.”
Rose whirled about, clutching the corners of her sagging apron. “Mistress Brown!” Brightly garbed, with her gray-streaked hair pinned on top of her small head, the widow appeared to have dropped from the tree like overripe fruit. Rose gaped at her. “Wh-whatever are you doing here?”
The older woman laughed again, holding up a small basket. “Same as ye, Miss McBride. Collectin’ the last of the hazelnuts.” She patted the necklace made of nuts draped on her bosom. “Some fowk eat them, and some put them in pairs by the fire, divinin’ the future. For me, the fruit o’ the hazel serves a deeper purpose.” Her gaze swept over Rose’s apron. “I see ye’ve claimed mair than yer due.”
“Only what is fair.” Rose refused to be intimidated, though she had to press her knees together to keep them from shaking. Across thewoman’s brow was the trace of a scar, faint but jagged. A wutch-score, folk called it, made by some desperate soul who’d sought protection from Lillias and her cantrips . Rose hid her right hand beneath her apron and slipped her thumb between her first two fingers. The sign of the cross would keep her safe. “These woods are common to all who live in the parish, Mistress Brown.”
“Aye.” Lillias stepped closer. Rose, without meaning to, stepped back. “Newabbey parish is home for me as weel, ye ken. My cottage, Nethermuir, is not far from here, beside Craigend Loch.” She waved toward the west. “As a raven flies, hard and fast, ’Tis but an hour’s walk.”
“I see.” Rose could not resist a second glance at the woman’s odd jewelry of polished hazelnuts strung on a black velvet ribbon. “Did you … ah, make your necklace?”
“So I did, lassie. Only a wise woman kens the how and why o’ sic a thing.” Lillias began fingering the smooth filberts like beads on a rosary, grasping each one in turn, moving her lips yet not uttering a sound. Her eyes drifted shut, and her mouth went slack.
The forest grew strangely silent. Rose felt the hairs lift on the back of her neck.
“ ’Tis the power o’ the hazel,” Lillias whispered, her eyes still closed. “It changes the verra air ye breathe.” She released the necklace, then rested her hand on top of it and opened her eyes. “Whan I came upon ye, Rose McBride, ye were thinkin’ aboot a man. A man willin’ tae marry ye, aye?”
Neil! Too stunned to speak, Rose made a small noise of assent.
“As I see it, he is willin’, but ye are not.”
Rose swallowed, taking another step back. “I am … uncertain.”
“Because ye fancy anither .” Lillias grasped the necklace, her eyes focused elsewhere. “A man wha canna luve ye.”
A wind with the hint of winter in its breath passed by. I cannot love you, Rose .
“This verra nicht ye’ll divine yer future husband.” Stretching out a withered hand, Lillias plucked a pair of hazelnuts from her basket and added them to Rose’s apron. “The nuts, the mirror, the apple—ye ken the auld ways, d’ye not?”
Rose nodded. She put little store in them, but, aye, she knew them.
“Dinna miss the chance tae learn what yer heart already kens.” When Lillias touched her hand, Rose was shocked by the warmth of the woman’s bony fingers. “There is ane man for ye, lassie. And ye ken his name well.”
A voice not her own whispered inside her, Jamie .
“Nae!” Rose turned and fled across the burn and through the oak woods, her heart racing faster than her feet. Little wonder her neighbors called Lillias Brown a wutch! None but a daughter of the de’il himself would plant so braisant a notion in a girl’s mind. Jamie belonged to her sister now. There was no going back.
Rose dashed around clumps of gorse and outcroppings of rock until she slowed to catch her breath, gasping for air in ragged gulps. She dared not tarry. It was rumored Lillias Brown could change into a hare or ride a cat like the finest steed or fly through the air in a kitchen sieve.
Rose whirled about, clutching the corners of her sagging apron. “Mistress Brown!” Brightly garbed, with her gray-streaked hair pinned on top of her small head, the widow appeared to have dropped from the tree like overripe fruit. Rose gaped at her. “Wh-whatever are you doing here?”
The older woman laughed again, holding up a small basket. “Same as ye, Miss McBride. Collectin’ the last of the hazelnuts.” She patted the necklace made of nuts draped on her bosom. “Some fowk eat them, and some put them in pairs by the fire, divinin’ the future. For me, the fruit o’ the hazel serves a deeper purpose.” Her gaze swept over Rose’s apron. “I see ye’ve claimed mair than yer due.”
“Only what is fair.” Rose refused to be intimidated, though she had to press her knees together to keep them from shaking. Across thewoman’s brow was the trace of a scar, faint but jagged. A wutch-score, folk called it, made by some desperate soul who’d sought protection from Lillias and her cantrips . Rose hid her right hand beneath her apron and slipped her thumb between her first two fingers. The sign of the cross would keep her safe. “These woods are common to all who live in the parish, Mistress Brown.”
“Aye.” Lillias stepped closer. Rose, without meaning to, stepped back. “Newabbey parish is home for me as weel, ye ken. My cottage, Nethermuir, is not far from here, beside Craigend Loch.” She waved toward the west. “As a raven flies, hard and fast, ’Tis but an hour’s walk.”
“I see.” Rose could not resist a second glance at the woman’s odd jewelry of polished hazelnuts strung on a black velvet ribbon. “Did you … ah, make your necklace?”
“So I did, lassie. Only a wise woman kens the how and why o’ sic a thing.” Lillias began fingering the smooth filberts like beads on a rosary, grasping each one in turn, moving her lips yet not uttering a sound. Her eyes drifted shut, and her mouth went slack.
The forest grew strangely silent. Rose felt the hairs lift on the back of her neck.
“ ’Tis the power o’ the hazel,” Lillias whispered, her eyes still closed. “It changes the verra air ye breathe.” She released the necklace, then rested her hand on top of it and opened her eyes. “Whan I came upon ye, Rose McBride, ye were thinkin’ aboot a man. A man willin’ tae marry ye, aye?”
Neil! Too stunned to speak, Rose made a small noise of assent.
“As I see it, he is willin’, but ye are not.”
Rose swallowed, taking another step back. “I am … uncertain.”
“Because ye fancy anither .” Lillias grasped the necklace, her eyes focused elsewhere. “A man wha canna luve ye.”
A wind with the hint of winter in its breath passed by. I cannot love you, Rose .
“This verra nicht ye’ll divine yer future husband.” Stretching out a withered hand, Lillias plucked a pair of hazelnuts from her basket and added them to Rose’s apron. “The nuts, the mirror, the apple—ye ken the auld ways, d’ye not?”
Rose nodded. She put little store in them, but, aye, she knew them.
“Dinna miss the chance tae learn what yer heart already kens.” When Lillias touched her hand, Rose was shocked by the warmth of the woman’s bony fingers. “There is ane man for ye, lassie. And ye ken his name well.”
A voice not her own whispered inside her, Jamie .
“Nae!” Rose turned and fled across the burn and through the oak woods, her heart racing faster than her feet. Little wonder her neighbors called Lillias Brown a wutch! None but a daughter of the de’il himself would plant so braisant a notion in a girl’s mind. Jamie belonged to her sister now. There was no going back.
Rose dashed around clumps of gorse and outcroppings of rock until she slowed to catch her breath, gasping for air in ragged gulps. She dared not tarry. It was rumored Lillias Brown could change into a hare or ride a cat like the finest steed or fly through the air in a kitchen sieve.
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