Her greying brown hair was twisted into an untidy knot at the back of her head, secured with a couple of goose quills already trimmed for writing. Thomas noticed that one of them had ink on the tip.They had asked her years ago, when they were still boys, why people called her a sorceress. She had laughed, as she so often did and said, “Because I’m a woman who lives alone in the middle of the Wildwood. There are lots of folk think there must be something strange about me just because of that.”If she did have any sorcery it was of the same type as Morgan’s: a gift for finding … people or places or things.They sat with her now on the little patch of open ground in front of her ramshackle house, eating bread and honey and drinking the heather beer she had made for as long as they had known her.When they had finished they sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the wood around them.“So, why have you come to visit? There’s a reason, isn’t there, Morgan? Who are you searching for?”
