The pungent heat of the turf fire packed around his head as he pushed through the door, making his nose run. All the clinging smells of the fort gathered closely together in the gloom of the wretched place. Padric coughed once and swallowed hard. A drunken minstrel performed for a few apathetic wastrels, his voice high and scraping. No one paid Padric any mind. He was just a dirt covered farm boy and they were well into their cups. The ciderwife was tapping a keg in the corner, her strokes clumsy, her hair free and lank. Padric approached, the maul now propped on his shoulder, his head slightly bent in the low room. The woman did not look up.

“The girl Eirwen. Do you know her?” he asked the top of her greasy head.

The ciderwife stopped, tossing the bung mallet contemptuously on top of the barrel. She looked up with swimming eyes, took a sneering breath to answer and stopped short.

Fear. It was always first.

Her moist face hardened into a sickening scowl and she retrieved her mallet, resumed her labor, did not answer.

Hate. It always followed.

Padric flicked the coin onto the barrel just as the mallet was coming down. The ciderwife jerked and the mallet head smashed into the wood, caving in the top of the barrel. The sweet, cloying scent of fresh cider cooled the air around them.

“That is for her. When she comes in tonight. As many cups as it is worth. See that she gets them.”

She always delighted in calling him names, feigning her affection as if he was some sorcerer king of legend, to be feared and worshipped. Mocking him, in truth. He remembered her favorite. He smiled then. Smiled at their memory. Smiled at her foolishness. At his own.

“Tell her to drink deeply. Compliments of Padric the Black.”

The bees were angry and that made Rosheen laugh. Little buzzing bastards. They chased her as far as their tiny minds allowed, then dutifully turned back to the hive as soon as they forgot why they had left. Rosheen took her prize to the lowest branch of an old edad and settled in to wait. Still all orange and gold, friend. She missed the green.

Her arms were sticky to the elbow, as was her breast, where she had been clutching the honeycomb, which now called to her. She broke off a fistful of the dripping comb and began munching while she waited, licking her fingers once the morsel was gone. The rest of the comb lay in her lap and the honey oozed its way over one knee, snaking its way down to her toes. Rosheen watched it drip down to the dense golden carpet below and listened for the soft tap of each droplet as it struck the fallen leaves. She thought about eating some more, but decided to save it for Padric. He won’t want any. But she saved it anyway.