This was never how I’d thought I’d be using my magick. It left a bad taste in my mouth.
Kennet had told me Justine Courceau was a Rowanwand, and I had to deliberately put aside my personal feelings about the clan before I got to her house. Frankly, I’ve often found Rowanwands to be rather full of themselves. They make such a production of their dedication to good, of their fight against dark, evil Woodbanes. It just seems a bit much.
Kennet had been able to give me very accurate directions, and, barely twenty minutes after I had left Da, I was bumping down a long driveway bordered on both sides with hardwoods: oaks, maples, hickories. It was a pretty spot, and again I imagined how it would look in springtime. I hoped I wouldn’t be here to see it.
After about a quarter mile, the driveway stopped in front of a cottage that to my eyes screamed “witch.” It was small, picturesque, and made of local stone. Surrounding it was the winter version of a garden that must, in summer, be astounding. Even now, dormant and dusted with snow, it was well tended, tidy, pleasing.
Before I left my car, I went through my usual preparations. When a Seeker approaches someone she or he is investigating, anything can happen. An unprepared Seeker can soon be a dead Seeker. I took a moment to focus my thoughts, sharpen different defenses, physical and magickal, that were in place, and did the usual ward-evil, protection, and clarity spells. At last I felt sufficiently Seekerish, and I got out of my car and locked it.
I walked up a meandering stone path toward the bright red front door, wondering what Ms. Courceau would be like. Judging by the cottage, I was already picturing her as something like Alyce, perhaps. Gentle, kindly, with three or four cats. I hoped it would be as easy as it seemed. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that isn’t always the case.
While I had been sitting in my car, no face had peered out through the thick-paned, old-fashioned windows, bordered with dark green shutters, and I hoped Ms. Courceau was home. I didn’t see a car. Glancing toward the back, I saw a small greenhouse attached to the cottage, plus quite a few well-ordered squares of garden behind. Maybe there was a garage back there as well.
At the front door I put all my senses on alert and rapped the shining brass door knocker. I felt someone casting their senses toward me and instinctively blocked them. The door opened hesitantly, and a woman stepped forward. I was momentarily taken aback.
“Justine Courceau?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Can I help you?”
My first, instantaneous impression was that she was much younger than I had assumed. I realized Kennet hadn’t mentioned her age, but this woman couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. She was strikingly pretty, with shoulder-length dark red hair. Her skin was clear and ivory-toned, and her eyes were wide and brown, kind of like Mary K.’s.
“I’m Hunter Niall,” I said. “The council sent me here to talk to you.” This sentence can create any number of different reactions, from defiance, to fear, to curiosity or confusion. This was the first time someone had laughed at me outright.
“I’m sorry,” Justine said, stifling her laughter but still smiling widely. “Goodness. A Seeker? I had no idea I was so scary. Come in and have some tea. You must be frozen.”
Inside, her cottage was charming. I cast my senses and picked up on nothing but the usual frissons of lingering magick, regular magick—nothing odd or out of place. I detected faint traces of mild spellcraft, the pleasing scents of herbs and oil, and a quiet sense of joy and accomplishment. I could feel nothing dark, nothing that set off my radar. Instead I felt more comfortable in this room than I had in most of the places I had been in the last six months.
“Please, sit down,” said Justine, and I processed the musical notes of her voice, wondering if she sang. “The kettle’s already on—I won’t be half a minute.” She spoke perfect English but with a soft French accent. I was just glad she spoke English. It would have been hard going, doing all this in French.
The sofa in the lounge was oversize, chintz-covered, and comfortably worn. On the table before it rested a circular arrangement of pinecones, dried winter berries, some pressed oak leaves. It was unpretentious and artistic, and the whole cottage struck me that way. I wondered if this was all her taste or whether she had lived here with her parents and then inherited all their decor.
As soon as I sank onto the couch, two cats of undistinguished breed approached me and determinedly climbed into my lap, curling up, kneading my legs with their paws, trying to both fit into a limited space. I stroked their soft, winter-thick fur and again picked up nothing except well-fed contentment, health, safety.
“Here we go,” said Justine, coming in with a laden tea tray. There was a pot of steaming Darjeeling tea, some sliced cake, some fruit, and a small plate of cut sandwiches. After the past week of my doing all the cooking, it was nice to have someone feed me for a change.
Holding my tea over the cats on my lap, I said, “Obviously you know why I’m here. The council sent you a letter that you didn’t respond to. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, in your own words?”
Her brown eyes regarded me frankly over her Belleek teacup. “Now that I look at you, you seem quite young for a Seeker. Is this your first job?”
“No,” I said, unable to keep the weariness out of my voice. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on, in your own words?” Witches tended to prevaricate and avoid a Seeker’s questions. I had seen it before.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I assume you’re here because I collect the true names of things.” She took a sip of tea, then curled one leg underneath her on her chair.
“Yes. Every witch uses them to some degree, but I hear you’re collecting the names of living beings and writing them down. Is that true?”
“You know it’s true,” she said with easy humor, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
I took a bite of sandwich: cucumber and country butter on white bread. My mouth was very happy. I swallowed and looked up at her. “Talk to me, Ms. Courceau. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Justine, please.” She shrugged. “I collect the true names of things. I write them down because to learn and remember all of them would take me a lifetime. I don’t do anything with them; I don’t misuse them. It’s knowledge. I’m Rowanwand. We gather knowledge. Of any kind. Of every kind. This is what I’m focusing on right now, but it’s only one of many areas that interest me. Frankly, it doesn’t seem like the council’s business.” She leaned back in her chair, and another cat leaped up on the back of it and rubbed its head against her red hair.
I was aware that there was, if not exactly a lie, then a half-truth in what she had just told me. I continued to question her, to explore her motives.
“Many clans gather knowledge,” I said mildly, breaking off a piece of cake with my fingers. “It’s the very nature of a witch to gather knowledge. As Feargus the Bright said, ‘To know something is to shed light on darkness.’ But it makes a difference what kind of knowledge you collect.”
“But it doesn’t, don’t you see?” Justine asked earnestly, leaning forward. “Knowledge in and of itself cannot be inherently evil. It’s only what a person chooses to do with that knowledge that makes it part of good or evil. Do we want to take the chance that something precious and beautiful will be lost forever? I don’t have children. What if I never have children? How will I impart what I’ve learned? Who knows what later generations might be able to do with it? Knowledge is just knowledge: it’s pure; it’s neutral. I know that I won’t misuse it; I know that what I’m doing is going to be hugely beneficial one day.”