Page 17 of The Faerie Morgana
“Are you sure you want to know?” Morgana said. Her eyes looked weary to Braithe, more brown than gold. She was not pleased by her vision.
Oona hesitated, but she put one hand on her breast for courage. “Yes. Yes, I think I should know.”
“Very well.” Morgana glanced down at the stones once again. “You will be content with your choice, Oona. Your chosen husband may be dull, but he will be good to you. There will be children, as well, at least two of them.”
“But…?” Oona prompted.
“Your husband will not live long.”
“Oh. Poor man.” Oona tried, and failed, to look sad at this news.
Braithe thought Morgana was going to add something, but instead she sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “You may wait in the sanctuary, Oona. Braithe will bring your charm and give you instructions.”
Oona thanked her, then hurried out of the room, her step as light as if she had left all her worries at the altar. Braithe said, “There was something you didn’t tell her.”
Morgana let her head fall against the carved back of the chair. “She will learn it in time.” Without moving her head, she gave Braithe a sidelong glance. “There is something troubling you.”
“I will tell you later. After Oona has her charm.”
“You are curious about what I read in the stones.”
Braithe didn’t meet her eyes, but she said, “Yes. I always am.”
“In this case, I saw that Oona will grieve her husband’s death mightily. She doesn’t feel it now, but she is going to love him very much.”
“That’s romantic, isn’t it?”
Morgana’s lips curled. “I place no faith in romance, brat. But respect, kindness—these are powerful qualities. Lasting ones.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. “They endure far longer than your romance, I promise you.”
Morgana sat on the stone bench before the rosemary bush, resting her feet on the soft carpet of woolly thyme beneath it. Shehad shed her shoes, though it was so cold, and the thyme was sweet against her bare soles. She lifted her face into the tepid rays of the setting sun, trying to shed the tension created by all she had heard that day.
She found some ease in spending the waning hours of the afternoon in the garden, even as the winter darkness came earlier and earlier, but still, the woes of the women who had come to her shadowed her mind.
When a black-and-yellow bee appeared from behind the rosemary to hover before her, she held herself very still. The creature landed on her arm, tickling her skin with delicate legs.
“You should not be out of your hive,” Morgana murmured. “It is winter, little sister.”
The creature buzzed quietly, wings fluttering.
“Ah,” Morgana said. “Thank you for reminding me. We cannot carry the weight of others’ sorrows. I will try to do better.” The bee buzzed once more, then lifted from her arm to fly a joyful loop around her head before disappearing behind the rosemary.
Morgana touched the sigil at her breast. It was true. It didn’t help the petitioners for her to share their suffering. In the tradition of the Temple, she must turn their pain over to the Lady, not hold it in her own heart.
When Braithe returned from delivering Oona’s charm, Morgana was about to tell her about the bee, but she noticed the bundle Braithe carried in her arms and the suspicious shine in her eyes. “Braithe, what is it? Surely you are not shedding tears for Oona.”
“No!” Braithe’s lips pressed tight as a sob rose in her throat. Morgana saw that her bundle was made up of clothes and toiletries, the modest possessions of an acolyte. She felt a swell of reluctance to hear another sad story, but she quelled it. This was Braithe, after all, and she had made the child her responsibility.
She said, “Calm yourself, brat. Then tell me.”
Braithe’s snub nose had gone red, and Morgana reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. When it had done its job, and Braithe’s eyes had dried, Morgana said, “Now. What troubles you?”
Braithe rubbed at her nose one last time, then crumpled the handkerchief in her fingers. “It’s Priestess Iffa. She says I have to go. To leave the Temple. Leave the Isle!” Her voice thinned, but she sniffed back a fresh wave of tears, a little act of discipline Morgana approved of. She herself was not given to tears, but she had not Braithe’s soft heart. Her own heart, she thought, was more like the bogwood from which the chairs of the Nine had been carved: hard to dent, impossible to break.
She asked, “Why would Iffa say that?”
“She says I have no gifts, so I have to make room for someone who does. She took my things out of the cupboard—” With her chin, she indicated the bundle in her arms. “And she gave my pallet to someone else, and now I have nowhere to sleep.” Her voice threatened to break again. “She said it’s my own fault, since I didn’t get on the boat that came! But where am I to go? What am I to do?”
“Of course you have somewhere to sleep,” Morgana said, her voice suddenly hard. “Indeed, right now you will go to mychamber with your things, while I find Priestess Iffa and set things straight.”
