Of Sorrow and Such

by Angela Slatter

  I nod and move closer to Flora. I grasp the arm just above the stump and say “Solvo” as Selke taught me. The magic dissolves with a sigh and a puff of barely perceptible smoke. Immediately blood pushes forward in a crimson tide, and Selke swiftly places the new hand against the welling, whispering a spell as she does so. I cannot make out all the words, but I think it’s a chant spoken over and over for a full five minutes, which seems to me far too short a time. Flora struggles briefly in her drugged sleep, but cannot wake and she soon subsides.

  When Selke steps away, a smile lights her face.

  The hand, now attached, lies on the pile of pillows. As we watch it grows pink as the circulation flows, enriching it, making it part of the whole. The fingers twitch and tap against the fabric as if to a tune we cannot hear. At the spot where the new flesh meets the old there is no mark, no join to show anything untoward happened.

  “Beautiful,” I breathe, slightly envious of my guest’s gift.

  “I was fortunate to have the original to copy.” We both glance at the desk where the severed item lies, unmoving, bloodless.

  “You’re fortunate Flora uses her hands for nothing more taxing than choosing a dress and jewellery,” I say, and Selke snorts.

  “Burn that,” she says. “Get rid of any trace.”

  I nod. “I’ll do whatever I can. But we still don’t know what happened to her or who witnessed it. I may yet have to arrange an escape from Edda’s Meadow for her. Might she travel with you?”

  “Aye,” she says. “I’ll take her for a few days, then she’s on her own. Moon-dark tomorrow—oh, today. That would be best.”

  We both know what a burden she has taken on—indeed, the pair of us, for to save someone is to be responsible for their actions thereafter. If you help keep a person in the world, the good and ill they do is always partially yours. Selke says, “Do you think she’s one of us?”

  I shrug. “It’s hard to believe she’d turn up here if not. It’s even harder to believe this would happen to her if not. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Chapter Four

  Ina Brautigan, Flora’s sister-in-law, arrives shortly after morning tea and asks to see me.

  Selke and I, heavy-eyed and sluggish, are at the kitchen table halfheartedly eating the scones Gilly made, which have the consistency of rocks on the outside, and sludge inside. My adopted daughter is determined, stubborn, and hates being told how to do something. I tolerate it because I believe our mistakes are the most powerful lessons we can have, and because I am very aware that she shares many of my best and worst characteristics. At her age I was not much different, excepting that I had magic to both help and hinder me. One day she will do what I did, and pull her head out of her own backside and learn to take advice rather than dismissing it from sheer perverse habit. Until then, I remain patient, and wary of all her first cooking efforts.

  Gilly’s nervous when she comes to tell me of this new visitor. I pat her on the arm. “My dear, will you go up and sit with Flora? Selke, best you keep out of sight.”

  In the formal parlour, with its thick rugs, stiff armchairs, wall hangings, and paintings, I find Miss Brautigan in her prim navy dress with its white lace collar. The unmarried sister of Flora’s husband, she lives in a cottage on her brother’s estate. She’s tall and thin, the opposite of her corpulent sibling, nervous and sallow; with black hair pulled into a severe bun and her beaky nose she looks something like a crow, strangely pretty. While she still thinks herself alone I watch: her hands fidget and her head darts to and fro as she examines the contents of three shelves of harmless books I keep on show. The dangerous ones—the useful ones—are elsewhere. I clear my throat and she startles.

  Stepping into the room, I smile, aware that though my tresses are tidy and my burgundy dress neatly pressed, my eyes are shadowed from lack of sleep. Will she intuit that something is not quite right? Or does she already know?

  “Good morrow, Miss Brautigan,” I say. The sisters-in-law are close, I believe, but how close? What confidences might they have entrusted to each other? Or are there lines drawn between them that truth cannot cross? I clasp her hand briefly. The fingers are long and slender; they might easily snap. They are cold, too. Her eyes are large, the iris so dark it cannot be distinguished from the pupil so it seems I’m gazing into an abyss. “What brings me the honour of your visit?”

  None of the Brautigans come to me for professional consultations, preferring instead the more conventional attentions of Doctor Herbeau. Close up I can smell a heavy perfume, roses and lilies, over the top of something else. Something less pleasant, but familiar. If I could but place it . . .

  “Good morrow, Mistress Gideon. I come to ask . . . that is to say, I wondered . . .” she hesitates.

  I gesture towards one of the chairs, but she ignores me. A tear creeps down one cheek, then the other. “My sister, that is to say sister-in-law, Flora?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did she? I mean, is she? Here? Is she here? Did she make it this far last night?”

  So they do share their secrets.

  “Yes, she did. Miss Brautigan—Ina, what happened?”

  “Is she well? Is she alive? I sent her to you.”

  “She’s alive. But what happened? I will take you to her but tell me first.”

  She sinks into one of the armchairs, is too distracted to realise how uncomfortable it is—I do not bring friends in here, only strangers. Friends go to the kitchen, the heart of my home, where there is warmth and good food and drink, and cushioned wooden seats that accommodate one’s shape. Ina opens her mouth and a strangled sound comes out, a mix of relief and distress. She pulls a snow-coloured handkerchief from the purse hanging at her wrist and bawls into it. Trying to stuff her sobs back down, she only succeeds in making a terrible racket that brings Gilly and Selke to hang in the doorway like curious spirits, clearly not doing what I’ve asked. I shoo them. Ina does not see them.

  I kneel in front of her. “Ina, if you sent Flora here then you knew or guessed this house was safe. Tell me what happened. I must know if we are all to remain safe. Are you of the kind?”

  She nods, pulls herself together. “Of a sort. She—we—are shifters.”

  Cousins then, with the ability to change shape, but not inherently able to cast spells or heal or use herbcraft. Too close to their beast selves sometimes for their own good, too much of the animal instinct to always make rational decisions: fight or flight, no negotiation or solid consideration of actions. Shifters are often the most commonly caught; folk think they’ve found a woman but lost her familiar, however it’s really just the skin-changer’s animal side they’ve glimpsed. The uncharitable would have it that they are captured so frequently for they are the most heedless.

  “We meet, several of us, in the old mill to change our form. You cannot know what it’s like not to be able to show your true face to the world!” She realises immediately the stupidity of what she’s said—we none of us can show our true faces and live—and gives me a shamed look before continuing. “The building has been unused since Erika Strauss and her family were . . . The stories of ghosts keep the curious away, and we have used that to our advantage. But last night there was a man, waiting.”

  I hold her hand and she grips me hard. I feel bones move a little and when I wince she loosens her grasp.

  “He was up in the loft, and watched as we changed.” A flame of fear flickers in the very back of her eyes. “He had no terror. He leapt down and attacked us! Took off poor Flora’s hand with a single slash. We were so surprised, afraid at first.” She gulps.

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not his name, no, only that he was a guest of my brother’s—or rather, the manservant of the gentleman staying with Karol. I saw them when they arrived yesterday.”

  “And now he knows your identities?” They were all dead women then, and I and my household in danger too, if he’d followed her or Flora here. I began to run through all that was needed to effect a swift esc
ape. “He knows who you are?”

  She smiles and it’s a slow terrible thing, an expression I suspect has been on my own lips more than I care to recall. “He did, not that the knowledge will do him much good now.”

  “Dead?”

  “And hidden.”

  “Well hidden, I hope. Concealed is good but fire is better,” I say, thinking of the hand we incinerated in the kitchen hearth this morning, of the bones I ground to pale powder and added to the store of such things I keep in the workroom.

  “Wrapped tight in an oilcloth, trussed with ropes, weighted down with rocks, and sunk into the middle of Edda’s Bath,” she says, her face lit with the joy which comes of hard survival. And I can finally place that note beneath her perfume: sour milk, untapped and curdling in breasts that war with the confines of her bodice, a combination of fluid and padding to stop anything from leaking through.

  Ah.

  I wonder who fathered the child she did not want. I wonder if it was stillborn or if her thin hands did the deed. Many more corpses in Edda’s Bath and the water will become unfit for anything.

  “Has anyone from your brother’s house gone looking for this man? His master?”

  She shakes her head, but not to say no. “I don’t know. I’ve not been to the manor, but stayed in my home. I didn’t want to raise suspicion—Karol would have asked after his wife, wanted to know why she had not come with me.”

  I nod, thinking perhaps we might all be saved. “And the other women?”

  “Bruised but safe, no marks that can’t be explained if need be. But Flora, poor Flora caught the worst of it.”

  “Never fear. She’s been put to rights. Come and see.”

  Chapter Five

  “Will she be well?” asks Gilly, sipping at her watered-down wine. All our nerves are frayed. When I took Ina upstairs we found Flora and Gilly speaking intently, heads close, as if sharing secrets like newfound friends.

  I pause, and stare into the dregs at the bottom of my teacup—though I crave a goblet of claret, I must keep a clear head. Flora Brautigan, whom I previously knew only to pass in the street and bid good day is now someone I know too well, and who presents me with more problems than I care to number.

  “Her body is perfectly healed. The trauma of her mind will, I hope, fade. But she troubles me, Gilly. I’m not sure I can say why but she does. Keep your distance from her, my dear.”

  Our guests are recently departed. Ina fussing and relieved. Flora bathed and primped, her golden hair washed and styled, her composure entirely fixed in place, and wearing one of my dresses that closely resembles her ruined one. Having woken to find the hand returned to her she spent some few moments asking if it had all been a dream. The sight of Ina’s worried face was enough to assure her that the night’s events had indeed happened.

  “How did you do this?” she’d wanted to know.

  “Not me, a friend.” Her questioning gaze flicked to Gilly, and I shook my head. “A friend who was passing, which was fortunate for you, Flora. I could not have done it. You would have died.” I’d been certain she’d want to thank Selke, though I was unwilling to let that occur. I needn’t have worried—Flora showed no interest in expressing gratitude. Only Ina seemed sobered by the knowledge of how close Flora had come to death, that her friend had been saved purely by chance.

  “But I’m safe?” asked Flora.

  “The man who hurt you is dead,” I said. “You’re both safe. Will your husband have missed you?”

  Ina shook her head, thinned her lips to answer for Flora. “She stays with me a few times a month.”

  “You said Karol had a guest—do you know why he has come?”

  “My husband does not share his business interests with me,” said Flora, a touch bitterly. Uncharitably, I thought that I did not really blame him. Examining my hands, I imagine I still see the red tint of blood on them. I chose my next words carefully, trying to weight them so they would have the needed impact. “I’m glad that we could save you, Flora, but I must ask a favour in return. Speak to no one of what happened, not even your shifter-sisters. I know they will be curious, but you must lie, say their eyes deceived them and you were not as injured as you appeared.”

  “But they are our friends—” she’d protested.

  “You must understand: the more a confidence is shared, the less secure it becomes. There are more women at risk than simply yourselves. There are myself and Gilly, the women who’ve used this house as a refuge, and those who might do so in the future. Our lives, all our lives, are precarious enough. I ask that you keep my secret as I shall yours.” I held her gaze until she reluctantly nodded.

  Ina seemed to comprehend, though she appeared a little hurt at my lack of trust as she said in a low voice, “We are of a kind.”

  “I know.” I held my hand up. “But so many have been turned to ash for what we can do, or what the ignorant think we can do. I watched my own mother hanged for her perceived wrongdoings.” I’d put a catch in my voice, to bolster my argument. “Trust, my dears, is a knife: it may as easily injure as protect if given to the wrong person. I wish I could say every one of us was strong and brave, that there was not a coward to be found in our ranks, but I cannot. I have known women to break from the weight of water, the lick of flames, beneath slabs of stone and rock piled on their chests so even the smallest puff of air can find no place to hide. I have known women to break from nothing more than the threat of these things.” I gestured around the room. “We have all benefited in our lives from safe places; I beg you not to put this one at risk.”

  They nodded in unison, though I thought Flora did so merely in mimic of Ina, rather than from any great sincerity.

  “And,” I said severely, “it would be unwise to return to the old mill any time soon.”

  “But it’s the one place we’ve been able to assume our own shapes!” Flora had protested.

  “Someone will go looking for the man who attacked you! You’re lucky he isn’t walking still, boasting how he hacked a paw from the biggest damned cat he’d ever seen and lo, it turned into a woman’s hand!”

  “A cat? How did you know?” she asked in surprise.

  “Don’t be a fool, Flora, it’s either cats or foxes or hares with shifters. You strike me as feline,” I’d said, and not as a compliment.

  They left soon after, grateful but somewhat subdued. And a little resentful, if I’m any judge.

  Thinking upon it once more I believe I can put my finger on what troubles me: that Flora, having survived, though surprised and delighted certainly, was in no way chastened. I got no sense that she would proceed in her life with more caution, but rather that she felt her miracle had conferred some kind of invulnerability. I can only hope that Ina’s wiser head will prevail. I sigh and turn my mind back to Gilly’s question.

  “As long as they keep their mouths shut, we’ll be safe too.” I drink the last of the tea, now steeped so vinegary-strong that I make a face.

  “I’m going to the market. We need more flour,” Gilly says as she rises and I catch a blush of colour on her cheeks. Some embarrassment, yes, at having to redo the scones, but some equally in anticipation of something else.

  “Gilly,” I say softly. She raises blue eyes, bright as the summer sky. Golden-brown hair has been pulled into a sleek ponytail and her lips are carmined, just a little. She’s wearing the sprigged muslin frock I bought her last week.

  “Yes, Aunt Patience?” She’s called me that since she came to me.

  “Gilly, he’s not worth it.”

  She reddens even more. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play the idiot, I brought you up better than that,” I snap, temper short from exhaustion; this day is almost over and I feel I’ve done nothing but argue with people who should be more compliant. “Beau Markham. You’ve seen enough of his castoffs to know he thinks girls as disposable as arse rags. And if you, as I suspect, have been smart enough to not let him have his way, then please be smart enough to walk away.”<
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  “Flora said he’s a good match.”

  “It’s fairly well established that Flora is a fool. I pray you’re not one too,” I spit.

  She glares but remains silent. It’s the sort of look I’ve seen daughters give their mothers. The sort of look I know I gave my own dam, dark with hatred, bitter as aloe.

  “Wait, my dear. Wait for someone loyal and fierce and strong. Wait for someone you deserve and who deserves you.” Fenric moves closer and sits at my feet, his head in my lap. I pat him distractedly, uncomfortably aware that he was not thus until I made him so. “Perhaps Sandor—”

  But Gilly talks over me as her expression convulses with anger and hurt. I’m not even sure she heard the last part as she shouts, “What about you? Are you still waiting? Do you expect me to tarry until I’m as dried up as you?”

  She grabs a wicker basket and slams out the kitchen door.

  “No,” I say quietly.

  “Child’s got quite a temper.” Selke’s voice comes from the doorway into the dining room. She’s dressed in a travelling robe of serviceable brown fabric, a cloak in dun hues draped over one arm.

  “No longer a child.” I sigh. “Ready to go?”

  She nods. “As soon as darkness falls.”

  “Then bide with me and eat before you depart.” I stand and move around the kitchen, collecting butter and bread, meat and pickles, some jams, fresh strawberries and clotted cream.

  Selke sits across from me and serves herself. “Not yours, that girl? Doesn’t look like you.”

  “I found her, six, seven years ago, on the road to this place.”

  “Fond of strays?” She grins and flicks a look at Fenric.

  “Took you in, didn’t I?” We both snort. “Gilly’d been abandoned by her father, her mother was long dead. She was only just ten. I couldn’t . . . couldn’t leave her there.” But I don’t mention that I don’t know why I couldn’t leave her when I’d left another.