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excitement and fell into a reverie of adventures and explorations, palaces and faeries. She had been feeling restless ever since the snow had begun to thaw and life again quickened all around her. She was often bored with their sedate life in the secret valley, where every animal was a friend and there was no-one to talk to except Meghan. Every season she looked forward to their forays into the mountains for herbs and semiprecious stones; even greater was her excitement when the two of them journeyed down into the villages to sell potions and love spells. Not that they did that very often or travelled very far. Isabeau had never been further south than the highland town of Caeryla, just beyond the Pass out of the mountains, and that had been eight years ago, when Isabeau had been only eight years old.
    It had been the time of the comet then as well, for the Red Wanderer swung over Eileanan every eight years. The comet was thought an ill omen and so the Rìgh and Banrìgh had ordered national festivities to show their disdain for such superstitious nonsense. Meghan said, dryly, that their decision was wise, for the red comet always appeared in the days before Candlemas, a time when the people of Eileanan traditionally celebrated the end of winter and the coming of spring. All the decrees against witchcraft had not stopped the common people from observing the key events in the witches’ calendar, and what one cannot stamp out, one should subvert to one’s own ends, the old wood-witch said.
    Isabeau had nodded, though she really had no idea what Meghan was talking about. She was far too interested in skipping along the street and looking all about her with wide-eyed interest. The streets of Caeryla were strung with coloured ribbons and flags, pots of flowers decorated every doorstep and the townsfolk were dressed in their finest clothes.
    Minstrels strummed their guitars and sang of love, and jongleurs juggled coloured balls and did backflips, while performing bears nursed their sad heads. Isabeau had never seen anything like the jongleurs, who entertained the crowd with jokes and magic tricks, fire-eating, sword-swallowing and juggling, their bright cloaks covering tattered clothes. One was a young boy, thin and quick, who could turn along the road as quickly as a wheel. Isabeau was openly envious, hanging back against Meghan’s hand to watch him. She thought she would like travelling from town to town in the gaudy little caravan, juggling oranges for a living. Meghan’s hand was firm, though, and Isabeau was gently pulled away from the square with its bright swinging lamps and flickering shadows.
    It was dangerous for them in the towns. This Isabeau understood. The Red Guards were everywhere, suspicious of strangers, and brutal in their dealings with suspected witches. Isabeau knew she must not play with the One Power or speak of it. She knew she must always be quiet and unobtrusive and never draw attention to them. When they entered a town, Meghan’s limp became more noticeable, her body somehow more frail. She draped her plaid about her head so her long braid was concealed, her face half in shadow. In the towns, Isabeau discarded her breeches and dressed in grey wool, her hair covered by a linen cap—a model girl-child.
    Isabeau was only eight, however. She had not yet learnt how to melt into a crowd so cannily that afterwards no-one could be sure whether or not she had been there. And with her unruly red hair and her bright blue eyes, it was not easy for Isabeau to pass unnoticed. But it was not Isabeau’s striking colouring which was her downfall. It was her playing with the One Power. She and Meghan were staying at an inn in the centre of town. Because it was Candlemas, the streets were full of travellers come to dance the fire with other young people, and visit relatives and trade with the pedlars. Meghan said she was there to try and buy powdered foolsbalm, shepherd’s spikenard, black