She felt herself relax as her imagination convinced her reasoning that this was all make-believe. A befuddled calm fell over her and she became limp, like a rag-doll, waiting for the next indication of what these dream-entities wanted her to do.
Cathbad was pounding the mistletoe with an ancient pestle and mortar, the stoneware scarred with the actions of years. He added the remains of the cow’s milk and a few colourful pinches of powder, extracted with a flourish from somewhere within the copious folds of his robes. When he had finished, he produced a good cupful of a glistening liquid which he sniffed at with satisfaction. Next he gestured for them all to gather around him and Lovernios, offering the leather bag, and its contents, to his son first.
There was a long pause while Lovernio
