She counted her farthings carefully, tipping the copper coins from one hand to the other. She had no idea what Maeve would charge, so she looked down at the small handful and sighed. Then, gathering her courage, she knocked at Maeve's door, softly at first, then more firmly.
The door opened. Maeve was even shorter than she was, but the resemblance ended there. Maeve was plump and soft and middle-aged; her hair was soft brown streaked with gray, covered with a kerchief. Bright, interested brown eyes peered at her.
"Ah. 'Tis the tanner's daughter. Well, come in, do," she said, stepping back and waving a welcoming hand. Rowena stepped in. "Now. Tell me what ye're lookin' for, lass. A love spell? Something to stop your courses?" Maeve stopped, peered at her intently, then added, "Ah, well, that's too late, innit?" Rowena flushed and looked down. "Ye're too far gone for any simples to get rid of it, lass, so if that's what ye're lookin' for, I canna help," Maeve murmured sympathetically.
Rowena tossed her head back, looked down her slender nose at the village witch. "Aye, I thought it might be. What I am lookin' for is - " She drew a deep breath, fanned the anger inside her. "I want a hex," she blurted.
Shrewd eyes gazed at her thoughtfully. "Well, now. A hex, is it? Just a bad luck charm, or something stronger?"
"Stronger!" she said in a fierce voice.
"A strong hex costs money, lass."
She held out her hand, farthings sitting on the palm, damp from her sweat. Maeve glanced down at them and snorted. "Ach, no, girl. That's not enough. That will get you a mild charm, no more." Rowena wrapped her hand around the coins, shoulders slumping. Maeve squinted at her, then her eyes widened a bit. She reached out, grasped Rowena's chin in her hand, turned her head this way and that, eyeing her intently. "Well, now..." she murmured. "Well, now...Perhaps we can make a deal. I'm in need of an apprentice. And you, lass, you have a gift."
Rowena's eyes darted to meet hers. Her eyebrows twitched into a puzzled frown. "Gift...?"
"Och, it's the power you have. Many a witch would kill for that in-born power." She dropped her hand. "I can train you. You help me, I teach you, and..." She trailed off, then grinned. "And you get your hex, eh? What say you?"
Rowena nibbled on her lips, mind racing. With the bairn, she was already on borrowed time; Father would either make her marry some older man in the village or toss her out. Well, she certainly wasn't going to do the first! No more men for her! She was going to have to depend on herself, that was obvious. And what Maeve said...intrigued her.
Finally, she nodded one, short and sharp, and grinned back. "Och, aye, that sounds like a fine thing!"
When the bairn growing in her belly became too big to disguise with gathered skirts, and the discovery was made, her father thundered and roared, storming around their cottage. Then, as she had expected, came the ultimatum. Wed Collum Drummond, the widowed blacksmith, or get out. Her mother just wept, like the useless milksop she was. No backbone, that one, allowing her husband to order her about like that! This was what had happened to her six older sisters - ordered to marry (though no bairns beforehand for them!).
She got out.
She moved in with Maeve. She studied, herbs, potions, lore. She grew bigger every day, the bairn causing her stomach to protrude like a massive growth on her slender frame.
The boys of the village followed her with their eyes, assuming since she had done it once, when the baby was out she'd do it again. The lasses of the village followed her with their whispers and laughter. The elders watched her, suspecting her because of her association with Maeve.
She ignored them all. The knowledge, the power, everything she was gaining from Maeve and the few other local practioners of witchcraft - it was thrilling. And she would never have to depend on anyone's "love". She'd be her own woman, strong and fierce and free.
Though there was this baby coming. Despite herself, she felt fondness growing.
When the baby came, in the depths of winter, Maeve guided her, helped her, sponged off her forehead, gave her a rag to bite down on when the pains became too much. After hours of pain, and screaming, and blood, the baby came out, squalling loudly, covered with blood, his head strangely pointed from the birth. Maeve chuckled. "Aye, a strong boy he is," she murmured, wiping the blood and muck from him and wrapping him in a small, warm blanket. She laid him on Rowena's stomach. Rowena looked wearily down her body at him, and was conflicted. She was responding automatically to his calls, her arms reaching to cuddle him close.
But. "Him". A boy. Who would grow into a man. She had hoped for a daughter. Her lips twisted. "Call him Fergus Roderick McLeod," she sneered. Fergus for her father. Roderick for his. So she would never forget.
Still, she held him close, nuzzled him, and fell into exhausted sleep.
The boy grew quickly. She nursed him as she studied, carried him in a sling when she went searching for wild herbs and berries. Before she knew it, he was toddling around Maeve's cottage. As he got bigger, she would tell him what she was doing as she ground herbs together, steeped berries for potions, recited spells. When he was three, she and Maeve pressed him into service, grinding the herbs, fetching and carrying.
She loved him, but always, always remembered that he would grow to be a man.
As he grew even more, stretching out from the chubby roundness of toddlers and his face beginning to slender down, she found herself unconsciously snapping at him more and more. She didn't know what it was, but something about him set her teeth on edge sometimes.
One day, when she glanced up from her current hex making, to see him standing outlined in sunlight, she realized what the problem was. Black hair. Vivid blue eyes. Face already developing those cheekbones. A wave of anger, hatred swept over her.
He looked exactly like his father.
After that, she could never be with him without seeing Roderick. Without feeling that gut punch of betrayal. Without knowing that, no matter what she did, how proficient she became, how powerful, she had her own personal ghost following her around.
She took to withdrawing from him. Maeve noticed, and chided her for it. She snapped at Maeve in response, feeling ashamed, but unable to stop it.
The boy noticed, of course, and tried, desperately, to figure out how to make her love him more, stop withdrawing. He would follow her around. Whine. Pick at her sleeves to get her attention - All of which made matters worse. She would shout at him. When that didn't work, she would slap him. Maeve stepped in and became little Fergus's protector.
Part of Rowena was glad, the part that felt sad and guilty about her response to her very own son. It only angered the other part.
One day, when the boy was six, Maeve set them both down in the snug chairs by the fireplace, leaned forward, and said, "Time for a wee chat. Ro, my lass, I canna teach y'any more. Ye've learned everything I know." She looked down at her lap, fingers picking at the fabric. "It's been good. Ye're a good student. Ye're smart, willing to work hard, and have the power. I think ye're at a crossroads here. Y'can stop learning and become my full partner." She looked around at the cottage, smiling faintly. "Ye'll have everything I own when I pass, as you are like a daughter to me. Y'could be happy, I think."
Rowena listened carefully, eyes focused on her mentor.
Maeve sighed, smoothed out her skirt, and looked up at her. "But ye're ambitious, lass. Stayin' here...well. I'm not sure y'could. Ye'd go far, with other teachers. Say the word, and we'll look for those better teachers for you."
Rowena's eyes lit up with an inner hunger. She had been thinking, over the past few months, that she felt tied down, stifled, that surely there was more to witchcraft than this. It had made her feel guilty, to know she wanted more, that Maeve was not enough. But now she was offering her exactly what she wanted.
She wasted no time in protestations; she could tell that Maeve knew how she felt. It was freeing to realize that, to know her mentor was willing to encourage her to fly even higher. Her voice was eager as she said, "Och, aye! That would be...would be wonderful!"
Maeve nodded once, then stood up with an air of decision. "Well, then! Let's to it, eh?"
A movement by the door caught her eye. It was the boy. She bit her lips, realizing she hadn't thought of him once during their conversation. She frowned at him with narrowed eyes. What in God's name was she to do with him?