Free Betraying Season by Marissa Doyle

towaning. Both are eternal cycles, without beginning and end, and the Triple Goddess also has no beginning or end. Here in Ireland, she is given the names Dana for the Maiden, Brigid for the Mother, and Badb for the Crone, though the names Dana or Danu and Brigid also are used for her collectively. Remember that this is not a strict scientific classification, and names and functions of the gods vary across distance and time.
    Each aspect has its own attributes. The Maiden represents rebirth, the vigor of spring, the freshly awakened energy of new growth, and any other beginning. Her color is white. The Mother is fullness, bounty, fruition, birth, and the giving of life. Her color is the red of blood shed in women’s cycles and childbirth. The Crone signifies endings and completions—not just the inevitability of death, but also the wisdom and knowledge gained with age and, eventually, rebirth as the Maiden. The Crone is generally regarded as the most powerful of the Three, because of her acquired wisdom, though each aspect has her own strengths related to her nature.
    As a female figure, the Triple Goddess is the mother of magic. Her cauldron, round like the moon, is—
    Her hand was cramping. She set down her pen and stretched her aching fingers while rereading what she had written. Would Dr. Carrighar’s students be able to endure references to such delicate femalesubjects as menstruation? So much for men being the stronger of the sexes. She’d love to see that self-righteous Eamon Doherty have to put up with the pain and mess of monthly courses, something that women everywhere endured silently and without complaint.
    Not to mention childbearing. Persy had told her about the talk Mama had with her before her wedding, and Pen was happy that she didn’t have to worry about such matters quite yet. Funny to think that this time last year she was the one who looked forward to being married. Then again, she hadn’t found her own Lochinvar the way Persy had.
    “I’ll follow the Maiden’s path for now, thank you very much,” she said aloud as she covered her inkwell, the hideous orange glass one that Charles had given her for Christmas last year. The Maiden, goddess of new beginnings. Wasn’t that what she was doing, here in Ireland? Finally beginning to take up her magical heritage?
    With a yawn, she snuffed her candles and climbed into bed, stretching her feet down toward the flannel-wrapped hot brick Norah’s cousin Maire, who was “obliging” for both Pen and Ally, had tucked under the covers a little while ago. Pen rather regretted that Ally’s sister Lorrie had stayed on with Persy as her lady’s maid. Lorrie had far more flair for clothes than Maire, who was scandalized by Pen’s passion for embroidered fancywork stockings.
    But socks aside, there was nothing cozier than snuggling into a warm bed and listening to rain falling outside. Pen closed her eyes and let sleep take her.
    Rain still hissed down beyond the entrance of the cave, but within, it was surprisingly warm and dry. Pen held her candle before her as she picked her way downward, deeper into the earth, following the voices that whispered her name.
    “Where are you?” she called.
    “Heeeerrrre.” The soft liquid vowel seemed to touch her face like a breeze. “Dooowwn heeere. Cooooome.”
    “I’m coming,” she replied, peering into the dark beyond the little circle of light cast by her candle. “But it’s hard to see where I’m going.”
    “Huurrryyyyyy.” The word floated insistently up to her. And as if the voices
had
been a wind, her candle abruptly went out.
    Pen gasped out loud and stopped dead. The gray light from outside the cave had long since faded, and there was not a particle of light anywhere. The darkness of the cave surrounded her like a tangible object, wrapping her up in itself like a pall of black velvet, swallowing her whole the way a python did its prey. She began to shiver, though the cave was still warm.
    “Come,”