It seemed a rare magic—something beyond, even, the auguries the oracle had taught her to see.

“Will you teach me?” she said at last.

“Teach you what?”

“This.” Alba pointed. “To use the reed. To make those shapes. To know how to see the words those shapes hold.”

The boy shook his head. “This is a duty for the priests.”

“If you taught me… and if you brought me these parchments to copy, to practice… I would not go to the pool. Any night. And then you can still become the one who prepares the meals.”

As he considered, the boy put the end of the reed to his mouth, and a dark smudge bloomed over his lower lip. “You would not come here again?”

“No. I would come to the mouth of the cave only. Where you sit as guard. You could teach me there.”

“And if the priests discover you?”

“I will take the blame.”

The boy, lips now thoroughly stained, hesitated.

“I promise,” Alba said. “Promise.”

The boy nodded.

XV

THE WAY A BEAR LICKS HER CUBS INTO SHAPE

As Rae grew older, though still all wild golden light and green meadow, though still barefoot, running, full of the warmth of the soil, full of song and sunlight, she became more and more the devoted child of shepherds. She sent the flocks to graze in the mornings before Mop had stirred from his bed; she whistled them into their shelter in the evenings before Nessa thought to remind her. She knew how to wrap a lamb’s wound with comfrey leaves; she knew how to prepare a balm from chamomile flowers she had gathered and dried. She could trim a persnickety ewe’s overgrown hoof, or calm an unruly ram when it came time to shear his unrulier winter wool. She could wash and pick a fleece full of burrs and seeds and stems entirely clean. She could boil the milk and drain the whey and press the cheese into molds to age.

Afternoons, when she helped Mop prod the flock to ungrazed tracts, she would lie in the tall grass, arms spread wide, watching the clouds scud overhead. The grass, heavy with seed, would bend over her, and enfolded in the green and gold stems, she would listen to the world shushing around her—the wind sweeping through the meadow, the sheep tearing up great mouthfuls of field, the wood larks cheery-ing in the distant trees. Nearby, leaning on his staff, Mop would sing small snatches of songs to the flock milling around him.

“Here spring is shining; here the rushing streams

overspill with vines and varicolored blooms.…

Here spring grows bright and here the tumbling brooks

spill out their banks with many-colored blooms.…

Here spring is gleaming; here the riverbanks

overflow with vines and many-colored blooms.…”

For Rae, the sound of Mop singing sounded as much a part of the hills and fields as the stream gurgling past or the leaves rustling in the trees, though the songs were never themselves familiar. Unlike the comforting melodies that lullabied her to sleep every night, these meadow songs changed with every singing.