I—go away. I pointed to him, crossed my hands over my heart. You promised. I—over the sea, go home.

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Red softly. “I don’t forget, and I will keep this promise, and any other I make. Tell me about my brother, and I will see you return home safely. Whatever it costs me. But—things will never go back to the way they were before. They cannot. That’s the one thing that becomes more certain every day.”

His words disturbed me. I knew already that my being here at Harrowfield had disrupted a household hitherto orderly and content. I regretted that, and wished I could change it. More than that, it disquieted me when I heard the folk speak of sorcery and enchantments that had ensnared their lord. For I supposed they felt much as I did when I watched the lady Oonagh come to Sevenwaters, and cast her net over my father. Only here, I was the witch. But I was driven by the need to complete the task, and to save my brothers. Nothing mattered as much as that did. And to do it, I must remain here under Red’s protection. I had thought that when it was over, I would go, and the calm pool would settle again as if I had never been here to ruffle its tranquillity. I had never thought about how Red might feel. Perhaps that was because it was too hard to imagine telling him about his brother, as one day I must if he were ever to let me go.

I moved around to kneel in front of him, so that he had to look at me. Showed him a mirror of his own face. You—tired. You—sad, worried. This provoked a sort of mirthless grimace. He did not like the talk to turn to his own feelings.

“Somewhat lacking in sleep, yes. It happens when you wake at night with demons whispering in your ear. But how could you know how that feels?” He threw this remark away, but stopped short when he saw my face change. For a moment, my own particular night demons came back to me and I must have turned suddenly white.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a different voice, so different it might have been another man’s. “I’m sorry. What did I say?” His hand came out, very gently, toward my cheek; but I moved back a little, just out of reach. I shook my head, moved a hand across dismissively. Nothing. It’s nothing.

“You’re still afraid of me,” he said very softly. “Can’t you see that I would never hurt you?”

But you have, I thought. With your hands, and with your words. I crossed my arms over my chest, my hands touching the places where he had bruised me before. When he was so angry, angrier than I had ever seen him.

And then he said, “I wish you would talk to me.” His voice had gone even quieter, as it did sometimes when he was keeping a tight control. Somehow I had upset him. No doubt you do wish that, I thought. As soon as I talk, you can get rid of me, and get on with your life. One less thing to worry about. Back to normal, whatever you may think now. For you will forget, as men do.