Belladonna

really wanted her.
    Swallowing down a sob as she remembered that young man standing in the moonlight, looking so romantic and saying things that ripped her heart open, she took the little folding knife out of her skirt pocket, opened it, and lifted it up to eye level. As she studied the blade, the breeze in the garden died, and it was as if the earth held its breath and waited to see what she would do.
    "A whore needs to be lovely," Caitlin said. "A sorceress does not." Lifting the knife, she held the blade just above her cheek.
    Imagining Aunt Brighid's horror and sorrowful acceptance upon seeing Caitlin's maimed face gave the girl a feeling of jagged pleasure. Imagining Michael's grief — and worse, the guilt that would live in his eyes ever after because he'd had to leave them in order to provide for them — made her lower the hand that held the knife.
    "I can't stand this anymore," she said, staring at the heart's hope. "I can't stand being here, living here. If I wasn't around, Aunt Brighid could go back to the White Isle where she belongs. Then Michael wouldn't have to support anyone but himself and could have a better life than the one he has now. He deserves a better life." Tears filled her eyes. Her breath hitched. "And so do I.
    Why can't I go someplace where I can have friends, where I'm accepted for what I am? Why can't there be a place like that? I'm so alone. It hurts to be so alone. Isn't there anyone out there in the world who would be my friend?"
    As she curled her body over her legs, her waist-length hair swung over one shoulder. Grief flashed back to anger, which deepened to a cold, dark feeling.
    Sitting up, she grabbed the hair just below the blue ribbon that kept it tidy. Then she laid the knife's blade just above the ribbon and sawed through the hair. Tossing the length of ribbon-bound hair in front of the heart's hope, she continued to grab chunks of the shortened hair and cut it even shorter, feeling a terrible satisfaction at this act of self-violation.
    Then she sliced her thumb, and the pain broke the cold, dark mood.
    Folding the blade into the handle, she tucked the knife in her pocket, then went to the waterfall to wash the wound. Not so deep it would need stitching, but it was painful and — she sighed as she wrapped her handkerchief around her thumb — it signaled an end to working in the garden that day.
    She looked at the tufts of hair that littered the ground around where she had been sitting. She looked at the tail of beautiful hair that used to make her feel pretty and no longer gave her pleasure.
    Then she ran out of the garden, ran all the way home.
    "Caitlin Marie!"
    She found no satisfaction in her aunt's dismay at her appearance, but she lifted her chin in defiance. "That hair was only suitable for a whore. I won't be anyone's whore."
    Aunt Brighid started to speak, then changed her mind about whatever she was going to say. Instead, she pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. "Sit down. I'll get my shears and see if I can tidy up what is left your hair."
    While Aunt Brighid trimmed the hair, Caitlin kept her eyes closed. There was a freedom to having hair so outrageously short.
    It would be seen as unfeminine, undesirable. Tomorrow she would look through the trunks stored in the attic. There might be a few things left that Michael had outgrown. With masculine hair and masculine clothes ... Maybe she would learn to smoke a pipe. And she would make it known that any man who showed interest in her did so because he had no real interest in women. No man in Raven's Hill would want to be accused of taking a moonlight walk with another man. Maybe, if she were mistaken for a young, somewhat effeminate man, she could even go traveling with Michael, get away from Raven's Hill altogether and see a bit of the world. Maybe even find people who could accept this strange gift inside her and would want to be her friends.
    No longer feeling quite so bleak, she helped Aunt Brighid sweep up the hair trimmings, then prepare the evening meal. Later, as they both worked on the mending, she thought about the hairs she had wound around the heart's hope and belladonna plants she had given to Merrill.
    When she'd gone up to get the plants, she hadn't paid attention to anything but the plants. Now, picturing that corner bed in the garden, she realized the stone that had come from the White Isle had been tucked behind the plants.
    After Aunt Brighid began talking about Lighthaven, she had given