But Morghan was gazing serenely at the shimmering strands of the web over the stones. In the corner of her vision, lightning still rent the sky and she could hear the booming crash of the waves against the shore as the storm pressed on, but here was the magic, right here all around her. If the veil coming down meant that more would be able to see like this, then she would find a way to bear the chaos that would come with the change.

  A profound sense of well-being rose up in her, a flush of feeling that began at her feet and swept up through her, so that every nerve ending tingled and her flesh hummed. She stretched out her arms and opened herself to the sensation, losing the edges of her skin and brimming over them, until she felt alive and bright and as golden as her right hand. Breathing in, the air in her chest was cold and alive and singing.

  Morghan opened her eyes. ‘Join me,’ she said, reaching for the others.

  Clarice stepped up and took one of Morghan’s hands, then reached for Ambrose’s.

  In a moment, they were a circle, and Morghan let herself flow through them and between them, nudging up gently against their own spirits and inviting them to see.

  Clarice gasped. This was like being in the queen’s realm, but more, and in her own world. She tipped her head back and saw Sigil sitting on a white branch, large eyes fixed on her. The air around the bird shimmered and glowed and she blinked, taking a deep breath, letting herself relax into Morghan’s golden seeing.

  Ambrose lifted his face to the sky, tears tracking silently down his cheeks as he felt the flow of Morghan’s spirit against his own, demanding that he open up, see. He saw himself, tucked up into his study, the fire chattering to itself in the grate while he buried his head in his books, reading and pencilling notes, learning.

  Learning so much, so much that was necessary.

  But forgetting to live. Inside his chest, his heart welled with feeling.

  With longing.

  Charlie let out a long sigh and sank into the sight of this glimmering world that Morghan was showing her. Would this be what it was like? Would that she could always see this much!

  Everything was alive.

  They were connected.

  Morghan let her hands drop and smiled at the dazed faces around her. She hadn’t been sure she could do that – could make them see too, just for a moment.

  ‘That’s what I want it to be like,’ she said on a sigh. ‘We need to sing this into being.’

  The rest of the circle looked at her.

  ‘Well,’ Ambrose said, wiping his tears away. ‘We’d best get planning, then.’

  * * *

  Morghan walked into the woods. She’d shooed everyone off after their planning session and now she walked the path through the grove on her own, the snow crunching underfoot. Everything around her glittered with light on ice crystals, and she breathed in the beauty of it, reaching out to trail her fingers through the air, watching the traces of energy from her fingers fluttering like they were ribbons.

  Looking up into the branches of the trees, she thought about the plans they’d just made for the solstice ritual and pondered the question that had been constantly on her mind the last few days. How to shine the light of the soul for everyone to see? How to weave the web ever stronger – how to show others that it was possible, that it was necessary?

  One person at a time, Ambrose said. But was that all they could do?

  Morghan sighed, and yet her lips were still upturned at the beauty all around her. The work she did, it was necessarily one on one. She helped one soul at a time pass from this life to the next. That was what a death worker did.

  Not that there had been much time for that lately, with all that was going on. She thought of Winsome again – and inclined her head at her own thoughts. Winsome, Morghan knew without doubt now, would be taking over that aspect of her work.

  Which was, she suspected, as it was meant to be.

  There was much to teach Erin, and teaching was something she could only do for one or two people at a time.

  Morghan stopped walking and closed her eyes, looking at the memory of setting the soul-egg in the bell tower, watching its light shine over the land, reaching out to touch the light from other soul-eggs in other bell towers.

  There were others being tasked with the same jobs as she. Morghan knew this, because she was not special, she was not chosen above any others – she had skills, and they were being put to use. Thus, there were others in the same position.

  Perhaps, soon, she would reach out to them.

  One Grove on its own would become one Grove in a web of them. And the light would spread, would it not?

  The world had not lost all its magic. Ideas still sprang up in different parts of the globe at the same time. That was magic, awen flowing freely, inspiration and growth.

  But how to make it all explode?

  The veil would not come down in a day, she thought. But it must happen, with so much at stake; a reenchanting, a return to seeing.

  She did not know how long it would take. What she did know was that it was necessary to begin the work now. The work of the soul could not wait for any of them.

  Walking again, Morghan knew she did not have all the answers to her questions yet. But she would keep going, in the flow of her purpose, and she would not waver.

  The world could not afford anyone to waver.

  The stream pushed against the ice at its border, burrowing in under to continue its rush towards the sea. Morghan bent her knees and squatted down on her heels. Dipped her fingertips into the tumbling flow.

  She touched a wet finger to her forehead, her chest, shoulder to shoulder in a blessing that was also a promise.

  By sky and root through all worlds. From each birth to each death, my life dedicated.

  Standing again, Morghan listened to the burbling song of the water, and the slow dripping of snow from branch to soil. She let the sound seep deep into herself, under her skin, until it was the song of her own body.

  ‘Blessed am I,’ she whispered. ‘To carry the song of water in this world with me.’

  She lifted her face. ‘Blessed am I,’ she said. ‘To carry the song of the wind with me.’

  The breeze flattened cold hands against her cheeks.

  ‘Blessed am I to stand upon this ground,’ she said, ‘where the trees dig deep and join with each other.’

  She touched her heart. ‘Blessed am I, to carry in me the spark of the world, to feel the fire of its passion.’

  There were whispers in the air around her, and she opened her eyes, seeing the faerie man step out of the air into her sight. She inclined her head.

  ‘Maxen,’ she said. ‘My greetings to you.’

  ‘And to yourself, Morghan.’

  ‘How is the turning of the seasons treating you?’ Morghan asked, gesturing at the snow.

  Maxen shrugged lightly. ‘Tis well enough, and expected, so you’ll get no complaints from us. Our fires are warm, as is our food and drink.’ He looked at Morghan from under long, dark lashes. ‘Tis almost the turning.’

  She nodded. ‘The solstice. Yes.’

  ‘You’ve invited us, I hear.’

  Morghan smiled. ‘And where did you hear that?’

  Maxen thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘In your circle, where I was listening.’

  ‘You are always invited,’ Morghan said with a nod.

  That made Maxen grin. ‘Well, usually we do just turn up.’ He turned serious and gazed past Morghan, at the snowy woodland. ‘Things are changing, and I wonder how they will go,’ he said.

  Morghan turned to walk the paths again. ‘Your thoughts?’ she asked.

  He shrugged at her question. ‘People either do not believe in us, or they are afraid of us, or they consider us to be small pretty creatures.’

  ‘Some of you are small creatures.’ Morghan cast him a smiling glance. ‘And some of you are very pretty.’

  ‘You are in a good mood today, Morghan of the Grove.’

  ‘I am, Maxen.’ Morghan sighed. ‘I know there is change upon us, and that change is never comfortable, nor the outcome ever certain. I do not know what all my task during it is, and that is something of a concern.’ She paused a moment, looking for the right words with which to express what she felt, and what she knew. ‘But here are the things I do know…’

  She counted them off on her fingers.

  ‘This coming change is a necessity.

  ‘We will keep trying, even when we fail.

  ‘We are capable of extraordinary things.

  ‘We still have our magic, if only we learn to see.’

  They walked silently through the quiet woods, breathing in the white scent of snow, listening to the warbling of a lone bird singing in a strand of sunlight.

  ‘I do not know,’ Maxen said at last. ‘There has been a lot of history under the bridge, so to speak. Our retreat behind the veil was…tactical. I fear humankind’s capacity to return to a relationship of reciprocity to the world and its other peoples.’

  Morghan sighed. ‘As do I, Maxen,’ she said. ‘And there are so many things happening in the world that I do not know or understand.’

  Their feet crunched upon the path.

  ‘But fear cripples,’ Morghan said after a while. ‘We cannot afford fear. It is the weapon we use against each other and against ourselves.’

  They passed out of earshot of the bird’s song, and another took its place, this one singing a plaintive love song. They listened to the clear, pure notes.

  ‘Imagine a world without fear,’ Morghan said dreamily, watching the birdsong drift on the breeze. ‘There would be no hunger, no violence. No othering.’

  ‘Or there would be more of all of those,’ Maxen said, unconvinced.

  But Morghan shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Because to give up fear you must know the truth of your own soul. That you are more than your skin and your fear. That you are more altogether. You shine. And then the next realisation is that as you are, so is your neighbour.’

  ‘Then you’d best find a way to make people see this truth, Morghan. You and all the others.’ He nodded to her and stepped away into the air.

  Morghan watched it shimmer behind him.

  So, there were others, she thought and gazed upwards where the branches of the trees reached for the sky and each other in a web.

  That was what was needed, she knew. To reach for the truth, deep within each one, and in each other.

  To weave the web.

  35

  Erin kicked back the blankets, gasping for breath, horrified. She pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed and Burdock came over to push his nose into her hand. He’d tried waking her up before, but she’d not paid him any mind.

  He needed to go outside. The sun was over the hills.

  He was hungry too.

  ‘Burdock,’ she said, and her voice was rough, barely a croak. She cleared her throat, glanced towards the window where a long white sliver of light pushed its way between the curtains. ‘How long have I been gone?’

  It was cold in the room. The hearth was filled with ashes. She stared at it, frowning, for a moment, then reached for her dressing gown. She’d let poor Burdock out.

  Poor Burdock was very glad to go out too, dashing from the door in a mad scramble towards his friend the apple tree. Erin tightened the belt on her dressing gown and left the door open a crack. She needed a cup of tea.

  Had Macha struck her, she wondered as she filled the kettle? Macha had certainly sent her flying backwards to land unceremoniously on her backside. She put the kettle on the cooker and opened the wood box, picking up the poker, ready to stir the embers back to life.

  Their red glow made her pause, lips pursed, brow creased. She’d been trying to make fire. Conjure it out of thin air, for crying out loud! How was she to know what she’d been doing was wrong? She didn’t know anything, and it wasn’t like anyone was lining up to teach her this stuff, was it? Not properly.

  Erin stuck the poker in the wood box and flung the embers about. She fed in the kindling and watched it catch, just like that.

  ‘See,’ she said to herself. ‘You can’t make fire from nothing. It needs fuel.’

  She groaned, flinging her head back and baring her teeth at the ceiling.

  And besides, Erin thought, wasn’t Macha herself, really? So it hadn’t been like she was really stealing from someone else, was it? Macha had no right to send her flying like that.

  If people would just teach her properly in the first place…

  Burdock trotted into the kitchen, came to a halt, and shook himself vigorously, sending snow flying.

  ‘Watch it!’ Erin screeched. ‘Did you go rolling in it, or something?’

  Burdock looked at her, confused by her tone of voice. He dropped his head, hurt. He’d just gone to the apple tree – he’d been a good dog and had waited after all – and the snow was thick out there. Maybe he hadn’t been quite able to resist jumping around in it for a moment, but that had been all, just a moment. He slunk over to the wall and looked miserably at his dog bowl. It was still empty.

  Erin’s phone rang.

  Startled, she stared around the room, looking for it.

  It was under her bag. She didn’t recognise the number on the screen. It was probably her mother, trying something else devious and underhanded to get her to come home.

  Well, maybe she just would, for all that. Erin poked at the answer button. Swiped it. Held the phone to her ear.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  There was a pause before the voice on the other end spoke, and when it did, when Mary from the Care Home explained the reason for her calling, Erin drooped down into a chair at the table, nodded a couple times and agreed to go in. Reluctantly. Only because there was no one else.

  The kettle screamed.

  She drank her tea as she got dressed, pulling on thick leggings and socks, grumbling under her breath about having to walk into town. Why had her father had to take her car? He didn’t need it. He was just trying to manipulate her.

  In fact, everyone was trying to manipulate her.

  Morghan was trying to get her to learn all this stuff, but she wasn’t really teaching her how to do it, she was manipulating her into figuring it out herself.

  Which was just pissing her off, Erin decided.

  And Macha and Kria and the glen – they could all go to hell. That was how she felt, and she let the feeling sweep through her until she was radiating prickly anger.

  Erin dumped her mug into the sink and looked at the kitchen door that led to the garden.

  Burdock whined quietly.

  She ignored him.

  The well was out there, she thought. And she hadn’t gone out there and lifted the lid on it and said her prayers over it. She was supposed to do that every morning.

  Her hand was on the doorknob. It was brass, and cool under her fingers. She stood deliberating.

  Then turned away. Too bad, she decided. She’d had quite the fill of magic and everything that smacked of it for the day.

  Besides, she had to get to work. Her day off – which she’d been looking forward to so she could load some of her artwork online – but hey, nothing went to plan, did it?

  ‘And Mr. Roberts is poorly,’ she said, mimicking Mary’s accent. ‘Can you come help out today?’

  Well, it was probably better than storming around here. She picked up her coat and jammed her arms into the sleeves. Brooding about Kria. If Kria knew so much about magic and how to sing the wheel or whatever – then why was she stuck in the bloody valley in the first place?

  Erin didn’t understand any of it, she decided, picking up her bag off the table and slinging it across her chest.

  Burdock whined again. Looked down at his bowl. Whined louder.

  She wasn’t going to leave without giving him his breakfast, was she?

  Erin snatched up her scarf and wound it around her neck.

  Burdock stared at her. Wait, he thought. She wasn’t going to leave without him, was she? He hopped over his bowls and dashed to her side, toenails clattering on the flagstones.

  This was not how the mornings were supposed to go.

  Erin grabbed her hat and tugged it onto her head. Then she stuck her feet in her boots and bent to tie the laces. Burdock licked her cheek, trying to make her remember his breakfast.

  She pushed him away. ‘We have to go to work, Burdock,’ she grouched. And shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Not my idea either.’

  They went through the door and out into the morning, Burdock taking one last glance at his bowl.

  Erin walked to the village with her head down, watching her feet, arms crossed, gloved hands tucked under her arms. Her nose grew red in the cold, her eyes watered.

  She’d be there in five minutes if she still had her car, she thought.

  How could her parents have been so awful as to have those thugs come repossess her car? She rolled her eyes. How could they be so stupid to think Wilde Grove was a cult? How could they think she was such an idiot as to get involved with a cult? What sort of loser did they think she was?

  Erin scowled at the road.

  And who were her parents to get all righteous, anyway? They’d bought a baby, for crying out loud. Literally. Bought. A. Baby. What sort of people did that?

  And to make themselves feel better, they believed the sob story her birth mother had spun them about Wellsford and Wilde Grove.

  Even though they didn’t know the first thing about it.

  And while she was on the subject, Erin thought, what sort of selfish person had her birth mother been? She’d been a real loser. Drugs and who knew what else?

  And then getting herself dead. In some stupid meaningless accident.

  Erin shook her head. What sort of person went crashing down a flight of stairs anyway? What a pathetic way to die.

  She knotted her hands under her arms and stuck her chin down into the folds of her scarf. What was it doing being so cold when she didn’t have a car?

  She let her mind hop back onto the track of its thoughts about her family.

  The only people stupid enough to die falling down a set of stairs, she told herself, were ones getting themselves murdered. She did another eyeroll. What had Charlie said about the way Rebecca had died?

 

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