Free The Winter Witch by Paula Brackston Page A

herds. Mam and I sold cheese there when we could, buying cheap milk from Spencer Blaencwm’s dairy where we worked. Mam would pick wild garlic and together we would churn it into creamy rounds to sell. Business was always good when the drovers came through. That is where Cai first saw me. He could have been under no illusions as to what I was. A dairy maid with a sometime cheese stall at the smallest market in the shire. He would come to inspect our wares on the evening of his arrival, and in the morning before the drove went on its way. Then he would visit on his return journey, when he was unencumbered by his many charges. A year and a half of passing through and pausing. Snatched moments in which to convince himself he had found a suitable bride. And to convince Mam my future lay with him. I will say, he purchased a large amount of cheese! Perhaps it was that which led him to believe I might be capable of cooking. I recall he did his best to look prosperous, sensible, dependable.
    And now look at him. Longer eyelashes than a man should be blessed with. Skin tanned from the outdoor life, but not yet weathered. His hair is streaked gold by the summer sun. There are several years between our ages, yet as he sleeps I see the boy in him. Unsure of himself. Vulnerable. Oh! He is stirring. I have no wish to be found standing here, watching him. He mumbles something, his eyes still closed. Both dogs lift their heads from their paws. I hasten from the kitchen and back to my own room.
    *   *   *
    Cai comes blearily to his senses. His arm swings over the side of the chair, numb from sleeping awkwardly. Bracken licks his hand. He struggles to sit up. There is a fearful crick in his neck. Before he can properly open his eyes he becomes aware of a presence. A shadow falling on him, cast by a figure standing close. Morgana? He had been dreaming of her, he remembers now. In his dream she appeared like a wraith. She had leaned forward and touched his face, silently watching him, smiling at him. His own voice seems to have temporarily left him as he tries to form her name.
    “Mr. Jenkins!” Mrs. Jones is not best pleased to find he has spent the night in the kitchen. Again. “ Duw, what are we to do with you?”
    “Ah, Mrs. Jones…” Not Morgana, then. Just a dream. Reality stands stoutly in front of him in the resolutely substantial form of his housekeeper.
    “There you are again with your not bothering to get to your bed. Robbed yourself of a proper night’s sleep for no good reason.” She puts her hands on her hips and tutts loudly, shaking her head. “And what is Mrs. Jenkins to make of such behavior? Have you stopped to consider how it do appear to her?”
    Cai opens his mouth to speak but hesitates. He was about to remind her that they did not, as yet, share a room, so that Morgana was most likely unaware of where he had spent the night. But, somehow, he has no wish to enter a discussion centering on his marital sleeping arrangements. It is too sensitive a subject, and one for which he has not yet found a satisfactory course of action. He gets to his feet, nudging corgis out of the way with his boot.
    “Did Maldwyn drop you off on his way to work?”
    “As he does most mornings.” Mrs. Jones shoots him a look that says she will not be so easily put off course.
    “He’s a hard-working lad, Mrs. Jones. You’ve reared him well.” He busies himself rattling the scuttle as if checking for coals.
    “No doubt you’ll have sons of your own to manage one day. Soon, perhaps, if you do treat that pretty new wife of yours properly.”
    Cai will not entertain thinking about what, precisely, Mrs. Jones might mean by properly. “She is exactly that, Mrs. Jones—new. And as such she should be allowed time to settle in before … before…”
    Mrs. Jones waits, eyebrows raised.
    Cai snatches up the buckets. “I’ll fetch the coal,” he says.
    “The coal can wait.” She steps to one side so that he would have to retreat