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last year.” She flushed with shame.
    But if Helve remembered Boudica’s part in that accident, she did not seem to care. She watched as the young Druid carried Coventa away, speculation in her gaze.
    “She touched the Otherworld. That is all that is needed sometimes. We shall see what some training can do …”
    But what if Coventa does not want to become an oracle? Boudica opened her mouth, but Helve had not been speaking to her. The girl sat back on her heels, staring, as the priestess stalked away.
    or months, the heavens had alternated between storm clouds and watery sunshine, like a coy maiden unable to decide whether to encourage a suitor or turn him away. Like me, thought Lhiannon, closing her eyes and turning her face to a sun that was blazing in a blue sky. But now everything—the white blooms of the hawthorn in the hedges and the creamy primroses beneath them, the upright green blades of the growing grass and the tender curls of the new oak l eaves—seemed lit from within. Tonight the Beltane fires will burn brightly, and so will I.
    She had been to the herb-sellers to purchase more poppy seed for the potion the priestess drank before the ritual. The open fields around Lys Deru had filled up with traders’ booths and tents and wagons and stock pens. All the farmers who were oathed to serve the Druid community were here, along with a scattering of families from the mainland. Lhiannon was not the only one who dreamed of meeting a lover at the Beltane fires. Young people from villages where they had known every one of their age since babyhood came here to seek new faces and new blood for their clans. After this night there would be handfastings in plenty, and weddings to follow.
    But before Lhiannon went to the fires, she must assist at the ritual of the Oracle. When they sang the sacred song, she would know if its summons was stronger than the one her body was sending her now.
    As she approached the enclosure she heard Helve, in her usual autocratic mood. It was with shock that Lhiannon realized that the other woman’s instructions were not for Mearan’s comfort, but for her own. Lhiannon twitched aside the curtain that hung before the doorway.
    “Where is the High Priestess?” she whispered to Belina, one of the senior priestesses. Helve stood naked before the fire, stretching out her white limbs so that the others could bathe them with spring water infused with herbs.
    “She is not well,” the other woman replied, lifting one eyebrow. “Helve will sit in the high seat this Beltane eve.”
    “May the Lady grant her inspiration,” Lhiannon said dryly, and Be-lina sighed. Lhiannon went to the corner where old Elin was grinding herbs in a wooden mortar and handed her the poppy seeds. As she turned back, she saw Coventa coming into the room. Her smile died as she realized that the girl was swathed in the same midnight blue as the priestesses, her brows bound like theirs with a garland of spring flowers and sweet herbs.
    “Helve, what is this?” she exclaimed. “The child is untrained. You cannot mean her to attend you in the ceremony!”
    Helve’s pale eyes flashed with annoyance, but her voice, as always, was sweet and low. “Without her the number of attendents escorting me will be uneven, and I have been training her.” She smiled at Coventa. “Have I not, my little one? You will do very well.”
    She will look like a child dressed in her mother’s robes, thought Lhiannon, but Coventa was radiant with delight. She looked at the other priestesses for support, but they were carefullly avoiding her gaze. For a few moments the only sounds were the trickle of water as the priestesses dipped the cloths into the herbal bath and the rasp as Elin ground up the poppy seeds.
    Lhiannon sighed and took off her veil. If Helve was nervous, she had some reason. This would not be her first time in the high seat, but she had not served as Oracle often, and if Mearan’s indisposition was sudden, she would not