed to waver, turning silvery along the curved edges.   It looked not unlike one of the bubbles escaping from the laundry tubs on wash day, gliding on the air and rising as high as the treetops around Dunniwerth. 

But she was in her bed, not watching a bubble fly high.  She was in her soft, warm bed on a Monday night in January.  All these things she repeated to herself even as the bubble expanded. 

It was silent in the room.  The faint screaming stopped.  Suddenly that seemed worse. 

The door opened quietly; a tall woman entered.  Her apron was spotted with blood, her brown hair damp from the sweat on her face.  

“There now, I knew I’d find you still here.” 

The boy looked up at her, a look of concern on his face.  “Is Mother all right, Betty?” 

“Have you seen nothing of your father, then?” the woman asked.

He shook his head. 

“It’s all well and good then,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “that he’s stayed in London.”

She knelt on the floor before the boy, reached out with large, red knuckled hands to touch him.

“Your mother’s gone to God, Stephen, just as we all must one day.  She’s taken your baby brother with her.” 

She brushed back his black hair when he said nothing.   “Such things sometimes happen, my dear boy.  Women do not always survive childbirth. It is the way of the world.”  

She cupped his cheek, smiled gently into his face.  He only bent his head, but Anne could see that his hands were clasped tightly in front of him.  Finally, Betty stood, brushed her cheeks with the backs of both hands.  It was only then that Anne realized it was tears that wet her face. 

A moment later, she left the room.  “I don’t want her to be with God, Betty,” Stephen whispered.  “I want her to stay with me.” There was a look of such loss on his face that it made Anne want to cry.    

It is only a dream.   The words were fiercely shouted in the silence of her mind.   She had only fallen asleep and any moment she would be awakened by her nurse, by her mother.  Please let me wake up now. 

She blinked.  One moment he was there, the next he was gone.  The bed hangings were simply bed hangings, not a giant bubble.  The ceiling was straight and flat, not curved.  The only silvery shimmer was the moonlight filtering into the room from between the shutters.

Anne lay in her bed and studied the shadows around her.  There was nothing there, nothing but soft silence.  Even the sentries outside on the walls seemed to be mindful of the sleeping occupants of Dunniwerth. 

Her hands clenched on the edge of the sheet as she brought it up to her nose.  She stared into the darkness.

She did not know why it had happened, but she was certain of only one thing.  It had not been a dream. 

The loch bordering Dunniwerth land was not large; Anne could see its dimensions clearly from her chamber window.  The island in the middle of it was mostly overgrown, a place of trees and green shrubbery.  

The island had always been forbidden to her.  Up until this moment she’d never questioned such a dictate. Nor had she dreamed of disobeying it.  This morning, however, she sat in the flat bottom boat and pushed herself away from the small dock.  It took her some time to figure out how to use the oars, but finally she did.  

This is wrong, Anne.   You should not do this. Father will be angry.  The admonitions accompanied the journey, but they made no difference.  She had to see the wise woman.  She had to know. 

She reached the island finally just as her palms, reddened and sore, began to hurt.   Placing the oars in the bottom of the boat, she jumped onto the shore at a place that looked to be well trod.  There was no dock as at Dunniwerth, only another small boat identical to the one she’d used.  She tied the rope of hers to the same stake and followed a path that led away from the shoreline.

A few moments later Anne came to a clearing.  In the middle of it was a tidy cottage.  The thatch was so thick upon the roof that it draped down the walls, shading the small structure before touching the ground and blending into the grass.  It was as if the cottage was part of the earth itself.  A meandering path set in smooth stone led the way to the front door, now ajar. 

 The old wise woman was said to be privy to all manner of knowledge.  She could reduce a boil simply by looking at it.  Or ease an aching limb by the touch of her hand. Too, she was known for the mixtures that eased a winter’s cough and the bitter tea that soothed a belly ache.  But most of all, she could see inside a person’s heart and divine their future.  Anne had heard some girls whispering about having their fortunes told. 

This pleasant looking mushroom shaped cottage did not appear to be a place of mystery but one, rather, of laughter.  From somewhere came the sound of singing, a tune so light that it urged her closer.   

            As Anne neared the door, the song ceased.  Inside, a shadow turned, came toward the door, was bathed in a shaft of sunlight.  

            Hannah, the wise woman, was neither old nor frightening.  Her face bore a type of sweetness not unlike that of Anne’s mother.   Her smile was coaxing, gentle; her eyes the color of a summer sky.  Her blond hair was wound into braids and sat upon her head like a crown.   She’d adorned the coronet with tiny blue and white flowers.  The dress she wore was a simple one, flowing to her ankles and topped with a spotless apron. 

            She stood quiet and still with her hands folded together at her waist, a tall, slender woman who bore Anne’s wondering inspection with a simple grace.

            “Did your father send you?”  Even her voice was different from what Anne had expected.  It seemed crafted of small bits of melody. 

            Anne shook her head, and dared a word.  “No.”  She looked away, then back at the woman who stood motionless before her.  

            “Then why have you come?  To have your future told?” 

            She could not frame the answer.  It was something more important than the future that she wished to learn. 

            “Give me your hand, then,” Hannah said kindly. 

            Anne slowly extended her hand and placed in the wise woman’s.   Hannah looked down at the palm.  Her smile never faltered as she studied it.

            “You will have a long and prosperous life.  You will be happy all your days.” 

            The words tumbled from her lips before Anne could catch them.  “Am I a witch?” 

            The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face, and once again there was the impression of stillness.   

            “Why would you think that?”

            “I see things,” Anne whispered. 

            Hannah stepped aside, a wordless invitation, and Anne slowly entered the shadowy cottage.  It was small and tidy, with a scent of spice in the air.  A rack of hardening candles sat near the lone window.  From somewhere came the chirp of a bird, and she finally located the sound coming from a wicker cage along the far wall.  A sparrow sat at the bottom, his wing wrapped with a length of cloth. 

            “He’ll be fine in a week or two.  He flew into my door.  Didn’t you, little one?  I think he was trying to impress a lady bird with his flying.” 

            Hannah reached out and placed her hand upon Anne’s head, her fingers warm against her scalp.  The other hand tipped up her chin.  She looked down into Anne’s face, her blue eyes softening with some emotion Anne could not discern.   It was not anger, nor was it pity.  It looked not unlike the glance her mother gave her when she’d done something well, pride mixed with love.

            “What sort of things do you see, Anne Sinclair?”

            ‘How do you know my name?”  Fear sat like a cold and solid thing in her stomach.   

            Hannah’s smile broadened.  “You have your father’s eyes, and the color of his hair.”

            “Will you tell my parents that I’ve come here?”  She stepped away from the wise woman, trying to hide her fear.

            “If you do not wish me to, I shall not.”

            “They would not understand.”  Silence, while she met the woman’s gaze.  “Please do not tell them.  My mother would cry and my father think me evil.”

            “Evil?”  The word seemed to hang in the air between them, drifting there in the silence.  Hannah’s hand felt cool as she reached out and cupped Anne’s cheek. 

            “I must be,” she said softly. 

            “Then tell me, Anne.  Tell me what you see and why you think yourself evil.” 

            Silence while Anne wondered how to frame the words.  Then she realized it did not matter how she spoke them.  The wise woman would either believe her or she wouldn’t.

            Twice more she’d seen pictures of the boy, Stephen, in her mind.  Just before sleep he came, until she could almost believe it was a dream.  But it did not feel like a dream.  Should she be able to see so clearly?  And hear his voice so well? 

            Anne reached into the wicker cage with one finger and placed it on the bird’s head.  He uttered a sharp little chirp of alarm, then subsided.  He did not flee from her touch, but instead leaned into it. 

Hannah went to a jar, filled two tumblers of liquid from it, then placed them on the table.  Sitting on one chair, she smiled and gestured to the other. 

“Come,” she said, “share some cider with me.  It’s said to come from Dunniwerth fruit.”

Anne pulled her fingers free of the cage, held them out as if they belonged to someone else.  They still trembled, and she curled them close to her palms. 

She sat opposite the wise woman, taking a piece of warm bread when the plate was held out to her. 

            “I am a witch, aren’t I?” she asked.  The words were whispered, as if she could not bear to speak them aloud.   She did not look at Hannah.  If she did, the wise woman would see tears in her eyes and a Sinclair did not weep in front of a stranger.   “I cannot be a good one. I can’t see the future like you.  I know no spells.” She traced a finger along the scarred wooden tabletop. “Is there no tea I could drink, no herbs I might take?  Are there no words you could say over me to take this away?”

            “I am no witch, Anne,” Hannah said, her voice kind.

            Anne glanced up at her, blinking rapidly. 

            “Young women come to me to have their futures told and I speak the words they want to hear.  In truth, their destinies are their own.  But I cannot tell the future either and I have no potions.” 

            Hannah placed her hand on Anne’s.  “I don’t think you’re a witch, Anne Sinclair.”

“Then why did I see him?” 

Hannah said nothing.  A sign, then, that she did not know.  Adults often retreated into silence when the questions became too difficult.

Instead, Hannah asked a question of her own.  “If you were a witch, there would be other signs.  What have you done that harmed another?”

“I lost the brooch my mother gave me,” Anne confessed, staring down at the table. 

“That is carelessness, not rancor,” Hannah said with a kind smile. “Who have you bedeviled?  Who was the victim of your anger?”

Anne thought of Ian, and his taunts.  If she were truly a witch, she might have silenced him.  Turned him into a spider, just like the ones he liked to throw at her. 

She shook her head.  “But Ian says there are witch-finders about,” Anne whispered.

“Not at Dunniwerth, Anne Sinclair.”

She nodded.  That much was true.   

Hannah reached out and tipped her chin up.  She blinked, but then forced herself to meet the wise woman’s eyes.  “You are not a witch, Anne.  Do you believe me?”

She wasn’t completely sure that she did.  But she’d been raised to respect her elders, to listen to their words and heed their instructions.  So she nodded her head and made herself smile. 

Hannah walked with her to the shoreline.  The wise woman smelled sweet, like the flowers that bloomed along the path. Her voice sounded like music lived in it as she asked Anne questions no one had ever asked.  Which of her lessons did she like the most?  What was her favorite flower, had she ever touched a squirrel’s tail, or had a honeybee ever sat upon her finger without stinging her? 

At the edge of the loch, Anne turned and holding tight to Hannah’s hand, looked up at her. 

“May I visit you again?”

The question seemed to trouble Hannah.  A quick frown marred her face, but she banished it with a smile.   Before she could speak, though, to either forbid or encourage, Hannah glanced across the water.    

Anne followed her gaze.  Her father stood on Dunniwerth’s shore. His arms were crossed, his beard not quite hiding his glower.   There was no man more to be feared than the Sinclair laird when he was angry.  He was very tall and very broad, with arms as thick as small trees.  He had a name among his clan.  They called him the Rock, not only for his strength, but also because of his stubbornness.   Right at this moment, he looked very much like a large boulder that was determined not to be moved.

 For a short time, Anne had forgotten.  She had disobeyed one of her father’s strictest edicts. She needn’t worry about Hannah’s invitation to come again.  Her father would forbid it, she was sure. 

Anne sighed, said goodbye to Hannah and entered the boat. It was a better thing to face punishment than to avoid it.  Contrition did not seem to have an effect on her father.  He would say that she should have given thought to her deeds before she committed them, rather than to feel such sorrow afterward. 

The journey to the other side of the loch was much shorter than before.  It was either that she’d grown used to the feel of the oars, or that her reluctance to meet her father made the journey seem that much quicker.   She reminded herself that her father admired courage, even in his daughter.  However, it was easier to look at the shore than at his frown. 

Robert watched as his daughter looked everywhere but at him.  His heart felt heavy in his chest, as it did all the times he looked at her, as if all the love in the world resided there.  She’d been a blessing to him from the moment he’d seen her.   He’d held her between his hands, her little face contorted into a newborn babe’s scowl, and known that he would have given up the world for her. Her eyes had been solemn on his, her serious little face had grown pink and she’d smiled.  No one would agree that it had been a smile, but he had known it.  From that day forward she’d been one of the very best parts of his life.

She had her mother’s smile, his coloring.  Looking at her brought back so many memories to him, times of joy and laugher.   She would be a beauty when she grew.  Just like her mother. 

Now she stowed the boat in the way it had been, walked toward him with head bent, as if the ground called to her.  Such obvious reluctance would have made him smile if his mind had not been turned to more serious matters.  

“I have been looking for you, daughter,” he said, staring down at her.   “Who gave you permission to visit the island?”

“No one, Father,” she said in a low voice. 

“Then why did you do so?” 

“I am sorry, Father.”

He glanced up, his gaze on the woman who stood on the shoreline.  He’d not seen her for years, but even now she tugged at his heart.

“What have you done, Anne?” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears.   

He studied her face.  There was courage there, and a measure of his own stubbornness.  He twisted his lips so that his smile would not show through. 

“Did you know that she can heal a bird’s wing?” Anne asked, her eyes seeming to light.   “Or that her candles smell of summer?  Her bread is better than ours, Father.  She dries flowers and makes perfumes, too.”

            “She sounds like a busy woman,” he said.

 “I do not think she has many friends.  I would like to be her friend, Father.”

He bent and placed his hands under her arms, lifted her easily.   He raised her until they were eye level.   She smiled tentatively at him until his lips curved in response.

“I do not like you being on the loch without knowing how to swim, daughter.” 

“I can learn, Father.  You could teach me,” she said, her smile broadening.

“Does that seem adequate punishment to you, Anne?”

“Only if I had to do it every day, Father,” she said sincerely.  “Every single day until I learned.  You would have to be very strict.”

He lost the battle with his laughter and it burst forth.  It was only later that he realized she had never answered his question about why she’d been to the island.