It was growing difficult by the day to hide her guilt. It was as if the very walls whispered of what Aoife had done and the servants watched her with condemning eyes. There were swans in her dreams – four of them – and they started to cross over in her waking hours. It was only a matter of time before her husband found that his children were gone and that his wife was to blame.
His children. They were not her children. Her sister had borne them, died, and then she had married Lir as his second wife. And the children had been there, watching her cautiously, like she was some sort of strange hound brought into the house and they weren't sure if she would bite them or not. Oh, she could bite, to be sure. And she had dwelt on her resentment – Lir loved them more than he loved her – until finally she turned feral.
Four children of Lir. Four white swans. They haunted her dreams and painted her guilt upon her features.
Aoife was transformed into a raven as punishment. Blood dripped from her b