She knelt for a moment in a prayer, although she was altogether certain that, whatever her beliefs had been, Mother was certainly in some sort of Heaven. The loss of her still ached, even though she had been stricken with pneumonia and carried off within days a year and a half ago. Pieter and Joachim had been with her, or she was not sure how she would have borne the grief. One of the last acts of Mother’s Earth Elementals had been to make her a grave in the abbey yard and cover her over; when that was done it was only the brownies that tended the house, garden and chickens, and the faun that watched over the goats that remained. It was only at that graveside farewell that Giselle had learned how old Mother really was—at least a century, according to Pieter. That had been almost as much of a shock as Mother’s death.

She rose and turned to go, to find there was a priest coming up behind her, an inquisitive look on his face. “Is there anything you need, my son?” he asked. Giselle smiled.

“No, thank you, Father,” she replied. “I just wanted to light a candle to my mother’s soul.”

The priest peered a little more closely at her—no doubt because she was a stranger to his church—and then his face lit with recognition. “Ah! You are young Gunther von Weber, who won the shooting contest! That was most impressive. One of the finest exhibitions I have ever seen!”

Giselle laughed a little. “I suspect my dear mother had a hand in my victory, Father. And perhaps the dear Virgin too, although I would never be so blasphemous as to pray to win.”

The priest beamed his approval of such sentiments. “Well said, as well as well done. But you are very young to be so skilled.”

Again, Giselle laughed. “I learned to shoot my rifle as soon as I was able to hold it to my shoulder,” she replied—which was close to the truth anyway. The rifle that now seemed like an extension of her arm had been heavy enough to unbalance her when she began under Pieter’s tutelage. “Mother and I were alone, and knowing a single bullet stands between you and a bear that wishes to kill your goats or root up your garden is powerful incentive to become skilled.”

Not quite true, because Mother didn’t need mere bullets to safeguard her property from animals, but it was an answer that made the priest nod with more approval.

“Well, I will not keep you from your well-earned celebration,” the priest said, and sketched the sign of the cross between them as Giselle bowed her head for his blessing. “Go with the good God, my son, and prosper.”