But once Mary had gone the old woman turned, and made her way back to
the grave. Reaching inside a goat-skin pouch that hung from her side
she produced something cold and pale, and kneeling, laid it upon the
heart of the mound. Then rose and looked about her with a narrowing
eye. Clasping a withered hand about the amulet that hung from her neck
she set off, leaving the bit of melancholy white behind.
A human finger.
The amulet about her neck was a raven's foot, clutching in frozen
death a dark opal.
Many hours later the old woman had still not returned to the cottage.
Mary sat with her elbows upon the sill of the loft window, the rage of
thoughts and questions inside her gradually slowing to the one emotion
possible in one who had seen and known such endless disappointment:
disbelief.
But try as she might to resolve herself to it, to accept that it had
not happened, still the phantom touch lingered inside her, denying all
peace. "My Mary." How differently the voice had said those words, than
on the day of her brother's passion! And yet how similar, how full of
the same love and care.
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