She shook the thought away. She was in no danger. Her neighbors did not fear her. Did they? Frowning, she turned to the task of making her bed. The villagers came to her when they needed help in finding an object that had been lost, or for potions to ward off the evil eye. They sought her aid in bringing rain to drought-weary crops or for charms and amulets to protect them against any number of disasters. They came to her for marriage and fertility charms, and for amulets to bring them good luck, or prosperity, or good health. They thought of her as a healer. Didn't they? She had never heard any of them call her a witch.
Troubled, she went to the well. What if the stranger was right? What if her life was in danger? She lowered the bucket and filled it with water, then returned to her house. Morgana trailed at her heels like a small black shadow.
Brow furrowed, Brenna filled a kettle with water and hung it over the fire to heat, the stranger's words echoing in her mind as she moved about her daily tasks. And all the while, she experienced a growing sense of foreboding. An omen, or merely her own anxiety fueled by a stranger's warning?
Time and again throughout the day, she went to the window looking for him, not certain if she was relieved or disappointed by his absence.
Toward midday, she went out to weed and water her gardens. Roses, violets, lavender, vervain, and rosemary were used in love potions. She grew peppermint, sage, garlic, rue, and wood sorrel for healing; mugwort, yarrow, and wormwood for divination. Juniper, mistletoe, basil, fennel, flax, rowan, and trefoil were protective herbs, and she grew these in abundance for use in sachet bags and protection wreaths.
Returning to the house, she went to her work area, where she kept her mortar and pestle, and began grinding the leaves of rosemary and lavender into a bowl, along with a handful of herbs. The love charm was for Nellie Beech's youngest son, Georgy, who was smitten with the youngest of the blacksmith's daughters.
Purring softly, Morgana brushed against Brenna's ankles, then sat at her feet while she worked. Brenna hummed softly, adding a bit of music to the charm, as well as the petals from a pink flower, pink being the color for love and affection.
Colors played a vital part in the casting of spells and preparing charms. The color green heralded fertility and prosperity; red was for passion and vigor, it was believed to increase wealth; orange increased sexual potency; blue brought peace and healing to the soul; yellow stimulated the intellect; brown was used in working magick for animals; black was for banishing illness or breaking spells. Brenna surrounded herself with the color purple to increase her own magical powers.
Late in the afternoon, John Linder came to visit. He was a tall, gangly young man with a shock of white-blond hair and sad blue eyes. John was shy to the point where it seemed almost painful for him to speak. He fancied himself in love with her; perhaps he was, but she felt only friendship for him, friendship and pity.
Today he came by on the pretense of needing a charm to cure a burn on the palm of his hand.
Smiling, she bade him enter her house.
Stuttering "Thank you," he followed her inside, removing his well-worn cap as he did so.
He sat on the chair beside the hearth, his cap clutched tightly in his lap, watching her every move as she mixed a bit of sheep's suet and the rind of an elder tree and boiled them together in a small silver pot.
When the ointment was ready, she removed it from the fire.
"How did you do that?" she asked while the ointment cooled.
Linder shrugged. "I… I burned it on the handle of… of a pan." A blush stained his cheeks. "I forgot it… it was… was hot."
Nodding, she applied a thick layer of ointment to his palm, then wrapped his hand in a strip of clean cotton cloth. "It will be gone in a day or two."
"Will I have a… a scar?"
"No."
Rising, he put on his cap; then, reaching into the pocket of his coat, he withdrew three brown eggs. "Th-thank you."
Taking the eggs, she placed them on the table. Those who came seeking her aid rarely paid in coin. "You are welcome, Mr. Linder."
He gaze slid away from hers. "Would you…?" He cleared his throat. "Would you go… go walking with me… to… tonight?"
"I do not think that would be a good idea," she replied gently. The last time she had gone walking with him, he had kissed her. It was her first kiss. She thought it was probably Mr. Linder's, as well. It had been awkward and unpleasant and not something she cared to experience again.
His blush deepened. "Good day to… to you, then, Mistress Flanagan."
"Good day, Mr. Linden."
She stood in the doorway, watching him walk away. From time to time, in moments of weakness, she had considered marrying John Linder, not because she loved him, but because she yearned for a child, a daughter with whom she could share her gift, the way Granny O'Connell had shared her magick with Brenna when Brenna was younger. But it was only a foolish girl's foolish dream. Marriage had brought only misery and servitude to the women in her family. Early on, she had vowed that no man would rule over her.
Brenna lingered in the doorway, one hand resting on the jamb as she watched the sun sink behind the distant hills in a blaze of crimson and ochre and lavender.
She blinked and Roshan DeLongpre stood in the yard before her. Startled, she took a hasty step backward, her hand flying up in a gesture to ward off the supernatural, for surely that was what he was, to have appeared so suddenly out of nowhere. And if he wasn't a warlock, then…
"What manner of man are you?" she asked, disliking the faint tremor of fear underlying her tone.
He lifted one brow in wry amusement. "What manner of greeting is that, Mistress Flanagan?"
"Answer me, or be gone, sir!"
Roshan glanced over his shoulder. "Was that young Linder I saw leaving here?"
"Perhaps."
"He will not survive your death."
"What do you mean?" she asked, alarmed by his words. Though she didn't love John Linder, she was fond of him, flattered by his infatuation, in awe of his talent.
"He's going to kill himself the day after you die."
She opened her mouth but words failed her.
"He must love you very much."
She didn't know what to say to that, and so she said nothing.
Roshan regarded her for several moments. There was always the possibility that if she simply disappeared, Linder would still throw himself off a cliff. It was a chance Roshan was prepared to take. The boy meant nothing to him. If it was John Linder's fate to commit suicide, so be it. It was Brenna Flanagan's life that concerned him. Now that he had seen her, he knew he could not let her perish.