Of Sorrow and Such (3 page)

Some days, so short, but seemingly so long.

Four days since Flora Brautigan was saved and Selke left for parts unknown; three since Gilly came home reeking of ale, and shouting at me. Four days of waiting on tenterhooks for a knock on the door by Constable Maundy and Pastor Alhgren, perhaps with other sturdy men behind them armed with stout cudgels suited for the subduing of dangerous women. Three days of silence after Gilly made it clear she had no intention of exchanging words with me until her tantrum ran its course. My nerves have grown thin, taut as harp strings, but experience has taught me to wait it out, not to break, not to run. If you behave as someone with a secret, you will most certainly find people digging to discover it. Better still to be like a reflective surface to those around you, smooth and impenetrable, show them nothing more than a gentle smile and listen with compassion to their plaints. Breathe deeply before you answer questions, for a guilty party always blurts and shrieks their innocence.

And always—
always
—have an escape plan.

In the cellar there’s a hidden room stocked with food and drink, where we might hide for a week at most, if need be. There’s a fat purse filled with coin, and two thick travelling cloaks with gems sewn into the hems. There are knives that can be easily concealed on one’s person, rosaries and paternosters that can be worn in plain sight then used as garrottes if required. There are walking staffs and sticks that double as clubs should the need arise. Beyond the town’s limits, in an alder grove, I’ve buried satchels with funds and weapons and changes of clothes, just in case we cannot access this house before we flee. I’m as prepared as I can be.

This morning, the sun finally shows its face after days of rain and when I come down to breakfast, Gilly talks to me again as if nothing has happened. Her eyes slide away from the scratch on my cheek, and her tone is even and reasonable. She’s made scones afresh, my recipe journal lies open on the table; she’s brewed coffee, too, and there’s raspberry jam. Selke’s warning comes to me unbidden and I can’t help but sniff at the scones suspiciously when Gilly’s back is turned.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Morning.” I split a scone, slather butter and jam on it, then take a tentative bite. Fenric lifts his head to the table, nose sniffing wildly, begging for a taste. “These are delicious. Well done.”

“I followed the instructions to the letter.”

I don’t say anything, just nod; this is her atonement. She sits and pours us coffee, adds sugar and cream to her own, leaves mine black as tar, the way I like it.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” she begins.

How could you? He won’t even talk to me now.

“I apologise for overstepping.” I rub at the browning scab on my face and examine the bruising under her right eye. The comfrey oil she’s been using has taken most of the deep colour and swelling away.

Shouldn’t that be a sign? Do you want a coward for your lover?

“It’s only because you care.” She nods. “I know that. I was just angry.”

You’re not my mother, you bitch!

“I’ll not interfere again, Gilly. Henceforth, you make your own decisions. You’re old enough to deal with the consequences.”

And I’ve thanked the gods for that more than once!

She nods, a little nervously at that, seeing the safety net removed. We finish the meal in silence, then I take stock of what food we’ve got left in the pantry.

“I’m going to the markets. Is there anything you need?” I ask as she tidies the breakfast things away.

“I’ll come with you, there’ll be too much to carry on your own.”

And though all seems forgiven, it is not forgotten. It’s there like a lump beneath a carpet, a scar below the skin, a body hidden under the earth. It always will be there, just like her lack of magic. We must simply work out how to live our lives around it. Only Fenric, prancing between us, seems not to notice.

Outside, the ground is muddy, the streets of packed earth treacherous, and we cling to one another to stay upright, laughing. Fenric pads along beside, looking at us as if we’re mad. The market square is easier to negotiate, for someone has had the sense to lay down fresh straw. We fill our baskets with meats, dried and raw, summer fruits in all their glorious shades of red and purple, vegetables crisp and firm. At the fabric stall we bargain for lengths of silk and satin to make dresses we have nowhere to wear, and I recognise in my actions my own penance, trying to smooth over that lump, that scar, that corpse. I buy every single, silly thing Gilly holds up or points out or expresses a wish for. I’m a guilt-ridden mother—though I do not regret chasing Beau Markham away—trying to make things right.

“Do we need anything else?” I ask, surveying the heavy baskets.

Gilly laughs. “Is there anything left to buy?”

I chuckle and lift my chin towards a small shopfront across the square. It has a blue door with hinges of copper vines and flowers; all its windows are dusty with cobwebs like fine jewellery hung in the corners of the panes, from the display to the living floors above, to the leadlight rose window in the gable of the attic. Behind the glass I can see movement and a figure: Sandor, watching for Gilly, his pleasant face lit with anticipation. It could not hurt to bring them into closer contact, to give her the chance to notice him, to think him more than a kindly awkward lad. “Sandor has some books for me.”

She nods and we heft our purchases.

As we begin to cross the distance to the bookshop, a well-dressed group promenades down the main street towards us. There is Karol Brautigan and Flora, demure in a pink day dress, her skirts held up out of the muck. Behind comes Ina, a bonnet tied over her hair, shading a face that appears strained, and beside her is a man I never thought to see again.

Nerveless, I drop a hand to Fenric’s head. I wonder what—if anything—he remembers of his life
before.
Wonder if he’ll recall this man who shares his blood.

Balthazar Cotton is older, fatter, but I can still see traces of his brother’s features, a resemblance in the dark curls, olive skin, and sombre attire. I would know him by his gaze if nothing else: he still inspects women as if they are a meal of some kind. He ogled his own sisters thus.

I look at Balthazar Cotton and his eyes settle upon me.

I wonder what he recollects.

I wonder how many years he searched for his brother Gideon who disappeared from their home in Bitterwood. I wonder
if
he searched. I wonder whether he knew about me—if Gideon ever mentioned me.

I feel as though all my sins are coming home to roost.

Wait it out, don’t break,
don’t
run.

I am relieved when an apple rolls from its precarious perch in my basket and I can bend to retrieve it, hide my face, take deep breaths and compose myself. No one seems to notice. No one but Gilly has seen the colour leave my cheeks. No one but Gilly can see my hand shake as I reach for the fallen fruit. She kneels beside me and says in a low voice, “Are you well, Aunt Patience?”

I nod and rise. “A touch of the sun is all. I think those books can wait.”

The Brautigan party has drawn level with us. I smile and incline my head towards the women; they do the same in return. Balthazar Cotton’s glance seems to slick a layer of something oily on my skin and it’s all I can do not to shudder. But there’s no flicker in his expression, no sign of recognition, and his gaze passes quickly from me to Gilly with her smooth, lovely face and her maidenly air. I’m grateful she renders me invisible. No introductions are made, for we bosomed creatures are not important enough for menfolk to concern themselves with, but Flora beams at my girl as if she is a dear friend and says, “Good morrow, Gilly”—and I ponder the familiarity. She addresses me with a tad less enthusiasm, “Mistress Gideon,” and I watch for a spark from Cotton. I adopted his brother’s birth-name for my surname years ago, though I never knew if I needed to or not. No one in Bitterwood knew me, at least no one who lived longer than the duration of my visit; no one heard the name Patience Sykes. I told myself I did it to disguise myself, but in truth it was part sentimental gesture as if he’d consented, part theft in knowing he had not. I took it from him and kept it, for the pain of his rejection has never ceased to sear.

But there’s nothing in Balthazar’s dark eyes but a flash of lazy lust for Gilly.

“Goodbye,” I say and take my fosterling’s arm, nod calmly to them, and head towards home. My heart is pounding but I feel something like relief wash over me. Surely if the man had known me he’d have made a fuss. Surely.

“Aunt Patience, what is it?” she asks and I feel a warmth in my chest that my distress has put paid to any lingering resentments.

I shake my head and smile as much for the benefit of any watchers as for her. “Not now, child. When we are safely inside.”

I’ve told her so little of myself, of my life before she came into it. I’ve kept so many secrets as much for her sake as my own. What she does not know she cannot reveal, but experience has taught me that what is not known may well present the greatest danger.

I wonder what I will tell her now.

“Once upon a time,” I say and Gilly laughs.

We’re in the kitchen, the smell of a thick chicken and vegetable soup wafts from the pot above the stove, and a fresh loaf of bread is cooling on the bench beside. My hands are wrapped around a teacup, and chamomile and lavender wisps tickle my nostrils. I smile, wondering why so many unhappy tales start with such a promising phrase.

“Once upon a time, there was a woman of surpassing ugliness. She was cast out by her family and spent her life on the roads, always travelling, never still. She made her living with small witchcrafts, spells and potions sold to women in need, to abort unwanted pregnancies, to relieve aches and pains, to stem monthly bloods . . . love philtres to secure one heart, poisons to stop another. It was a lonely existence and one day she decided she wanted a child for company—not someone else’s, no, not a stolen thing, but flesh of her own flesh. Yet no man would lie with her, so she found one who didn’t care how she looked—the dead are not fussy. She conjured a spell that got her with child.”

Gilly’s eyes go wide with awe at a power by which she is, and will forever be, untouched.

“When her daughter was born, Wynne’s habits did not change overly much. She did not try to settle anywhere, but continued to roam, the little girl by her side. It was the only way the child knew, but she saw the lives other people had. As they travelled, Wynne collected more spells and she taught her daughter some things, but not everything, for witch-blood runs differently in each and every vein. The girl loved her mother but she came to resent their wanderings and found she wanted nothing so much as all the things Wynne despised: four walls, a home. Many was the time they almost froze, almost starved, were almost caught by mobs who blamed the ugly woman for some death, or theft, or barren animal, whether she was responsible or not. But for a long time, they managed to escape.”

Though she must realise this tale will end badly Gilly’s face is rapt. How easily we are thrown back to the hopefulness of childhood when someone tells us a story. It makes me grin in spite of myself.

“Yet their luck couldn’t hold forever, and one day Wynne was caught. She didn’t give her daughter up, didn’t tell anyone about the girl, not even when she knew the fine men of the town had decided to hang her. And they tried, oh how they tried, but she’d more magics than anyone—even her daughter—suspected. When they marched her to the gallows at the crossroads, she disappeared. Took the paths between and ceased to be
here.
” I can’t help but smile at the memory.

“When she was gone, her daughter should have fled, but she took her revenge instead, poisoning the town’s wells, salting their fields, and making their stock barren. She should have gone then, but black magic is exhausting, so she found a place to rest. Still she might have left, but she met a woman who became a friend and offered her what she’d always dreamt of: a home.”

Fenric is a warm, heavy weight on my feet.

“And she stayed longer still and fell in love with the son of one of the town council, one of those men who’d tried to kill her mother and who’d died drinking poisoned well water. And the son, for a time, fell in love with her, not knowing who or what she was. For such a sweet, short time.”

“What happened?” Gilly breathes, a child caught up in this terrible fairy tale.

“In the end, he found her out. Discovered what she’d done, and he couldn’t love her anymore. Yet she couldn’t let him go.” I’ve shared so little of my history in our time together, yet this pours forth so these secrets might make her appreciate how serious our situation might be.

“You killed him,” she says with a finality, and perhaps I should be disturbed by her lack of distress, by the fact she seems to understand. I let her believe that she knows what happened, for I fear Gilly will judge me harshly enough by the time this recounting is done.

I will not tell her about Dowsabel, who, before she died in childbed, replaced my mother so quickly in my heart. I will not tell her about the baby Olwen, whom I first saved then abandoned to people I did not know, for I could not bear the weight of her a moment longer. I’ll not tell her about Gideon, a man one moment caught in the net of his rage, a beast the next with no memory of the secrets that had ruined us both. For many years, I’ve recognised why I did what I did: beyond survival, beyond saving Olwen, I could not and would not let him go. I could not and would not let the milky pale bride his family had chosen have him. I could not bear to be alone any more than Wynne had. I took his mind and his choice, and made him what he is today. I wonder if he would thank me, if he could, for making his life simple. For the years we’ve had together since. Somehow I doubt it.

“But this morning,” says Gilly, “that man?”

“Balthazar Cotton is the brother of my lover. I do not know if he ever knew of me: we were never introduced and I bore a different name. I think we are safe, my Gilly-girl, but be wary. I beg you, be wary of what you say to people, and what is said to you.”

She nods, and I take her hand.

“And, Gilly, my dear Gilly, if you are in danger, if you cannot warn me, then by all the gods flee and do not look back. In the greenwood, by the alder grove, you know where things are buried. Go there, take what you need, and run.”

She begins to protest.

“
Promise
me you will run. I’ll do all in my power to protect you, my girl, but so help me if I must I will leave you behind.” There is pain in her expression, but I do not soften. “You must promise me the same—what profit in two senseless deaths? I give you the gift of living. That’s the best I can do, the most valuable thing I can pass on.”

She nods and I touch her cheek. “My girl, my darling girl, don’t wish for what I’ve got—a witch’s life is made of sorrow and such. Be happy you’ve a chance at something else.”

There’s no terrible power flowing in her veins, so if she must flee, she’ll be able to settle down somewhere, perhaps become wife to an ordinary man. Have an existence that draws neither eyes nor attention to her for the wrong reasons. I do not mention the great book in the cellar, which is of no use to her for she does not know the language of witches. If she knew of it, her longing to be different might bring peril. Though I know she feels its lack, yearns for its power, without magic her life will be less complicated. She will be safe.