Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (2 page)

The crying came again.

“I don’t like that sound,” the widow told the trees, and she clutched the basket more tightly with her good hand and shuffled in the direction of the noise.

Within a dozen steps, she came to another stream. This one was dark and swift and hissed as it flowed, as if whispering fierce secrets.

The crying sound came again, louder, closer, and it seemed as if both she and the stream were headed for it. Widow Miller eyed the dark water warily, and pushed through a grove of prickly yews. The ground was rough and rocky, the trees gnarled, the forest dark with shadows.
I don’t like this,
the widow thought, and she hesitated and considered turning back. Through the trees she glimpsed a deep, black pond, and bobbing on the deep, black pond was a basket like the one she carried, and in the basket was a baby.

The widow uttered a cry of horror, and she cast aside her herbs and hurried forward, lurching and hobbling. Boulders tripped her and branches clawed at her clothes, but the widow fought her way to the pond. She flung aside her shawl and plunged in. Two steps, and the bottom fell away beneath her feet. Dark, icy water engulfed her, filling eyes and nose and mouth.

As a bride, the widow had swum naked in moonlit river pools, but she no longer had two strong arms and two strong legs and a strong, young husband beside her. Panic spiked in her chest. She clawed frantically at the water. Her head burst free, and she gulped for air and turned desperately towards the safety of the bank.

The high, thin wail sounded again.

Widow Miller found the bottom of the pool with one foot, and wrestled with her panic. Her lungs heaved and her heart hammered and she felt the prickling of Faerie over her scalp. She was near the border of the forbidden realm. Dangerously near. Too near. Common sense urged her to turn back, but the widow had been a mother three times, and motherhood was in her blood. When the wailing came again, high and thin and desperate, she thrust away from the bank and swam towards the basket bobbing in the middle of the pool.

Widow Miller was crippled and lopsided, and the pool was wide—and growing wider with every heartbeat—but she kicked and swam with all her might, hauling herself through the water. The basket bobbed out of reach, and the kitten-like wail came again—and then the widow’s groping hand found the woven rim and she gripped it tightly and pulled the basket towards her. “I have you,” she choked out. “You’re safe.” But the pool grew choppy, as if a strong wind blew. Waves slapped the widow’s face. Water filled her nose and mouth. She couldn’t see the bank, could barely breathe. Her clothes dragged her down, her left hand was useless, her weak leg a dragging weight. She gripped the basket and thought,
We’re both going to drown,
and then she thought of her daughters—solemn Ivy, bold Hazel, shy Larkspur—and she gritted her few teeth and kicked her good leg with all the strength she had.

Widow Miller fought her way back across the pond. The bank drew painfully nearer, and her feet eventually found purchase. She dragged herself clumsily ashore and knelt, gasping and shivering, clutching the basket. When she’d caught her breath, she lifted her head and gazed at the crying baby she’d rescued.

She saw a pale, heart-shaped face and a wailing pink mouth with tiny teeth as white and sharp as a young fox’s.

Fear prickled up the back of her neck.
Faerie
.

Widow Miller cautiously stroked the baby’s pale cheek. “You’re safe,” she whispered.

The wailing died to a whimper. The baby blinked and gazed up at her.

Every hair on Widow Miller’s scalp stood on end. She had never seen such dark and terrible eyes. They were fully black, black to the outermost edges, as black as the deepest, darkest night, full of wisdom and cruelty.

Widow Miller suppressed a shiver.
A babe,
she told herself.
’Tis but a babe
. She took up her shawl and gently tucked it around the infant in the basket, and then she stroked the pale, tender cheek again. “I shall take you home with me, and tomorrow we shall find your mother.” And somehow, she found the strength to stand.

CHAPTER TWO

WIDOW MILLER’S COTTAGE
lay a quarter of a mile beyond Dapple Bend village, on the far side of the village common, in a meadow where wildflowers bloomed and a little brook meandered.

The widow paused at the forest edge and gazed across the common. There was the meadow, and there her tiny cottage. She sighed with relief and weariness. “Home,” she told the babe.

The Faerie baby uttered no sound. It was fast asleep, black lashes laid upon its milk-white cheeks.

Widow Miller tucked her shawl more warmly around the infant, and peered across the village common. She saw no people abroad. Cautiously, she hobbled out from between the trees. Dusk tinted the sky pink.

The widow was halfway across the common when a man stepped from the forest, leading a donkey laden with firewood. The man was giant-like in his proportions, as broad-shouldered as an ox. His flaxen hair glinted in the low sun. Renfred Blacksmith.

Widow Miller halted, and wished she could hurry back to the forest, but it was too late for that, for Ren was already lifting one hand in greeting and calling a cheerful “Good day.”

The widow hastily covered the babe’s face with her shawl. “Keep sleeping,” she whispered, and she sent up a silent prayer:
Please, gods, let the babe not wake
.

Ren’s smile of greeting faded. He released the donkey’s rope. His stride lengthened until he was running. “By all the gods! What happened?”

One arm was about her, steadying her, and the widow was suddenly aware of just how much her legs were shaking. “What happened?” the blacksmith asked again.

Widow Miller leaned into him for a moment, taking comfort in his warmth and solidness. Ren Blacksmith, the kindest, brawniest man in all Dapple Vale. “I fell in a stream,” she said, and blushed for her lie, and for her love of the blacksmith.

“I’ll carry you home,” Ren said.

“Oh, no!” the widow said, drawing away from him. She clutched the basket to her chest.
Keep sleeping, little one
. “It’s only a few steps.”

“It’s halfway across the common, and you’re done in. Come, let me carry you.” Ren’s donkey ambled up and gazed at Widow Miller with dark, patient eyes.

The widow shrank back and shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said again.

“If you won’t let me carry you, then Githa shall,” Ren said, and he cast the bundled firewood from the donkey’s back.

“Oh, but—”

Ren took the basket from her and placed it on the ground. He lifted Widow Miller as if she weighed no more than thistledown and settled her on Githa’s back.

“My basket,” the widow said, a note of alarm in her voice.
Keep sleeping, little one
.

“I’ll carry it.”

And so, Widow Miller crossed the village common on the blacksmith’s donkey, with the blacksmith striding alongside, carrying her basket. Her chest was tight with anxiety. If Ren knew what was in the basket he carried, he’d want to help, and she could
not
allow that. The Fey were dangerous, deathly dangerous, and Ren’s wife was in her grave and he had a young son.

Don’t wake, little one,
she prayed silently.
Please don’t wake
.

Widow Miller’s cottage was small, but the thatching was plump on the roof and a cheerful plume of smoke rose from the little chimney. Two large red-brown hounds lay one on either side of the doorstep.

Both hounds lifted their heads. One sat up and gave a single loud bark; the other surged to his feet and bounded towards them, tail wagging.

The cottage door swung open. The widow’s middle daughter burst from it and ran across the meadow to greet them. “Ren, what’s happened?”

“Your mother’s had a soaking.” Ren handed her the basket. “Take this, Hazel. I’ll carry her in.”

“Oh, no,” Widow Miller protested, but Ren gathered her in his arms and lifted her from the donkey.

“Mother!” the widow’s youngest daughter cried, spilling from the cottage and hurrying towards them, her pale hair bright in the low sunlight. “Are you all right?”

“She’s wet through,” Ren told her. “And exhausted.” He carried the widow as easily as if she were a child, and she felt ashamed of her feeble, crippled body and ashamed of her hopeless, hidden love for him.

They crossed the meadow, the blacksmith and the widow and her anxious daughters. One red-brown hound bounded around them like a puppy, rearing up on his hind legs to sniff the basket; the other stood at the doorstep, tail wagging, uttering yipping, anxious barks, not moving from her guard post.

“Keep that basket from Bartlemay!” the widow said.
Merciful gods, please don’t let the babe wake now
.

A shadow filled the doorway and her eldest daughter stood there, leaning on her crutch. “Ren? What’s wrong?”

“Your mother fell in the water.”

The widow’s eldest daughter stepped aside, and Ren Blacksmith ducked his head and entered the cottage and set Widow Miller carefully on her feet. Exhaustion almost made her legs crumple. He steadied her. “Larkspur, give her your arm.”

The widow’s youngest daughter hastened to do so, and the middle daughter placed the basket on the trestle table and drew up a stool for her mother.

Widow Miller gratefully sat.

“Thank you, Ren,” the eldest daughter said. “You may be certain we’ll look after her.”

The blacksmith nodded, and gazed down at the widow. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

Widow Miller glanced fearfully at the basket on the table. “No, thank you, Ren.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you do.”

“There’s no need—”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” Ren Blacksmith said. “You rest now.” He dipped his head to the widow’s three daughters. “Good day, Ivy. Hazel. Larkspur. Remember, if you need help, I’m only five minutes away.” His great bulk blocked the doorway, and then he was gone.

Widow Miller sat shivering under the stares of her daughters.

“She needs to get dry!” The youngest daughter reached for the shawl covering the basket. “We can use thi
s—
”

“Careful!” the widow cried.

Her daughters all froze, startled.

“Careful,” the widow said again, in a more moderate tone.

The youngest daughter cautiously drew the shawl aside. The sisters crowded close. They peered into the basket, and then their shocked gazes swung to their mother.

“What . . . ?” the middle daughter said, and “No questions now,” the eldest daughter declared firmly.

CHAPTER THREE

THE WIDOW’S DAUGHTERS
fussed around her and soon she was dressed in warm, dry clothes and seated on a stool beside the fire, sipping meat broth, a blanket around her shoulders and the two large red-brown hounds at her feet. “Mother,” Hazel said urgently. “What happened?” But Ivy shook her head and said, “Let her drink.”

The widow drank her broth, and Hazel fidgeted and paced, and no one looked directly at the basket on the trestle table. Finally, the widow lowered her mug. Hazel stopped pacing. All three daughters looked at her.

“Mother,” Ivy said quietly. “Mother . . . what happened in the forest today?”

Widow Miller sighed, and glanced at the basket on the table and the sleeping infant, and sighed again and told her tale. When she had finished, none of her daughters spoke.

“I’ll take it back tomorrow and try to find its mother,” the widow said.

“You won’t cross the border!” Larkspur cried, at the same moment that Hazel said resolutely, “I shall go with you.”

“I won’t cross the border, my love—and you will not come with me, Hazel.”

“But, Mother—”

“No, Hazel.”

“Take Ren, then! He’d go with yo
u—
”

“No,” Widow Miller said firmly. “Ren must not know about this. Would you have him risk his life? Think of his son!”

There was a moment of silence.

“No one goes but me,” the widow said, and this time, Hazel raised no protest.

“According to the tales, Faerie women bear only one child,” Ivy said quietly. “Its mother must be frantic.”

They all looked at the babe.

“What if you can’t find its mother?” Larkspur asked.

“Then I shall go to the Lord Warder.”

As if their gazes had disturbed it, the sleeping infant woke. The widow flinched slightly from the impact of those ink-black eyes, and the babe blinked once, twice, and opened its mouth and wailed.

Larkspur flinched, and Hazel clapped her hands over her ears, and the larger of the two red-brown hounds, Bartlemay, fled through the door, his tail between his legs.

“It needs dry clothes and food,” Ivy said, reaching for her crutch and struggling to her feet. “Just as you did, Mother.”

BUT CHANGING THE
Faerie infant’s clothing proved no easy task. It flailed its fists and kicked its feet and was as loud and fierce as a baby could possibly be. The second red-brown hound slunk from the cottage, her ears back.

Larkspur fetched a length of cloth. “We can wrap it in this.” And then she peered down at the screaming child and said hesitantly, “Its teeth are very sharp.”

“No sharper than Bartlemay’s and Bess’s were, when they were pups,” Hazel said, and she set about the task of changing the baby’s clothing.

The baby bit her three times, drawing blood, but Hazel didn’t balk. She stripped off the tiny clothes—made of cloth as soft and fine as gossamer—and briskly dried each flailing limb. “It’s a girl, Mother,” she said, and “Stop that!” as the babe bit her for a fourth time.

Once the infant was warm and dry, its wailing didn’t cease. “She’s hungry,” Ivy said. “Here. Goat’s milk. I’ve warmed it.” But the baby spat out the goat’s milk, and screamed still more loudly.

“I’ll sweeten it with honey,” Larkspur said, but the baby spat that out, too.

The widow’s daughters looked at each other helplessly. “Maybe meat broth?” Ivy said.

The Faerie infant drank the broth, but once fed, she screwed up her face and wailed again. “Larkspur, you hold her,” Hazel said grimly. “Before I throw her out into the meadow.”