The morning of Winter Blood arrived—the longest night and the shortest day of the year—and Lilia rose from her pallet well before dawn.
Yawning, her eyes still half-closed, she pulled on her clothes and stumbled into the kitchen. There was so much to do today the thought of it was starting to make her feel panicky. After the Guising at dusk, folk would converge on the inn for a night of feasting, drinking and singing. She had a mountain of food to prepare.
Lilia’s first week at The Grey Anchor had passed in a blur of industry. Every morning, she rose before the dawn and spent hours preparing the kitchen before the rest of the inn awoke. It was a busier establishment than she had expected, with most of its twenty rooms taken up every night. Lilia had to have fresh bread, porridge and warm milk ready for their breakfast, before she started work on preparing the noon meal—the largest meal of the day—usually consisting of stew, roast meat or pies.
It hadn’t taken Lilia long to feel out of her depth in her new job.
She was a good cook, having learned from her mother, but the relentless pace of a busy inn exhausted and harried her. She constantly felt as if she was running behind schedule, always scrambling to finish things at the last possible moment.
The past week had given her new respect for her predecessor, Bruina. How had she coped with the pressure for so many years?
Rolling up her sleeves, Lilia began her morning ritual of scrubbing down the work surfaces. She couldn’t start work until the kitchen shone. As she worked, she noticed the state of her hands; they were becoming red and chapped. She would need to ask Neasa for some balm or she’d end up with crone’s hands by the end of the winter.
If I last that long.
Lilia inhaled deeply, pausing in her scrubbing as she blinked back tears. She couldn’t go home, not yet. She couldn’t prove her mother right. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in that small-minded village, surrounded by folk who’d never understood her. Lilia’s new job was hard, but she would find a way to cope—she had to.
Later that morning, she was beating batter for the Moon Cakes—orange-scented sweet-treats for the evening’s feast—when Dain entered the kitchen.
Lilia tensed at the sight of him. She saw far too much of Dain, even though she chased him out of her kitchen whenever he loitered too long. He looked rumpled and sleepy this morning. The bruises on his face were fading, and his nose had started to heal. He was attractive, even with a battered face.
“Morning, Lily,” he greeted her with a smile. “Getting ready for Winter Blood, I see.”
She nodded curtly, fixing her attention on the mixing bowl. His easy, familiar manner unsettled her. His relentless teasing brought back memories she wanted to leave buried. “I’m not sure I’m going to get everything done,” she admitted. “Neasa says we’re fully booked tonight.”
“We always are at Winter Blood.” Dain pulled up a stool on the other side of the bench and helped himself to one of the fresh currant buns she’d just pulled out of the oven. She felt his gaze on her face, inspecting her. “You look tired—you shouldn’t get up so early, there’s no need.”
She glanced up, irritated, expecting to see a teasing smile. Instead, his expression was thoughtful, concerned even.
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
“You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. If you don’t slow down, you’ll collapse.”
Lilia gave him a look that told him it was none of his business, and Dain held up a hand as if to ward her off. “Don’t worry—you won’t have to do everything on your own,” he said with a grin, taking a bite of the bun. “Ma’s sent me in to help you today.”
Lilia’s chest tightened at this news. The last thing she needed was Dain getting underfoot, teasing her and messing up her clean kitchen. Her coldness didn’t seem to have any effect on him. She found him wearing.
“There’s no need,” she said quickly. “I can manage.”
“Sorry,” he said with another infuriating smile. “It’s Ma’s orders—I daren’t disobey her.”
Frost lay thick upon the ground as the folk of Port Needle emptied out onto its streets for the Guising.
Wrapped in a thick fur mantle, Lilia wandered amongst the crowd and made her way down to Port Square. Her breath steamed before her in the gloaming; the tips of her ears were numb. The sky was darkening and the moon was already rising overhead—a ghostly disc against an indigo sky.
Lilia was rarely outdoors at this hour. She liked to be safe inside, next to a glowing hearth by the time night fell. Winter Blood was one of the few days she braved the evening.
Four young girls dressed as white-clad sprites, antlers sewn on to their hoods, ran by squealing. The tattered cloaks around their shoulders flapped behind them. Lilia smiled, watching the girls run on ahead.
She continued down Harbor Way, past stone houses with roofs of slate, their shuttered windows bolted shut against the cold. The setting sun warmed the ochre stone, turning it the color of honey. Wood-smoke perfumed the chill air and blended with the brine-scent of the sea.
Lilia spied the glow of lanterns up ahead—she had almost reached her destination. The boom of drums greeted her as she stepped out onto Port Square and into a swirling crowd. Some folk, like her, had come without a costume, although most had made an effort for the Guising. A caped woman, clad head-to-toe in voluminous black—to resemble a shadow—brushed by Lilia.
A few feet away, a man dressed as a Nightgenga leered at her. Naked, save for a loin cloth to preserve his modesty, he wore white body paint and a bedraggled-looking wig that hung in lank strands over his face. The night was chill, but he didn’t appear to notice.
Lilia suppressed a shudder at the sight of him. She knew he was merely parodying a shadow creature, yet the guised man brought back another unwelcome memory from her childhood.
Alone in a dark forest. Tied to a tree.
Whimpering as something snuffled in the undergrowth—something that had smelled her fear.
The Nightgenga lunged toward her and made a grab for her arm. “Come on, lass—how about a dance?”
Lilia dodged out of reach, heart pounding. “No thank you.”
The excited crowd jostled her; revelers packed the wide square before the quay. During the day, a market presided over this open space, but this evening Port Square was the site of dancing and music.
Men dressed as black-pelted wolves sat near the water, pounding on calf-skin drums, while folk danced around the Altar of Umbra in the center of the square, leaping and clapping in time with the drums.
Lilia paused, a still figure amongst the swirling crowd, and watched the revelers. The costumes in Port Needle were far more impressive than in her village. Some of them were so realistic that Lilia felt the back of her neck prickle. She wouldn’t like to meet any of them in daylight, let alone on a dark night.
Her gaze shifted to the altar. She’d heard it said that every settlement, no matter how small, upon the Isle of Orin and within the Four Kingdoms of Serran beyond, had an Altar of Umbra. Shingle Ford’s altar loomed over its market square. Here too, the towering obsidian obelisk with ancient runes carved into its gleaming sides cast a long shadow. The altar was a reminder of darker times, of five-hundred years earlier when Valgarth The Shadow King had ruled Serran. In those days, folk made regular sacrifices to him. They left criminals, the old and the sick tied to the altar at night to keep his servants—creatures of his making that stalked the night—at bay.
Things were different these days. Winter Blood was a night of fun and feasting. Still the obelisk, its black smooth-surfaced bulk out of place amongst the yellow-hued stone of Port Needle, made Lilia feel uneasy.
After the fall of The Shadow King, folk had tried to pull the altars down, but had discovered them rooted to the earth. Since then, many believed that to try and harm the obelisks would bring doom upon them. Meanwhile, Valgarth’s shadow creatures—on which the Winter Blood costumes were based—were sometimes spotted in remote woodland, but caused few problems these days.
Weaving her way through the dancers, Lilia removed the cloth bag she carried from her shoulder and approached the altar. Folk had already started laying out offerings: jugs of mead, breads, cheeses and flagons of apple brandy. Next to these, Lilia placed seven Moon Cakes. This was her contribution to Winter Blood, a tradition she had brought from home. Her mother made the best Moon Cakes; this was her recipe.
In the center of the square, the Nightgenga howled and rushed, hands grasping, at two girls who had dressed up as pricked-eared brownies. They ran squealing while the crowd roared with laughter.
Lilia didn’t share their merriment; she’d never liked this aspect of Winter Blood. She didn’t think it was wise to poke fun at creatures that still stalked the woods and quiet places of the isle.
Shivering, Lilia pulled her mantle close about her and turned away from the Altar of Umbra. It was time to go.
An excited crowd piled into The Grey Anchor. Lilia entered the inn to find men and women shrugging off heavy cloaks and warming their hands before the roaring hearth, their faces flushed with cold. Neasa had decorated the common room, hanging sprigs of holly and ivy from the smoke-blackened beams. The scent of clove candles hung heavily in the air. Ailin welcomed patrons into his inn, and then took orders for mulled cider, ale and supper.
Inside the kitchen, Lilia shrugged off her fur mantle and hung it up on its hook by the scullery door. The aroma of mutton pies she and Dain had finished baking earlier lay heavy in the air. Pots, platters and baskets of food covered every work surface. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to see all of it waiting for her. With Dain’s help, she’d managed to get everything done.
Lilia rolled up her sleeves and put on her apron—she had cider to mull. Dain entered the kitchen after her, greeting Lilia cheerfully before disappearing into the cellar to fetch another barrel of cider.
Meanwhile, Lilia set to heating honey and spices in a huge cast-iron pot.
Then, in the common room beyond, a woman began singing. Her voice, deep and sultry, echoed across the inn. The song was familiar, but the beauty of her voice caused the fine hair on Lilia’s arms to prickle. Abandoning her pot, she crossed to the kitchen door and peered out.
A woman stood upon a podium in the far corner of the common room. Tall, with proud bearing, the scop wasn’t dressed like a local woman—in layers of skirts and a fitted bodice—but in a long belted tunic, leggings, and leather hunting boots that molded to her calves. On her hands she wore leather, fingerless gloves; and her thick blonde hair was unbound, falling over her broad shoulders in untamed waves.
She looked around a decade older than Lilia—in her early thirties—her strong features composed as she sang.
On Winter Blood
The mist does flood
In from the silent sea
Folk all meet
While shadows creep
Yet, not a soul does flee.
The Gods look down
Upon the darkening town
In wait for gifts we bestow
Please them we must
Or we shall lose their trust
And into the darkness we’ll go.
The woman’s voice died away, and Lilia exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath during the song. Around her, the feasters applauded, their cheers and clapping deafening in the confined space.
“Quite a voice, isn’t it?”
Lilia started as she realized Dain was standing at her side. She had been so entranced by the singing she had not even noticed he was there.
She nodded, her gaze returning to where the scop was taking a deep draft from her tankard. She’d never seen a woman like her. She exuded the kind of confidence Lilia had always lacked.