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woman— perhaps she could climb out the hatch in the roof and disappear into the forest before Morgana realized she was gone. She had to lull the old lady into thinking she was asleep. Indeed, her eyes we r e so heavy if would be a relief to cl ose them, even for the moment needed to trick the old woman. She let them d r i f t shut, only for a moment, only because she had to.
     
    When Morgana checked on her three hours l a t e r, she was still s l ee p i ng. She’d shifted in her sleep, making small, whimpering sounds at the back of her throat, and Morgana contemplated trying to tip so m e of the warm tea down her throat. She truly didn’t expect Alistair to r eal i z e where his runaway bride had disappeared to, not for another twenty-four hours a t l e a s t, but it would never do to underestimate her formidable son.
    The cottage was deep in Dunstan Woods. The wind seldom penetrated beneath the ancient oaks, b u t overhead the leaves shivered in the warm summer breeze, and the night-flying birds called out a warning. The moon h a d risen, a witch’s moon, one whose silver light would lead Alistair s t r ai g ht home. She didn’t dare wait.
    The tea didn’t take lo n g to brew. Indeed, she had more call for love philtres than anything else. There was no challenge in making them, no challenge at a l l in seeing a reluctant maid succumb or a reserved swain fall prey to the lures of the flesh. She’d grown tired of brewing them. But this was a special instance. Her son’s destiny lay sleeping in the bed, and M organa had no intention of waiting any longer. There were too many things out of her control. This much she could ensure.
    Elspeth la y sleeping more lightly now as the dark hours of the night passed. Her white-blonde hair spread around her like a bridal veil, and her face was still and beautiful in repose. She really was a child, Morgana thought dispassionately. Willful, too. There weren’t many brides who’d cosh their husbands on the head and take off into the d epth s of a haunted forest. Particularly when her husband was the feared high sheriff of Huntingdon.
    She’d do well for him. She’d bear him strong babies. Her body was narrow, but her hips were wide enough to bring forth boys, lots of them. Girls as well. And Morgana wa s ready to be a grandmother. Kneeling on the soft bed, she took Elspeth’s narrow shoulders in her strong hands and pulled her upright.
    “Here, sweeting,” she crooned, reaching for the bowl of tea. “Drink and you won’t be troubled by these silly doubts. Just a taste, love, and things will be ever so much better.”
     
    Elspeth felt herself struggle through the fog . She opened her eyes, staring up into the woman’s face with d a w ni n g horror. “Leave me alone,” she gasped.
    “Just a sip, and you’ll never—”
    “Get away from her, you hag!” The high sheriff of Huntingdon stood silhouetted in the doorway, his voice thundering through the tiny cottage.
    “Fine talk for a son.” Morgana rose with affront. “Here I am, trying to help you, and— ”
    “Trying to dose her with your filthy potions,” Alistair said, shouldering his way through the narrow doorway. He looked dark and dangerous in the cramped quarters of his mother’s house, with his black hair, h i s wild eyes, his tall, lean body vibrating with r ag e . “I don’t need your help.”
    “You haven’t done too well yourself. You’ve had her for almost a week now and she’s still as pure as the day she was born.”
    “Did you touch her?” His voice was icy cold, deadly, and as Elspeth lay still and silent she wondered that his mother d i d n ’t quail before him.
    But the old l a d y was apparently the only human, or semi-human, not afraid of Alistair Darcourt. “Of course not,” she scoffed. “I don’t need to check her maidenhead to know she’s still unawakened. What have been doing the past week, boy? Toying with your harlots? I want grandchildren.”
    “You’ll h a v e them,”