Daughter of the Blood

through the gardens with Wilhelmina.
    Alexandra had decided that Wilhelmina needed some light exercise before beginning her Craft lessons with Lady Graff, an unspeakably harsh woman whom Daemon had taken an instant dislike to—as she had to him, more because he had ignored her coquettish suggestions than for any other reason. Leland then suggested that Daemon accompany the girl, since Wilhelmina had an unreasonable fear of men and exposure to a Ringed male who couldn't be a threat to her might help relieve her fear. So when the weather permitted, he escorted Wilhelmina around the grounds.
    The first few days he attempted conversation, tried to find out her interests, but she skittered away from his attempts while still trying to be a polite young lady. It struck him one morning, when a silence had stretched beyond expected comfort, that this was probably one of the rare times in the day when she had the luxury of her own thoughts. Since she spent most of her time in Graff's steely presence, she wasn't allowed to "moon about"—a phrase he'd heard Graff use one day in a tone that implied it was a usual scold. So he stopped trying to talk to her, letting her have her solitary half hour while he walked respectfully on her left, hands in his pockets, enjoying the same luxury of having time for his own thoughts.
    She always had a destination, although she never seemed to reach it. No matter what paths they took through the gardens, they always ended up at a narrow path that led into a heavily overgrown alcove. Her steps would falter when she reached the place, and then she would rush past it, breathing hard, as if she'd been running for a long time. He wondered if something had happened to her there, something that frightened her, repelled her, and yet drew her back.
    One morning when he was lost in thought, thoroughly absorbed with the puzzle his Lady had left him, he realized they'd stopped walking and Wilhelmina had been watching him for some time. They were standing by the narrow path.
    "I want to go in there," she said defiantly, her hands clenched at her sides.
    Daemon bit the inside of his lip to keep his face neutral. It was the first spark of life she'd shown, and he didn't want it squelched by a smile that might be misunderstood as condescension. "All right."
    She looked surprised, obviously expecting an argument. With a timid smile, she led him down the path and through a trellis arch.
    The small garden within the garden was completely surrounded by large yews that looked as if they hadn't been trimmed on this side in several years. A maple tree dominated one end, girdled by a circular iron bench that had been white once, but the paint was now peeling badly. In front of the yews were the remains of flowerbeds, tangled, weedy, uncared for. But the thing that made his breath catch, made his heart pound too fast, too hard, was the bed of witch blood in the far corner.
    Flower or weed, witch blood was beautiful, deadly, and—so legend said—indestructible. The blood-red flowers, with their black throats and black-tipped petals, were in full bloom, as they always were from the first breath of spring to the last dying sigh of autumn.
    Wilhelmina stood by the bed, hugging herself and shivering.
    Daemon walked over to the bed, trying to understand the pain and hope in Wilhelmina's face. Witch blood supposedly grew only where a witch's blood had been spilled violently or where a witch who had met a violent death was buried.
    Daemon stepped back, reeling.
    Even with the fresh air and the other garden smells, the dark psychic scent was strong there. Sweet Darkness, it was strong there.
    "My sister planted these," Wilhelmina said abruptly, her voice quivering. "One for each. As remembrance." She bit her lip, her blue eyes wide and frightened as she studied the flowers.
    "It's all right," Daemon said soothingly, trying to calm the panic rising in her while fighting his own. "I know what witch blood is and what it stands for." He searched for words that might comfort them both. "This is a special place because of it."
    "The gardeners won't come here. They say it's haunted. Do you think it's haunted? I hope it is."
    Daemon considered his next words carefully. "Where's your sister?"
    Wilhelmina began to cry. "Briarwood. They put her in Briarwood." The sobs became a brokenhearted keening.
    Daemon held her gently while he stroked her hair, murmuring the "words of gentle sorrow" in the Old Tongue, the language of Witch.
    After