Lowenna opened the cottage door and helped Brighida inside. She waited as I went in and then left, pulling the door closed behind her. Brighida pushed back her hood, then slid the bolt at the bottom of the door into the hole in the floor.

“Why are you locking it?” I asked. We never locked the door during the day, nor even closed the top half. Did this have to do with her anger toward her mother? I wondered. Had she harsh words for me as well?

She bent to the hearth and spoke softly as she lit a candle. “My mother left you something.” She straightened and set the candle in Morwen’s old tin lantern. Its light revealed none of the hurt I had seen on her face at the grave site.

“Something for me? When?”

“She told me about it before we left for the village. She knew what was meant to happen to you that night. And she knew the moment you spoke your vow. Just as I did. Just as all the Mentors did.” Her expression softened and her voice lost every trace of the anger she seemed to have felt in the grove. In its place was warmth so like Claris’s own.

“And then the Mentors observed a long moment’s silence,” she said.

That terrible silence, I thought as I recalled how alone I had felt after speaking my vow.

“When they did not welcome me after I swore my oath, I thought I must have spoken the wrong words. Or that they didn’t want me amongst them. And then, when I looked into the candlelight and saw your mother lying on the ground at your feet, I believed they were welcoming her into their midst. I thought that was the reason for their silence, for their not welcoming me as—” I drew a breath but could not finish.

“As one of us. A woman of Bury Down.”

There. She had said it. Brighida had called me a woman of Bury Down. Finally. Something seemed to swell inside me, to fill my chest. I felt suddenly taller, more substantial. Worthy.

“My mother and I knew before we left for the village—we had always known—that that was the appointed night for you to speak your vow. I hoped you would do your duty.” She smiled. “I felt certain you would. My mother had no doubt. Her step had been light that afternoon anticipating the celebration we would have when she gave you her gift.”

She reached up to the shelf above the sideboard. I got up and helped her take down The Book of Time. She gathered it into her arm and nodded toward my chair. “Please, Megge, sit.”

I sat.

Afraid to move, I only breathed as she laid it before me. I glanced at it and then back at her.

“The Book of Time is now yours. With its power you will draw to yourself those who are meant to surround you in times of need.”

I thought of all the people who already surrounded us. “Like Lowenna, Hugh, Martyn, Alf, and Mister Gynneys?”

Brighida sat at the table beside me and nodded. “Most of us have walked together before, but this life—and these times—are different from any we might have shared. The need for Mentors in the living world is greater than ever before. In your world most of all.

“All who surround you were called and given skills to learn, a task to perform, a life to lead. Some of us know why we are here. Some even know who we once were. Most, though, do not. And even I do not know all who will one day awaken to their charge and come to you.”

You are not alone, Megge, Natalje had promised. Never alone.

“Lowenna? Was she called?”

Brighida smiled and nodded.

“Does she know?”

“When she met me at the door yesterday, I knew she had been awakened.”

“Awakened?”

“Suddenly made aware. By circumstances, by memory, by dreams, or by the Guardian herself.”

“Like Morwen awakened me the night of my vowtaking?”

“Just like that.” She watched my face, her eyes patient, then went on. “When it happens, it is as if the person has been asleep all their life. Suddenly they realize who they are and what their purpose is. It all comes back to them. It’s how Lowenna knew how to tend a woman of Bury Down. I know this because I awakened to her at the same moment. It’s how I was able to leave my mother in her care.”

“Lowenna is a Mentor,” I said. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes. She was once called Derwa.”

“Derwa? I’ve never heard of her.”

“Derwa was Gytha’s mother, a holder of The Book of Time, but not a great seer as her daughter would become. Derwa’s—Lowenna’s—spirit is that of a mother. She returns to the living world always as a mother willing to put her family at the service of Bury Down.

“Long before Derwa’s day, her spirit had lived here as Irene, the wife of Odo, Bury Down’s manor lord in the days of the Conquest. They endured hard times with their eight children. Times of war, times of struggle. Times very much like those to come. Lowenna will draw on Irene’s strength and Derwa’s sight to help us through.”

I closed my eyes and tried to understand. “And Martyn and Hugh?”

“They are what we call Companions, people in the living world chosen to fulfill a task. Hugh and Martyn are Companions by virtue of having been born to a Mentor. Others become Companions by virtue of their acts in a former life. They’ve shown their mettle, proven themselves worthy of serving the Guardian. They come to their task in this life unawares. But if they fulfill their charge, they may take their vow on their last day of life to return to the living world when called upon to serve as a Mentor.”

She brought me a cup of ale and nudged The Book of Time closer to me. “I will explain to you what I can about what lies ahead, but there is much you must come to on your own, much that even I do not know. But do not fear our friend Lowenna, for she is still ‘our friend Lowenna.’” She smiled. “Not a ghost, not a wraith. A Mentor.”

“And Hugh and Martyn . . . Companions,” I said, repeating the word though unsure I fully understood this new meaning.

I finished my ale, and Brighida took the cup away. She once more drew her crimson hood over her hair, then drew my hood up as well. Standing tall, she looked down into my eyes. “You have accepted The Book of Seasons and vowed to protect it and the power that sustains the Mentors.”

I bowed my head.

She laid her hand palm-up on table next to The Book of Time. “Do you accept this book, which will endow you with the power to cast your thoughts, your visions, and your commands to those who will receive them and serve you?”

. . . cast your thoughts, your visions, your commands. Though I could not have known the full import of these words, I said, “I do.”

“You will one day be faced with a decision: whether or not to unite the books. Only when you understand the consequences of doing so—and of not doing so—must you decide.” She allowed that to hang between us. “Will you take your oath to learn what you must before making this decision? And will you accept the consequences when you do?”

“I will. But how will I learn what these consequences are?”

“By keeping the last of the three promises you made when you looked into the candlelight and saw my mother lying at my feet in the copse. Already you have kept two. You have seen to my mother’s needs and have comforted me.”

It was time to see to the blacksmith.

The rumble of the cart sounded outside the door.

“The book, Megge.”

While Brighida unlocked the door, I put The Book of Time back on the shelf. As I pulled the curtain over it, Lowenna slipped into the cottage, blew out the candles, and handed them to Brighida. She was putting them away when Martyn came to the door.

“Mother, Hugh will take you home if you wish.”

“I have some needs to see to at home,” Lowenna said, and my chest tightened. She was leaving us alone. “Provisions to make for my husband. The earl has duties for him that’ll keep him away for some time.” She looked at me. “Can you manage without me, Megge?”

Already she had spent two days tending to me and Brighida. She alone had tended to Claris. Having done all the work I should have done, she was wan. She needed some rest.

Though all the duties of the house and farm that would now fall to Brighida and me threatened to overwhelm me, I nodded. “We can manage.”

Hugh rested a hand on the top of the door frame and looked in. “Alf says he’ll stay for as long as you need him.” He glanced at Brighida. “It seems he’s in no hurry to be gone.”

“Won’t his father need him?” I asked.

“’Twas Gynneys himself who told him to stay. Though he needn’t have, if you ask me. Alf wouldn’t have left you.”

I wanted them all to stay. My eye strayed outside, to Martyn, his back bent over the side of the cart as he reached inside for something. If only he would stay, I thought.

“My husband will be gone for some time, but I shall come back whenever you need me while he’s away.” She turned to leave but then looked back at me. “If you’d like, that is.”

I felt as if my breastbone had swung open and the light had come in.

“Oh, yes.” Breathing was suddenly much easier. “Yes. There’s always a place for you here.”

Lowenna swept past me on her way to the door.

I looked outside. Twilight. It would soon be dark and Brighida and I would be alone. Would we hear Michael Gough if he returned?

As Lowenna went out the door she called, “Martyn will stay here with you tonight.”

My breath caught.

Brighida raised her hand and waved Martyn in. He shouldered past Hugh, a full woolsack under his arm.

“Thank you, Martyn.” Brighida touched his shoulder. “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you’re here.”

“So will I,” I said. So will I.

He placed the sack on the floor, and it fell over spilling blankets and clothes.

“Let me help you,” Brighida said. While Martyn picked up his clothes and put them in the sack, Brighida picked up a blanket and carried it into the workroom. “You can sleep in here.”

“We’ll be off then.” Hugh guided his mother out the door and helped her up onto the driver’s seat then went around to the other side and slung himself up.

Martyn too would soon be off, tracking Michael Gough and his men. I knew we would be in danger until he had found them and brought them to face the earl. But tonight—I closed my eyes for a moment and thanked the Mentors for sending us this wonderful family—I shall sleep soundly, for we are safe.

A clatter came from the sideboard as dishes tumbled off the shelf and rolled about the cookroom floor.

“My fault!” Martyn set aside the bowl he had taken from the shelf and stooped to pick up the ones that had fallen. “I’m sorry, Megge. Hunger must be making me clumsy. I’ve not eaten and thought I’d have some stew.”

I knelt beside him to help gather the dishes. So close now, close enough to touch him, I stared at his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, his long, strong legs. Surely he could best Michael Gough. Though Michael was bigger than any man in the village, save our own stone mason and his son, Martyn was younger. Stronger, too, I was sure. And he was trained in weapons of battle.

Lifting his head, he met my gaze. I roused myself from those thoughts and got up from the floor. As I filled his bowl with stew, I gave myself a stern rebuke. Stop this dreaming. He’s here to help, nothing more. And he cannot stay.

I handed him the full bowl and poured him a cup of ale. It had gone nearly dark outside, and I could hear the whistles Alf used to guide the sheep back to the pen. Martyn took a seat at the table and began shoveling the stew into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Perhaps he hadn’t, I thought, so busy had he been tending to our needs. I brought over another full ladle and emptied it into his bowl. He nodded his thanks, and I silently filled bowls for Brighida, Alf, and myself.

Brighida came into the cookroom and sat at the place I had set for her.

“Martyn’s going to stay with us tonight,” I said, forgetting in my excitement that it was she who had helped him in with his belongings.

“Yes, I’ve made up a pallet for him.” She smiled warmly at him. “We’ve missed you, Martyn. And I’ve hardly spoken to you since . . .”

Martyn held up a hand, then laid it on Brighida’s. “It is good to be back.”

Alf looked in the door, and his breath hitched when his gaze fell upon those joined hands. He looked quickly at me and said, “I’ve penned the sheep. I’ll leave them in for the night.” He looked back over his shoulder as if about to turn and run.

I tapped the bowl across the table from Brighida. “You must be starving.”

“We all are,” Brighida said as she pulled her hand from Martyn’s. “Come, sit.”

Alf took off his cap and sat, his gaze tight on that bowl.

Brighida nodded at Martyn, then turned her soft gaze toward me and Alf. “You’ve all done so much for me—and my mother—these past days. I can’t think how to thank you.”

Martyn shook his head and held up a hand. “No need. We’re nearly kin.” He glanced at me, holding my gaze. My chest went hollow.

I recalled the day I saw him sitting at his loom, Vivienne Penneck standing behind him with her hands possessively on his shoulders. Later, when asked him if they were betrothed, he had scoffed and said they were like brother and sister.

Like you and me, I had said.

And he had slowly replied, You are no longer a child. And I am no longer a boy. You and I . . . but he hadn’t said what we were.