“Tubers,” she’d said, and he’d turned away, moving on to the next girl.

But she had continued. Why? Why could she not have stayed silent? “The tubers that grow under the trees. The oaks in the forest. You dug them yourself. This morning. You saw where the boar had been sniffing, and you dug them with your own hands. Little white roots, like this”—she made a circle with her fingers—“and you gave them to your servant. He’s roasting them now,” she had guessed, thinking it was all they could do, this traveling band of priests, “on a spit over a fire. And he’ll serve them,” she had continued, noting the purple stains at the corners of his mouth that lengthened his frown, “with wine.”

The head priest had turned back, towering over her. “Not tubers,” he’d said slowly, though his eyes were wide.

Alba had shrugged and lifted her chin. “Like rutabagas. But smaller. And nutty. They grow under the oaks. We eat them in stew.”

The priests had huddled, a murmuring circle, their words—ignorant, future, girl, goatherds, simpletons, vocabulary, truffle, rutabaga, rutabaga, truffle, ill educated—floating out from time to time. Finally, they had unhuddled, and the head priest had sunk his thick fingers around Alba’s spindly shoulders and announced, “This is the girl of whom the oracle has foretold. She sees things beyond her eyes. She will be the oracle’s apprentice.”

Why had her family not stopped them? The priests took her away. No one had protested. Her father a bit, perhaps: “My girl, my pip!” he had cried. Her mother had clung tight to his arm: “It is a good life! She’ll know no hunger. She’ll need no husband. Let her go! It is a better life than we could give. And the priests have said it is to be so. A good life!”

Alba opened her eyes. A good life. She glanced at the priest behind her. He was still hemming and shuffling his disapproval, but he would say nothing directly to her now. She was under the supervision of the oracle.

The oracle had nearly reached her. She was climbing with the aid of a staff, neither fatigued nor breathless. She seemed at once impossibly ancient—near a thousand years, Alba guessed—and improbably young. With the sun behind her, the old woman’s white hair was a wreath of light, her bones shadows in the glowing tunic. Alba sometimes thought the oracle was little but light and bones, so small and old and shriveled—and yet so indefatigable—was she.

When she reached Alba, the oracle paused. “Did you note the augury, Apprentice?” She gestured at the sky.

Alba shook her head. “Not in time, Oracle. I saw the bird’s form too late.”

“Ah. Well.” The oracle’s mouth crinkled with disappointment. “We shall have a busy day.”

When were their days not busy? Alba wondered. All day, every day. Oracle, is this the man I’m meant to marry? Will this enterprise bring me gold? Will we have four children? Ten? How many will be our grandchildren? Should this be my trade? Should I seek revenge? “Oh?”