Donovan studied the whiskey inside his glass. “There’s one other place we can look for allies…if we dare.” He drained the glass, then set it on the table with deliberate care. “There’s a story in my family about the man who was my great-great-uncle. He went out riding one moonlit night and met a lady, a woman like he’d never seen before. He fell in love with her and continued to ride out to meet her for a full turn of the moon. He gave her gifts, which she sneered at, but he was a younger son and could afford nothing finer. One night they argued, and she left him, never to return. But after that night, he felt compelled to write poetry. Every morning, when he woke, he rushed to his desk for paper and pen and spent agonizing hours, sometimes weeping in frustration, as he tried to write another excruciating poem. And just as he was compelled to write them, he was equally compelled to read them to guests who came to the house—or family if there were no guests, or even the servants if he could find no one else.

“It was like a sickness inside him, because once he managed to get the words down on paper, he was fine for the rest of the day. But it was destroying him, and his family feared for his sanity. It was speculated that the lady he’d met had been the Muse, or one of the ladies who shared that gift of words, and she had cursed him by forcing this need upon a man whose joy came from the land and who had no gift for words.

“One autumn, he disappeared. The family didn’t see him again until spring, when he returned. He wouldn’t say where he had been, but the family could tell he was different. He had a slender wand made of oak that he carried with him. He was still compelled to write a poem every day, but he no longer wrote on paper. He used that wand to write words in the grass, in the creek, in the air. The compulsion no longer tortured him. He would simply write some little poem, then, with the compulsion satisfied for the day, he would go on with his work.

“The one thing he did when he came home was to urge his brother, who was the baron, to pay his respects to the Ladies who lived in the Old Place. He was quite insistent that the baron had to make sure their basic needs were met, that they had wood for the fires, fabric for clothes, enough food to eat, that their home was kept in good repair. When the baron asked why, he promised to tell his brother in one year’s time if his brother helped look after the witches.