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*
Deep in the glens, there is no-one traipsing within the fog.
No-one but herself and her lover.
Helga recognises where she is. Long ago, Rowena inherited her mother's estate and the lands stretching far into Dál Riada. She feels dew slickening under Helga's naked feet. The morning rises bitter and wet, as it does, but looms as a gloomy, ghastly grey.
Thistle and heather, bluebells and gorse and primroses bloom so splendidly inside Rowena's gated garden.Â
She wanders under a rowan tree, lifting a hand and brushing her fingertips against old, rusted keys dangling high above. Some are iron. Some gleam gold. Some appear delicately thin with the smallest intricate patterns forged along the bow.
"By which is it?"
Helga laughs, her ruddy mouth widening. "Per'haps if thee would offer to me-sylf a bodement…"
With no answer, save the faintest of smiles upon Rowena's lips, Helga looks back into the weaving web of keys. She lifts her hand once more. Helga's pudgy and sun-browned fingers grasp around a key made of bronze, as shapely as an eagle's feather.
"Aye," Rowena murmurs. She watches with curiosity as Helga plucks the key and its string from the overhead branch.
Three doors, one beside the other, lead into the garden's cottage.
Only the right garden-door opens with Rowena's key she choose, Helga knows how Rowena is.Â
There is only once chance to make a guess. And she herself chooses the door on the far left, standing beside it. Helga bows herself to inspect the scratch-marks and the wear of the keyhole, where it has been used over, and over, and over…
Rowena's smile flourishes.
She flicks her wrist, her pale fingers sprayed. The two other doors vanish. Helga smells Rowena's magic like a deep frost.
What lies beyond the garden-door is…
A table of freshly baked bread… jars of honey… and two goblets of wine… Helga steps in, comforted by the warmth of a roaring fire. Her skin blessedly dry. Helga's missing tome, with tiny, enchanted flowers tucked between the pages as markers… it's here…
Her clever, clever girl…
Helga tips one of the goblets to her lips, humming merrily. She tips some to Rowena's, gently sucking off her chin. The elderberry wine both cool and piercingly tart on Helga's tongue lightly pressing where Rowena's lower lip opens. Her cheeks colour.Â
Rowena embraces her, burying her face into Helga's neck, moaning out.Â
Hers…
*
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