‘Her, sir.’

  ‘Revel?’

  ‘Her. The mes­sen­ger is a girl, sir. Scarcely a wo­man, by the look of her. Of course, I have already offered her food and drink. I would not so neg­lect any­one who came to your door. Let alone one who seems to have come a long and weary way.’

  Mu­sic was play­ing and Molly was wait­ing. Bet­ter the mes­sen­ger wait than Molly. ‘Then of­fer her a room, and ask if she would like a hot bath drawn or a quiet meal alone be­fore we meet to­mor­row. Do your best to see she is com­fort­able, Revel, and I will give her as much of my time as she wishes to­mor­row.’

  ‘I shall, sir.’

  He turned to go back to the en­trance hall and I hastened to the Great Hall of Withy­woods. The two tall doors stood open, the golden oak planks gleam­ing in fire­light and candle­light. Mu­sic and the tap and slap of dan­cing feet spilled from into the pan­elled cor­ridor, but just as I drew near the mu­si­cians played the last re­frain and with a shout the first dance was over. I rolled my eyes at my ill luck.

  But as I stepped into the hall, breast­ing the wave of ap­plause for the min­strels, I saw that Molly’s dance part­ner was bow­ing gravely to her. My stepson had res­cued his mother and taken her to the floor. Young Hearth had been grow­ing like a weed for the past year. He was as darkly hand­some as his father Burrich had been, but his brow and smil­ing mouth were Molly’s. At sev­en­teen, he could look down at the top of his mother’s head. His cheeks were flushed with the lively dance and Molly did not look as if she had missed me even a tiny bit. As she looked up and her eyes met mine across the hall, she smiled. I blessed Hearth and re­solved that I would find a sub­stan­tial way to con­vey my thanks to him. Across the room, his older brother, Just, lounged against the hearth. Nettle and Riddle stood nearby; Nettle’s cheeks were pink and I knew he was teas­ing his older sis­ter, and Riddle was in on it.

  I made my way across the room to Molly, paus­ing of­ten to bow and re­turn greet­ings to our many guests who hailed me. Every rank and walk of life was re­flec­ted there. The gentry and minor no­bil­ity of our area, finely dressed in lace and linen trousers; Tinker John and the vil­lage seam­stress and a local cheese-maker were there as well. Their fest­ive gar­ments might be a bit more dated and some were well-worn, but they had been freshly brushed for the oc­ca­sion and the shin­ing holly crowns and sprigs that many wore were newly har­ves­ted. Molly had put out her best scen­ted candles, so the fra­grances of lav­ender and hon­ey­suckle filled the air even as the dan­cing flames painted the walls with gold and honey. Grand fires blazed in all three hearths, with spit­ted meats ten­ded by red-faced vil­lage lads em­ployed for the oc­ca­sion. Sev­eral maids were busy at the ale keg in the corner, top­ping mugs on the trays they would of­fer to the breath­less dan­cers when the mu­sic paused.

  At one end of the room, tables were laden with breads, apples and dishes of rais­ins and nuts, pastries and creams, plat­ters of smoked meats and fish, and many an­other dish I didn’t re­cog­nize. Drip­ping slices of fresh-cut meat from the roasts on the spits sup­plied all that any man could ask for, and ad­ded their rich fra­grance to the fest­ive air. Benches were filled with guests already en­joy­ing food and drink, for there was also beer and wine in plenty.

  At the other end of the room, the first set of min­strels were yield­ing the stage to the second. The floor had been strewn with sand for the dan­cers. Un­doubtedly it had been swept into el­eg­ant pat­terns when the guests first ar­rived, but it now showed the busy tread of the mer­ry­makers. I reached Molly’s side just as the mu­si­cians swept into their open­ing notes. This tune was as pens­ive as the first had been jolly, so as Molly seized my hand and led me to the dance floor, I was able to keep pos­ses­sion of both her hands and hear her voice through the melody. ‘You look very fine to­night, Holder Badger­lock.’ She drew me into line with the other men.

  I bowed gravely over our joined hands. ‘If you are pleased, then I am con­tent,’ I replied. I ig­nored the flap­ping of fab­ric against my calves as we turned, par­ted briefly and then clasped hands again. I caught a glimpse of Riddle and Nettle. Yes, Riddle wore the same sort of flap­ping trousers, in blue, and he held my daugh­ter not by her fin­ger­tips but by her hands. Nettle was smil­ing. When I glanced back at Molly, she was smil­ing, too. She had noted the dir­ec­tion of my glance.

  ‘Were we ever that young?’ she asked me.

  I shook my head. ‘I think not,’ I said. ‘Life was harsher for us when we were that age.’ I saw her cast her thoughts back through the years.

  ‘When I was Nettle’s age, I was already the mother of three chil­dren and car­ry­ing a fourth. And you were …’ She let the thought trail away and I did not speak. I had been liv­ing in a little cabin near Forge with my wolf. Was that the year I had taken in Hap? The orphan had been glad of a home, and Nighteyes had been glad of live­lier com­pany. I had thought my­self resigned, then, to los­ing her to Burrich. Nine­teen long years ago. I pushed the long shadow of those days aside. I stepped closer, put my hands to her waist, and lif­ted her as we turned. She set her hands to my shoulders, her mouth open­ing in sur­prise and de­light. Around us, the other dan­cers gawked briefly. As I put her back on her feet, I ob­served, ‘And that is why we should be young now.’

  ‘You, per­haps.’ Her cheeks were pink and she seemed a bit breath­less as we made an­other prom­en­ade and then turned, par­ted and then re­joined. Or al­most re­joined. No, I should have turned again and then … I’d hope­lessly muddled it, just as I’d been tak­ing great pride that I re­called every step from the last time we had danced this. The other dan­cers avoided me, part­ing to flow past me as if I were a stub­born rock in a creek. I spun in a circle, look­ing for Molly, and found her stand­ing be­hind me, her hands lif­ted in a use­less at­tempt to con­tain her laughter. I reached for her, in­tend­ing to in­sert us back into the dance, but she seized both my hands and pulled me from the floor, laugh­ing breath­lessly. I rolled my eyes and tried to apo­lo­gize but, ‘It’s all right, dear. A bit of rest and some­thing to drink would be wel­come. Hearth wore me out earlier with his pran­cing. I need a brief rest.’ She caught her breath sud­denly and swayed against me. Her brow glistened with per­spir­a­tion. She set her hand to the back of her neck and rubbed it as if to re­lieve a cramp.

  ‘And I the same,’ I lied to her. Her face was flushed and she smiled faintly at me as she pressed her hand to her breast as if to calm her flut­ter­ing heart. I smiled back at her and took her to her chair by the hearth. I had scarcely seated her be­fore a page was at my el­bow, of­fer­ing to bring her wine. She nod­ded and sent him scam­per­ing.

  ‘What was that, stitched all round his cap?’ I asked dis­trac­tedly.

  ‘Feath­ers. And locks of hair from horse tails.’ She was still breath­less.

  I looked askance at her.

  ‘It was Pa­tience’s fancy this year. All the boys she hired from Withy to act as pages for the hol­i­day are dressed so. Feath­ers to bid all our troubles take flight, and horse tail hairs, which is what we will show to our prob­lems as we flee them.’

  ‘I … see.’ My second lie of the even­ing.

  ‘Well, it’s good that you do, as I cer­tainly don’t. But every Win­ter­fest, it’s some­thing, isn’t it? Do you re­mem­ber the year that Pa­tience handed out green­wood staffs to every un­mar­ried man who came to the fest­ival? With the length based on her as­sess­ment of his mas­culin­ity?’

  I bit down on the laugh that threatened to es­cape. ‘I do. Ap­par­ently she thought the young ladies needed a clear in­dic­a­tion of which men would make the best mates.’

  Molly lif­ted her brows. ‘Per­haps they did. There were six wed­dings at Spring­fest that year.’

  My wife looked across the room. Pa­tience, my step­mother, was dressed in a grand old gown of pale blue vel­vet trimmed with black lace at the cuffs and throat. Her long grey hair had been braided and pinned to her heard in a cor­onet. She had a single sprig of holly in it, and sev­eral dozen bright blue feath­ers stuck in at all angles. A fan dangled from a brace­let at her wrist; it was blue to match her gown and feath­ers and also edged with stiffened black lace. She looked both lovely and ec­cent­ric to me, as she al­ways had. She was wag­ging a fin­ger at Molly’s young­est, warn­ing him about some­thing. Hearth stood straight, look­ing sol­emnly down at her, but his clasped fin­gers fid­geted be­hind his back. His brother Just stood at a dis­tance, con­ceal­ing his grin and wait­ing for him to be re­leased. I took pity on them both. Pa­tience seemed to think they were still ten and twelve, des­pite how they towered over her. Just was barely short of his twen­ti­eth birth­day, and Hearth was Molly’s young­est at sev­en­teen. Yet he stood like a scol­ded boy and tol­er­antly ac­cep­ted Pa­tience’s re­buke.

  ‘I want to let Lady Pa­tience know that more of her min­strels have ar­rived. I hope this is the last batch of them. Any more and I sus­pect they’ll be com­ing to blows over who gets to per­form and for how long.’ Any min­strels in­vited to per­form at Withy­woods were as­sured of meals and a warm place to sleep, and a small purse for their ef­forts. The rest of their re­wards were won from the guests, and of­ten the mu­si­cians who per­formed the most reaped the greatest gain. Three sets of mu­si­cians were more than ample for a Win­ter­fest at our hold­ing. Four would be a chal­lenge.

  Molly nod­ded. She lif­ted her hands to her rosy cheeks. ‘I think I’ll just sit here a bit longer. Oh, here’s the lad with my wine!’

  There was a lull in the mu­sic and I took the op­por­tun­ity to cross the dance floor quickly. Pa­tience saw me com­ing and first smiled and then scowled at me. By the time I reached her side, she had com­pletely for­got­ten Hearth and he had es­caped with his brother. She snapped her fan shut, poin­ted it at me and asked me ac­cus­ingly, ‘What has be­come of your leg­gings? Those skirts are flap­ping about your legs like a ship with storm-torn can­vas!’

  I looked down at them, and up at her. ‘The new style from Ja­mail­lia.’ As her dis­ap­proval deepened, I ad­ded, ‘Molly chose them.’

  Lady Pa­tience stared down at them as if per­haps I had a lit­ter of kit­tens con­cealed in them. Then she lif­ted her eyes to mine, smiled and said, ‘A lovely col­our. And I am sure she is pleased that you wore them.’

  ‘She is.’

  Pa­tience lif­ted her hand, I ex­ten­ded my arm, she placed her hand on my fore­arm and we began a slow per­am­bu­la­tion of the Great Hall. Folk par­ted for her, bow­ing and curt­sey­ing. Lady Pa­tience, for so she was this even­ing, gravely in­clined her head or warmly greeted or em­braced as each per­son mer­ited. I was con­tent simply to be her es­cort, to see her en­joy­ing her­self, and to en­deav­our to keep a straight face through her whispered asides about Lord Dur­den’s breath or her pity for how quickly Tinker Dan was los­ing his hair. Some of the older guests re­membered when she was not only the Lady of Withy­woods but wife to Prince Chiv­alry. In many ways, she still reigned here, for Nettle spent a good por­tion of her time at Buck­keep Castle as Skill­mis­tress to King Du­ti­ful, and Molly was con­tent to let Pa­tience have her way in most things.

  ‘There are times in a wo­man’s life when only the com­pany of other wo­men can suf­fice.’ Pa­tience had ex­plained to me when she had sum­mar­ily moved in with us at Withy­woods five years pre­vi­ously. ‘Girls need an older wo­man in the house as they be­come wo­men, to ex­plain those changes to them. And when that other change comes early to wo­men, es­pe­cially wo­men who hoped to bear more chil­dren, it is good to have the guid­ance of a wo­man who has also known that dis­ap­point­ment. Men are simply not help­ful at this time.’ And while I had known trep­id­a­tion about the ar­range­ment when Pa­tience first ar­rived with her bag­gage-train of an­im­als, seeds and plants, she had proven the wis­dom of her words. I knew it was rare for two wo­men to ex­ist so con­ten­tedly un­der one roof and blessed my good for­tune.

  When we reached her fa­vour­ite chair by the hearth, I de­pos­ited her there, fetched her a cup of mulled cider, and then con­fided to her, ‘The last of your mu­si­cians ar­rived just as I came down the stairs. I haven’t seen them come in yet, but I thought you’d want to know that they had ar­rived.’

  She raised her brows at me and then turned to peer the length of the room. The third set of mu­si­cians were mov­ing to take over the dais there. She looked back at me, ‘No, they’re all there. I was most care­ful in my se­lec­tion this year. For Win­ter­fest, I thought to my­self, we must have some warm-tempered folk to keep the chill away. And so, if you look, there is a red­head in every group that I’ve in­vited. There, see the wo­man warm­ing her voice? Look at that cas­cade of au­burn hair. Don’t tell me that she won’t warm this fest with her spirit alone.’ She did in­deed ap­pear to be a very warm-natured wo­man. She let the dan­cers rest by launch­ing into a long story song, more fit for listen­ing than dan­cing, sung in a rich and throaty voice. Her audi­ence, old and young, drew closer as she sang the old tale of the maiden se­duced by the Old Man of winter and car­ried off to his dis­tant ice fort­ress in the far south.

  All were rapt by the tale, and so it was that my eye caught the mo­tion as two men and a wo­man entered the hall. They looked around as if dazzled, and per­haps they were after their long hike through an even­ing of fall­ing snow. It was ob­vi­ous they had come on foot, for their rough leather trousers were soaked to the knee. Their garb was odd, as min­strels were wont to wear, but un­like any that I had ever seen. Their knee-boots were yel­low mottled brown from the wet, their leather trousers short, barely hanging past the tops of their boots. Their jack­ets were of the same leather, tanned to the same pale brown, with shirts of heavy-knit wool be­neath them. They looked un­com­fort­able, as if the wool were too snug a fit un­der the leath­ers. ‘There they are now,’ I told her.

  Pa­tience stared at them from across the room. ‘I did not hire them,’ she de­clared with an of­fen­ded sniff. ‘Look at that wo­man, pale as a ghost. There’s no heat to her at all. And the men are just as wintry, with hair the col­our of an ice-bear’s hide. Brr. They chill me just look­ing at them.’ Then the lines smoothed from her brow. ‘So. I shall not al­low them to sing to­night. But let’s in­vite them back for high sum­mer, when a chilly tale or a cool wind would be wel­come on a muggy even­ing.’

  But be­fore I could move to her bid­ding, I heard a roar of ‘Tom! There you are! So good to see you, old friend!’

  I turned with that mix­ture of ela­tion and dis­may that sur­prise vis­its from un­con­ven­tional and lov­ing friends stir in one. Web was cross­ing the room in long strides, with Swift but a step or two be­hind. I lif­ted my arms wide and went to greet them. The burly Wit­mas­ter had grown in girth these last few years. As al­ways, his cheeks were as red as if he had just stepped in from the wind. Molly’s son Swift was a couple of steps be­hind him, but as I watched, Nettle emerged from the crowd of guests and am­bushed her brother in a hug. He stopped to lift her and whirl her in a joy­ous circle. Then Web en­gulfed me in a spine-crack­ing hug, fol­lowed by sev­eral solid thumps to my back. ‘You’re look­ing well!’ he told me as I tried to catch my breath. ‘Al­most whole again, aren’t you? Ah, and my Lady Pa­tience!’ Hav­ing re­leased me from his ex­uber­ant greet­ing, he bowed grace­fully over the hand that Pa­tience ex­ten­ded to him. ‘Such a rich blue gown! You put me in mind of a jay’s bright feath­ers! But please tell me the feath­ers in your hair did not come from a live bird!’

  ‘Of course not!’ Pa­tience looked prop­erly hor­ri­fied at the thought. ‘I found him dead on the garden path last sum­mer. And I thought, now here is a time for me to see just what is be­neath those lovely blue feath­ers. But I saved his feath­ers, of course, pluck­ing them care­fully be­fore I boiled him down to bones. And then, of course, once I had dis­carded the jay broth, my task was be­fore me: to as­semble his little bones into a skel­eton. Did you know that a bird’s wing is as close to a man’s hand as is a frog’s flip­per? All those tiny bones! Well, doubt­less you know the task is some­where on my work­bench, half-done as are so many of my pro­jects. But yes­ter­day, when I was think­ing of feath­ers to take flight from our troubles, I re­membered that I had a whole box full! And luck­ily for me, the beetles had not found and eaten them down to the quill, as they did when I tried to save the gull feath­ers. Oh! Gull! Have I been thought­less? I beg par­don!’

  She had ob­vi­ously sud­denly re­called that he was bon­ded with a gull. But Web smiled at her kindly and said, ‘We of the Wit know that when life is done, what re­mains is empty. None, I think, know bet­ter than we do. We sense the pres­ence of all life, of course, with some burn­ing brighter than oth­ers. A plant is not as vi­tal in our senses as is a tree. And of course a deer out­shines both, and a bird most of all.’