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he and Oakdancer were comfortable with each other, and the old man’s parting words, “He trusts you as a rider,” were the finest compliment he
    ’d ever received.
    His father had sneered when he brought the stallion home....
    “Oakdancer? What kind of name is that for a horse?”
    .. . but Liam had been astute enough to see the envy in the old baron’s eyes.
    The stallion, on the other hand, had hated the old baron on sight. Had hated Flint and the rest of the stable men. For that first year, Liam had taken care of Oakdancer, since the horse wouldn’t tolerate the other men—until Arthur showed up one day, a pale, starving youth who was looking for any kind of work. He had an almost magical touch when it came to horses, and Oakdancer responded to him as if they’d been friends their whole lives.
    “Here he is, Baron,” Arthur said, leading Oakdancer out of the stables.
    “Thank you, Arthur,” Liam replied. He mounted, took a moment to test the feel of the saddle. No, there was no need to tighten the girth. There never was with this horse.
    Arthur stepped back, brushed a finger against an imaginary cap brim, then retreated inside the stables.
    Liam kept the stallion to an active walk until they were away from the house and stables. The moment he eased the reins a little, Oakdancer lifted into an easy canter that swiftly changed to a gallop.
    They flew over the land, and for a few short minutes, Liam’s world narrowed to the horse beneath him, the wind in his face, and the land that rose up and flowed away.
    Then they reached Willow’s Brook—and the bridge.

    Oakdancer pricked his ears and dashed for the bridge.
    Liam sat deep in the saddle and reined the resisting horse to a halt.
    Oakdancer tossed his head. Snorted. Stamped a foot.
    That bridge, Liam thought as he studied the stones that looked as if they’d come together on their own accord to span the brook. What is on the other side of that damn bridge?
    The Old Place. A place his father had forbidden him to set foot, threatening disinheritance as well as a beating if Liam ever disobeyed. A bad place, his father had said. No place for good, decent men.
    If what Elinore said was true, his father had crossed that bridge at least once. Of course, he doubted if anyone in this county thought his father had been a good, decent man.
    The Old Place. The home of the witches—the women he had to come to terms with, somehow, if he was going to prevent his mother from leaving the family home with his little sister.
    “Come on, boy,” Liam said. “Let’s find out what’s on the other side of that bridge.”
    After crossing the bridge, they trotted down the road, such as it was, for several minutes before the house came into sight.
    He wasn’t sure what he expected. A tumbled-down cottage. Or a neat cottage. Maybe even a small stone house.
    This was an old manor house that rivaled any gentry home in the neighborhood, with the exception of his family home. To the right was a stone arch, large enough for a wagon to pass through, that connected the main house to another building.
    Dismounting, Liam led Oakdancer toward the arch. No servant came out to take charge of the horse.
    Peering up at the house’s windows, he didn’t see anyone peering back. Had they gone somewhere? Did they even have any servants? Until now, he’d never wondered about them. Not really. They’d been one of the forbidden things of childhood, but, as he grew older, it always seemed easier just not to think of them. Now he was standing in front of the witches’ house. He was standing in the Old Place. And he had no idea if he should knock on the door, as he would have done with another neighbor, or ride away.
    “At least I can tell Mother that I tried,” he muttered, turning toward Oakdancer.
    As he gathered the reins and prepared to mount, a woman yelled, “Idjit! Drop that, you mongreled excuse of a flea-infested dog!”
    The reins slipped from his hands before he realized he’d