“A mirror, child.” Compassion crept into the oracle’s voice. “Think of the odd blooms we find on this dry hillside. This cowslip”—she gestured to a delicate yellow flower rooted in a cluster of stones—“think how its seed was carried here by a passing sparrow. How it found itself in rocky soil. How little rain came to it, how much sun it needed to withstand. How much it must have struggled to anchor its roots. Its leaves and blooms will be small—this is its fate. To tell it so is to show it a mirror of this dusty hillside and the bird that dropped it here. When a man comes to our chamber and asks whether he should marry this woman for love or that woman for her coins, the path he will take has already been determined. He knows the answer himself.”

“But,” said Alba, “this flower”—she pointed at its spindly stalk—“either of us might give it water or shade or richer soil… and that would change how it could bloom.…”

The oracle shook her head. “Just as the waters mirror the motion of the stars, so are you a mirror to those who seek to know their future selves.” She patted Alba’s hand. “Come, child. The sun is rising, and the priests will want us in the chamber. There is nothing either of us may do on this hillside to change the destiny of another.”

That night, as the oracle lay gently snoring across the room and Alba lay again staring into the darkness, the owl kept up its fitful shrieking. To Alba, its every cry sounded a warning: Grief! Despair! Woe!

Mirror only, Alba whispered after each shriek.

Krii-i-i-i-k! screeched the owl.

Like water, said Alba into the dark, pulling the blanket to her chin.

Krii-i-i-i-k!

She had to know.

As quietly as she could, Alba rose, wrapped her sandal straps around her ankles, and opened the door, setting out up the hillside. The light around her as she climbed was a deep, dense blue, the sky rich with stars. Though the landscape was no more than shadows, she climbed easily, knowing the path well.

As she approached the cavern, she started with surprise: A priest was posted at the entrance. She had not realized they guarded it even at night. She stood for a long while, thinking he would have seen her climbing, thinking she would be punished, but when the silhouette remained silent, she crept forward and discovered the ill-lit form was not standing guard, but sitting, sleeping, knees curled up to his chest, his slumping body little more than a sack of cabbages in the dark. She sidled past, stepping as lightly as she could, into the mouth of the cave.

With no lantern, no half rays of sunlight to illuminate the passage, Alba descended into blackness, feeling her way down. In the dark, the gurgling of the stream beneath the rocks seemed now almost deafening—though in the day, it sounded little more than a murmur.