Sorsha nodded; everybody knew it. The penalty was death.
‘You think we have it so bad here,’ her mother said in a hushed tone. ‘Because you’ve never known any different, or any worse. Let me tell you, there is.’
‘Where had you escaped from, Ma? When they rescued you on the marshes? You’ve never told anyone, not even me.’
‘Somewhere I never want to go to again. A place where womenfolk and girls have no voice, no power, no names, even. So that place no longer has a name to me.’
‘But most people here don’t have names, either,’ Sorsha said, puzzled. This was one of the things about Torment that bothered her most: many of the islanders were known only by family names. Aside from children born there, Sorsha and her family were the only people with first names.
‘True. But the difference here is that it’s punishment for past wrongs,’ said her mother. ‘And for everyone, menfolk and womenfolk.’
‘I know you’re grateful we were taken in, but we could go anywhere!’ Sorsha paused, searching her mother’s face, but the closed expression she knew so well was already forming. Unless . . .
‘It’s because you think no one would look for you here, isn’t it?’ she said, finally understanding. ‘It’s the perfect place to hide. An island for sinners and banished folk. No one chooses this!’
Her mother stabbed at a potato with a knife, not meeting Sorsha’s eyes.
‘There are worse places to be.’
‘Maybe,’ Sorsha said sadly. Yet she knew there were better, too. Places their past could not haunt them and where folk would treat them as if they were ordinary. Like how Winter treated her. ‘I wouldn’t know, though.’
Somewhere in the hedgerow nearby, a dry twig cracked under the weight of a foot. Sorsha snapped to attention, her brown eyes searching the thicket for rabbits or a fox. Instead her gaze met with the palest of eyes, rimmed with sparse, fair eyelashes. There was a faint rustle, then the eyes vanished from view. Crackles of brittle grass under retreating feet followed.
Sorsha was about to call out, but stopped as she heard her mother make a sound of exasperation.
‘That was your sister, wasn’t it?’ Her voice was cool in the warm evening. ‘Prudence? Come out, there’s work to be done!’
‘Don’t be too hard on her, Ma.’ Sorsha’s eyes darted over the hedgerow, but her sister showed no signs of emerging. The tone of her mother’s voice was unmistakable whenever she addressed Prue. It was frequently clipped and always sharper than it was when she was speaking to Sorsha. Though Sorsha always tried to pretend for Prue’s sake, it was clear which daughter was favoured.
‘I sent her to check the snares over an hour ago.’ Her mother lifted the basin and carried it inside the cottage. Sorsha followed her in, her skin immediately clammy in the airless space. ‘We’ll have no supper if she doesn’t hurry. Only the crows know how she wastes so much time slithering around in the hedgerows doing nothing.’
‘Ma!’ Sorsha scolded. ‘She’ll hear you! Please be kinder.’
Her mother shrugged, tipping the potatoes into a pot of fresh water. ‘She’s difficult. Always has been.’
‘No more than me, surely?’
Her mother paused. Sorsha waited for a denial, or cross words, but none came.
‘She’s jealous,’ her mother said at last. ‘She wants what you have. Sometimes, she has a certain look in her eyes . . . a mother always knows.’
‘That’s not fair, Ma.’ Sorsha sighed. It was no secret that Prue wished she could do the things Sorsha could – she had said so to Sorsha many times – but was that wrong? She stared out of the window. A trapped fly bobbed against the inside pane. Her mother’s comments were nothing she hadn’t heard before. Prue was more awkward than Sorsha; larger, clumsier, slower. It was always Prue who’d fall into nettles, or have a coughing fit during mass, or break dishes when washing them. She ate twice as much as Sorsha, and needed things explaining more when their mother was short on time and of temper. Despite all this Prue always tried hard, always wanting to please. How could Sorsha feel badly towards her, when her sister was her only friend?
‘Call her in.’ Her mother clapped the heavy iron lid on the pot. ‘Else she’ll be lurking out there all evening.’
Sorsha ducked outside, grateful to escape the stifling heat. A thorn snagged at her hair from the roses climbing over the doorway. Later, she would think about this and wonder if it had been a warning, some tiny earth spirit trying to prevent her from going out.
She had not gone far down the lane when she heard light footsteps echoing her own. She spun round and found herself almost nose to nose with Prue, her pale eyes exactly level with her own.
‘Jumping jackdaws!’ she hissed, her heart racing. ‘Must you sneak up on me like that?’
Prue grinned, displaying gappy teeth that had a greyish tinge to them. Sorsha’s neck itched with nervous sweat as her sister fell into step beside her. How near had she been to the cottage . . . and the conversation between Sorsha and her mother? Again, she wished Ma would be more forgiving of Prue. It couldn’t be easy living in Sorsha’s shadow, of both her abilities and her place as Ma’s favourite. And though there might be a resentful glance every now and then, who could blame her?
‘You checked the snares yet?’
‘Nothing in them.’ Prue stuck her hands in the pocket of her pinny, whistling through her teeth. ‘Didn’t want to go back empty-handed so thought I’d wait and check again. Doesn’t take much to make Ma cross.’
‘It’s the heat,’ Sorsha muttered. She was always making some excuse for Ma’s sharp tongue. Too hot, too cold, too tired, too hungry.
Prue stared at her for a moment too long. ‘Of course,’ she said at last. ‘Poor Ma.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Sorsha suggested. ‘There might be a breeze by the overlook.’
They covered the short distance in a few minutes, making small talk about the heat, but a sense of unease was growing, hanging over Sorsha like a storm cloud. When they reached the cliff’s edge, the sensation left her momentarily as a gust of wind swept up off the marshes, cooling the sweat on her forehead. She stared into the distance at the hazy smudge of mainland Crowstone. In the daylight there was nothing much to see, for it was too far away. At night, however, the lights were beautiful.
As always, her gaze was drawn closer, to Lament. It was also too far to see much in detail, the chapel or cairns, but she could make out the caves in the cliff face. The Three Widows were set back past the crescent of deadly rocks jutting from the mud.
‘Devil’s Teeth look hungry,’ Prue commented.
Sorsha nodded. The rocks were more pronounced today; the tide was out, exposing the Teeth in all their horror. No water to blur their edges or dull their sharpness. It was impossible for Sorsha to look at them without imagining a night, nearly two decades ago, when it had been her mother on the water, moments away from being dashed to sea foam on the rocks. Saved at the cost of three strangers’ lives. Strangers who lived on within her.
‘They’re saying things, you know. People don’t see me in the long grass . . . I’ve heard whispers.’
The hairs on Sorsha’s arms lifted, despite the warmth of the evening. She hadn’t admitted her secret about Winter to Prue, or to Ma . . . although Ma had guessed.
A mother always knows . . .
‘Tell me, then,’ she said, distracted. ‘What’s being said?’ All she wanted was to take a long, cool swim and think about Winter, and later slip into the dark caves to be with him.
Prue flicked a pebble off the edge of the cliff with her toe. ‘They’re saying they think the escaped prisoner is still here, on Torment. That the water’s been too low for him to have got away. So he must be hiding somewhere.’
‘I’m sure they’d have found him by now if that were true.’ There was an edge of irritation to Sorsha’s voice. Curse this heat! And these gossips! She’d already had this from Ma. ‘They must have searched every corner of the island, surely?’ Des
pite her calm words, Sorsha was unable to control the fluttering within her chest. It was true that no one (apart from her mother, and not for some time now) had ever managed to find something Sorsha had hidden, yet despite her confidence in her ability, she was not arrogant enough to feel completely safe.
‘Not if someone was helping him.’ Prue kneeled and plucked a dry blade of grass. ‘Oh, they’ve searched. But there are always hidey holes, aren’t there? And everyone knows you’re good at hiding things.’ She stuck the grass between her teeth, chewing. ‘All those times we played as children you never gave up your secret places.’ She elbowed her playfully. ‘Not even to me.’
Sorsha smiled uncomfortably. Why did Prue always have to push and wheedle? To invade every corner of her mind? Even before Winter, there had been things Sorsha had never wanted to share, but Prue didn’t seem to understand that.
‘And, you know,’ her sister continued, ‘if there are places that only you know of, you really should tell the warders.’
‘If the warders are too stupid to be able to find hiding places used by children then they don’t deserve any help.’ Sorsha kept her eyes on the low, swampy water, afraid that the truth might be seen in them, but already she knew it was being unpicked like a piece of stitching.
‘We both know there’s more to it than that.’
The fluttering in Sorsha’s chest became bigger, harder. Like a moth changing into a bird. ‘Yes, but no one else aside from you and Ma knows for sure. They might suspect, but they’ve never had proof of the things I can do.’
The pale eyes looked troubled. ‘You still need to be careful.’ She paused, looking over her shoulder around them. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? You’re hiding the prisoner?’
‘Of course not.’ The lie stuck in Sorsha’s throat like dry dust.
‘Only, I overheard two warders talking up by the well about an hour ago. I’d sneaked there to get some water to drink. I stayed hidden in the hedge – I wasn’t paying much attention till I heard your name. Someone saw you with a stranger by the caves yesterday evening.’
Sorsha closed her eyes. So she had been seen. Ma’s warnings of the Tower loomed frighteningly close, but the pull of Winter was stronger, like a tide she couldn’t control.
‘Stop asking questions, Prue,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘It’s best you don’t know the answers. If there’s trouble ahead then I want you and Ma having no part of it.’
‘Oh, Sorsha!’ Prue whispered. ‘What have you got mixed up in?’ She placed a clammy hand on Sorsha’s arm, but instinctively Sorsha moved away. She was too worried and irritable to be touched or coddled . . . or to notice the hurt on Prue’s face.
‘Wait – you said I was seen by the caves?’
Prue blinked, her expression blank.
‘No one would have seen me by the caves.’ Sorsha watched her sister carefully. ‘I was . . . hidden then.’
‘Cove, not caves,’ Prue said quickly. She moved off, away from the cliff’s edge.
Sorsha followed as Prue wound through the scrubby grass towards the snares. The feeling of unease was back again.
‘Prue,’ she said sharply, as her sister halted before a snare. ‘Have you been watching me?’
Prue hunched over the trap. ‘Don’t be angry,’ she whispered. ‘I–I was watching you. And the boy, and then I saw you both vanish . . . so I kept watching. And then I saw the footprints appearing in the sand, by the caves and I guessed where you were taking him.’
Sorsha’s stomach roiled. ‘Did anyone else see?’
‘N-no.’
‘Good.’ Sorsha’s heart was racing now. She watched as her sister’s small, pale hands released the snare and removed a dead rabbit. Its eyes were dull, and limbs stiff. She frowned, unsettled further. ‘I thought you said the snares were empty when you checked them? That rabbit’s been dead longer than an hour.’
‘Oh,’ said Prue. ‘I must have forgotten this one.’
Sorsha averted her eyes. It was disturbing how at ease her sister always was when it came to handling dead things. ‘Let’s get back. Ma’s waiting.’
‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ Prue said in a small voice. ‘I just saw you with someone and wondered who it was, that’s all.’
‘It’s all right.’ Sorsha took a long, deep breath, trying to gather her wits. ‘I need to be careful.’ Yet, someone had seen her, someone other than Prue. What if they’d noticed two sets of footprints from unseen people appearing by the caves? Could she continue to risk her own life for Winter’s? If what Ma said was true, her powers wouldn’t save her if she was thrown in the Tower. And everyone knew that once in there, madness or execution were the only ways out. Sorsha turned away from the cliff’s edge. ‘Let’s go,’ she repeated.
When she arrived, her mother yanked her through the door, almost slamming it on Prue. ‘Warders have been here!’ she hissed. ‘Asking where you were yesterday evening! I lied, told them you were here, but if they find out—’
‘They won’t.’ Sorsha’s legs buckled under her and she sat weakly in a chair at the table. ‘I’ll be more careful.’
‘You’ll stop, now,’ said Ma, as sharply as if she were addressing Prue. ‘Let him fend for himself. Because if you’re caught helping him, all three of us are doomed!’
Sorsha said nothing as Prue began skinning the rabbit. Already, she knew she wouldn’t manage a bite. The rabbit’s lifeless eyes seemed fixed on her. She looked away.
‘I’ll go to him, one last time—’
‘Sorsha!’ her mother gasped.
‘To tell him I can’t help any more,’ Sorsha finished. ‘I have to do that, at least. You can’t start a thing and not finish it.’ She glanced at her mother desperately. ‘Unless . . . we help him, and leave, too . . .’
It was the wrong suggestion. Her mother’s eyes flared.
‘You’ll be no help to anyone if they throw you in that tower. If they have their eyes on you already they’re probably setting a trap as we speak! Not only are you hiding an escaped convict, but you’re using magic to aid you!’
They stared at each other, breaths coming in shaky bursts. This was the first time either of them had used the word magic for Sorsha’s abilities. How strange it was to name it after all this time: this thing that had always been a part of her. Like teeth, or breathing.
‘You’ll be helpless in the Tower,’ her mother hissed. ‘Your powers won’t work within those walls of death.’
‘Perhaps . . . perhaps they wouldn’t need to,’ Sorsha said slowly. The word magic shuffled around her head, made bolder, stronger by its new name. She could hide things, couldn’t she . . . ? ‘If I’m not the one who’s using them. Perhaps I could buy some time, to save myself even if they throw me in the Tower.’
Prue paused in her grim task, open-mouthed. Something stringy dangled from her hand.
Her mother stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean . . . what if my powers could be . . . transferred. Hidden.’ Sorsha scanned the cottage shelves. ‘Hiding things is what I do . . . what if my powers were hidden, within ordinary objects, so they could be used by someone else to help me?’ Her eyes came to rest on a set of nesting dolls, one of the only things her mother had brought with her from her mysterious life before Torment. As a child Sorsha had always been fascinated by the dolls hidden within a doll, like secret little doorways into another world. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘It’s perfect,’ Prue breathed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smearing her cheek with rabbit blood. ‘No one would think—’
‘It’s just an idea,’ Sorsha said. ‘In case the worst should happen. They wouldn’t have to be used unless they were really needed. It’s the best way to protect myself.’
‘The best way would be to stop dabbling with danger,’ said her mother. ‘If you walk away now, no trouble will find you.’
‘What if people had walked away from us, Ma?’ Sorsha asked. ‘That night on the marshes eighteen years ago? We deserved a chance, d
idn’t we?’
‘Do you really think you could transfer your powers?’ Prue interrupted, still staring at Sorsha. Her eyes were pale orbs, caught by a ray of the setting sun. It fired them up like cats’ eyes in the dark. ‘How sure are you?’
Sorsha hesitated. She had never questioned whether she was able to do any of the things she could, only known that she was able to, somehow. It was like trying to remember a time before she knew she could walk. She had to have learned it, and yet she couldn’t imagine not knowing how to do it.
‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘So if anything does go wrong, I need to know one of you will get me out.’
‘I will,’ said Prue at once. ‘No one’s ever accused me of working magic. No one will suspect.’
Was she too bright, too eager? Sorsha wondered, then scolded herself. It wouldn’t do to think like Ma. Prue had always longed to experience Sorsha’s powers for herself. It was nothing to feel uneasy about . . .
The rabbit dripped softly in Prue’s hand. Drip, drip on to the table.
Ma’s words floated back.
Jealous . . . wants what you have . . . a mother always knows.
She pushed the words away, hid them in a little corner of her mind. She could count on Prue, she was sure of it. In any case, she didn’t have much choice.
Besides, a little envy between sisters didn’t mean anything . . . did it?
Chapter Twenty
The Crows’ Chorus
‘PST! BETTY!’
Fingerty gurgled with fright as a voice cut across his own, interrupting his tale. Betty, who had huddled down in the sacking to listen to him, sat up, dazed at the sound of it. She had been so wrapped up in the story that the cold, damp fog in the present almost came as a surprise after the long, hot summer of Sorsha and Prue’s.
There, between the marsh mists, Fliss’s face hovered like an apparition above the boat. Joy and relief coursed through Betty like a wave. How wonderful – and weird – it was to see her sister’s face in this way again!
A Pinch of Magic Page 18
