temerity. I felt my face flush, and knew the little flames Darragh had once noticed would be starting to show on the edges of my hair. "If my father wants it locked, it stays locked. I won't do it."
"Bet you can't." She was taunting me.
"I won't open it. I told you."
She laughed, a young girl's laugh like a peal of little bells. "Then I'll have to do it myself, won't I?" she said lightly, and raised a gnarled, knobby hand toward the heavy oak panels. She clicked her fingers just once, and a bright border of flame licked at the door, all around the edges. Smoke billowed, and I began to cough. For a moment I could see nothing. There was a popping sound, and a creak. The smoke cleared. The great door now stood ajar, its surface blackened and blistered, its heavy bolts hanging useless where they had fallen away from the charred wood.
I stood in the doorway, watching, as the old woman took three steps into my father's secret room.
"He won't be happy," I said tightly.
"He won't know," she replied coolly. "Ciaran's gone. You won't see him again until we're quite finished here, child; not until next summer nears its end. It's just not possible for him to stay, not with me here. No place can hold the two of us. It's better this way. You and I have a great deal of work to do, Fainne."
I stood frozen, feeling the shock of what she had told me like a wound to the heart. How could Father do this? Where had he gone? How could he leave me alone with this dreadful old woman?
She was standing in front of the bronze mirror now, apparently admiring herself, for she took out a comb from a pocket in her voluminous attire and proceeded to drag it through her wild tangle of hair. Despite myself, I moved closer.
"Didn't Ciaran tell you about me, child? Didn't he explain anything?" She stared intently at her reflection. I came up behind, drawn to gaze over her shoulder into the polished surface.
The woman in the mirror stared back at me. She might have been sixteen years old, no more. Her hair was a glossier, prettier version of mine, curling around her shoulders with a life of its own, a rich, deep auburn. Her skin was milk-white, so pale you could see the faint blue tracery of veins on the pearly surface. Her figure was slender but shapely, with curves in all the right places. It was the figure I had tried to create for myself that day when I went down to the camp. I had thought myself skillful, but beside this, my own efforts were paltry. This woman was a master of the craft. I looked into her eyes. They were deep, dark, the color of ripe mulberries. They were my father's eyes. They were my own eyes. The old woman smiled back from the mirror, with her red, curving lips and her small, sharp white teeth.
"As you see," she said with a mirthless chuckle, "I've a lot to teach you. And we'd best start straight away. Making you into a fine lady is going to be quite a challenge."
For as long as I could remember, it had been the two of us, my father and I, working together or working separately, the day devoted to the practice of the craft. Our meals, our rest, our contacts with the outside world were kept to what was strictly essential: the fetching of water, the gathering of driftwood for the fire. Fish accepted from the girl at the door. Messages entrusted to Dan Walker. I had had the summers with Darragh. But Darragh was gone, and I was grown up now. Those times were over. My father and I understood each other without much need for words. Sometimes he would explain a technique or the theory behind it. Sometimes I would ask a question. Mostly, he let me find out for myself, with a little guidance here and there. He let me make my own mistakes and learn from them. That way, he said, I would become more responsible, and retain those things I most needed to know. Indeed, in time this discipline would lead not just to knowledge, but to understanding. Sometimes, when we had mastered a new skill or solved a particularly challenging
"Bet you can't." She was taunting me.
"I won't open it. I told you."
She laughed, a young girl's laugh like a peal of little bells. "Then I'll have to do it myself, won't I?" she said lightly, and raised a gnarled, knobby hand toward the heavy oak panels. She clicked her fingers just once, and a bright border of flame licked at the door, all around the edges. Smoke billowed, and I began to cough. For a moment I could see nothing. There was a popping sound, and a creak. The smoke cleared. The great door now stood ajar, its surface blackened and blistered, its heavy bolts hanging useless where they had fallen away from the charred wood.
I stood in the doorway, watching, as the old woman took three steps into my father's secret room.
"He won't be happy," I said tightly.
"He won't know," she replied coolly. "Ciaran's gone. You won't see him again until we're quite finished here, child; not until next summer nears its end. It's just not possible for him to stay, not with me here. No place can hold the two of us. It's better this way. You and I have a great deal of work to do, Fainne."
I stood frozen, feeling the shock of what she had told me like a wound to the heart. How could Father do this? Where had he gone? How could he leave me alone with this dreadful old woman?
She was standing in front of the bronze mirror now, apparently admiring herself, for she took out a comb from a pocket in her voluminous attire and proceeded to drag it through her wild tangle of hair. Despite myself, I moved closer.
"Didn't Ciaran tell you about me, child? Didn't he explain anything?" She stared intently at her reflection. I came up behind, drawn to gaze over her shoulder into the polished surface.
The woman in the mirror stared back at me. She might have been sixteen years old, no more. Her hair was a glossier, prettier version of mine, curling around her shoulders with a life of its own, a rich, deep auburn. Her skin was milk-white, so pale you could see the faint blue tracery of veins on the pearly surface. Her figure was slender but shapely, with curves in all the right places. It was the figure I had tried to create for myself that day when I went down to the camp. I had thought myself skillful, but beside this, my own efforts were paltry. This woman was a master of the craft. I looked into her eyes. They were deep, dark, the color of ripe mulberries. They were my father's eyes. They were my own eyes. The old woman smiled back from the mirror, with her red, curving lips and her small, sharp white teeth.
"As you see," she said with a mirthless chuckle, "I've a lot to teach you. And we'd best start straight away. Making you into a fine lady is going to be quite a challenge."
For as long as I could remember, it had been the two of us, my father and I, working together or working separately, the day devoted to the practice of the craft. Our meals, our rest, our contacts with the outside world were kept to what was strictly essential: the fetching of water, the gathering of driftwood for the fire. Fish accepted from the girl at the door. Messages entrusted to Dan Walker. I had had the summers with Darragh. But Darragh was gone, and I was grown up now. Those times were over. My father and I understood each other without much need for words. Sometimes he would explain a technique or the theory behind it. Sometimes I would ask a question. Mostly, he let me find out for myself, with a little guidance here and there. He let me make my own mistakes and learn from them. That way, he said, I would become more responsible, and retain those things I most needed to know. Indeed, in time this discipline would lead not just to knowledge, but to understanding. Sometimes, when we had mastered a new skill or solved a particularly challenging
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