Foxmask Read Free Page A

was a tale about the Hidden Tribe, those tricky spirit folk who were seen from time to time in ancient, underground places, and she made sure it was long and exciting, and allowed the children to interrupt with questions as often as they liked. It grew dark. The folk of the household gathered around the table for supper. Creidhe’s efforts were rewarded by Eyvind’s smile and Nessa’s quiet words of approval. Brona ate every scrap and carried herplatter to the wash trough without being asked. Ingigerd was falling asleep even as she finished her meal.
    Respecting the family’s need for privacy with Eyvind so newly returned, the men and women of the household did not linger after supper, but retired early to their sleeping quarters. It was night outside, and a sudden chill crept into the longhouse, though its walls of stone and earth were thick and sturdy. Eyvind put more turf on the hearth and they moved in closer. One on either side of the flickering oil lamp, Creidhe and Brona worked on their embroidery. Brona was making laborious progress with a row of small red flowers across an apron hem. Creidhe’s project was more complex and more personal. She called it the Journey, and worked on a small section at a time, keeping the rest folded out of sight.
    It was quiet now. Ingigerd drowsed on Eyvind’s knee, held safe by the arm he curled around her. It was a shame, Creidhe thought, that the whole family could not be here together. That would happen increasingly rarely now that Eanna had completed her training as a priestess of the mysteries and retired from ordinary life to dwell in the hills alone. She must ask them tonight. This could not wait. Eyvind carried Ingigerd to her bed and tucked the covers over her. Brona pricked her finger and yelped; she sewed doggedly on for a while, then sighed, yawned, and packed her work away.
    â€œGoodnight, Brona,” Creidhe said a little pointedly. “I’ll help you with that in the morning if you like.”
    Brona flashed a grin and turned to hug first Father, then Mother. She bent to light her little oil lamp with a taper from the fire, then disappeared along to the sleeping chamber she and Creidhe shared.
    â€œMore ale?” Nessa queried. “What about you, Creidhe? Don’t strain your eyes with that fine work, daughter. You look tired out.”
    â€œCome, sit by me,” said Eyvind. “I’ve missed my lovely girl. Tell me what you’ve been doing while I was gone. I expect Aunt Margaret’s been working you hard.”
    Creidhe sat; she took the cup of ale her mother offered. Her father put his arm around her shoulders, warm and safe. If the topic were to be raised, there could be no better time for it.
    â€œFather, Mother, I want to ask you something.”
    They waited.
    â€œIt’s about Thorvald.”
    Silence again, though there seemed a change in the quality of it, almost as if they had expected this.
    â€œToday—today he was very upset. It was because—because Aunt Margaret told him about his father. His real father.”
    She felt the sudden tension in Eyvind’s arm, and heard Nessa’s indrawn breath.
    â€œI tried to help him. I tried to listen, but he was too angry. He said—Aunt Margaret told him his real father was a murderer. That’s what he said. That he killed his own brother, Aunt Margaret’s husband. And he said—” She faltered.
    â€œWhat, Creidhe?” Eyvind’s tone was calm enough.
    â€œThat you sent Thorvald’s father away,” she whispered. “Banished him from the islands, so that he never knew he had a son.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œFather, why is it none of you told us that story? Is it true? And wasn’t it cruel of Aunt Margaret not to tell Thorvald until now? He’s so angry and bitter. I’ve never seen him like this. There was nothing I could do to help.”
    A look was exchanged between her parents, a