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yourself in every way as the daughter of a chieftain would. That you can never learn from me. I acquired deep knowledge in the nemetons, but I never discovered how to go out into the world as Lord Colum's son."
    "I'm sorry, Father," I said, aware that my own distress was nothing beside his. "I had thought—I had thought one day I might become like you, a great scholar and mage. The lessons you have
    taught me, the long seasons of practice and study, won't all that be wasted if I am sent away to be some kind of—fine lady?"
     
    Father's lips curved. "You will use all your skills at Sevenwaters, I think," he said. "I have taught you the craft as my mother taught me—oh, yes," he added, seeing my eyes widen in surprise, "she is an adept, unparalleled in certain branches of magic. And such as she is need not be present in body in order to teach."
     
    I thought of the locked chamber, the long times of silence. He had indeed kept his secrets well.
     
    "I don't invite her here lightly, Fainne. My mother is a dangerous woman. I've kept her away from you as long as I could, but we need her now. It's time. You should have no misgivings. You are my daughter, and I am proud of your skills and all you have achieved. That I send you away is a sign of the great faith I have in you, Fainne, faith in your talents, and trust in your ability to find the right purpose for them. I hope one day it will become clear to you what I mean. Now, it's late, and we've work to do in the morning. Best get some sleep, daughter."
     
    There was a sadness in his eyes, and in the set of his shoulders, but I did not know how to comfort him. Peg and Molly and the others, they were free with hugs and kisses, with tears and laughter, as if such matters were simple. It hurt me to see my father's sorrow; it hurt more that I was powerless to mend it.
     
    "Good night, Father," I whispered, vowing inwardly that I would work harder than ever, and do my best to please him by mastering whatever skills he chose to teach me.
     
    I was deeply shocked by what my father had told me, and inwardly much troubled. Still, a year was a long time. Anything could happen in a year. Perhaps I would not have to go. Maybe he would change his mind. Meanwhile, there was nothing for it but to continue with the practice of the craft, for if the worst happened and my father did send me away by myself, I wanted as much skill as I could master to help me. I put aside my misgivings and applied myself to work.
     
    The weather was quite warm, but Father still had a persistent cough and a shortness of breath. He tried to conceal it, but I heard him, late at night when I lay awake in the darkness.
     
    I was practicing without the mirror. Gradually I had reduced the incantation to a couple of words. I made my eyes blue, or green, or clear winter-sky gray. I shaped them long and slanted, or round as a cat's, thick-lashed, bulbous, sunken and old. As the season passed I moved on to the other features: the nose, the mouth, the bones of the face. The hair. The garments. An old crone in tatters, myself in future guise, maybe. A fishergirl with her hand on her hip, and her come-hither smile, white teeth flashing. A Fainne who was like myself, almost a twin, but subtly changed. The lips sweeter, the brows more arched, the lashes longer. The figure slighter and more shapely. The skin pale and fine as translucent pearl. A dangerous Fainne.
     
    "Good," said my father, watching me as I slipped from one guise to the next. "You've an aptitude for this, there's no doubt of it. The semblance is quite convincing. But can you sustain it, I wonder?"
    "Of course I can," I responded instantly. "Try me, if you will."
    "I'll do just that." Father was gathering up a bundle of scrolls and letters, and a tightly strapped goatskin bag whose contents might have been anything. "Here, carry this. The walk will be good for you."
    He was already making for the passageway to the outside, his sandaled feet noiseless on the