She laughed again, but there was an edge to it, and a sharpness in her glance.

“Not afraid to speak your mind, are you? A trait you share with certain of your brothers, I notice. Well, we shall talk more of this later. I hope you will learn to trust me, Sorcha.”

I was silent.

Oonagh went over to the bed, where a profusion of cloth was tumbled. She lifted a corner of gauzy green stuff.

“I thought, this one, for the wedding. There’s an excellent seamstress in the village, I hear, who’ll make it up for you in a day. Come here, my dear.”

I was powerless to refuse. She placed me before a mirror I had never seen before. Its still surface was circled with twining creatures. Their red jewel eyes were on me as I looked at my reflection. Small, skinny, pale. Untidy mop of dark curls, roughly tied back. Neat nose, wide mouth, defiant green eyes. My version of the family face had not the far-seeing serenity of Conor’s or the pale intensity of Finbar’s. It was softer than Liam’s and more fine-boned than Padriac’s. The dimples that made Cormack’s and Diarmid’s smiles so charming were lacking from my thin cheeks. Nonetheless, I saw my brothers’ images as I gazed on my own.

The lady Oonagh had taken up a bone hairbrush, and as I stood there she undid the crude tie that kept my curls off my face, and began to brush out the tangles. I clenched my fists and remained still. Something in the steady motion of the brush, and the way her eyes watched me in the polished bronze of the mirror, sent a chill deep through me. A tiny voice was alive inside me, a little warmth; I focused on the words. You will find a way, daughter of the forest. Your feet will walk a straight path.

“You have pretty hair,” she said. The brush moved rhythmically. “Unkempt, but pretty. You should let me cut it for you. Just a little tidy up—it will sit better under a veil that way. Oh! What has happened here?” Her predatory fingers fluffed the short ends over my brow, where Simon’s knife had shorn away a curl.

“I—” I was manufacturing an excuse in my head when my eyes met hers in the mirror. Her face was cold, so cold she seemed not quite human. The brush fell to the ground; her fingers still twined in my hair, and it was as if she could see into me, could read my thoughts, knew exactly what I had been doing. I shrank away from her.

It was only a moment. Then she smiled, and her eyes changed again. But I had seen, and she had seen. We recognized that we were enemies. Whatever she was, whatever she wanted, my heart quailed at it. And yet I believe she was taken aback by the strength she saw in me.

“I’ll show you how we’ll dress your hair for the wedding,” she said as if nothing had happened. “Plaited at the sides, and drawn up at the back—”