Any innkeeper worth their salt knows how to keep a secret. If the walls of the Sea Hag could talk, what a wealth of secrets they would tell! And I have a treasure trove of my own, some of them to be revealed at the right time or at the right price, others never to be known.

One secret never to be known is the one who's warmed my bed all winter. A secret so deep that no one kens it, not even Fraoch, the head spearman, who has spent nearly every day and night since Samhain drinking by my hearth. This has been an especially dark season for the Niafer. Our Rian has not come out of her hut since summer's end and no one can say why. Our own war chief has deserted us. There are rumours that Dobhar's ghost prowls An Caiseal. These may be the reasons why Fraoch is drowning himself in mead. If he discovered my wintertime secret, he might well go cold sober on the spot. Aye, it is that much!

I watch through the doorflap of the back room while Fraoch offers hospitality to the Brigantes man and another traveler who has been waiting for him here. Then the spearman wanders away, as he sometimes does, but he is never gone for very long. I watch the two men carefully as they make a trade, then drain their cups quickly and depart. The Brigantes looks familiar, maybe he was here last summer. Ah, well, both were quiet and no trouble and they are gone now. My secret is still safe.

There are only two old men dozing on the bench along the wall now. They would never notice anything amiss, even if the inn burned down around their ears.

Sensing the silence, Nion slips out of the little room we share. He kisses me as he slinks outside, stealthy as a fox.

"Going hunting, m'love?"

A silly question and he nudges me with his spear on the way past.

"Be careful then." It is like telling the moon to wax and wane, but I must always say it to him when he sets out because I've come to love him so dearly. Not only that, we both know that one of these days he will go a-hunting and not come back to me, especially since Beltaine has come and went. At my age, I am thankful for whatever sweetness I can get from a man. If I were but a few years younger, I might run away with him to Magh Croimor. The idea makes me laugh aloud. Those are the winter dreams of a crone who's been made silly with a seasonful of long lost lust.