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up in this terrible fairy tale.
    “In the end, he found her out. Discovered what she’d done, and he couldn’t love her anymore. Yet she couldn’t let him go.” I’ve shared so little of my history in our time together, yet this pours forth so these secrets might make her appreciate how serious our situation might be.
    “You killed him,” she says with a finality, and perhaps I should be disturbed by her lack of distress, by the fact she seems to understand. I let her believe that she knows what happened, for I fear Gilly will judge me harshly enough by the time this recounting is done.
    I will not tell her about Dowsabel, who, before she died in childbed, replaced my mother so quickly in my heart. I will not tell her about the baby Olwen, whom I first saved then abandoned to people I did not know, for I could not bear the weight of her a moment longer. I’ll not tell her about Gideon, a man one moment caught in the net of his rage, a beast the next with no memory of the secrets that had ruined us both. For many years, I’ve recognised why I did what I did: beyond survival, beyond saving Olwen, I could not and would not let him go. I could not and would not let the milky pale bride his family had chosen have him. I could not bear to be alone any more than Wynne had. I took his mind and his choice, and made him what he is today. I wonder if he would thank me, if he could, for making his life simple. For the years we’ve had together since. Somehow I doubt it.
    “But this morning,” says Gilly, “that man?”
    “Balthazar Cotton is the brother of my lover. I do not know if he ever knew of me: we were never introduced and I bore a different name. I think we are safe, my Gilly-girl, but be wary. I beg you, be wary of what you say to people, and what is said to you.”
    She nods, and I take her hand.
    “And, Gilly, my dear Gilly, if you are in danger, if you cannot warn me, then by all the gods flee and do not look back. In the greenwood, by the alder grove, you know where things are buried. Go there, take what you need, and run.”
    She begins to protest.
    “
Promise
me you will run. I’ll do all in my power to protect you, my girl, but so help me if I must I will leave you behind.” There is pain in her expression, but I do not soften. “You must promise me the same—what profit in two senseless deaths? I give you the gift of living. That’s the best I can do, the most valuable thing I can pass on.”
    She nods and I touch her cheek. “My girl, my darling girl, don’t wish for what I’ve got—a witch’s life is made of sorrow and such. Be happy you’ve a chance at something else.”
    There’s no terrible power flowing in her veins, so if she must flee, she’ll be able to settle down somewhere, perhaps become wife to an ordinary man. Have an existence that draws neither eyes nor attention to her for the wrong reasons. I do not mention the great book in the cellar, which is of no use to her for she does not know the language of witches. If she knew of it, her longing to be different might bring peril. Though I know she feels its lack, yearns for its power, without magic her life will be less complicated. She will be safe.

Chapter Eight
    Ina comes by a few days later, with the excuse of needing a headache cure. Gilly is making deliveries to the farms outside Edda’s Meadow. The front room feels too impersonal for my guest now that I know the secret of what she is, so I lead her to the kitchen. I make her a strong tea of dandelion root, milk thistle, and willow bark. She drinks it while I grind another batch for her to take home.
    “How are you?” she asks, and sips the decoction. Makes a face.
    “Swallow it all, or you’ll feel worse.”
    She obeys.
    “I am well,” I say, though my sleep has been broken by nightmares I’d long thought gone, of my mother and the day she went. In my dreams she does not pop a gallowberry in her mouth then disappear along the path no one else can see. No, she takes