Prologue

Thrice upon a time, Branwen lay on her bed, biting down on a towel with the pains of labor. The first two times, the newborn had died. She prayed that this time, her child would actually live.

"Just a bit more, Lady," the midwife panted, sweating from the efforts of birthing the child. She arched her back, rubbing it and remembering the pains of her own labor, and then returned to attending the birthing woman. Branwen was not the only one working hard that night.

"More...more...there!"

Branwen sighed and lay back on her pillows, the towel slipping out of her mouth. Something small and red was crying in the arms of the midwife. The midwife took the baby out of the room in order to wash off the blood that covered its small body. When she returned, she looked up at Branwen, wiping her sweaty brow with the back of her hand.

"It's a girl," she announced with a tired grin before wrapping the child up in a blanket. Branwen took a deep breath and then sat up with her back leaning against her pillows and her arms outstretched.

"Let me see her," she commanded in a raspy voice. The midwife obediently handed the child over to her mother and then collapsed backward into a chair. Branwen rocked her newborn daughter back and forth, making cooing noises. The deafening screams coming from the infant soon quieted as the little girl dropped off to sleep.

"Well," the midwife said, getting to her feet, "that was quite a night, but I suggest you follow your daughter's example and get some sleep yourself."

Branwen looked up from her daughter and smiled.

"Do you need anything?" she asked the woman, ignoring the midwife's previous statement. "You can help yourself to a drink. We have freshly drawn water from the well, and it's still cool."

The midwife gave Branwen a level look, her piercing green eyes and hooked nose accentuating the glare.

"It is you who should have the water. I'll go get you a cup, and then, Lady Branwen, I must be going, for I'm dead on my feet and the Lady Gwenneth is expecting any day now."

"Of course," Branwen murmured, uninterested, "go right ahead."

The midwife threw her a concerned look before going to fill a glass with water. She returned and handed it to Branwen, crossing her arms and glaring at her.

"Now, Lady, I want you to drink that water and get some rest. If you need me, just holler. Someone's bound to hear you in this infinitesimal village."

When Branwen did not respond, the midwife narrowed her eyes and surveyed the room. It didn't seem that she was much needed there, and Branwen had certainly made it clear that she wanted to be left alone. With a sniff of disapproval, the midwife finally departed.

Branwen stroked the arms of her new daughter, admiring the girl's soft baby skin. She ran her finger over every inch of it, drinking it all in. Finally, she was a mother. She knew she would do anything to raise her daughter in the most perfect household, attending to her every need without spoiling her. She was overcome with love as she cradled her daughter affectionately against her chest.

It was then that she noticed it; a faint mark, almost invisible on the baby's pink skin. Branwen looked closer at it, but it was undistinguishable.

'It's nothing,' she told herself. 'A birthmark of sorts. Or perhaps her little infant arms had been flailing as she cried in the midwife's arms and she scratched herself.'

Branwen was sure it would go away by morning. And yet, deep down she feared. Though of course, there was nothing to fear. It was silly. Her daughter could not possibly be a witch.