NINE
"Now, will you be all right brewing all that up by yourself?" Grandmother asked, surveying the jars of honey that covered the table.
Rosa didn't spare the table a glance. "Of course. I'd sooner brew ten times this much than go into town again after yesterday."
Grandmother shook her head. "The townspeople will never show you the respect you deserve unless you believe you deserve it. You are their witch, soon to be their priestess, far more important than the Baron and his line, for our family has been here for centuries. You must wear your magic boldly, with pride, much like your red cloak. But today, save your magic for your brewing, for that is how the best mead is made."
Rosa bowed her head. "Yes, Grandmother." There was no point in arguing – Grandmother had earned the respect
