She spoke with a strange accent, a combination of English, Irish, and something more familiar. Her small frame moved aside and allowed us over the threshold.

“He somehow found his way into Brynndalin’s grasp,” Guenevere told her.

Martha snorted and motioned to a hard stool where I was meant to sit. I settled. I’d have preferred one of the wing chairs that sat on either side of the fire, but after hours in the cold, I was pleased to warm myself.

“I think he was pursuing me.”

Guenevere looked at me like one surveying an ant that has found its way into lunch. I felt a heat that had nothing to do with the fire. She most certainly did not return my tender feelings. I was a clear annoyance. She crossed to a wing chair and sat down wearily. "The question is what to do with him now.” She turned to me and asked, “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

I tried to answer but found my tongue lay paralyzed on a sticky palate, and there was a lump in my throat I hadn’t felt since I was a lad in short pants. My lord, I was going to cry. Indeed, sitting next to Guenevere on her comfortable chair, with Martha looming above, I felt a child on my low stool. I shook my head.

“Well, that’s something.” Guenevere poured tea from a pot that sat on a table next to the chair and took a sip.

I was reminded of my own dry throat. I may have licked my lips.

“We can’t let him go,” Martha said. “Not after what he’s seen.”

Guenevere let out a heavy sigh.

“No … no, we can’t,” she agreed.

A strange look came over Martha’s face. Her grey eyes, black in the dim light, glinted with an odd spark. My embarrassment was soon replaced by fear. It was clear. Guenevere had saved me from the wolf only to make me her victim. Escape. I lifted myself from the stool and made for the door. It wasn’t locked and opened with ease. I had one foot outside when an unknown force pushed me back into the room. I took flight and would have crashed to the ground had not the stool, which I’d knocked over, righted itself and slid across the floor. My bottom landed squarely on the seat. The door slammed shut and bolted itself.

Still not understanding the power of the women, I tried again to stand. I tried with all my might, but somehow, I’d lost the ability to do an everyday task. I was secured to the stool and it to the floor—floor, stool, man—all one.

I looked to Guenevere. Her hand glowed with its own light. She’d prevented my escape without leaving her chair.

Martha gave out a low, mocking chuckle. “The last thing we need is you telling anyone who’ll listen what you’ve seen and heard. I, for one, do not plan on being burned at the stake.”

The glow in Guenevere’s hand dimmed. “They don’t burn witches anymore,” she reassured. “No one believes these days. This isn’t the 1600’s. Windfall has changed. Besides, I kept you safe then. I will do so now. You need not worry.”

Witches—the word rang in my head. What else could explain these strange events but witchcraft? It wasn’t true that no one believed anymore. I did.

But witches were old and ugly. I looked at my captors, their smooth faces. Not a wrinkle. They had the skin of infants. Yet to me they seemed as old as crones. Then what had Guenevere said—this was not the 1600’s—she’d kept Martha safe then.

Of course. They’d lived some three hundred years, maybe more. After all I’d seen and heard, immortality was but a small thing.

“Should we take the chance?” demanded Martha.

“Really …” Guenevere replied. “You could easily defend yourself.”

“All the same, he’ll need to be dealt with—permanently.”

Martha’s hand glowed with power.