Nessa was ill at ease, and took to spending more and more of her time in the women’s place. It was safe here. Here, between the folds of the land, close by the tower in the earth, sweet water welled from the ground, and low bushes grew to fringe the edges of the pool it made. In spring, primrose and celandine brightened the grassy banks; in summer the air was alive with the calls of meadow birds, and in the distance was the great soothing music of the sea. Here Nessa could carry out her work in peace. There were divinations to be performed and signs to be read. There were the times of trance, when one might hear tales. These tales were maps and warnings, lore and guidance. What they told was past and future, the way of the Folk. When the women gathered for the earth feast, at the time when the year turned dark, Rona would tell them of what she had heard, and what the season to come might hold for them. When Rona was gone, this task would be Nessa’s.

In the sanctuary of the women’s place, she could make the patterns: smooth pebbles, tiny bones, feathers and shells laid out on the smooth-raked earth by the spring. She could chant invocations and sing songs and whisper secrets with only the wild creatures of the island to hear her. There was Rona, of course, but Rona often seemed less a woman than part of the fabric of the place itself. She was increasingly silent these days, not teaching in words or demonstrations, simply sitting, blotched hands folded in her lap, watching and listening as Nessa did what must be done to keep the Light Isles whole and the Folk safe and wise. And when Nessa told her she was worried, for since the men had come from the snow lands there was a shadow on the moon, a darkness in the water, a wrongness in the sigh of the west wind, Rona simply nodded, as if she understood all too well, but there was nothing she could do about it. That made Nessa still more anxious, and she began to fear returning home lest some ill news await her. But Rona would not let her stay in the women’s place for good, not yet.

“You’re not ready,” she said. “You’re younger than you think, child. Go on, go home. They still need you there, and I can wait. I’m not so old yet.” And, as if to belie her own words, she smiled, awaking myriad wrinkles in her ancient, wise-eyed face.