A twig cracked and leaves rustled behind him in the darkness, and John paused. Someone was following him. The back of his neck prickled with the sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. He slowly turned and scanned the dark wood behind him, but the trees and the underbrush lay in deep and silent shadows. Anyone—or anything—could be hiding there. The night birds had gone quiet.

John’s hand tightened on his bow. “Come out, show yourself,” he called. Still nothing moved, but he was sure there was someone there, in a subtle patch of shadow that was somehow darker than the rest, heavier.

With a frown, he started walking toward the spot.

* * *

Gillian winced as the stick broke under the heel of her boot. She saw John stop, turn his head to listen, and she stood still and held her breath. She heard his command, but didn’t move. What would she say if he caught her? How could she explain following him, watching him? She froze, hoping her black cloak would hide her, praying to be truly invisible.

But he began to walk straight toward her, was a dozen steps away, and her throat closed.

Then something moved behind her.

“’Tis only me, English John.” Gillian caught her breath as an old woman stepped out from the cover of the trees close to her, walked past Gillian, and stood in front of her hiding place. Her hair was silver against the shadows, lit by the faint moonlight that filtered through the trees. Clothing as dark as Gillian’s own hid her form. She didn’t look in Gillian’s direction, though she must have known she was there.

She saw John relax and lower his bow. “Moire. What are you doing out in the dark?”

The old woman cocked her head. “Same as ye. Hunting. But I’m hunting plants and roots and things that can only be gathered by night.”

John chuckled. “Do I dare ask what for?”

“You might—but I doubt ye’d like the answer,” Moire replied tartly.

“Do you need any assistance?” John asked.

She drew the basket she carried closer to her chest and covered it with a fold of her plaid. “Not from ye, English John. Go hunt in another part of the wood. These plants are rare, and if ye trample them, I’ll have to wait another seven years till they’re ready to harvest again.”

Gillian hoped that she wasn’t standing on whatever the old woman was gathering. Still, she didn’t move. She hoped John would leave, and she could slip away without him ever knowing she was there.

John turned to go with another chuckle. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight, Moire o’ the Spring, and leave you to your secret task.”

The old woman waited until he’d disappeared and his footfalls had faded to silence.

“Ye can come out. Your secret’s safe with me,” the old woman said. She turned toward Gillian’s hiding place.

“My—secret?” Gillian said.

“Ye were following English John.”

Gillian held up her bow. “Nay—I was hunting,” she said, sounding breathless. “I do hope I haven’t stepped on the plants.”

“What plants?” the old woman asked, cocking her head.

“The rare ones you were gathering.”

The old woman cackled. “I’m a midwife. I was on my way home after helping a village lass birth her babe. You’re the only flower I was seeking. I saw ye come into the wood, and I was curious.”

“Curious?”

“Aye. You’re Fia’s wee sister. And he’s—” She shrugged.

Gillian raised her chin. “I saw him hunting last night. I was curious, too.”

“Were ye now?” The midwife’s voice was full of amusement. “Then ye know he helps where he can, keeps it to himself. Will ye tell?”

“No.” Gillian shifted. “Is it safe to move? I won’t crush any plants?”

“Ye might, but you’re standing in naught but a patch of honeysuckle, and that’s best gathered at night.”

“For a spell?” Gillian asked.

The old woman chuckled. “For a child in the village with a cough. Steep the leaves and flowers with honey. Your sister would know that. She knows plants and their healing powers almost as well as I do myself.”

“Oh.” Gillian felt a trifle foolish.

“I’m a midwife, lass, not a witch. Ye’ve no cause to fear me. There’s magic in all living things, power that can harm or heal. It must be respected, treated with care,” Moire said more gently and began to cut the plant. The sweet scent of flowers filled the air.

She found Gillian’s hand in the dark, pressed a sprig of blossoms into it, and folded her fingers over it. The scent was heady, cloying.

“They say that if ye take honeysuckle blossoms into your house, ye’ll wed within a year. It will draw true love to ye. Do ye want that?”

Gillian took a breath. Yes. Oh, yes. “You’re the second person today to tell me I’ll wed within the year.”

“Does that please ye?” Moire asked.

Gillian didn’t answer. Instead, she looked down the path that John had taken, but there was no gleam of blond hair, no sound of footsteps.

The old midwife laughed at her silence. “’Tis no matter. The goddess knows, even if ye don’t.”

She shooed Gillian away. “Ye’d best go in where it’s safe.”

And Gillian went, hurrying down the path with her heart still beating fast, and a sudden longing for the safety of her bed.