Mam clutched the sachet to her chest. “Just send word when you’d like her. And I’ll come again soon.” As Mam turned to leave, I pressed myself flat against the tree and held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t look beyond the path.
The swish of her skirt and the soft padding of her bare feet grew closer, then faded as she made her way down the hill.
Morag shuffled back to her cottage. I rushed to the door, but she had already shut it, so I pounded on the wood. “Morag, we need to speak!” I banged again, this time for the sheer satisfaction of rattling her wall. “It’s about Fynn, and …” I hesitated, but there wasn’t time to waste with the fossegrim still on the loose and perhaps more monsters near our shore. “I know what really happened to your foot!”
The door whined as it swung inward, and Morag reappeared, blinking at me. “All right then. No need to bust down the door. You’ve come to ask me more questions about monsters, then?” She shook her head. “There’s no stopping you, I see that now.”
I opened my mouth, searching for a way to put all my troubles into words. Fynn. The fossegrim. The serpent. The tale of Morag’s foot being caught in a hunter’s trap was rubbish, and I wanted to hear the true story from her lips. I’d had my fill of being lied to.
Morag’s gaze slid past me, searching the trees. “You look like you’ve seen one of the Little Fellas. Have you …?”
My lip trembled, and within seconds, Morag’s face became a blur. “Fynn—our house guest—he’s a glashtyn. He showed me.” I mopped my wet cheeks with my sleeve. “We had a terrible fight.”
Rubbing her temples, Morag studied me for a long moment before speaking again. “And he didn’t try to drown you?”
I shook my head.
Morag swayed, and I wrinkled my nose. Mam was right. The old woman did smell of whiskey. “Hmm. It’s in a glashtyn’s nature to drown girls. But I’ve heard of stranger things than a creature being put off its supper.”
“He cares for me. He wouldn’t hurt me.” The words left my lips with the swiftness of conviction, though I wasn’t sure I believed them. I wanted Morag to tell me I was right, that it was possible for glashtyns to love human girls instead of drowning them.
But she merely arched her brows. On someone else’s face, the expression would have been comical, but her eyes were too unnerving to make me laugh. “Seems to me he already has. Hurting is what true loves do best.”
I thought of the things I’d shouted at Fynn, and tears again filled my eyes.
“Inside with you!” Morag snapped, drawing me from my muddled thoughts. “If you carry on watering the ground like that, I’ll have weeds cropping up all over the yard. And then you’ll have to pull them.”
Caught between another sob and a bubble of laughter, I hiccupped. “No, thank you. But I know your foot wasn’t stuck in a hunter’s trap, and we have much to discuss about monsters. As you said, there’s no stopping me.” I attempted a grin.
“If you want to hear about my foot, come inside. I have a tea to calm your nerves.” Morag stepped aside, gesturing to the dim interior of the cottage. “You don’t want to confront the boy while you’ve got a face like a boiled lobster.”
“Excuse me?” I rubbed my cheeks.
“You heard me, lobster-girl. Come in. If he cares a whit about you, he won’t have gone anywhere.”
I didn’t want to admit she had a point, so I followed her inside.
She puttered around, clinking dirty dishes as she searched for mugs. I looked about, hoping to see what Morag had done with Mam’s painting. Either stacks of tattered cloth and old furniture had swallowed it, or it was gone. “Where’s the gift I brought you? The awful painting from Mam.”
“I burned it.”
“Oh. I can’t say I blame you.” It seemed a shame to have burned Mam’s work, but I knew Morag’s reasons.
She frowned as she poured our tea, splashing something deep amber into hers. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a generous splash of the amber liquid to mine as well. “There you are.” She pushed a mug toward me, then took a deep drink from hers. “I never thought I’d have to tell this story again.”
There was a hollow ring to her voice, and for the first time I noticed the purple smudges under her eyes. “Take your time,” I said softly.
Morag frowned but launched into her story. “When I was a girl, perhaps a year or two older than you are now, I went to catch fish for supper. The sky had been dark all day, so I thought the storm would continue to hold off, but I was wrong.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “The rain started. I made for shore, but a giant serpent reared out of the sea. It sank its teeth into my leg and tried to drag me from my boat, but I had a spear—”
“And you jabbed the serpent in the eye,” I finished.
It was exactly as Mam had painted it.
Morag’s face paled. “Tell me how you know that.” Her voice came out a whisper. “Oh, of course. Your mother. She didn’t mention that particular dream to me.”
“It was her newest painting.” I gazed into my steaming mug, picturing the fear in the younger Morag’s light eyes. They looked much the same now.