Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (3 page)

Larkspur glanced at the baby’s sharp teeth, and gulped a breath, and nervously took the child from her sister.

“Walk with her,” Ivy said, leaning on her crutch. “Rock her.”

Larkspur walked up and down the tiny room, gingerly rocking the Faerie child. After a few moments, she began to sing. Her voice was sweet and low and gentle. The wailing died to a whimper, and the whimper to a few hiccuping sobs, and then the baby fell quiet.

Larkspur stopped singing. “She’s asleep,” she whispered, but at that moment the baby’s black eyes snapped open, and she drew a breath and opened her sharp-toothed mout
h—

“Don’t stop singing!” Hazel said, and then she said, equally firmly, “To bed with you, Mother,” and she helped the widow into the next room, with its straw-filled pallets on the floor. “Sleep,” she said. “We’ll look after the babe.”

THE WIDOW’S THREE
daughters cared for the Faerie baby all that long night. Twice, Widow Miller woke. Through the open doorway she saw flickering rushlight and the shadows of her daughters as they walked to and fro. She heard voices singing—once Larkspur, once Hazel—and the sound of someone putting more wood on the fire. The rich, meaty smell of broth mingled with the scent of woodsmoke. She huddled on her straw pallet, under coarse woolen blankets, and thought about the Faerie babe, and about her crippled body and Ivy’s lame leg. Tales of the Fey drifted through her mind, tales of munificent gifts and cruel punishments.

The third time the widow woke, it was dawn. She struggled awkwardly from her bed—her hip was always stiffest in the morning—and hobbled to the doorway. Two of her daughters were in the next room, Larkspur stirring a pot on the fire, and Ivy at the trestle table, the babe in her arms, singing softly. The widow gazed at her eldest daughter, at her ruined leg stretched stiffly out and the crutch propped alongside her.

It was beyond human powers to mend Ivy’s leg, but the Fey could heal it if they chose to. If someone dared to ask them.

Widow Miller kneaded her hip, trying to ease the ache. She imagined being able to walk freely again, to have the use of both hands, both eyes, imagined seeing Ivy run and dance again.

Dare I?

Hazel came in through the door with an armful of firewood and both hounds at her heels, and said, “Mother, you’re awake,” and Bartlemay bounded forward and tried to lick the widow’s face, and the Faerie babe woke and opened her mouth in a wail.

WIDOW MILLER PREPARED
carefully for her excursion into the woods. Her daughters helped her to dress in her best clothes, and to comb out her long, graying hair and plait it in a coronet around her head. The widow was outwardly calm, but her stomach churned with a mixture of terror and hope. Hazel fed the babe one last time, wrapped her warmly in a shawl, and tucked her back into her little basket. Then she said, firmly, “I’m coming with you, Mother.”

The widow looked at her middle daughter, at the bright brown eyes and stubborn jaw. “No.”

Hazel’s jaw became even more stubborn. “If you think I’m going to let you go alone, the
n—
”

“Hazel . . .” The widow touched her daughter’s cheek lightly, silencing her. “If anything should happen to me in the woods today . . . you must look after your sisters.”

Hazel opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. After a moment, she nodded.

Larkspur burst into the cottage, a pail of fresh water slopping in her hand. “Ren’s coming,” she said breathlessly. “With Gavain.”

“Take the baby!” Hazel said, thrusting her towards the bedchamber, and Ivy said, “Sing to her.”

Larkspur disappeared into the bedchamber with the Faerie babe.

Outside, Bess barked. Not a loud, warning bark, but a friendly, yipping one.

Widow Miller smoothed her kirtle nervously, and limped to the door.

Ren Blacksmith was coming across the meadow, his six-year-old son riding on his shoulders. Bartlemay pranced around them, wagging his tail joyfully, and at the doorstep, Bess waved her tail, too.

The widow stepped outside. “I give you good day, Ren Blacksmith. Good day, young Gavain.”

“Good day.” Ren swung his son down from his shoulders. “How are you?”

“As well as I ever was. Thank you for your kindness yesterday.”

Widow Miller knew the sunshine was cruel to her ruined face, knew it showed her crooked nose and caved-in cheek, so she looked away from the blacksmith’s clear gaze and smiled down at his son. “How are you, Gavain?”

Gavain grinned at her, his mouth as gap-toothed as her own, and held out a handful of wildflowers. “I picked these for you.”

The widow exclaimed over the flowers and felt tears prick her eyes, for the motherless little boy was as dear to her as her own daughters. When she looked back at the blacksmith, he was patting Bess. “Thank you,” she said again.

Ren Blacksmith nodded. He took his son’s hand. “If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

“Thank you,” Widow Miller said a third time, and she stood on the doorstep clutching Gavain’s flowers and watched father and son walk back across the meadow.

When they reached the village common, she inhaled a sharp breath and turned indoors.

WIDOW MILLER WRAPPED
a shawl around her shoulders and took leave of her three beloved daughters, wondering if she would ever see them again. She embraced them each, resolutely picked up the Faerie basket, and hobbled to the door.

“I’ll carry it for you, Mother,” Hazel said, taking the basket from her. “As far as the forest.”

The widow looked at the determined set of her daughter’s jaw, and decided not to argue.

Together, they crossed the meadow, Hazel shortening her stride to match her mother’s. At the forest edge, they halted. “Mother . . . from what I’ve heard, the Fey dislike being indebted to humans. And this babe’s mother will be very much in your debt. You have saved her child. Her only child—if the tales speak truly.”

“I know,” the widow said. “I intend to ask for a wish.” She glanced back at the little cottage and the two figures standing in the doorway, one leaning on a crutch.

“Be careful, Mother. The Fey are said to despise meekness. If you behave too humbly . . .”

“I shall be as bold as you, boldest of my daughters.” Widow Miller laid a kiss upon her middle daughter’s smooth, young cheek. “Look after your sisters if I fail to return.” And then she inhaled a deep breath, took the Faerie basket, and entered the cool green shadows of Glade Forest.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SUN WAS
high in the sky by the time Widow Miller reached the cheerful, chuckling stream where she’d gathered herbs yesterday. She searched for the second stream—dark and hissing—and the black pool where she’d rescued the babe, but found no sign of them. Finally, she spied her basket of herbs upturned alongside a mossy log.

“Hello?” She cautiously approached the basket. “Can anyone hear me?”

Leaves rustled in the breeze and a bird sang somewhere behind her, but other than those sounds, Glade Forest was silent.

I need to find the border,
Widow Miller thought, but her feet stayed where they were, unwilling to move. Finding the border with Faerie seemed as sensible as standing underneath a wasps’ nest and beating it with a stick. “But first I’ll see to these herbs,” she told the sleeping baby. “After all the effort of picking them, it’s a terrible waste to just let them lie here and rot. See? They’re only a little shriveled.” She gathered the herbs as briskly as a one-handed woman could and set the basket beside the mossy log and clambered awkwardly to her feet. “Now, let’s find your mother.”

She picked up the baby’s basket and took a deep breath—and for a moment her courage failed her. Her heart beat loudly in her ears and her feet were planted to the ground as firmly as tree roots. And then she thought of having two strong legs and two good hands and two clear-seeing eyes, and she thought of Ivy’s crutch, and she took a second deep breath and hobbled between the tree trunks.

But the Faerie border was elusive. Widow Miller walked in great limping circles, ever wider, searching for the tingle on the back of her neck. “Hello?” she called. “Hello?” An hour passed, and then a second hour. The widow’s legs ached, her arm trembled from the weight of the Faerie basket, and her voice grew raspy and weak. She began to despair of ever finding the border.
I could leave the basket here. Leave it and go home. Let the forest take care of the babe
. And then she imagined herself walking freely, imagined Ivy walking freely, and gathered her strength and hobbled further.

“Hello?” She entered a small glade with a patch of jaunty yellow primroses, a glade she was certain she had passed through three times already . . . and a tingling sensation crawled across the nape of her neck.

Widow Miller halted.
I’ve found it
. And then she thought,
No, it found me
. She stood, swaying in her tiredness, feeling the prickling tingle climb up her neck and crawl across her scalp, listening to the fearful thump of her heart. “Courage,” she whispered to herself, and she tightened her grip on the basket, and called as loudly as she could: “Hello! Is anyone here? I seek this child’s mother.”

The Faerie babe woke suddenly and blinked her black eyes and opened her sharp-toothed mouth and added her thin, piercing cry to the widow’s call.

“Hello!” Widow Miller called again. “I seek this child’
s—
”

A gust of wind bellowed through the forest, so strong it snatched the widow’s words from her mouth and knocked her backwards a lurching step. Trees groaned and swayed, branches whipped, and the air was thick with whirling leaves—and then the wind was gone as abruptly as it had come. The widow’s ears rang as if there had been a clap of thunder.

Airborne leaves drifted to the ground. The Faerie babe fell silent. No birds sang, no insects hummed, no branches rustled. Widow Miller had the fancy that the whole forest held its breath. Her skin prickled with an awareness that someone—some
thing
—was watching her.

Widow Miller swallowed nervously. “I seek this babe’s mother.” She tried to speak loudly, but her voice was thin and fearful.

Another gust of wind lifted the leaves from the ground, making them swirl wildly—and when they settled, a woman stood beside the jaunty primroses.

The widow’s heart stopped beating in an instant of sheer terror.
Fey
.

The Faerie woman had a cold, cruel, inhuman beauty. Her skin was paler than moonlight, her eyes deeply black. She wore a gown of blood-red velvet. Pearls glowed in her ebony hair. Her beauty was so terrible, so perfect, that the widow’s eyes hurt to look at her.

“Give me my child,” the Faerie said, in a voice as sharp and dangerous as a knife blade.

Widow Miller swallowed, and clutched the basket more tightly. “How do I know you’re her mother?”

Scorn flickered across the Faerie’s face. “Humans. Such blunt senses.”

“How do I know you’re her mother?” the widow repeated, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. “Someone tried to drown her. I won’t give her to anyone but her mother.”

“Her blood is my blood. If you had keener eyes, you would see it.” The Faerie lifted one hand, and for an instant the widow saw the sap running in the trees, saw each unfurled leaf inside each burgeoning bud on each strong, outreaching branch, saw the kinship between woman and babe—and then her vision dulled once more.

Widow Miller blinked, and clutched the basket even more tightly.
Courage,
she told herself. “I saved your child’s life at risk of my own. For that, you owe me.”

The Faerie stiffened. Her cheekbones became sharper, crueler.

“My daughters cared for your child all night. For that, you owe them.”

The Faerie’s black eyes narrowed. The silence surrounding them took on a brittle edge.

Inwardly, Widow Miller cringed. Outwardly, she stood calm and proud. “If you bestow wishes on me and my daughters, it will wipe the debt between us.”

“Wishes?” The Faerie’s voice was soft and dangerous.

Stand your ground,
Widow Miller told herself.
The Fey respect courage
. “Yes,” she said firmly.

The Faerie released a hissing, snake-like breath. “Very well. Name your wishes and I shall bestow them.”

“For myself . . .” Now that the moment had come, Widow Miller was trembling. “For myself . . . I wish to be fifteen years younger than I am now, and I wish to be healed of my injuries.”

“Done,” the Faerie said, waving a negligent hand.

Hope clenched painfully in the widow’s chest. She was unable to inhale, unable to exhale.
Am I healed?

But even as she formed the thought, her field of vision widened.
I can see with both eyes!
The widow looked down and watched her left hand uncurl itself, watched the withered claws become strong, healthy fingers. Wonderingly, she touched her nose; it was straight and unbroken. She ran her tongue along her teeth and found them there.
All
of them. The constant, nagging ache from her right hip was gone.

I am Maythorn again
.

Joy brought tears to her eyes.
Don’t cry,
she told herself desperately.
Don’t cry. The Fey despise weakness
. She gulped back the tears and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

The Faerie ignored the words. “Your daughters’ wishes. What do you choose for them?”

“Ah . . .” Widow Miller tried to collect her scattered thoughts. She knew what Ivy would choose, but not Hazel and Larkspur. “May they choose for themselves?”

The Faerie’s pale lips pursed in displeasure, then she gave a haughty shrug and tossed her pearled head, as if she didn’t care who made the choices. “They may. Upon their next birthdays. Now give me back my child.”

Widow Miller hugged the basket to her chest. “Their next birthdays? Can’t it be now?”

“No.”

“But Ivy needs her wish today!”

“I have demands on my time you couldn’t begin to understand, human.”

“Just Ivy’s wish, then,” Widow Miller said desperately.