My second talent is for the casting of spells, and for this I am called witch. Some put a spit in that word, others whisper it. I care not. The magic was bequeathed me by my mother, as she had received her own from my grandmother. All of us born to dwell in the moonlight, marked with the silver eyes and milk-white hair of our kind. Our spellcraft and talents are born of the lake, so that we know how to use its pure water and the plants and herbs that grow in and around it for our cures and spells. But only I was touched by the Afanc, our wise and ancient mother-of-the-lake who dwells deep in the cold waters. How proud my mother was to have her daughter so blessed! What an honor that I was chosen.

My skills allow me to act upon my seeings, and for that I, and those who need me, should be grateful. Princess Wenna will have subjected herself to Nesta’s remedies, some of which might have worked, had the problem been a simple one. But I suspect there is a strong obstacle to her fertility. One that even I may not be able to remove. Still I shall endeavor to help her. For my prince. And for my reputation. I stoop and pick moist moss, dropping it into my basket, and reach further for the tiny leaves of the wood sprite, a shy plant that hides itself beneath its bigger, bolder cousins. As I crouch low my senses respond to the musky scent of the damp earth and rotting stems of the more tender growths that will retreat beneath the soil for the winter. On a warm day such as this these smells are powerful, and a pungent warning of the bleak months that lie ahead.