“No,” he says immediately. But then he adds, “Why? Should I be nervous?”
“Of course you should. She’s a witch, Samson.”
His face blanches. “She’s not gonna to turn me into a newt, is she?”
I shrug.
Samson yanks on the reins, his horse snorting in protest. “Alyth.”
I laugh at him, which lights up his eyes. “She’s a good sort of a witch.”
“So she won’t turn me into a newt.”
“I never said that. Just be respectful. Mind what you say, how you say it.”
“I’m not just out here blithering, you know,” Samson grumbles.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Might I remind you of how close the Green Lady came to killing you?”
“She did not,” Samson protests. “She found me a delight.”
“She found you annoying, and glaistigs tend to cut out the entrails of anyone they find annoying.”
“I’m assuming that’s after she waters the trees with my blood?” he says casually.
“Naturally.”
Samson makes a harrumphing sound in the back of his throat. “None of the fairy tales I’ve read have prepared me for how viciously bloodthirsty you lot are.”
I snort. “You’ve been reading the wrong fairy tales. Besides,” I add,“you’ve not even been north yet. If you think this area is wild, wait until you go to the Highlands.”
Why did I say that? I’ll not be taking him into the Highlands. He’s English; he can’t wait to have his curse lifted and then leave this tangled Scottish mess, no?
But he’s got an easy smile plastered on his face, like we’re planning a holiday together.
Nearby, a flash of red catches my eye. A robin.Danger.
The road takes us right through Kippen, and I buy some apples and cheese from a housewife. Our horses stroll through the little town, and then I lead us north.
The land here is flat, with icy puddles scattered around clumps of cotton grass. The red spiky leaves of the plant look dead now in winter, but in spring, they’ll change to green with tufts of fluffy white flowers. Bog cotton, my grandmother called it, and she told me stories of hares who left their tails in the grass.
The plants are also a sure sign we need to get off the horses.
I dismount and show Samson how to hobble his horse with rope. Lights glimmer in the shadows, but Samson doesn’t notice them.
Yet.
“So where’s your witch?” Samson asks. “Do we need to…summon her somehow?”
I snort. “She’ll be along.”
He looks surprised. “She knows we’re coming?”
“She’ll know now that we’re here.”
“And when will she—”
I shake my head. He still doesn’t understand. “She’ll arrive when she’s ready.” She’s not fae, but she is enough like the Seelie Court to not consider anything urgent unless she deems it so. “We may as well settle in.”
