Effie shrugged. “Witches are always outcasts, still better than being a cowan.”
"What's a cowan?” asked Miranda.
“An ordinary person,” Rowan explained as if it was obvious.
“Hail, Lady of the Fields! For the harvest, for the flowers in Dol Blathanna, but also for the hide of the undersigned, which you saved from being riddled with arrows.”
“It's just a still life, a part of me said. And it was: a green glass vase with an assortment of flowers drooping over its narrow top, blossoms and leaves of every shape and size and color-roses, tulips, morning glory, goldenrod, maiden's lace, peonies...”