“I’ve got that part.”
He handed her a bow. “This weight will suit you well enough.”
“Weight?”
“The string, you see, the strength you need to draw it back. First watch.” He picked up another bow, took his stance.
“We won’t nock an arrow yet, but I would use my draw hand to do that, then grip the bowstring with three fingers, the bow I take with the other hand.”
He held up his palm. “You know the lifeline on the palm?”
“Yes.”
“I hold the bow with thumb inside up to that line before I lift my arm, keep my shoulders level. Level,” he repeated. “Then I draw, this way, you see?”
She watched him draw the bowstring smoothly back toward the right side of his face.
“And that eye, that same side—the right for you, for me, the left for others—you train your focus on your target. Now draw the blades in your back together, chest out—for the power, the muscle and strength of your back, you see?”
“All right.”
“Then you take your fingers from the string and loose the arrow, and as you do, your hand moves to the rear, under your ear.”
“More steps than I realized.” And she concentrated on keeping them in order in her head. “I figured you just pulled it back, aimed, let it go.”
“No. Try it as I said.”
She tried to mimic his stance, reminded herself to keep her shoulders level, gripped the string and the bow as instructed, drew back.
She barely moved the bow an inch, reset, put more muscle into it. When she released, it twanged, and the string slapped against her forearm.
Since she wore a jacket, it was more shock than pain.
“Again. Slow and smooth for now.”
She did it again, and again, and again until he deemed her ready for an arrow.
“With your draw hand”—he demonstrated—“you nock the arrow. Your three fingers hold the nocked end and the string.”
In what seemed like one fluid move, he nocked the arrow, lifted the bow, drew, and shot. And naturally, hit the center of the target.
Naturally.
She repeated each step in her head, followed them. When she released the arrow it took a shaky flight before hitting the ground barely four feet from where she stood.
“No,” he said simply, and handed her another arrow. “Shoulders level, and pulled back. The draw smooth, steady.”
This time the arrow flew a little farther—and a good three feet to the right of the target into a pretty hedgerow of fuchsia.
“No,” he said again, and this time moved behind her.
He took her shoulders, turned them. “It goes where you send it. It hasn’t a choice in the matter, does it? You do.”
He pressed his face close to hers to share her aim, his hands over hers to guide her. “Pull the energy, the power, into your back. Aye, now, release.”
The arrow hit the target—not the center, but it hit it.
She smelled of cinnamon, all but hazed his mind with it.
He stepped back.
“What have you been doing?” he demanded.
“I’ve been trying to shoot a damn arrow.”
“Before. What spell have you been working?”
“None today—not really. Why?” She rolled her aching shoulder. “We baked pies and bread, made soup from pumpkins, from the garden. Why?”
“You smell of them.”
And the oils from such spices could be used, he knew, in spells to stir lust, even love. Forbidden spells.
He handed her another arrow. “Again.”
“Does the smell of pumpkin pie piss you off?”
“No. The scent of the spices is in your hair, on your skin. These can be used for spells and potions as well as cooking.”
“I know. I’ve studied, practiced, used them that way. But today, it was for cooking.”
She started to nock the arrow, then it struck her.
Insulted her down to the marrow.
“Love potions? They can be used in love potions. You think I would do that? I know they’re forbidden, and I respect the craft. I respect my gift. I respect your choice to feel what you feel. I’m not so damn desperate I’d mix up a love potion so you’d want me again.”
“I only asked because … bugger it. I’m here to train you, to prepare you for what’s coming. There are Fey who will not come back home again after Samhain, and I must send them to fight knowing it. I’m not here to want you, and yet I do.”
“And that pisses you off. Your problem, Taoiseach.” Furious, she nocked the arrow. It ended up straight down in the grass barely a foot from her boots.