Foxmask by Juliet Marillier Page A

would be close to Stensakir at just the right time: perfect. It almost seemed meant to be.
    The hurt she was about to inflict on her family weighed heavily on Creidhe, but her mind was made up. The two girls packed their bags: a goodgown each for the wedding, Creidhe’s prized string of amber beads, Brona’s favorite yellow ribbon, two pairs of fine stockings of white wool. Gifts for the happy couple had already been stowed away. There was a box carved with images of whales and seals in pale soapstone, holding a good weight of silver pieces, and a woolen wall-hanging of Creidhe’s own making which showed a magical tree whose limbs held fruit and foliage of many shapes and hues, apple, pear and berry all springing from the same branch. Creidhe was glad the blue and red blanket had not been given away as yet. She was pleased her handiwork was so prized, but it was always sad to see it go, for there was a part of herself in every piece she crafted. Thorvald would think that silly; it was the sort of thing she could not tell him. Her mind wandered ahead to the time when the two of them would be man and wife. Perhaps the blue and red blanket might cover the bed they would share. She imagined waking as the dawn light streamed in across the rich colors of the wool; she felt the warmth of Thorvald’s body against hers, the strength of his arm around her . . .
    â€œCreidhe?”
    She started; Brona must have said something, and she hadn’t even heard her.
    â€œWhy are you packing that?” Brona asked, staring at the rolled-up linen of the Journey, which Creidhe was tucking into the outer pocket of her bag. “We’ll only be there a few days, and there’ll be feasting and dancing every night. You won’t get any time for sewing. I’m not taking mine.”
    â€œIt can’t hurt,” Creidhe said, glad her sister had not noticed some of the other items she had packed: a sharp knife, a length of strong cord, a bar of soap, a roll of soft cloths in case she had her monthly bleeding before they sailed back home, a pair of shears, a piece of flint, bone needles, colored wool, herbs to counter seasickness. At the bottom of the bag was an old shirt and trousers of Thorvald’s, removed surreptitiously from one of Aunt Margaret’s storage chests, and a warm felt hat with ear flaps. Thorvald’s clothes did not fit her very well; her figure was not of the kind one could call boyish. Still, she suspected this would be a voyage ill-suited to her fine linen gowns and soft woolen tunics. It would be wet and cold until they got there, wherever
there
was. She must be practical.
    â€œCreidhe?” queried Brona, staring as her sister fastened the strap around her bundle of belongings.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat’s a big bag.”
    â€œSo’s yours.”
    â€œNot as big as yours.”
    â€œWhat is this, a competition?”
    Brona frowned. She was a slight, wide-eyed girl with soft brown hair like Nessa’s, and a sweet look about her that did not quite conceal her sharp mind. “Creidhe, you wouldn’t be planning something, would you? You’ve been acting very strangely this last little while.”
    â€œPlanning? What could I possibly be planning?” Creidhe raised her brows in what she hoped was an expression of innocent surprise.
    Brona put her hands on her hips. “Planning to run off with Sam, that’s what,” she snapped. “You’d better not be doing that, because if you marry Sam I’ll never speak to you again, not even when I’m a wrinkled old crone with no teeth.”
    â€œThere wouldn’t be much point in speaking to me if you had no teeth,” Creidhe retorted as relief swept through her, closely followed by the spark of a very useful idea. Brona had come alarmingly near to the truth, and yet had missed it entirely. “I wouldn’t be able to understand a word. Mind you, I’d probably be deaf as a