Free The Swan Maiden by Heather Tomlinson Page A

miller’s boys, Jaume was so handsome … kind, too. Usually, anyway. Doucette bowed her head to hide the heat creeping up her cheeks. No doubt a sorceress should have loftier matters than a shepherd to occupy her thoughts.
    â€œCome.” Mahalt’s long skirt flared as she stalked away from the millpond. Despite the limp, she set a swift pace.
    Doucette hurried down the muddy track after her aunt. They left the mill village and entered a stand of cedar and pine, where the air smelled of wet leaves and wood violets. Patches of granular snow still flecked the ground under the trees. Spring came later to Luzerna’s mountains than it did to Beloc’s lowland valleys.
    Ahead, the faint sound of the washerwomen’s voices rose over the chuckle of running water. Before they reached the source of either noise, Mahalt turned and picked her way through the trees to a squat stone tower. Beyond the tower, a wide stream drained a soggy meadow to the river.
    Mahalt took the key from her neck and unlocked the tower’s only door. Doucette would have followed her aunt inside, but Mahalt shook her head. “I flew after you in haste,” she said. “The clothing remains for the next time I require it. Give me the cloak.”
    The breeze whipped through the pine trees behind the tower and laid cold fingers on Doucette’s arms and legs. Shivering, she held tightly to her swan skin, which gave off the dank aroma of millpond, and waited until her aunt reemerged carrying a black swan skin.
    Although Mahalt wore nothing more than the key around her neck and her shining hair for garment, the older woman maintained her self-possessed air. “I built several of these towers on my land to keep my swan skin safe. I advise you to do the same when you establish yourself.”
    â€œYes, Tante Mahalt.” Doucette stared at her aunt’s bare feet, one of which was oddly set on her ankle. The malformed limb didn’t appear to cause her pain, but Doucette felt a pang of sympathy.
    Mahalt locked the tower door and draped the ribbon over the latch. She cocked her head at Doucette. “What, are you waiting for me to part the waters? We fly to the castle, Niece. Change.”
    â€œYes, Tante.” For the third time, Doucette donned her swan skin, welcoming the heat that surged the length of her body, turned her inside out, and left her standing on two webbed feet.
    Oh, but she itched! Swan-Doucette unfurled her wings and preened, rooting out flakes of dirt and pond weed. Fastidiously, she nibbled each gray-tipped plume into place.
    In one fluid motion, Mahalt threw her feathered coat over her shoulders. Her shape rippled and changed into that of a black swan. Like heraldic markings, two white bands barred each glossy wing.
    Doucette thought her aunt’s swan shape as beautiful as her human form, marred only by one damaged foot. But lameness didn’t matter, Doucette reminded herself, once a swan was flying.
    Swan-Mahalt thrust her head through the dangling ribbon and twisted her neck until the key dangled over her breast. She signaled to Doucette with an imperious glance.
    Together, the black swan and the white waddled to the water. Feet pattering, wings beating, they leaped into the air.

Chapter Ten
    â€œAgain,” Mahalt said.
    â€œYes, Tante.” As if the magic she sought might be hiding in the maze of branches overhead, Doucette stared upward, then scratched her cheek. The feathers of her swan skin, which she wore slung over her shoulders like a cape, kept brushing against her, distracting her from the matter at hand.
    Her fingers curled over the wand Tante Mahalt had given her. Dark with age, the polished oak felt slippery.
    Gathering her scattered thoughts, Doucette touched the wand to a twig laid out on the gravel before her.
    Be applewood spoon,
    wide-bowled,
    long-handled,
    sanded smooth and fine,
    until I release thee from that shape.
    The twig shimmered and changed. One end