Page 111 of The Faerie Morgana
Dafne shook her head. She pointed to the divination tools lying in wait on the table, then to Morgana.
“Very well. Make yourself comfortable while I begin.”
Dafne tugged forward the chair kept for the Blackbird, with its worn cushion. She set it opposite the table and settled herself in it as Morgana drew a cup of stones and the saucer used to burn herbs close to her hand. She flicked a candle to life, then spilled some of the waiting herbs, thyme and rosemary and sage, into the saucer. She tipped the candle flame to touch them and watched the fragrant smoke rise in gentle curls.
She knew the rumors about Dafne but had never pried into the woman’s history. This was a curious moment, rather like meeting a supplicant in the anteroom, but with the shared history between the two of them, there was something intimate about it. Dafne was not a supplicant, nor was she a stranger. She had more or less given Morgana a command, and Morgana wanted very much to understand.
She waited for the ashes to cool in their saucer, then stirred them with her forefinger. As was her wont, she drew a contemplative breath, then exhaled slowly through pursed lips as she gazed into the ashes and waited for an image to come into her mind. When it did, she drew a sharper breath of recognition.
It was fae country, where she had so recently, and so briefly, visited. There were the sparkling lights, glowing through the drifting fog. There were the tall buildings, indistinct in the mist, and there—almost invisible in their gray robes—were the fae, moving here and there. As she watched, her fingers pressed together in wonder, one of them turned and gazed at her. She had no idea if it was a woman or a man, but whoever it was clearly felt her presence.
The image faded as the ashes cooled, and Morgana leanedback in her carved chair. She could almost have forgotten Dafne’s presence in this moment of communion with one of her own kind, friendly or not. She felt a strange yearning toward those tall figures, toward the misty cityscape with its twinkling lights. In the White City she would not be an outcast, separate, isolated. There she might meet others as equals. There she might…
She blinked and gave her head a small shake. Her future did not lie in fae country. It lay here, in the Lady’s Temple. She felt Dafne’s hopeful gaze. “You were in fae country, Dafne?”
Dafne nodded.
“You did not go willingly, I assume.”
She shook her head.
“Then, you were abducted?”
Another nod, and a pinching of Dafne’s lips, from either anger or grief, it was difficult to tell.
“I need a moment more,” Morgana said. She leaned forward again to take up the cup of stones and spill them across the table. She scanned them, scooped them up, and spilled them again. The repetition was not really necessary, although it was always good to add perspective. She knew now what had happened.
“The fae took your voice.”
A nod.
“They took your voice and gave it to one of their own who had none.”
Another nod.
“And you think I can give it back to you because—because you recognize me,” Morgana said. “You know what I am, because you lived among my kind.”
Slowly, slowly, Dafne nodded again. Her gaze fixed on Morgana’s, and Morgana had no doubt they understood each other.
“I would prefer no one else knows,” Morgana said. “Fitting in has always been a problem for me, and if everyone on the Isle knows I am fae—”
Dafne put up a hand, and Morgana stopped speaking. Then, with a deliberate gesture, Dafne pressed her fingers to her lips, the universal sign for silence. It was a promise.
Morgana bent her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Dafne. I will do all that I can.”
“So it’s true,” Braithe said. She was busy making up Morgana’s bed, setting out a fresh robe. She placed a folded towel next to the washbasin and faced the priestess with her hands on her hips.
“The rumors, yes. More or less true.”
Braithe spoke as firmly as she could. “You can’t give her what she wants, Priestess.”
“And why may I not do that, brat?”
“Because she will reveal your secret.”
“I think not. I believe she will keep it, as you do.”
“You can’t take the chance,” Braithe said brusquely. She turned back to her work, bending to find an untouched dish of soap under the washstand to set on the towel. “They are already envious, waiting to pounce on any mistake you might make.”
