Angharad swept breathlessly into the hut and threw her arms around him. “Oh, thank goodness,” she exclaimed, inexplicably, and then released him with barely a glance; she turned to the doorway and reached over the lintel, swept her hand across its edge and pulled down the small parcel of linen. The other two women followed her inside somewhat more sedately; Eilwen grinned at him as he fumbled with his shirt, whose inside-out dishevelment remained stubbornly uncooperative with his awkward efforts to don it. “Well-met again, Geraint of Gellau,” she purred.
“Indeed, milady,” he stammered, wishing the floor would swallow him. “I am honored.”
Her gaze raked the entirety of him with obvious approval. “Don’t feel you have to dress on ouraccount.”
Eilwen squinted at her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the altar, where the small driftwood fire was crackling with green and purple-tipped flame. She hummed a chant while her slim hands moved in ritual patterns, laid the bundle of grass inside the creamy, rose-streaked bowl of a scallop shell, and placed it near the fire to smolder.
“I need to get back to—,” Angharad began, feebly, and took a step back, but Eilwen grabbed her sleeve again, with an arch grin.
“Oh no, you don’t. You’ve not been here in a fortnight, anyway; you can spare half an hour to please me, even if you don’t care about slighting the goddess.”