"Perhaps. My father was a weedy little man with red hair. He swore I was none of his. I didn't look like my mother's side, either. I've never looked like anybody, until I met you and Kerrel. Oddness becomes very wearing, especially when you don't know why you should be odd." He added, "The villagers in Cornwall called me changeling. I had the same thought when I saw you."
"So we are of one race. Could you stay with me, Michael?"
"You're not a woman, you're a witch. I've never met a witch before."
She laughed outright at that. "Nonsense. Witch, changeling—those are words for fools and peasants."
"Who are the Vardda, Shairn?"
She shook her head. "I told you last night. It is a tribal name. You were saying to Kerrel that you had come to Brittany to trace down your family. Do you know where to start?"
"I learned in Cornwall that they came from a place called Keregnac."
He thought she started a little at that name, but she said nothing, and he asked, "Do you know the town?"
"It's not a town," she answered slowly. "Only a tiny village, lying on the edge of a great moor. Yes, I know Keregnac." She picked up a bit of driftwood and began to draw idle patterns in the sand. "I don't think you will learn much there. The village is very old, and is now almost dead."
"But," he said, "I don't have to worry about that now, do I?"