When the girl disappeared inside the house, Colm let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding. The girl certainly didn't look dangerous or unusual. Just an ordinary girl.

Why are we coming to collect her to take her to the king if she's just an ordinary girl? The question niggled at the back of his mind. And why does Sir Ardál seem so nervous?

The knight was renowned for his bravery in the Fae Battles, and Colm had always known him to be a silent, stern man of little emotion. And yet now, standing outside a thatched-roof cottage by an apple orchard, Sir Ardál was shifting his weight from foot to foot and rubbing his hands together like a nervous schoolboy about to be chastised by the teacher.

That was enough to unnerve Colm immensely. His mouth dried, his palms started to sweat, and he found himself wishing that he was back working for the horse trader who called himself an adoptive father but acted as a taskmaster. When Sir Ardál had taken him on as a squire, Colm had promised himself that he would always, always be brave. And now on his first real quest, he was a sweaty, panicking disaster.

His panic was interrupted by the soft sound of the wooden door swinging open, which instinctively made him take a step back. Sir Ardál's shoulders were tensed, and Colm prepared to launch himself away from whatever attack was to come...

And out of the doorway stepped a woman, dressed in a simple brown linen tunic and soft leather shoes. She looked nothing like the noblewomen Colm had always admired from afar at feasts; she had no adornments, no powder on her face or bangles and bracelets at her wrists.

Her curly chestnut hair was pulled back from her face with a green ribbon, but soft ringlets had escaped and were tossed about in the spring breeze. She was tall for a woman, as tall as Colm, and her loose dress gave little hint as to the figure underneath. And though he was a young man on the cusp of adulthood and had lusted after women before, Colm felt nothing of the sort for this woman in front of him. He simply stood in awe of her, his worries from a few moments ago forgotten.

His reverie was broken by Sir Ardál's voice. "Where's the boy?"

The woman frowned, and spread her hands out wide. "Do you see a boy here? He's been gone for years." Her forehead creased with lines when she replied, and Colm realized that she was older than he had first imagined. "Surely you knew that already."

Wait, "the boy" is gone? Is he the one we were supposed to come and collect?

Colm glanced quickly at the knight to see his response, but caught his breath at the sight of Sir Ardál's eyes brimming with tears. "Aye. I didn't know, but I suspected." He nodded solemnly. "Don't know where he's gone to, do you?"

The woman shook her head. "It's better not knowing."

Ardál nodded again, and was silent.

Colm stood holding the reins of the horses, transfixed by the scene in front of him. The knight and the woman stood a few steps apart; Sir Ardál, so large and strong, the man Colm had admired for the last six years, looked utterly defeated and powerless. This unknown, beautiful woman stood with her arms across her chest, her expression unreadable but her words filled with... Anger? No, not anger. Something else.

"And now you've come for the girl?" Ardál's silence was only a confirmation, and the woman buried her face in her hands. Colm thought she must be crying, yet when she uncovered her face, there were no tears, only the same, unreadable expression.

The chestnut mare whickered and pulled towards the woman. Her eyes widened when they fell on Colm and the horses. She hadn't even realized I was here, he thought.

Mouth twisted into a humorless smile, she turned back to Ardál. "You couldn't come to face me on your own? Had to bring your backup?" Her volume rose, and the knight seemed to shrink even further, his eyes downcast. "Fine, then, come in and take her."

She turned and walked back into the cottage, leaving the door swinging open behind her.

Ardál cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Colm was struck with the sudden realization that the knight was genuinely afraid. The fearless Sir Ardál was struck mute and unmoving by this chestnut-haired woman, armorless and weaponless.

The squire stood rooted to the ground where he stood, unable to lift a foot or say a word. It wasn't witchcraft that bound him to the spot. For the whole sixteen years of his life, he had belonged to someone; to a farmer, to a horse trader, to a knight. They had always told him what to do, and he had always trusted that their commands would be there. Now, when no commands came, he could do nothing.

The chestnut mare whinnied softly and pulled Colm towards the house. In a daze, Colm stumbled, his leather boots crushing blades of young meadow grass underfoot.

The sound of the horses was enough to break Ardál from his trance. He turned to look at Colm, his eyes still watering with tears. Colm looked away. It was always better, he had found, to say and do nothing when uncertain.

"You heard her, boy. Tie up the horses so we can go inside."

She was right. He doesn't want to go by himself. Colm said nothing, he merely nodded and wound the horse's reins around a the trunk of a small, spindly tree that stood near the home. In his daze, he failed to notice the thorns that covered the trunk and flinched away as one pricked his thumb. A bright droplet of blood welled up before he brushed it on the leg of his trousers.

The horses happily continued cropping the meadow grass with their teeth, oblivious to the tension in the air. Colm followed Sir Ardál to the doorway. They stood in the sunlight for a few moments, saying nothing. And then, with a deep sigh, Ardál stepped forward into the cottage, Colm following a step behind.

The interior of the cottage was not as dark as Colm had thought. Sunlight still streamed in through the open doorway and windows onto the packed-earth floor. There was a fireplace in the corner with a chimney that rose up through the thatched roof, the walls around it blackened with soot and smoke. A few braids of shriveled onions and garlic hung from the timbers of the ceiling, the very last remains of last year's harvest. Bunches of dried lavender, mint, and other herbs Colm couldn't name hung in swaths along the walls, perfuming the air with a sweet, herbal smell.

There was a small, roughly-hewn wooden table on the wall opposite the fireplace, one stool on either side. One was occupied by the girl, the other by the woman. No visitors stopping over for tea on the regular, then, Colm thought.

The girl stood as soon as they entered and moved to sit in the patch of sunlight that came through one of the windows. "Willow," the woman said. "Won't you get our guests something from the garden? Some of the strawberries have ripened."

Colm blinked, for it was still much too early for strawberries. The girl—Willow—obediently traipsed back through the doorway.

"Have a seat, then." She gestured towards the now-empty seat, which Sir Ardál delicately lowered himself into. "And tell me, what am I to call you now? I know you've died, so I can only assume there's a new name to go along with your new life."

Colm stood by the door, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. If they forgot he was there, after all, they wouldn't ask him to leave. This might not be a witch-hunt, but his curiosity was proving to get the best of him.

"You're confusing my squire." Sir Ardál's voice was a murmur, his back turned towards Colm. "But it's Ardál."

The woman laughed humorlessly. "Pardon me, Sir Ardál, hero of the Fae Battles. Whatever brings you to our humble cottage, other than to steal my daughter away from me?"

It was the girl, then? Not this beautiful woman that had rendered the greatest knight in the kingdom speechless, but the girl who was common enough to have been plucked out of any kingdom street?

"You've not made great efforts to hide her, after all." Colm couldn't see Ardál's expression, but his voice was firmer than it had been just a few minutes ago. "Maybe if you hadn't been sending your apples to the kingdom markets when the rest of the country was suffering from the worst case of blight in a century, no one would have known and I wouldn't have been forced to come for her."

The woman laughed again. "Forced? Forced, were you? By who, the great and mighty King Odhran?" She leaned forward towards Ardál, who shrunk again in his chair. "There was a time when you didn't care what he asked you to do."

"Things change. You know that."

The woman sighed, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. "Of course it would be... The damn apples. It wasn't on purpose, you know. I didn't realize the blight in the rest of the country was so bad until it was too late. I should've burnt the damn things and let us eat bark and grass for the winter, had I known."

She leaned forward, placing her hands over Ardál's. "Could you tell him we were gone? That we'd gone, that the cottage was long empty and we'd fled into the Shrouds?" Her voice, so strong and harsh moments ago, lowered to a plaintive murmur. "You could even come with us. Your squire too, if he wanted."

There was silence in the home but for sound of the wind and birds chirping outside. Colm could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It pounded in his thumb where the thorn had pricked him, but he dared not move to wipe the blood on his trousers for fear that the noise would interrupt the moment. He felt a deep sense of guilt wash over him. The woman was mad, talking about them going into the Shrouds, but he knew this meeting between Ardál and the mysterious woman should have been a private one. Colm was an intruder, eavesdropping on a conversation that should never have been heard.

"Colm. Go check on the horses." It was as though Sir Ardál had read his mind.

Colm did not hesitate. Desperate for the permission to escape, he ducked back through the door and into the full sunlight.

The clouds from earlier in the day had burnt off, or had blown towards the mountains. Colm wasn't sure which, but he was glad of the sunshine either way. In fact, outside the little cottage, the Shrouds didn't look as frightening as he had always thought them. They were just mountains covered in clouds and mist. Frightening to be lost in, surely, but a pretty bit of scenery when viewed from afar.

The land between the cottage and the mountains, or really in any direction from the cottage, was green and lush with grass, save for the apple orchard they had passed earlier. There ought to have been more animals, Colm thought. Sheep, horses, anything. Trees should have been growing here; they had been chopped down, but for what? It seemed a waste if such fertile ground was not used for farming or grazing herds of livestock.

He might have pondered this more had his head not been spinning with what had occurred in the cottage moments ago. He wished, desperately, for ink and paper, for writing the words down always helped him to organize his thoughts. Instead, he ignored the horses and turned towards the apple orchard, tapping his fingers against his leg.

What do I know? We came here to collect a person to bring to the castle. Sir Ardál had all but confirmed that King Odhran had ordered him to come. And it's not the woman, but the girl, Willow. Her daughter. That much was certain, even Colm didn't understand the reasoning behind it.

And Sir Ardál and the woman knew each other, not just as passing acquaintances, but as something deeper. The expression in her eyes when she had leaned forward and taken the knight's hands in hers...

Colm shook his head, willing the image to disappear. Even remembering the moment felt like an intrusion.

He ran his hand over the bark of one of the apple trees, eyes drifting upwards to the pale pink blossoms that hung from every branch. They had passed other orchards along the way, apple, peach, and cherry, but none had blossomed as vibrantly as this simple orchard in the middle of nowhere.

Ardál said they found them because of the apples.

Colm drew his hand back from the trunk of the tree as though he had been stung, recoiling so violently that one foot slid out from under him and he ended up lying on his back on the grass, staring up at the blossoms from the ground.

He groaned, pushing himself off the ground into a sitting position and rubbing his head. Nothing broken, nothing hurt.

The sound of footsteps approached from the cottage, and he spun around quickly. But it was not Sir Ardál or the beautiful woman; it was Willow, the girl, rushing over with a concerned look on her face.

"Are you hurt?"

Colm straightened up and shook his head. This was a chance to be gallant, he thought. Willow was clearly important in some way, even if he didn't know what that way was. Word that he had been bought from a horse trader had spread like wildfire through the squires and knights of the castle, and everyone had made up their minds about Colm after that. Here was a girl who, whoever she might be, had no notion of his upbringing or past. It was at least a chance to practice.

"Uninjured but for my pride," he said, bowing slightly as he had seen other knights do. Not Sir Ardál, of course; that man only bowed to the king, and even then it was an awkward and clumsy thing. Colm had never practiced the move, either, but surely a girl from an orchard cottage wouldn't know a knightly bow from a barely-practiced one.

"If you're sure." Willow shrugged and turned back towards the cottage, a small woven basket with strawberries hanging from her arm.

It's too early for strawberries.

He reached forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "You can't go back. They're talking."

Willow laughed, her dark brown hair swinging in the breeze. "Talking? It's hardly that important." She pulled against Colm's grip, but he held on tight. Willow scowled, tugging again.

"They sent me out. It's private." Something in Colm's voice must have struck her, because Willow stopped tugging against his grip and let her arms fall to her side.

"We'll wait, then." She shrugged again, then dropped to the grass underneath the apple trees, crossing her legs. "Come on, sit down and have some strawberries. They're delicious."

It's too early for strawberries.

Too many thoughts jostled and fought for attention in Colm's mind, and he could do nothing but obey. He sat down next to her, wishing that he could be as calm and relaxed as she seemed to be in this moment. She held out a strawberry, red and impossibly ripe, smiling at him. He reached forward to take it, and she pulled back suddenly, forehead furrowed with worry. "You are hurt. You've cut your finger."

He had forgotten the prick from the thorn. "What? Oh, it's nothing. Just got it from the bush where the horses are tied."

"That's a whitethorn. The cuts bleed for ages." She held out her hand to Colm. "Here, let me see."

"It's fine. And why do you even have a plant like that in your yard?"

Willow shrugged. "Mother says it's a piece of the old forest. This whole area," she gestured widely, "was part of the Redwood Forest, but it was cut down around when I was born. The whitethorns never grew that large in the forest because the trees shaded them too much. But when they came and chopped down all the trees, the whitethorn survived. So we keep it to remember the forest." She opened and closed her outstretched hand. "Come on, it'll only be a moment."

Colm acquiesced with a sigh, placing his hand in hers. She had rough hands, like Colm's. His were rough from cleaning saddles and horse tack that Sir Ardál rarely used, and he wondered briefly how hers had gotten to that stage if all she was doing was picking strawberries and apples.

Willow leaned her head close to his finger, inspecting the cut. "See, the cut's not bad. But the whitethorns have a little bit of a poison in their sap that leaks out of the thorns, and it makes the wound not close up properly."

"I should tie the horses elsewhere, then."

Willow laughed again. "Horses have sense enough not to get pricked by a whitethorn, unlike boys from the castle."

The heat rose in Colm's face when she laughed at him. Well, how am I supposed to know that? I've hardly been around forests in the castle. And they shouldn't have a tree like that in their yard.

While he stewed in embarrassment, Willow leaned forward again, laying one finger and then another on the cut. She softly hummed, a wordless tune. She wrapped her hand gently around his finger and then pulled away with a smile. "See? All is well."

The bleeding had stopped. Colm brought his thumb close to his face. Not only had the blood stopped, but the skin where the thorn had pricked him had closed over, leaving no trace that he had ever been injured. He squinted, bringing the thumb closer and turning it at different angles to seek out the place where the mark should have been. But there was no mark; it was gone.

"What did you do?"

"Oh, I'm not really supposed to talk about it," Willow replied, drawing back. "But I suppose if my mother trusts your knight, then I ought to trust you."

She doesn't trust him. She said we're coming to steal you. Colm swallowed back the words.

Willow made a fist with only her thumb extended out to Colm. When it came closer to him, he saw it: one tiny mark, exactly where he had been pricked by the thorn on his own thumb. There was blood smeared on her hand, but no blood came from the wound itself.

Sir Ardál's words rang in his ears.

We're going witch-hunting.

Willow didn't seem to notice his response, or if she did, she was unperturbed. "Now, you still have the poison from the whitethorn in your thumb. So don't get that chopped off for the rest of the day, or you might bleed out and I wouldn't be able to fix that." She laughed, leaning her head back and staring up at the sky between the branches of the apple trees.

Colm stared at her, his mouth gaping open and closed like a fish gasping for water once it had been pulled from a stream. A witch. She's a witch.

He had an image of what a witch was supposed to be: a frightening woman with long, black hair and silver eyes, wrinkles on her forehead and a scowl permanently etched on her face as she spat and cursed at passersby.

This ordinary-looking girl, sitting in her linen shift in an apple orchard while the sun shone down and apple blossom petals lazily drifted in the wind, a basket of strawberries by her side... She met none of the requirements he had imagined. And yet she had healed his still-bleeding finger with a few words and a touch.

Birds sang as they flew overhead, perching in the apple trees. The horses cropped the grass with their teeth. The world was at peace, here in this corner of the kingdom.

Colm turned away from Willow and retched until his stomach was empty.

"Are... Are you okay?" She leaned towards him, one hand resting gently on his back.

Colm slapped the witch's hand away and stood. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth, as if to wipe away the taste of the bile that rose in the back of his throat. "I'm fine," he lied. "I... I need to see Sir Ardál."

"But you said we can't go in? They'll come out when they're done, I'm sure," Willow said with a smile. "We can go to the well to get to you water to wash yourself with."

Colm stepped backwards, towards the cottage. His voice shook. His heart pounded in his ears "No. No. I need to talk with him now."

And with that, he turned and ran towards the cottage as fast as his feet could carry him.