Where the Women Dance

[Description]

Every Samhain, Aoife's sisters disappear into the night and return at dawn with smoke in their hair and secrets they refuse to share.

This year, Aoife is finally invited to follow.

But among the firelight, dancing, and women unafraid to be seen, she catches the attention of Maeve: dark-haired, shameless, and far too delighted by Aoife's blushing.

By dawn, Aoife will understand why her sisters keep coming back.

Pronunciation Guide:

The sisters names

Aoife: Ee-fa

Niamh: Neev (rhymes with Steve)

Saoirse: Seer-shuh/ Seer-sha

Other words

bodhrán: bow-rawn. An Irish drum, animal skin over a wooden hoop.

Samhain: sow-in or sow-en. Meaning "Summer's End', the Gaelic festival celebrated the end of harvest and the turning of the season.

[Tags]

#samhain #halloween #celtic #pagan #folklore #ancientireland #historicalfiction #sapphic #lesbian #ffromance #girlxgirl #wlw #firsttime #sexualawakening #selfdiscovery #femdom #softdom #praise #praisekink #bonfire #sensual #erotica

By sunset, Aoife had done nearly everything except ask.

She had carried the water before Niamh could reach the buckets, swept the floor while Saoirse was still outside, brought in the washing, fed the hens, and spent the better part of an hour helping Mam with supper despite being told twice that she was underfoot.

None of it had worked.

Or, worse, perhaps they had noticed and simply weren't going to say anything.

They had been unbearable all day. Whispering. Disappearing together. Laughing whenever Aoife came near and immediately pretending they hadn't been laughing at all.

Every Samhain, once darkness fell, her sisters disappeared. They would slip away after supper and return sometime near dawn smelling of smoke, their hair tangled and their hems filthy. Once, Saoirse had come home with leaves caught all through her curls and refused to explain how they'd got there. Aoife knew there was a fire somewhere. She knew there was dancing, and other women, and apparently enough ale that Niamh had slept until midday last year and threatened murder when Aoife tried to wake her. Everything else remained infuriatingly secret. Where do you go? Out. What do you do? Things. What things? Things you're too nosy to know.

This year, Aoife had resolved not to ask.

By sunset, she was beginning to wish she hadn't hoped either. Neither sister had said a word, and all day she'd been hovering at the edges of their attention, waiting for an invitation that clearly wasn't coming.

She felt foolish for wanting it so badly.

After supper, while Niamh and Saoirse disappeared into their room, Aoife stayed behind to help Mam clear the table. Saoirse reappeared in the doorway a moment later. "Aoife."

She kept her attention on the bowl she was drying. "What?"

"Come here."

"I'm helping Mam."

"No, you're not." Saoirse tipped her head toward the passage, her expression suddenly pointed.

Aoife's hands stilled. She looked toward her mother.

Mam took the bowl neatly from her hands. "Go."

Aoife's stomach gave a strange little turn. She set down the cloth and followed Saoirse into the room she shared with her sisters. Niamh was already half-dressed, dragging a comb through her ginger curls and muttering each time it caught.

On the bed lay a white linen gown, freshly washed and neatly folded.

Aoife stopped. It was hers. They had decided she was coming all along.

Saoirse shut the door behind them. Aoife looked from the gown to her sisters.

Niamh's mouth curved. "Get changed."

Aoife stared at her. "Why?"

Niamh snorted and turned back to the little mirror. "She's clever, this one."

"Shut up."

"You know why."

Aoife did. She looked at the gown again. She still didn't quite trust herself to touch it.

Saoirse took pity on her. "You're coming with us."

Something warm and breathless opened in Aoife's chest. She reached for the gown. The linen was soft beneath her fingers, still faintly scented with the lavender Mam tucked among their things. Aoife found the familiar little stitches along the hem and swallowed.

Mam had known too.

Everyone had known. Aoife had been the only fool in the house wondering whether she was wanted.

She pulled her dress over her head. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Niamh said.

Aoife reached for the linen gown. "What's there?"

"You'll see."

"Who else is coming?"

Saoirse, still battling the knots in her hair, glanced at her in the mirror. "Women."

Aoife threw her discarded stocking at her. Saoirse ducked, laughing. "What? You asked."

"I hate you."

"You've been trying to do my chores all day."

Heat climbed Aoife's face. "I have not."

"Mm."

"I haven't."

Niamh rescued the comb from Saoirse before she could wrench out another handful of hair. "Sit down before you make yourself bald."

Saoirse surrendered her place with a scowl, and Aoife found herself pushed onto the little stool instead. "I thought you were doing hers."

"Yours needs it more."

Aoife opened her mouth to object, but Niamh had already begun working the comb carefully through her hair.

The room filled with the small familiar business of getting ready. Saoirse rummaged through the wooden box they shared and emerged with a narrow woven ribbon. Niamh braided back the hair at Aoife's temples and tied it away from her face. Somewhere along the way, Saoirse produced a little spray of red berries and tucked it into the braid.

Aoife reached up to touch them.

"Don't," Saoirse said, batting her hand away. "You'll pull them loose."

"Why am I wearing berries?"

"Because they're pretty."

"Is that actually why?"

Saoirse and Niamh exchanged a look.

Aoife narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," they said together.

"You're both horrible."

Niamh gave the braid one final adjustment, then turned Aoife gently toward the little mirror.

Aoife went quiet. She looked different. Not older, exactly. Not transformed into whatever mysterious creature her sisters became when they disappeared into the Samhain dark. She was still herself. But she looked as though she belonged beside them.

Saoirse appeared over her shoulder, studying their handiwork. "You'll do."

Aoife tried very hard not to smile.

Not long after, the three of them slipped from the house into the Samhain night. Aoife pulled her cloak close against the cold and hurried after her sisters, the red berries bright among her strawberry curls. Behind them, the last glow from the windows disappeared as they passed beyond the houses and took the narrow path toward the hills.

"How far is it?" she whispered.

Saoirse glanced back. "Farther if you keep asking questions."

Aoife made a face at her and kept walking.

They followed the coast for a time, the sea a black presence beside them and the wind tugging loose strands of hair from beneath Aoife's cloak. At the first cluster of houses, three more women joined them, slipping from the dark with muffled greetings and quick embraces.

After that, they turned inland.

The moon climbed while they walked. Paths narrowed. Fields gave way to rougher ground. At a crossroads they found two women waiting beneath an old hawthorn; farther on, another four emerged from a farm track, laughing among themselves. Aoife knew some of their faces and not others. No one seemed surprised to see her.

By the time the woods rose black ahead of them, there were more than a dozen.

Aoife slowed.

Niamh dropped back to walk beside her. "What?"

"Nothing."

Niamh gave her a look and reached beneath her cloak. A little flask appeared in her hand. "For courage."

Aoife frowned. "I'm not nervous."

"Of course not."

"I'm not."

Niamh smiled and held out the flask. "For warmth, then."

Aoife took it. The whiskey burned all the way down. She coughed once, earning a quiet laugh from Niamh, and shoved the flask back into her hand. "That's horrible."

"You'll change your mind."

Before Aoife could ask what that was supposed to mean, Saoirse called for them to hurry.

They crossed beneath the trees.

The world changed almost at once. The wind fell away. The sound of the sea disappeared behind them. Darkness gathered thick beneath the branches, broken only by strips of moonlight and the pale gowns moving ahead of her.

Then Aoife heard it.

Fire. A deep, steady crackle somewhere ahead. And beneath it, voices. Far more voices than the women walking with her could possibly make.

Aoife stared through the trees.

Between the trunks, something flickered gold.

A ripple went through the women ahead of them. Someone laughed. Another called out, loud enough that answering voices rose from beyond the trees, and suddenly half their little company was running.

Saoirse went with them. She caught up her skirts and flew barefoot down the path with a whoop, red hair streaming behind her. The others scattered after her, calling names Aoife couldn't make out.

Niamh laughed beside her. For one startled moment Aoife thought she might run too. Niamh had already taken two quick steps before she checked herself and glanced back.

Aoife pretended not to notice. "Go," she said.

"We have all night, no need to rush."

Aoife smiled, and Niamh slipped her arm through hers. They walked on together. The gold between the trees grew brighter. The crackling became a roar, and beneath it came another sound: a low, quick rhythm beaten out on two bodhráns. Aoife felt it before she properly heard it, thrumming right beneath her ribs.

Then the trees opened.

Aoife stopped dead. The clearing seemed made entirely of fire and women.

A bonfire towered at its centre, sparks streaming high into the black branches overhead. Women crowded around it in pale linen and wool, far more than Aoife had imagined could possibly be waiting here. Some were drinking. Some sat together on blankets near the trees. Others had already begun to dance around the fire, bare feet stamping the earth in time with the drums.

Nothing about it looked like dancing at home.

Hair had been unbound and left to whip loose around flushed faces. Skirts were gathered carelessly in fists or hitched above muddy ankles. One woman spun until she stumbled laughing into another's arms; another threw back her head and shouted something into the night that was swallowed by the answering cheers.

Aoife had never seen women make so much noise.

Not without lowering their voices afterward.

Not without looking to see who had heard.

Here, no one seemed to be looking at all.

Niamh's arm tightened gently through hers. "Still not nervous?"

Aoife watched Saoirse vanish laughing into the dancers.

The drumbeat struck beneath her ribs again. "No," she lied.

Niamh only smiled and led her into the clearing.

They had barely reached the fire before someone called Niamh's name.

After that, Aoife lost track of introductions. Women seemed to come from everywhere. Some she knew by sight, others not at all. A woman who sold eggs three houses down caught Niamh around the waist and shouted something into her ear over the drums that made them both laugh. Another squeezed Aoife's hand in welcome before disappearing back into the crowd.

Somewhere in the confusion, a cup appeared in Aoife's hand. She looked down at it. "Where did this come from?"

Niamh was holding one too. "Does it matter?"

Apparently not. Aoife took a cautious sip. The whiskey was sweeter than whatever Niamh had given her on the walk, warmed with honey and something she couldn't name. She took another.

A woman Aoife vaguely recognized came up behind Niamh and settled a hand easily at her hip.

Niamh didn't startle. She only turned, smiling, and leaned close as the woman spoke into her ear. Whatever she said made Niamh laugh. Her hand lingered another moment before she slipped away into the crowd.

When Niamh looked back, there was the faintest colour high in her cheeks.

Her eyes flicked toward Aoife.

Aoife simply raised her cup and drank.

A woman swept past them through the dancers. Aoife's gaze followed before she could stop it. Dark curls spun loose around the woman's shoulders, catching bronze where the fire touched them. Her white dress was finer than Aoife's, thin enough to move with every turn of her body. She danced without any of Saoirse's laughing clumsiness, sure-footed and unhurried even amid the frenzy around her.

Aoife's eyes dropped to the movement of her hips, watching them sway in time with her steady steps. Heat rushed over her face as she realized what she was doing. Aoife jerked her eyes away, stared very intently at the ground, and took another drink.

Beside her, Niamh went quiet.

Aoife could feel her looking. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You're looking at me."

"Am I?"

Aoife risked a glance at her. Niamh's mouth had softened into a small smile. "It's Samhain," she said, bumping her shoulder gently against Aoife's. "Don't spend the whole night wondering whether you're doing it properly."

Aoife frowned. "Doing what properly?"

Niamh's smile widened. "Exactly." Then she downed the rest of her drink. "I am going to dance. I recommend you do the same."

Before Aoife could protest, she was gone.

Aoife found a place near the edge of the clearing and sat with her cup between her hands, watching the dancers wheel around the fire. Niamh had already found Saoirse. Her sisters caught hands and spun together, laughing when Saoirse nearly lost her footing in the grass.

Aoife wanted to join them. That was the irritating part. Her feet had been tapping almost since they'd arrived. Now someone had brought out a fiddle, its quick bright notes winding through the deeper beat of the bodhráns, and sitting still required actual effort.

She could simply stand up.

Walk over.

Dance.

Apparently there were women in the world capable of doing things without first thinking about them from every possible direction. Aoife was related to two of them.

She took another drink.

The whiskey had settled warmly behind her ribs, softening the edges of everything. The fire seemed brighter now. The music better. Even the cold had become pleasant against her flushed cheeks.

Perhaps after one more drink.

"I'd hoped to see that pretty hair of yours spinning around the fire."

Aoife nearly inhaled her whiskey.

Someone had sat beside her.

Her.

Up close, the woman's curls were darker than Aoife had thought, deep brown threaded with copper from the firelight. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing. She wasn't even breathing particularly hard.

Aoife became painfully aware that she was staring again. "My hair?"

One corner of the woman's mouth lifted. "It seems only fair." Her gaze held Aoife's. "You got to watch me dance."

"I wasn't watching you." The woman's eyebrow rose. Aoife lasted perhaps two seconds. "Not particularly."

"Oh." The woman nodded solemnly. "Well, in that case, forgive me for bothering you."

She pushed herself up from the log and turned away. Aoife's heart fluttered wildly against her ribs. A moment ago this woman had been nothing but dark curls and white linen spinning through the firelight. Then she'd come over. Sat beside her. Talked to her.

And now she was leaving.

"I didn't say you were bothering me."

The woman stopped. Aoife immediately wished the fire would open up and swallow her.

Slowly, the woman looked back over her shoulder. "No?"

"No."

"But you weren't watching me."

"I might have been." Aoife tightened both hands around her cup. "A little."

"A little." There was laughter hiding at the corners of her mouth now. Aoife narrowed her eyes.

"You're enjoying this."

"Very much."

Aoife's face burned hotter.

The woman laughed and sat beside her again, close enough this time that their knees touched. "Maeve."

Aoife looked down at the point of contact before remembering she'd been given a name. "Aoife."

"I know."

Her head snapped up. "You know?"

Maeve only smiled, reached over, and took the cup neatly from Aoife's hands. A plain brass ring circled one finger, burnished gold by the firelight. She took a deep sip. Aoife watched her mouth touch the same place hers had been and experienced the peculiar sensation of every thought leaving her head at once.

Maeve handed it back, then rose and held out her hand toward the dancers. "Come."

Aoife looked at it. The fiddle raced on behind them. "I don't know how."

"You have feet."

"That's not the same thing."

Maeve smiled. "Then use mine."

Maeve curled her fingers around Aoife's and pulled her to her feet.

Aoife nearly stumbled into her. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"I nearly stepped on you."

"You didn't." Maeve drew her toward the fire before Aoife could find another objection.

The rhythm felt entirely different inside the circle. Louder. Faster. The bodhráns beat through the ground beneath her bare feet while the fiddle seemed determined to race ahead of them all.

Aoife immediately lost whatever small understanding she'd had of what everyone else was doing.

Maeve laughed.

"Don't."

"I'm not laughing at you."

"You are."

"A little." Maeve caught her other hand. "Stop looking at your feet."

Aoife looked up.

"Better."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"I do." Maeve guided her easily through the crush of bodies. A hand at her elbow turned her before she collided with someone. Fingers settling at her waist sent her the other way. Whenever Aoife faltered, Maeve simply corrected her, gentle and certain, as though Aoife's body were perfectly capable of understanding if her mind would only stop interfering.

Slowly, it did.

The whiskey helped. So did Maeve.

Aoife missed a step and laughed instead of apologising. Maeve caught both her hands and spun her outward. Her strawberry hair flew across her face; fire and white linen and dark trees blurred together.

She came around breathless.

Maeve sent her spinning again. Aoife laughed louder.

This time when Maeve pulled her back, she came quickly--too quickly.

One arm closed securely around Aoife's waist, catching her against Maeve.

Aoife's laughter died on a breath. They were suddenly very close. Close enough that Aoife could see the damp curls clinging at Maeve's temple. Close enough to feel the rise and fall of her breath. Maeve's hand remained firm at the small of her back.

Heat flooded Aoife's face.

Maeve looked at her.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved. The drums continued around them. The fiddle shrieked merrily on. Women stamped and laughed and spun past, but Aoife seemed to have fallen into some strange little stillness at the centre of it all.

Maeve's eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, then rose again. Aoife forgot how breathing worked.

Maeve winked.

And spun her straight back out.

Aoife went with a startled laugh, dizzy enough now that she wasn't entirely sure the whiskey deserved the blame.

After that, she stopped counting the turns. The dance became fragments. Maeve's hand catching hers. Firelight rushing past. The stamp of bare feet against earth. Dark curls brushing Aoife's cheek whenever Maeve drew her close.

And Maeve drew her close more and more often.

Somewhere along the way, the night around them changed.

Aoife noticed it only in glimpses. Two women kissing beside the fire, heedless of everyone around them. Another pair tangled beneath a cloak at the edge of the clearing, bare legs visible where the wool had slipped aside. Near the trees, a woman had another pressed back against an oak, skirts gathered carelessly between them, her head tipped against the bark as whatever was happening beneath the folds drew a broken cry from her.

Aoife nearly missed a step.

Maeve's hand closed around her waist and steadied her. "Careful."

Aoife dragged her gaze back. Maeve was smiling. Heat climbed all the way to Aoife's ears. "I wasn't looking."

"They're not hiding." Maeve spun her.

Aoife came back into her arms almost immediately. This time, Maeve didn't send her away. Aoife's hands had somehow found her shoulders. Maeve's rested at her waist. Around them the dance continued, but theirs had become something smaller, slower, their bodies moving to a rhythm that had very little to do with the fiddle anymore.

Aoife swallowed.

Maeve's face was close again. Aoife was beginning to suspect that wasn't an accident.

"You have such beautiful hair, Aoife." Her fingers caught a loose strand and tucked it gently behind Aoife's ear. But her hand didn't fall away. Her palm settled against the side of Aoife's head instead, warm and steady, her fingers curving into the hair behind her ear.

Aoife's heart performed something violent and useless beneath her ribs. "It's not."

Maeve's brow lifted.

"Beautiful, I mean." Aoife could barely think with Maeve holding her like this. "Saoirse's is. Hers is properly red. Mine's just sort of..." She swallowed. "Pale."

Maeve's thumb moved once against her cheek. "I wasn't talking about Saoirse." She tipped Aoife's chin up just slightly, leaving nowhere comfortable for her gaze to escape. "I was talking about your hair."

Aoife swallowed. "Oh."

Maeve smiled. "Yes. Oh." Her thumb brushed slowly along Aoife's cheek. Then her gaze dropped. "I've been wondering about these too."

Aoife barely had time to understand what she meant before Maeve leaned in and kissed her.

Her hands froze against Maeve's shoulders. Her breath caught somewhere useless in her chest. Maeve's lips were warm and soft and on hers, and for one impossible moment Aoife could do absolutely nothing but stand there and experience the complete evacuation of every thought she'd ever possessed.

Maeve drew back barely an inch.

"Oh," Aoife whispered again.

Maeve's smile softened. Her thumb brushed once across Aoife's lower lip, and Aoife's breath caught all over again. "Come on, Strawberry."

Before Aoife could ask what that meant, Maeve caught her hand and led her out of the dancers.

Aoife followed. Mostly because following Maeve seemed to be the only thing she was presently capable of doing.

They found a place nearer the trees where the fire was warm but the drums no longer seemed to be beating directly inside Aoife's skull. Someone pressed another cup into Maeve's hand as they passed. Maeve took it without breaking stride and handed it straight to Aoife. "Drink."

Aoife did. The whiskey burned pleasantly down her throat.

She touched her lips.

Maeve had kissed her. A woman had kissed her. Maeve had kissed her. Aoife's gaze darted toward the fire. What if her sisters had seen?

She found Saoirse first, still dancing somewhere in the crush. Niamh was harder to spot.

Then Aoife remembered the hand resting easily on Niamh's hip earlier.

They're not hiding.

Something inside her loosened.

She drank again.

The kiss hadn't frightened her. That would have been easier to understand. She had liked it. She had liked Maeve's hands on her. Liked being pulled close. Liked the way Maeve had looked at her before she'd done it. Worse, some restless warmth had followed her from the dance, low and unfamiliar, refusing to settle even now that she had.

Aoife took another drink.

Maeve sat down beside her. "Better?"

Aoife considered this. "No."

Maeve laughed. They settled against the enormous trunk of an old oak, their bare thighs pressed together as Maeve told her about the six Samhains she'd spent beneath these trees. A woman passing by squeezed Maeve's shoulder in greeting; Maeve caught her hand briefly, called her by name, and went on talking.

Somewhere in the telling, Maeve's hand settled warmly on Aoife's thigh as she leaned closer to be heard. "After a few years, I started looking out for the ones who came for the first time." Maeve's thumb moved idly against the soft skin there. "I like watching them discover what the night can be."

Aoife glanced at her. "Is that why you danced with me?"

"Not the only one." Maeve reached up and tucked a strawberry curl behind Aoife's ear again.

Aoife's stomach gave a dizzy little turn.

Maeve's fingers lingered behind her ear as she leaned closer, slowly enough that Aoife understood. Her heart stumbled, but this time, when Maeve stopped just short of her mouth, Aoife closed the distance herself.

The kiss was soft and brief, and somehow left her wanting far more than the first.

Maeve stayed close. "What do you want, Strawberry?"

Aoife's face burned. Maeve was still near enough that every breath seemed to cross the little space between them. "I don't know."

"That's all right." Maeve found her hand between them. "Tell me what you do know."

Aoife swallowed. Her fingers worried absently at the brass ring on Maeve's hand, turning it once around her finger. She knew Maeve's hand felt good in hers. She knew she wanted her closer again. She knew her lips were still tingling from the kiss.

"I liked when you kissed me."

Maeve's gaze warmed. "Did you?"

Aoife nodded.

Maeve's thumb stilled. "Words, Strawberry."

Her stomach fluttered. "Yes."

"Good." Maeve kissed her. Just once, warm and lingering enough that Aoife instinctively followed when she began to pull away. Maeve's smile brushed against her lips.

When she drew back, her hand came to rest in the grass beside Aoife's thigh. Close enough that Aoife could feel the warmth of it. She waited for the touch that didn't come.

"What?" Maeve asked softly.

Aoife's eyes dropped helplessly to her hand.

Maeve followed her gaze. "Do you want me to touch you?"

Aoife nodded, but Maeve didn't move.

"Aoife." There was something firmer in her voice now, enough to pull Aoife's gaze back to hers. "Use your words."

A strange little shiver ran through her. "Yes," she whispered.

Maeve's expression softened immediately. "Where?"

A tiny, helpless sound escaped Aoife before she could stop it. Her leg shifted against Maeve's, restless with the memory of that warm hand resting there earlier. "My leg," she finally managed, barely getting the words out.

Maeve's mouth curved. "Your thigh." Her palm settled exactly where it had before.

Aoife exhaled shakily.

"There?"

"Yes."

Maeve's thumb swept once over her skin. "Much better." Her gaze held Aoife's. "Would you like to touch me?"

Aoife's lips parted, but nothing came out. She wet them quickly, painfully aware of Maeve watching her do it. "Yes," she whispered.

Maeve smiled and drew her closer.

After that, Aoife stopped worrying about what she was supposed to do and simply let Maeve show her. By the time Maeve finally let her rest beneath the old oak, Aoife had learned considerably more about Samhain than her sisters had ever been willing to tell her..

For a while, Aoife was quite certain she would never move again.

She did, eventually. The fire burned lower. The fiddle disappeared sometime after the drums, though Aoife couldn't have said when. There were more kisses beneath the old oak, more breathless laughter, more things Maeve coaxed her into trying that left Aoife hiding her burning face against her shoulder afterward. At some point someone brought them a cloak. At some point another woman joined them beneath it, warm and familiar to Maeve, and Aoife discovered she was too pleasantly exhausted to be startled by much of anything anymore.

She remembered Maeve's fingers lazily combing through her hair. Saoirse laughing somewhere nearby. The orange glow of embers through half-closed eyes.

She did not remember falling asleep.

#

Aoife woke because her arm had gone numb.

For several confused moments, this was the only thing she knew.

Her cheek was pressed against something warm. Someone's knee was wedged behind hers. An arm lay heavily across her middle, and there was hair in her mouth that was far too dark to belong to either of her sisters.

Aoife opened her eyes.

Grey morning filtered through the branches overhead.

The fire had collapsed into a wide bed of smoking embers. Bodies were scattered around it beneath cloaks and abandoned dresses, some curled alone, others tangled together in little heaps that seemed to have formed wherever exhaustion finally caught them.

Aoife was in one of the larger heaps.

Maeve was behind her, still asleep, one arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Another woman had apparently acquired Aoife's legs sometime during the night. Aoife had no memory whatsoever of this happening.

She carefully extracted the hair from her mouth.

Somewhere nearby, somebody snored.

Loudly.

Aoife bit down on a laugh.

Then she remembered. Not all at once. Mercifully.

Firelight. Maeve's hand in hers.

Words, Strawberry.

Kissing her. Dancing. Whispering against her ear.

Aoife squeezed her eyes shut.

Oh, gods.

Her face went hot beneath the cold morning air.

She had done all of that. And worse, given the warmth that unfurled low in her stomach at the memory, she apparently had no intention of regretting it.

Aoife tried to sit up. The arm around her waist tightened immediately and pulled her straight back down. She landed with a startled little laugh against Maeve's chest.

"No."

Aoife twisted enough to look at her. Maeve's eyes were still closed, dark curls in complete disarray across the cloak beneath them. "No?"

"Too early."

"The sun is up."

"I said what I said."

Aoife smiled despite herself. Maeve tucked her closer, face disappearing into the strawberry tangle at the back of Aoife's head. Her hand wandered sleepily down Aoife's side beneath the cloak, affectionate and increasingly distracting. "Maeve."

"Mm?"

"Your hand."

It stilled. For perhaps half a heartbeat. "What about it?"

Aoife bit back another laugh. "You know."

Maeve kissed the back of her shoulder. "Use your words, Strawberry."

Aoife buried her face in the cloak. Maeve laughed against her skin.

It was some time before Maeve finally allowed her to escape. By then the clearing was waking around them, and Aoife had discovered just how impossible quiet could become when Maeve was determined to make her lose it. At one point, Maeve had clapped a hand firmly over her mouth, laughing wickedly into her hair while Aoife squirmed helplessly against her.

It was considerably longer before Aoife could look at her without blushing.

Around them, women stretched beneath cloaks, searched for missing shoes, complained about aching heads and attempted to determine which abandoned dress belonged to whom. Someone had coaxed the fire back into a reluctant little flame.

Aoife found her gown beneath a cloak that definitely hadn't been there when she'd lost it.

Maeve helped her into it. This apparently required far more touching than Aoife had previously understood dressing to involve. "I can do it."

"I know." Maeve smoothed the linen over her hips anyway. Aoife looked at her. Maeve's hands travelled upward, smoothing the linen into place before lingering over her chest.

Aoife's breath caught. "Maeve."

Maeve's gaze lifted to hers, warm with quiet satisfaction. "There." Only then did she let her hands fall away.

Or almost.

Maeve caught Aoife's hand between them. For a moment, her thumb moved over Aoife's fingers. Then she slipped the brass ring from her own.

Aoife looked down. "What are you doing?"

Maeve didn't answer. She slid the ring onto Aoife's finger instead.

Aoife stared at it. She remembered turning that same little band beneath the oak, worrying it around Maeve's finger while she'd struggled to find her words.

"But it's yours."

Maeve's fingers closed gently around hers. "It was."

Something small and warm unfurled beneath Aoife's ribs.

By morning light, everything ought to have felt different.

It did to Aoife. It certainly didn't seem to for anyone else.

Women greeted Maeve as they crossed the clearing, some with sleepy smiles, others with knowing ones. One caught Maeve's hand as they passed and squeezed it. Another looked Aoife over with such open amusement that heat immediately crept into her cheeks.

Maeve only smiled back.

After the third such encounter, Aoife began to understand that there had never been anything remotely private about last night.

Strangely, the realization became easier to bear with Maeve beside her.

Maeve didn't lower her voice. Didn't pull away when someone looked at them. Didn't behave as though there were anything to conceal. By the time they reached the remains of the fire, Aoife had almost stopped wondering what everyone knew.

Then she saw Saoirse. Her sister was sitting beneath a cloak with another woman tucked close against her side, their bright hair hopelessly tangled together. Saoirse turned at the sound of their approach.

Aoife stopped. Saoirse's eyes widened. Before either of them could speak, Maeve stepped in behind Aoife. Her hands settled familiarly on her hips and drew her back against her.

Saoirse looked down at Maeve's hands. Then up at Aoife's face.

Very slowly, her mouth began to curve.

"Don't," Aoife whispered.

Maeve's chin dipped beside her ear. "Don't what, Strawberry?"

Aoife shut her eyes.

Saoirse caught her lower lip between her teeth.

For one dreadful moment, Aoife waited.

But the teasing never came.

Saoirse glanced at the woman tucked beneath the cloak beside her, then back at Aoife. Something in her expression softened.

"Have a good night?"

Aoife opened her eyes.

Saoirse was still smiling, but there was no cruelty in it now. No laughter waiting to spring.

Aoife nodded.

Then, because Maeve's hands were warm and steady at her hips, because Saoirse was looking at her as though nothing about her had changed for the worse, because the morning suddenly didn't feel quite so exposing, a small smile found its way onto her face.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I did."

Maeve's hands squeezed her hips once before drawing her away.

They hadn't gone far when Aoife spotted Niamh beneath one of the great trees. She was curled beneath a cloak with the woman who had greeted her so familiarly the night before, sharing a slow, sleepy kiss as though there were nothing remarkable about it at all.

Niamh opened her eyes.

Across the clearing, the sisters looked at one another and smiled.

Maeve's fingers slipped through hers. "Come, Strawberry."

This time, Aoife went without hesitation.