LITMIR.BIZ

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to Sevenwaters. My home is here.’

      ‘You’re doing it again,’ said Darragh after a moment.

      ‘What?’

      ‘That thing you do when you’re angry. Your eyes start glowing, and little flashes of light go through your hair, like flames. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’

      ‘Well, then,’ I said, thinking I had better exercise more control over my feelings.

      ‘Well, what?’

      ‘Well, that just goes to show. That I’m not just a girl. So you can stop planning my future for me. I can plan it myself.’

      ‘Uh-huh.’ He did not ask me for details. We sat silent for a while, watching the gulls wheel above the returning curraghs. The sea was dark as slate; there would be a storm before dusk. After a while he started to tell me about the white pony he’d brought down from the hills, and how his dad would be wanting him to sell her for a good price at the horse fair, but Darragh wasn’t sure he could part with her, for there was a rare understanding growing between the two of them. By the time he’d finished telling me I was rapt with attention, and had quite forgotten I was cross with him.

      I was fourteen years old, and summer was nearly over. Father was pleased with me, I could see it in his eyes. The Glamour was tricky. It was possible to achieve some spectacular results. My father could turn himself into a different being entirely: a bright-eyed red fox, or a strange wraith-like creature most resembling an attenuated wisp of smoke. He gave me the words for this, but he would not allow me to attempt it. There was a danger in it, if used incautiously. The risk was that one might lack the necessary controls to reverse the spell. There was always the chance that one might never come back to oneself. Besides, Father told me, such a transformation caused a major drain on a sorcerer’s power. The further from one’s true self the semblance was, the more severe the resultant depletion. Say one became a ferocious sea-monster, or an eagle with razor-sharp talons, and then managed the return to oneself. For a while, after that, no exercise of the craft would be possible. It could be as long as a day and a night. During that time the sorcerer would be at his, or her, most vulnerable.

      So I was forbidden to try the major variants of the spell, which dealt with non-human forms. But the other, the more subtle changing, that I discovered a talent for. At first it was hard work, leaving me exhausted and shaken. But I applied myself, and in time I could slip the Glamour on and off in the twinkle of an eye. I learned to conceal my weariness.

      ‘You understand,’ said Father gravely, ‘that what you create is simply a deception of others’ eyes. If your disguise is subtle, just a convenient alteration of yourself, folk will be unaware that things have changed. They will simply wonder why they did not notice, before, how utterly charming you were, or how trustworthy your expression. They will not know that they have been manipulated. And when you change back to yourself, they will not know they ever saw you differently. A complete disguise is another matter. That must be used most carefully. It can create difficulties. It is always best to keep your guise as close as possible to your own form. That way you can slip back easily and regain your strength quickly. Excuse me a moment.’ He turned away from me, suppressing a deep cough.

      ‘Are you unwell?’ I asked. It was unusual for him to have so much as a sniffle, even in the depths of winter.

      ‘I’m well, Fainne,’ he said. ‘Don’t fuss. Now remember what I said about the Glamour. If you use the major forms you take a great personal risk.’

      ‘But I could do it,’ I protested. ‘Change myself into a bird or a serpent. I’m sure I could. Can’t I try, just once?’

      Father looked at me. ‘Be glad,’ he said, ‘that you have no need of it. Believe that it is perilous. A spell of last resort.’

      It was no longer possible to take time off from my studies. I had scarcely seen the sun all summer, for Father had arranged to have our small supply of bread and fish and vegetables brought up to the Honeycomb by one of the local girls. There was a spring in one of the deep gullies, and it was Father himself who went with a bucket for water now. I stayed inside, working. I was training myself not to care. At first it hurt a lot, knowing Darragh would be out there somewhere looking for me, waiting for me. Later, when he gave up waiting, it hurt even more. I’d escape briefly to a high ledge above the water, a secret place accessible only from inside the vaulted passages of the Honeycomb. From this vantage point you could see the full sweep of the bay, from our end with its sheer cliffs and pounding breakers to the western end, where the far promontory sheltered the scattering of cottages and the bright, untidy camp of the travelling folk. You could see the boys and girls running on the shore, and hear their laughter borne on the breath of the west wind, mingled with the wild voices of sea birds. Darragh was there amongst them, taller now, for he had shot up this last winter away. His dark hair was thrown back from his face by the wind, and his grin was as crooked as ever. There was always a girl hanging around him now, sometimes two or three. One in particular I noticed, a little slip of a thing with skin brown from the sun, and a long plait down her back. Wherever Darragh went she wasn’t far away, white teeth flashing in a smile, hand on her hip, looking. With no good reason at all, I hated her.

      The lads used to dive off the rocks down below the Honeycomb, unaware of my presence on the ledge above. They were of an age when a boy believes himself invincible, when every lad is a hero who can slay whatever monsters cross his path. The ledge they chose was narrow and slippery; the sea below dark, chill and treacherous. The dive must be calculated to the instant to avoid catching the force of an incoming wave that would crush you against the jagged rocks at the Honeycomb’s base. Again and again they did it, three or four of them, waiting for the moment, bare feet gripping the rock, bodies nut-brown in the sun, while the girls and the smaller children stood watching from the shore, silent in anticipation. Then, sudden and shocking no matter how often repeated, the plunge to the forbidding waters below.

      Twice or three times that summer I saw them. The last time I went there, I saw Darragh leave the ledge and climb higher, nimble as a crab on the crevices of the stark cliffside, scrambling up to perch on the tiniest foothold far above the diving point. I caught my breath in shock. He could not intend – surely he did not intend –? I bit my lip and tasted salt blood; I screwed my hands into fists so tight my nails cut my palms. The fool. Why would he try such a thing? How could he possibly –?

      He stood poised there a moment as his audience hushed and froze, feeling no doubt some of the same fascinated terror that gripped me. Far, far below the waves crashed and sucked, and far above the gulls screamed a warning. Darragh did not raise his arms for a dive. He simply leaned forward and plummeted down headfirst, straight as an arrow, hands by his sides, down and down until his body entered the water as neatly as a gannet diving for fish; and I watched one great wave wash over the spot where he had vanished, and another, and a third, while my heart hammered with fear, and then, much further in towards the shore, a sleek dark head emerged from the water and he began to swim, and a cheer went up from the boys on the ledge and the girls on the sand, and when he came out of the water, dripping, laughing, she was there to greet him and to offer him the shawl from her own shoulders to dry himself off with.

      I did not concentrate very well that day, and Father gave me a sharp look, but said nothing. It was my own choice not to go back and watch them after that. What Father had taught me was right. A sorcerer, or a sorcerer’s daughter, could not perform the tasks required, could not practise the art to the full, if other things were allowed to get in the way.

      It was close to Lugnasad and that summer’s end when my father told me his own story at last. We sat before the fire after a long day’s work, drinking our ale. At such times we were mostly silent, each absorbed with our own thoughts. I was watching Father as he stared into the flames, and I was thinking how he was losing weight, the bones of his face showing stark beneath the skin. He was even paler than usual. Teaching me must be a trial to him sometimes. No wonder he looked weary. I would have to try harder.

      ‘You know we are descended from a line of sorcerers, Fainne,’ he said suddenly, as if simply following a train of thought.

      ‘Yes, Father.’

      ‘And

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