Murmurs rose among those within earshot.
Some crossed themselves. Others nodded as if it were obvious.
“The healer?” Lennox asked, a hint of amusement returning.
“She sees things,” another villager added quickly. “Kens things.”
“She brings trouble,” someone muttered darkly.
Frederick observed the mixture of fear and reverence on their faces. Superstition often filled gaps where facts did not.
“And ye believe she has a hand in this?” he asked calmly.
The first woman swallowed. “Nay… but she might ken more than the rest of us.”
Lennox leaned closer again. “Or she might throw salt at us and predict our doom.”
Frederick ignored him.
If the Spáewife held information, whether by intuition or rumor, he would hear it.
“Where?” he asked.
A hand pointed toward the tree line at the far edge of the village. A narrow path disappeared into brush and shadow.
Frederick nodded once. “We will speak to her.”
As he turned toward the path, a quiet unease settled beneath his ribs. A tension that coiled in his chest.
He dismissed it as anticipation.
After all, this was merely another duty to fulfill.
And yet, as he stepped toward the cottage at the edge of the village, he had the distinct sense that whatever waited there would not be simple.
The path toward the Spáewife’s cottage narrowed as it left the main lane, splitting into a small clearing where two worn tracks crossed.
Children occupied the crossroads as if it were their own kingdom.
A stick sword clashed against another. A shriek of laughter rang out. One small figure darted past with a ribbon of stolen cloth trailing like a banner of war.
Frederick slowed without meaning to.
Children were always loud. Uncontained. Unaware of borders and alliances, and the cost of poor decisions. He had once been that careless. Before inheritance had settled on his shoulders like armor he could not remove.
Lennox strode ahead and clapped his hands once. “Ho there. Which of ye brave warriors can tell us where the Spáewife keeps her den?”
The children froze, then stared openly.
Recognition dawned on a few of the older ones. Whispers fluttered.
“Me Laird,” one breathed.
Frederick inclined his head slightly but did not speak.
A freckled lass pointed down the left track. “Past the birch trees. Last cottage before the river bend.”
“Much obliged,” Lennox said with exaggerated courtesy.