“You. Now, you are powerful. In other circumstances I might be able to use you and your talents.” He shakes his head, amused. “But here’s the rub: you’ll obey no one. You know too much and you’re wild as a storm—unpredictable, too. It would be like trying to contain lightning. I won’t insult us both by pretending I will save you for my own benefit.”
I have no answer; he’s right. Nothing I might say could appeal to any better nature, for he has none.
“Tell me,” he says as if it’s a question that’s plagued him for some while. “Tell me, what will happen when you die? To him, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, for I have no idea whether Fenric will be released from my magic. Would he wake, a man in his fifties with no more memory of his beast years than the beast has of his human life? Or, or, or? “I’ve wondered many times. There is a chance he may become himself again . . . but I cannot say with any certainty.”
He pauses, then nods as if a momentous decision has been made for him. “Then you will not be alone on the bonfire. A witch’s familiar must burn with her.”
Chapter Eighteen
Last night the churchmen and Pastor Alhgren spent a good few hours praying over me before finally deciding that a hearty dinner and a good sleep were a better use of their time than attempting to salvage my soul. Not Cotton, though; prayer is obviously not of interest to him.
Exhaustion has made me lose all sense of time. I doze though I don’t wish to and dream of fire licking at me, all orange and blue and gold, bright and sharp as a heated blade. When I jerk awake I realise it’s because I’ve heard the bolt being thrown and think the day has dawned, that it is time for my death. That all the seeds I’ve cast have landed on barren fields and there never was any chance for me. I see my end rising and with it comes a wave of hatred for all and sundry, those who will not burn beside me, those whose actions and inactions have led me here. Then I am calm: there’s no one to blame but myself. Any number of times I could have made a different choice. Any number of forked paths and I might have selected an alternative route. These choices, all mine.
All leading here: to an inferno.
Almost playfully Selke peeks around the heavy mass of the door as if she’s won a game of hide-and-seek I’d stopped playing long ago. She pushes into the room, and behind her are Gilly and Charity and Ina. Relief and disbelief swell my heart. Then there is the briefest moment of doubt: will the god-hounds appear behind them?
“Are you all caught?”
Selke snorts. “Those idiots catch me? Did you become a credulous fool in the time I’ve been gone, Patience Gideon?”
Charity remains at the door, keeping watch.
“I found her, Aunt Patience,” says Gilly breathlessly, her face shining. “I followed the old roads and I found her.”
I swallow, find I cannot speak for the emotion stuck in my throat. Gilly and Ina start on my bonds, unpicking the knots my gaolers have taken such care to tighten each day. A single burning tear rolls down my cheek; Gilly does not see it for she is too busy with the ropes. But Ina notices and does me the kindness of wiping the weakness away.
Selke places a shallow pan and a ewer on the floor, then tips the contents of a black pouch across the bottom of the former. It is dust, grey and black, but heavier than gillings. Slowly, she upends the pitcher and dirty-looking water flows. As soon as the liquid touches the dry matter a reaction begins, enthusiastic and violent. The admixture hisses with alchemical vigour and a mist lifts, silver at first, then pink deepening to red, and at last it takes on the colour of pale unhealthy flesh, flesh that’s not seen the sun in days. The column goes higher and higher, pinching in here, filling out there, until there are black dirty locks sprouting and tumbling down to a wasp-waist, and the round frying pan of the face develops dimples and depressions, peaks and slopes that mirror my own, though the skin lacks my blemishes and breaks.
Gilly and Ina help me to stand, and I lean on my foster daughter, wincing as the blood begins to quicken in a body that’s been immobile for far too long.
Selke examines me minutely, then takes her fingers to the double’s features. Whispering words I can barely hear, she rubs her thumb under the simulacra’s left eye: a deep purple bruise appears. She pinches the bottom lip and a crust-edged split erupts. Finally she clasps both hands around the creature’s throat and the marks Balthazar Cotton left are replicated there. Selke nods, satisfied that the effect will be sufficient to fool any observer.
I gaze at the thing: it appears for all the world like a woman who’s given up hope; the eyes are almost dead. It—she—looks much as I must have not five minutes ago. I touch the cheek: the skin is clammy, doughy, unpleasant. I turn to Selke, who looks pleased with herself. “How? How did you get all the . . .”
She nods towards Charity, who smiles shyly, proudly. I think of how she brushed my hair and took the strands, the rag she used to wipe away my blood, tears, sweat, and spit. All the components Selke needed to make this . . . thing. I wonder if she used any of the living clay in its makeup.
“It won’t speak, but they’ll simply take that for your natural contrariness. Now, my friend, I suggest we leave, unless you’d like to be here when the gentlemen wake from their enhanced slumber?”
I shake my head, and refrain from asking why they didn’t just poison the bastards entirely. I stumble away from the chair and Selke manoeuvres my twin into the vacated space. “Carefully, Gilly, tie her just the same as they had Patience.”
Soon it is done and I feel a strange tugging in my chest, to see myself there, to see her made in my image and left behind. It’s foolish, I know: she’s just an aggregation of cast-offs. I should have no more attachment to her than I do the skin cells that slough off daily, the hairs that fall from my head each time I brush it.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
“Come along, Aunt Patience, we must hurry.”
“Where’s Fenric? They want to burn him.” I wrap my fingers around the plumpness of Gilly’s upper arm. She winces.
“Safe, Aunt Patience, safe. You’ll see him soon.”
And I must be content with that as they push me towards the open door.
Almost at the top of the steps, almost into the kitchen, I stop and feel the others bump against me. Beside the stove is a wizened woman, her back to me, and in front of her Pastor Alhgren, his mouth moving.
We are betrayed.
We are undone.
Then I realise he’s not saying anything, his lips merely working from habit, not forming words. His eyes are glazed. The tiny woman raises her hands, presses one gently to his side while the other pulls at his arm; she turns him thus, speaking low. Go to bed, my boy, you are but dreaming. Slumber, my dear son, lest you go astray in the night.
He is obedient, directed from behind by her fingertips as she pushes him away. She waits in the doorframe and watches. We hear his heavy tread up the stairs, the sound of a door opening and closing, the thud of a body on a mattress, and then the saw of snoring begins, low and persistent.
The woman turns and I see that any resemblance Mother Alhgren might have had to her child has disappeared into the furrows of her face. The thought that a few days in the custody of the men of God have made me so fearful enrages me. That I was afraid of one little old dam.
Charity gently moves past me and goes to wrap an arm around the shoulders of her mother-in-law, whose dark eyes regard me with what I now recognise as something like admiration. Surprise unfurls in my chest like a warming flame. And I realise, too, that Charity will remain here. For some, home is not to be deserted quite so easily.
“Will you not come with us then?” I ask stupidly.
She smiles brightly. “No. This is our place. You’ll take care of him, though, won’t you?”
Oh, yes, I will. I’ll take care of them all right; however, my actions cannot throw suspicion on Charity or Mother Alhgren. But, somehow, I will take care of those men. “Yes.”
“Then here we sh
all stay.” She presses a pouch of waxed grey calico into my hand. “What you asked for.”
The old woman gives me an easy grateful smile and I think, more and more, that mothers do not like their sons any more than they like their husbands.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Ina?” Selke’s voice is soft and I look at Ina Brautigan’s sallow face.
“Ina, you must come,” I say. “It’s the only safety.”
“No. You’ve told Karol I was innocent. He’ll fight for me. He—we—have lost enough. Whatever else you might think of him, he will fight for me.”
We hold each other’s gaze for long moments.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and take her hand. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for Flora.”
“As am I. If I’d not sent her to you, if I’d just let her die at her time, then we’d all be safe. I’m sorry to have put so many at risk.” She squeezes my fingers painfully, but not spitefully. “We do not always love wisely.”
“You do not know the half of it.” I clear my throat, speak low to her for this is between us. “I will kill them: the god-hounds, Cotton, and Alhgren. Karol?”
And she pauses, to her credit, considers before she says, “No. That is a choice I must make, a responsibility that is mine alone and I shall not abdicate it. I’ll make my decision later, when Edda’s Meadow is quiet again.”
And then we bid her farewell, asking but one last boon.
Chapter Nineteen
The rose window’s fragments of coloured glass are not vibrant, their hues are bleached either by design or some strange alchemical fading, and I have an excellent view even through the tints and cobwebs. Dawn is breaking over Edda’s Meadow and the sunrays slant down like golden knives; I imagine them cutting through the roofs and walls rather than being stopped by them. I imagine them slicing through those gathered in the square where a tall stake has been set, a sea of branches and kindling around it.
I wonder at my insistence on seeing this, though every particle of my being counselled flight. I think of Bitterwood all those years ago, when I stayed too long. I think on how much damage I wrought there to avenge my mother. I wonder if I still have the heart for such destruction.
Am I better now, or worse?
In this moment, I cannot tell. Perhaps when the aches and pains have settled, when I can breathe without wincing, sit without groaning, sleep without dreaming of men in purple capes telling me how damned I am. Perhaps.
Behind me, Gilly and Selke wait and watch. I cannot begin to guess at their thoughts. Fenric’s head is in my lap, the fur so thick beneath my hands. His tail thumps happily on the floor; the sound must travel down through the house beneath and I’d be worried if we were anywhere but where we are.
As we watch the crowd grows bigger; Ina and the Alhgren women appear, pushing through the press of bodies towards the front. People make way for them. The townsmen were up and about before daylight, putting the finishing touches on the bonfire, making sure there were twigs of rowan to protect against any malevolent sprites I might summon and sprigs of lavender to lay my spirit. A dais has been hastily erected, close enough for excellent viewing, but not so close that the sparks might leap across and scorch the most important of witnesses. A table with four highly polished straight-backed chairs I recognise from the mayory’s furnishings waits there.
There is a disturbance at another edge of the congregation: here come the churchmen, Pastor Alhgren and Balthazar Cotton, who wears a frown and carries something concealed at his side. The disappearance of Fenric has been discovered, surely, but only he will ponder its deeper meaning. The others will shrug, say dumb animal. At the end of the serpent’s tail trails Doctor Herbeau. Have he and the pastor had words? Or has his failure to find my deadly store of herbs made him a pariah amongst his fellows? When they mount the dais, he finds he must stand, for there is no place for him. Even at a distance his expression of displeasure is plain to see. There is no sign of Karol Brautigan.
Once the inquisitors are settled, Beau Markham strides proudly in front of the pile of kindling, carrying a tray laden with goblets and a carafe, all in gold, the gems in their sides catching the morning light. Oh, that my death should have brought forth such finery! Oh, that it should have rendered this humble serving task one of such pride for that empty-headed boy!
Gilly touches my shoulder, points towards the front of the pastor’s house: Haddon Maundy appears in the open doorway. He steps out and leads my doppelganger in his wake. Has he tried to talk to that shell, shouted about betrayal or begged forgiveness for what he must do? His grip on its—her—arm seems loose, perhaps from tenderness, perhaps from fear. He knows now he bedded a witch: does that make him shrink and shrivel at his very core? He leads me—it—her to the ladder and helps her—me—it onto the small platform in the centre of the balefire. Haddon ties her—it—me in place. I concentrate on her: she looks just me, no more, no less. Maundy climbs back down; I cannot see his expression. He does not join the crowd, but slips away into one of the thin alleys that run between the buildings lining the square.
Now Karol Brautigan appears, coming from the direction of the smithy. He has the burning brand, freshly lit. He waits patiently while one of the churchmen spouts cant at the crowd. I scan the assembled faces. Some are sad, like the women I’ve helped and the children I’ve saved, like Sandor. Some are neutral, as if they’re afraid to show sympathy but cannot bear to display pleasure. And yet others, shining with a fervour no amount of rational thought or compassion can quench: they simply want to see a burning. They will believe anything if only they may witness a burning.
At last the god-hound is done and Brautigan turns to the great construction of tinder. In his movements, I think I sense a hesitation, a reluctance: I saved his sister, after all. Then it is gone and he’s resolute. He touches the torch to the branches at the base, then higher and higher, like a diligent firestarter, making sure it catches well.
The flames grow and reach upward, they lick at the dress, then engulf the skirt. The replica’s lips part, the mouth opens and a shriek so piercing that it can be heard in our hiding place issues forth. Or perhaps it’s only me; Selke and Gilly do not seem unduly troubled. It seems to me that she’s screaming in my ear. I realise my own lips are parted and I’m whimpering. There’s a rush of heat from my feet to my face as if I’m the one standing in those flames, and I check to ensure there’s no trace of smoke coming from my limbs. Selke says, “It will pass.”
And then I notice what Balthazar Cotton has carried with him. He stands, holds it up for all to see, and then flings Wynne’s great book into the inferno. That hurts more than anything and I cry out.
“What a waste,” says Selke. She cannot know what the book meant to me, though she recognises the sort of tome it was.
Gilly strokes my hair. “We should go, while they’re all distracted.”
“Not yet, Gilly-girl. Not quite yet.” I claw back my sobs and pat her hand. “Watch and witness: remember why you don’t want to be different, my dove.”
I feel a tremor skitter through her, but keep my eyes on where my double shrivels and writhes, moving far longer than I’d hoped. On the dais, Beau Markham is pouring bloodred wine into five goblets for the fine gentlemen who’ve surely broken a sweat in the burning of one helpless woman. Doctor Herbeau, slightly mollified by his share of the libation, raises his drink and the others mimic him politely, then down the fine crimson liquid in greedy gulps.
There’s a lightness in my heart.
It does not take long.
First one then another grabs at his throat as water, not wine, begins to bubble through lips turning purple-blue. It gushes as if they’ve become fountains or whales to spurt liquid up and out of themselves. I smile with relief as they drown on dry land: Ina did not disappoint me. She slid through the last of the night in her shifter shape and into the mayory, and found a way to slip the powdered waterweed into the beverages. For a moment, she is the only one not looking at the p
antomime on the dais: only she glances at the bookstore, at the window of Sandor’s attic chamber, just for a moment. Then her face splits with the talent of a great actress and she begins to wail along with the rest of Edda’s folk, as if this were not what she expected at all. Sandor’s head is lowered to hide whatever expression he may have.
I rise slowly. Dislodged, Fenric gives a fussy whine. I take in the room: there’re just boxes and books stored here, and our packs and cloaks. We’ll leave nothing behind, no trace. We will give no farewells to Sandor, who took us in without a moment’s hesitation, who had no fear when we appeared at his door, for some men know that women are more than just the sum of their parts. We will leave and soon Edda’s Meadow and those in it, those we’ve loved or loathed, will be no more than fading memories.
“Now we can go,” I say.
Chapter Twenty
How to recount our flight? How to describe the dread, the apprehension that wrapped itself around us like a miasma as we snuck down the stairs and carefully slipped out the back? How to describe the moment when breathing ceased as we ran through the deserted streets and past the gaol-house, where Haddon Maundy was paused upon the steps? How to tell the wash of relief when, in the moments after our eyes met and widened, he turned away and closed the door behind him?
How to tell all these things, the taste of freedom and the threat of its loss.
How?
And how to tell, when we’ve travelled almost a whole day and finally allow ourselves rest in a grove knit tight about with branches and shrubs, vines and brambles, of the rushing terror to hear a disturbance in the foliage. We all carry knives and are ready to use them.
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