A breeze stirred the conifers and shivered the round gold leaves of autumn, breaking the heavy northern silence. A porcujette flew screeching across the clearing in front of the cottage, its new winter quills reflecting the sky. Yvonne glanced up for a minute then returned to gathering rose hips and clipping the remains. The dog stopped snuffing at a groundmunk hole and looked towards the gate with a low growl.

"Don’t bother yourself with hitabears," said Yvonne. "They’ll ramble on."

Someone pulled the front bell attached to the bleached tusk gatepost and the voice monitor beside the gate intoned, "No peddlers, roving monks, or evangelists. Yvonne of Yaga is not available. Any request for boons, potions or spells must go through the Cooperative of Witches in Sebastopol which will examine your case and refer it to the appropriate necromancer." The dog rushed to the entry in a frenzy of barks.

"Quiet, Max!" yelled Yvonne. "We’re not expecting anyone, they’ll give up and go away."

The dog returned to her side. Yvonne returned to the gardening. The shadow beyond the gate remained, refusing to leave. It disturbed her tranquility.

The bell pulled again. The mechanical voice repeated its message. The shade waited. "Hello," called a male voice through the gate. The barnyard geese joined Max in a chorus of honks and yelps. Yvonne sighed. The stranger saw her through the cracks between the bones. She

brushed her hands and walked up to the gate.

A bear of a man with a red beard smiled tentatively at her. For a moment she saw her dead father, the striding giant of her childhood. Her irritation grew.

"Can’t you hear?" she snapped. "Were you never taught to listen? I’m not available."

"I was asked to come here," he said.

"Damn Cooperative," muttered Yvonne. "What do you want?"

"I was told that you might be able to help me learn to control my magic."

"A ‘prentice. For Seth’s sake. And not even a call to ask if it’s convenient for you to turn up here. I don’t take apprentices. Too much bother and whining." She examined the little she could see of him. "You look a little old to be starting an apprenticeship."

"Life got in the way," said the man in a quiet voice. "You’re Baba Yaga? No slaves?"

"Certainly not," snapped Yvonne. "I practice what I preach."

He stared up at her storm tattered roof. "I don’t much care about becoming a wizard. I’ve been working things out myself for a long time. It would have been nice to talk to someone experienced, that’s all. Maybe learn a few tips and short cuts, things that I’ve missed.

"Since you’re not accepting a ‘prentice. I’m strong. I’m used to heavy work. The nights are cold and it’s a long way from anywhere here. Perhaps you’d let me cut some wood for you or mend your shingles for a night’s shelter in your barn before I move on."

Yvonne became intrigued. He hadn’t reminded her that the Cooperative required sorcerers in good standing to take an apprentice or at the least have the candidate try the tests. At her refusal, he asked for a night in the barn in exchange for work, like a drifter. This was a new tactic.

And what was this nonsense about teaching himself? The law made schooling and apprenticeships mandatory, not to mention the social pressure from his house and family.

A thousand alternatives crowded her mind. Lying robber, runaway slave, devious apprentice, but one lone thought stuck. Could he be? Surely The Black would have returned with him. The wraith had agreed to bring her son or verification of his death, but fay seraphim were difficult to work with. No concept of time or reporting back, and you never knew if the alien really understood the request. She had listened over and over to the official version and the news sent by Dedalus, of angels, the mass murders, an expoding van, Yevgeny’s wrath; and decided, despite the hope of a faraway priest who felt the recent past in objects thick with strong emotion, that she had lost him, that Dante had died. Now, hope flared.

Yvonne pressed the scan button on the gatepost. No piles of baggage or servants, and more to the point, no gang of cut throats waiting among the trees, only a hitabear way back in the bush. A lone stranger she could handle.

"My roof needs fixing. I have new shingles round the back. Haven’t got around to hiring anyone. Let me have a look at you," she said, opening the gate. "I assume you know about the tests you have to pass to become my apprentice." She smirked. "And the fact that no one’s ever passed them."

The man shrugged. "I’ll still fix your roof."

He wore a loose gathered white shirt with a bit of peasant embroidery across the yoke and crisp new black pants; except for his bare feet, the clothes of a freeman dressed in his best for temple. His tangled curls were bleached white, his face above the thick ragged beard was the lean, leathery, sunburned bronze of a vagabond. One hand hoisted an odd, worn pack over his shoulder, the other stayed shoved in his pants pocket. He glanced back at the forest then entered.

Max sniffed at him. He bent down and let the dog examine his hand before petting and making a friend.

"I suppose you want a meal before you start your job," said Yvonne, her face cynical, her hands on her hips.

"Thank you. You’re very kind."

She led the way into the stone cottage, turning at the door to see if he followed. The stranger stared at her as he walked up the path, making her suddenly aware of her grubby overalls and hastily pinned up hair. He sent her a shy half smile and glanced away.

They walked into a large paneled room dominated by the green tiled electric furnace in the middle. The right side of the stove gave warmth, the other side was used for cooking. The warm inviting smells of stew and fresh bread wafted from a pot on the hot plate and several loaves on the counter. A moccatine maker added its own delicious scent and sound.

"Have a seat." Yvonne gestured towards four white painted chairs surrounding a metal table. "I suppose I don’t have to ask you to remove your shoes."

Her visitor wiped his feet on the entrance mat but made no move to sit down. He stared at the pictures cluttering the top of the piano: an old formal picture of her family dressed in their royal robes -- all dead but her, assorted pictures of her few friends with snaps of their children tucked in the frames, and, prominently in the middle, a photo of Dante at the age of seven, standing beside Anna, his nanny, who sat with an arm around him, his small hand resting on her knee.

"There’s stew, fresh bread and butter, " said Yvonne, her heart in her throat.

"Oh, uh. Thank you," he said, tearing his eyes from the photo of her son.

He sat down at the table, his pack on the floor beside him. She put the meal before him and he bowed his head in a silent prayer before taking a piece of bread and buttering it, his left hand resting hidden in his lap instead of steadying the slice. He took a bite and closed his eyes, savoring the taste, then downed the bread in a few hungry mouthfuls and tackled the stew. Yvonne poured him a cup of moccatine and refilled his bowl. He poured enough cream into the moccatine to make it half and half then added several spoonfuls of sugar to kill the bitterness, as her father and brothers used to, surely a coincidence. He took a long sip and sighed.

"How long since you’ve eaten?" asked Yvonne.

"I fished for maggots, yesterday. Dip a stick in the mound, they crawl up and cling to it. Pull it out, suck them right off .Chubby little things.Very tasty." He sent her a tiny smirk when she made a face, then turned serious. "It’s been a long time since I’ve had bread or butter. I’d almost forgotten moccatine." A glance at the picture. "Haven’t had any since I was a boy. Not something you see in the New World. This meal is very good."

"You have a name?" asked Yvonne, willing him to tell her.

"Dan." He stared right at her with grey eyes identical to her own.

"And your family?" Yvonne held her breath.

"All my loved ones are dead," he said in a matter-of-fact tone and bent to his stew.

"My family’s dead too," she said. "Murdered by the House of Strega. What’s your house?"

"I don’t have a home."

"I don’t think you’re a noble at all." Yvonne’s voice rose in frustration. "You’ll eat my food and rob me in my sleep."

"Shaker come," said the visitor.

The salt rose in the air and rode an invisible rail to his hand. He shook a little into the remains in his bowl and spooned up the last few bites. "If you show me your barn, I’ll change from my good clothes and fix your roof now."

Yvonne knew the truth. So nonchalant with a piece of show magic. My son. My son. Why won’t you tell me who you are? She grimaced as she sipped her moccatine. Why would he trust her? He didn’t know her from the next woman in the street. The deals that kept him alive when his experimental siblings died, the little gifts and letters returned unopened, the quick ship from her prison cell to exile with the promised meeting jettisoned. He knew nothing of any of it. No one would have told him he was her only child, the only child she could ever have. Yvonne gathered the dishes with shaking hands.

"While you’re at it, count the pile of straw in the barn piece by piece and tell me how much there is," she said in an off hand manner.

A strange blank look crossed the man’s face for a moment, then he said, "More than the trees, less than the stars."

"A pass for my first easy test," nodded Yvonne. "You know your tales, then."

He stared at the crumbs marking his place at the table. "I’ve gathered straw. Piece by piece. Until my arms overflowed. Never again." Mage Laius scowled in his features and her blood ran cold. Had she thought he would have nothing of his father? He glanced at her and the small grin that belonged only to him returned, as if to comfort. "Your house doesn’t have chicken legs."

"I get motion sickness, the swaying would do me in," smiled Yvonne.

"Madam..." he shut his mouth with a snap and rose from the table. The photo received a final glance, then he followed her out the back door to the yard.

Scruffy chickens pecked, the geese honked and hissed as she walked him across to the barn. A cow and several goats stared at them from a field. The thick smell of windfall apples wafted from the small orchard.

In the small barn, Yvonne pointed out a half-opened door. "In there is a pile of peas and stones for you to sort by the morning."

The man sent her a thoughtful look as he placed his pack on the floor and opened it, pulling out a work overall of the type used by the local farmers and workers. It looked brand new and unused. He stood up and waited for her to leave.

"The shingles are at the side of the house," said Yvonne. "The nails and a hammer are over there." She pointed to a work bench at the end of the building.

Yvonne left the barn and walked to the pile, full of confusion and hope. The man appeared at her side, his feet bare, the bucket of nails and hammer held in one hand, the other once again deep in his pocket.

"Don’t you have boots?" she asked. "You could get a splinter or a nail in your foot."

"I haven’t worn shoes for a long time," he said, his voice amused as he showed a blackened, trail hardened sole. "Maybe when the snow flies."

"Oh. Well. The shakes should all be good, even the ones at the bottom, they’ve been pressure treated," she said.

He knelt down, placed the bucket and hammer on the ground, grasped the side of a heavy shingle and removed his left hand from his pocket to help steady it. Only, no left hand existed, only a stump. Yvonne gasped.

"Don’t worry, I can still work," said the man.

"How did this happen?"

"Gangrene."

"What irresponsible healer looked after you?"

"In the bush, my rescuers did their best. Saved my life."

"What happened?"

The man shrugged, then she saw the miracle. He lifted up the shingle and examined it as if both his hands were whole. The left was invisible. Yvonne gaped at him.

"That’s impossible," she cried out.

"No, these new shingles look in good shape," he smiled, purposely misunderstanding.

He rose, moved to the ladder lying tucked behind the pile and, with one easy motion of the visible and the unseen, lifted it up to tilt against the edge of the roof. Yvonne stared as he tucked a pile of shakes under his left arm, the invisible holding them tight, then climbed the ladder and placed them on the roof. He climbed a little way back down and held out his stump to her.

"Can you hand me the pail and the hammer?" he asked.

She balanced the hammer on the top of the bucket and lifted it up. The air tugged where his fingers should have existed and the pail handle straightened. She could almost see the steady hand. He wandered away over the roof, inspecting and examining, until he found a worn area. Her visitor set to work, leaving her with a mouthful of questions.

Yvonne sighed and returned to the kitchen to wash the few dishes. Mystery hammered above, memory hammered within. She leaned against the sink, her knuckles white as the enamel bowl.

Laius crushing her chained, bruised body, thrusting and grunting, forcing unwanted life. Laius after, standing gloating beside the metal table, stroking her breasts and pinching her nipples with his hard nails, the pig.

"This is so much better than donations and test tubes and bottles. Nothing like nature’s way. These next few weeks will be so enjoyable," he said. "And once the fruit is set, the best of everything. Especially if you cooperate. We wouldn’t need to remove the zygote and have Dedalus put it in the ghost crystal if you called your fay seraphim.

"Aren’t they always looking for an experience in the material? I’d love to watch that," he snickered. "A wraith getting it on. Maybe we could have a threesome."

She spat at him. He wiped it off his grey chest hair with a smirk and flicked his riding crop across the red welts on her belly. She refused to flinch.

"You want me to continue convincing you, don’t you? Never could stand doing what you were told, could you, dear Yvonne? Better than an insolent slave, the breaking of a rebellious noble woman."

Yvonne pushed away the rest, much of it, thankfully, lost and remaining only in painful, fearful, angry bits and pieces.

She started. The sound of a man singing, rising and falling in time with the bang of the hammer. How long since she heard a man sing?

"Hymns. What ridiculous nonsense. What good did worshiping a fancy dressed doll ever do but make priests corrupt and rich?" muttered Yvonne. "Her milk white arms. Superstitious crap."

She rattled the bowls into the sink and thudded them about in the suds. The singing continued, rich and melodious, oblivious to her annoyance. When he began, Gaia, Queen of Heaven, that ancient piece of nun clap trap, she threw the dish brush down beside the sink and opened the plug in hopes the sucking away of the water would drown him out.

The singing and hammering stopped. She heard him laugh, then yell, "Hey. O.K.!" He began the most sickening song, right out of one of those light entertainment musicals where all the happy slaves sang as they toiled. Slavery. Her stomach tightened. And whose fault was it that her son became a slave? Her own.

The world outside the kitchen window glowed, then tumbling words in glorious colors -- red, green, blue, orange, gold -- swayed and swirled down like falling leaves. Yvonne stared at them in horror. He would attract attention. She rushed out the door. Her son and the roof glistened with a fountain of bright dancing words.

"Dante, Dante. My son, my son. Stop it. They’ll come for you," she cried.

His song ended, the magic disappeared and he turned calmly around from his work . He had pulled down the top of his overall, folded it so the arms made ties and tucked it round his waist. A deep web of scars replaced the skin of his back.

"Oh Sweet Gaia," she moaned. "What they did to you."

He picked up a remaining shingle, plopped the tools and nails in the bucket, walked down the roof and descended the ladder to stand beside her.

"Your roof’s mended. I’ve learned when it’s safe to use magic and when not," he said. "The power in the rocks and springs near here confuses things. Isn’t that why you picked this place?"

Yvonne blinked in surprise. He had taught her something. "No. The fay seraphim find it easy to visit here."

"Ah yes. The Shine." He changed the subject before she could ask about The Black. His manner became off hand, yet deep with undercurrents. "Why is there a picture of Nanny and me on your piano? "

"We should talk," said Yvonne. "This mysterious toing and froing is ridiculous. Come inside, I’ll get you a beer to quench your thirst."

He licked his lips then shut his eyes for a moment before saying, "I find it best to not drink alcohol."

"A glass of Special Lemon, then. My favorite drink."

He smiled. "Mine too."

They entered the house.

Chapter 2

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