Page 12 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana’s lips curled. “I place no faith in romance, brat. But respect, kindness—these are powerful qualities. Lasting ones.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. “They endure far longer than your romance, I promise you.”
Morgana sat on the stone bench before the rosemary bush, resting her feet on the soft carpet of woolly thyme beneath it.
She had shed her shoes, though it was so cold, and the thyme was sweet against her bare soles.
She lifted her face into the tepid rays of the setting sun, trying to shed the tension created by all she had heard that day.
She found some ease in spending the waning hours of the afternoon in the garden, even as the winter darkness came earlier and earlier, but still, the woes of the women who had come to her shadowed her mind.
When a black-and-yellow bee appeared from behind the rosemary to hover before her, she held herself very still. The creature landed on her arm, tickling her skin with delicate legs.
“You should not be out of your hive,” Morgana murmured. “It is winter, little sister.”
The creature buzzed quietly, wings fluttering.
“Ah,” Morgana said. “Thank you for reminding me. We cannot carry the weight of others’ sorrows. I will try to do better.” The bee buzzed once more, then lifted from her arm to fly a joyful loop around her head before disappearing behind the rosemary.
Morgana touched the sigil at her breast. It was true. It didn’t help the petitioners for her to share their suffering. In the tradition of the Temple, she must turn their pain over to the Lady, not hold it in her own heart.
When Braithe returned from delivering Oona’s charm, Morgana was about to tell her about the bee, but she noticed the bundle Braithe carried in her arms and the suspicious shine in her eyes. “Braithe, what is it? Surely you are not shedding tears for Oona.”
“No!” Braithe’s lips pressed tight as a sob rose in her throat.
Morgana saw that her bundle was made up of clothes and toiletries, the modest possessions of an acolyte.
She felt a swell of reluctance to hear another sad story, but she quelled it.
This was Braithe, after all, and she had made the child her responsibility.
She said, “Calm yourself, brat. Then tell me.”
Braithe’s snub nose had gone red, and Morgana reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. When it had done its job, and Braithe’s eyes had dried, Morgana said, “Now. What troubles you?”
Braithe rubbed at her nose one last time, then crumpled the handkerchief in her fingers.
“It’s Priestess Iffa. She says I have to go.
To leave the Temple. Leave the Isle!” Her voice thinned, but she sniffed back a fresh wave of tears, a little act of discipline Morgana approved of.
She herself was not given to tears, but she had not Braithe’s soft heart.
Her own heart, she thought, was more like the bogwood from which the chairs of the Nine had been carved: hard to dent, impossible to break.
She asked, “Why would Iffa say that?”
“She says I have no gifts, so I have to make room for someone who does. She took my things out of the cupboard—” With her chin, she indicated the bundle in her arms. “And she gave my pallet to someone else, and now I have nowhere to sleep.” Her voice threatened to break again.
“She said it’s my own fault, since I didn’t get on the boat that came! But where am I to go? What am I to do?”
“Of course you have somewhere to sleep,” Morgana said, her voice suddenly hard. “Indeed, right now you will go to my chamber with your things, while I find Priestess Iffa and set things straight.”
“But she’s the acolyte mistress, and she says I am no longer an acolyte.”
Morgana uncoiled her long form and stood up. “Tell me, brat,” she said. “Do you wish to remain an acolyte?”
Braithe, encumbered by her bundle, struggled to her feet.
“I wish I could. I know I’ll never be a priestess, but truly, most of us won’t.
I don’t mind about that, but—Priestess Morgana, I don’t want to leave the Temple.
I want to do what I’ve been doing these past months, assisting you.
Doing what you need done when you’re too busy to do it yourself. ”
“Well, then,” Morgana said. “That is what you shall do. If you are no longer an acolyte, then you will be my—my—I need a word.” She lifted one hand as if she could find it in the air.
Braithe clutched her bundle, thinking, then said, “‘Handmaid’ is a good word, isn’t it?”
“A very good word indeed. It will be your title. Handmaid.”
“Priestess Niamh won’t like it,” Braithe said.
“Niamh won’t do anything to endanger the tribute I bring in,” Morgana said.
“Oona was generous today, and Niamh knows that. And,” she added, “so does Iffa.” Braithe looked up at her with such trust in her freckled face that Morgana’s bogwood heart softened, just a bit.
“Tell me honestly now, brat. Would it please you to be my handmaid?”
Braithe’s smile was watery but joyous, the last of her tears disappearing in a surge of hope. “Nothing could please me more!”