She thought her mother would be proud of the way she peeled, chopped, mixed. And though Mallick balked at first about using his wine in the stew, Fallon stood firm.

While she set about making egg noodles—something she’d never done on her own—he told her to write down what she needed to build the hive.

“The bees actually build the hive. We build the bee box.” She wiped her hands, took the pencil and paper he offered. “It’s going to take some scavenging.”

“Just write what’s needed. I have a way.”

Interested, she looked up. “Magickal?”

“Not precisely. When you’re done, come upstairs. We’ll begin.”

He began by testing her basic knowledge and skills. Lighting candles, levitating small objects, mixing potions, performing what she thought of as kitchen spells.

Baby stuff to her mind.

Then he started testing her on rituals and deities and symbolism and sabbots.

His opinion of her knowledge was a head shake, a sigh. And a stack of books he pushed into her hands with the order to: Read and learn.

Still, she felt smug when the rain came, as she’d predicted, well before nightfall. And the stew she served over egg noodles was better than okay.

She hoped the next day involved sword practice and the hunt for the golden apple, which would be a lot more fun than cooking and making sleep potions and balms for burns.

She read in her room by the light of an oil lamp until mind and body gave way to fatigue.

At first light she took it upon herself to tend to the horses. When she stepped out she found a package wrapped in brown paper and twine at the front door. Scanning the woods for any movement, she picked it up.

She carried it back inside, set it on the table. Considered. It would be for Mallick, but … it didn’t have his name on it, did it? And she lived here, too. At least for a week.

Justified, she pulled the twine, pulled back the paper.

A round of cheese, she noted, and sniffed it. A sack of flour, another smaller one of salt, and a corked bottle she assumed was wine.

Mallick came out of his room as she studied them.

“Somebody left this at the door.”

“Ah.” He looked at the supplies. “We’re grateful.”

“Who left it? Why?”

“Others live in and around these woods. They’re also grateful, and pay tribute. They know The One has come.”

“Why wouldn’t they knock?”

“They have no need, as yet. Have you fed the horses?”

“No, I was just—”

“See to that. The animals need to be fed before we break our fast.”

Rather than swords, Fallon spent most of her morning with books. She liked books, but with the woods so bright and clean from the rain, she’d rather have spent the morning outside learning to fight with a sword.

Still, she liked reading about the gods, the heroism, the betrayals, the battles, and the triumphs, even the romances.

He criticized her lack of knowledge and understanding of the spirituality of the Craft, its rituals.

She bristled. “We had to put food on the table, help our neighbors. My mother taught us what she could, what she knew.”

“And did well with what she knew. Did well with what she came to know. You must know more. You’ll take what your mother taught you, what I teach you, and what you come to know that’s already in you waiting.”

He paced the workshop in his soft boots as he spoke, then stopped, pointed one of his long fingers.

“Here’s a lesson, Fallon. Your spirit is yours as mine is mine. What you feel and know are yours and will never be a mirror exact of another’s. But respect for the spirit and the light, understanding of the dark, must be. And that’s shown in the tradition of ritual, in its words, its symbols, its tributes.

“Your power doesn’t come from a void, girl. There is a source for the light, for all we are, for the air we breathe, the earth we stand on. Life is a gift, even to a blade of grass, and must be honored. We have been given more, and must honor the gift and the giver.”

“When we tend the earth and what it grows, the animals, each other, aren’t we honoring?”

“Yes, but more is expected of some than to live an honorable life. Even a simple act can be a symbol. If I offer you my hand, and you take it, it’s more than a greeting. It’s a gesture of trust, perhaps agreement. My right hand to yours. The hands that hold the sword clasped together in that gesture of trust.”

She studied his hand—long like his fingers, and narrow of palm. Then looked up at his face. “Some people are left-handed.”

He had to smile, had to nod. “So they are. And there are those who would offer the gesture but not honor its symbol, in whichever hand they hold a sword. So you must learn to judge who to trust. And that is another lesson.”

He walked to a shelf, selected a crystal. “What is this?” he asked as he set it in front of her.

“It’s … ah … bloodstone.” She searched her mind. “It’s used in healing spells.”

“Even before my time soldiers would carry a bloodstone into battle to stop the bleeding from wounds.”

“If that’s all it took, there wouldn’t be so many dead soldiers.”

“Your pragmatism is warranted. It takes more than a stone, even a powerful one, and faith to heal. But a ritualized stone, or one used in ritual, one blessed and used in a spell or potion, may heal. That, too, takes faith as well as knowledge and skill.”

“My mother’s a healer.”

“She has that gift.”

“She … yeah, powdered bloodstone mixed with honey and, um, egg whites and rosemary oil.”

“Good. The stones are gifts and tools. You must learn how to clean them, charge them, use them. Take from what you see here, make a charm for a restful night, another for a clear mind, and a third for calming a jealous heart. Then you can do as you like until dusk.”

He turned toward the steps. “Don’t leave the wood,” he added. “Don’t wander far, and be back at dusk. No later.”

She poked around the room a bit. The charms he’d assigned were basic, hardly a challenge, but she wanted to do them perfectly—so to invite a challenge the next time. And she preferred making pouches.

She checked in one of the cupboards beside the fire, found cloth, ribbon, cord, chose what she wanted.

She moved to the other cupboard, and found it locked.

And thought that very interesting.

She lifted a hand—opening a lock wasn’t a challenge for her, either—then dropped it again. She’d been raised better. Maybe she could regret that at the moment, faced with a fascinating locked door, but it was simple fact.

Mallick was entitled to his privacy, just as she was.

So, some dried herbs from the jars. Anise, chamomile, lavender, cypress. And bits of crystals. Azurite, aquamarine, citrine, tiger’s-eye. Some black pepper, oil of bergamot, of rosemary.

She set out everything in three groups, wrote out simple spells for each on a length of white ribbon, and used a needle to carefully sew the cord through the material to form a pouch. She assembled each one, saying the words on the ribbon three times before adding the ribbon to the pouch, tying it three times.

When she took them downstairs, she didn’t see Mallick. Leaving them on the worktable, she got her jacket. Thrilled with the idea of freedom, of the hunt for the apple, she ran outside. She followed the stream for a while, but not the way they’d come, as she hadn’t seen an apple tree.

Still, it might not be an apple tree, she considered. That might be part of the trick.

She searched branches, spotted birds—sparrows, jays, cardinals, finches. A hawk’s nest, an owl’s roost. But no white bird.

She angled away from the stream into thicker trees. She saw tracks and scat of deer, bear, opossum. She saw signs of wild boar and told herself the next time she’d bring her bow. And Grace, she thought. Her horse would get bored after a few days in the stable.

She saw faeries out of the corners of her eyes, but they darted away when she turned. They would be shy yet, she decided, and needed time to get used to her. But she changed direction, following the bright glint of their light into deeper shadows where thick moss covering trees like coats turned those shadows soft, soft green.