A Passionate Magic by Flora Speer Page B

was a child and unable to defend
myself. But I’m not so sure that’s what she was.
    “Sometimes, when an unwanted babe is born, if
a young mother is afraid of what her parents will do to her or to
her lover, or if she’s a servant at the castle and fears losing her
place there, then she bears her child in secret and leaves it on
the moor. I do think that’s where Granny found me, for I never
recall her speaking of a child of her own who could have been my
mother. My sire could have been Dain’s grandfather or one of his
men-at-arms, or a fisherman from the village, or even one of the
outlaws who will continue to live on the moor no matter how
ferociously the lords of Penruan try to be rid of them.
    “Who my parents were doesn’t matter,” Agatha
said. “What’s important is that Granny recognized me when she first
saw me. She always told me she knew at once I would grow up to be
the best healer in Cornwall. She knew me. Yes, she did. Just as I
know you. I’ve been waiting for you to come, Emma. It’s past
time.”
    “You recognized me as a fellow healer, even
before Dain told you?” Emma said.
    “Aye, and more than a healer.” Agatha’s
fingers rested on Emma’s hand like the delicate brush of a dry
autumn leaf across her skin. “You are like me in more ways than
one. You aren’t who people think you are. You aren’t even who you think you are.”
    “What do you mean?” Emma asked. For just a
moment she was afraid, and wished she could pull her hand away from
Agatha’s. But Agatha’s soft old fingers lay lightly on hers, the
touch strong as steel manacles. In that gentle, unbreakable touch
Emma recognized one who owned an inborn magic far stronger than her
own.
    “Never mind,” Agatha said. “All will be
revealed when the time is right. That’s the way it always is ...
when the time is right. That’s what I tell the girl, too.”
    “What girl?” Emma asked, speaking softly
because she understood that Agatha’s mind was wandering into
pathways where she, Emma, could not follow. She didn’t want to
disturb the old woman’s thoughts until Agatha had said all she
meant to say.
    “Well, she’s not a girl anymore,” Agatha
said. “Her time is coming, soon enough. And so will your time come.
Now,” Agatha said briskly, removing her hand from Emma’s and thus
freeing the younger woman from the spell that had held her, “come
and I’ll show you all of the herb garden and then my workroom
inside, and afterward we can talk about what’s troubling you and
how to mend it.”
    An hour later Emma and Agatha were back in
the herb garden, again sitting on the rock bench in the sunshine.
Without quite knowing how it had come about, Emma had revealed to
the older woman the circumstances of her marriage, including the
fact that Dain had so far avoided the act of consummation.
    “He doesn’t trust me,” Emma concluded her
account. She sipped from a cup containing Agatha’s herbal wine,
which was marvelously cooling, and picked from a plate on the bench
a food she had not encountered before. Agatha called it a pasty and
claimed it was a commonplace treat in Cornwall. The baked
half-round of crisp dough enfolded apples chopped with herbs and
spices to make a savory filling.
    “The villagers use meat or fish for the
filling,” Agatha said, “though I prefer vegetables or fruits.
Either way, it’s a convenient food to take along when traveling, or
for the fishermen when they go out to sea for a long day of work.
Now, Emma, about that cave you mentioned. Did you see anyone
there?”
    “No,” Emma answered. “Just the footprints I
told you about, that suddenly stopped at the rock wall. I know of
no magic that will allow a mortal body to pass through solid rock.”
She paused, waiting to hear Agatha’s reaction to her carefully
worded statement.
    “Well, you don’t know all there is to learn
about magic, do you?” said Agatha. “Did you tell anyone else what
you saw?”
    “I was going to tell