Their parents were both considered decent folk. Children raised so close to Annwvyn were bound to have a spark of wildness in them. They would settle down, said Enid, the innkeeper. It was widely thought that the eldest, the only daughter at that time, was filled with mischief, and her younger brother trailed in her wake. And once they’d tied a small wagon to a pig and raced through the village, screaming with mingled fear and joy. They tumbled through the house, slamming into walls and breaking one of the wooden love spoons their father had carved. They went to the fields and returned with berry-stained lips, crunching seeds between their teeth. They chased chickens through the neighbors’ yards, brandishing sticks like swords, claiming that the fowl were monsters in disguise. T HE GRAVEDIGGER’S CHILDREN were troublemakers.
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