by Lisa Cach
“What type of scavenger are you, anyway? Will not eat worms. I have never heard of such a thing.”
How long had it taken her to discover that it was the small moments that made up a life, and not the big ones? Theresa’s mind wandered back to the days when she had moved in different social circles, and had encounters with men whose rank would put the baron to shame.
An image of herself flashed to mind, dancing with a young nobleman, in a room filled with silks and satins, and the heat of candles and bodies. It was strange to think how important appearances had been to her then. Strange, too, how all the passions from that time had faded into nothing. It was as if someone else had lived that life.
Valerian climbed down the ladder from the loft, enjoying the pressure of the smooth rungs on her bare arches. She was dressed in her oldest clothes, the skirts not even reaching her ankles, the waist having been let out several times. The edges of her bodice were frayed.
“Are you certain you do not want to come with me today?” she asked her aunt.
“Yes, my poor plants have been under Daniel’s care long enough. It is time I went and checked how many he has killed.”
“What would you have done, if the baron had not offered his greenhouses?”
“Asked, I suppose. Or perhaps kept using them anyway. I do not think he would have minded. We are lucky in the character of Nathaniel Warrington, you know.”
“I find it hard to be enthusiastic about the man.”
Theresa smiled. “That is because you are attracted to him.”
“I have always been impressed by your imagination, Aunt Theresa. You do say the most ridiculous things.”
“Not imagination, my dear. Perception.”
Valerian was silent a moment, hesitant. “You do not . . . have any sense about him and me, do you?” She felt her cheeks flush.
Theresa sat back and closed her eyes, her limbs visibly relaxing. Valerian waited, heart beating nervously. She had plenty of time to regret asking, and to wonder what had prompted her to, before Theresa let out her breath in a long sigh and opened her eyes.
“What?”
“You know how this goes,” Theresa warned. “I sense possibilities. I get a feel for what is happening now, and in the immediate future. Not everything I sense will happen—it is tendencies I sense, not facts.”
“I know, I know.” She came and sat on a low stool beside her aunt, her fingers twining about each other. She bent her head down and examined her nails, scraping at a hangnail, trying to hide her eagerness to hear what her aunt had seen.
“I sense men attracted to you. The baron, and others. They are coming toward you, and there is turmoil as well. Trouble.”
“No doubt caused by the baron,” she said.
“I did not say that. I do not know.” Theresa sighed. “Men chasing women. They are like children chasing butterflies. They do not mean to harm what they catch, but often they do.”
“It must be the baron. No one else ever approaches me.”
“You know this is why I do not do this for people,” Theresa said, sounding mildly annoyed. “They always see what they want to. They do not listen, just as you do not now. I did not say the baron would do you any harm.”
“I knew I should stay away from him,” Valerian muttered.
Theresa threw her hands in the air. “Go dig your clams. I have plants to tend. They are much better listeners than infatuated young women.”
Valerian had a quick breakfast of oatmeal hasty pudding, kissed Theresa on the cheek, went out to the shed behind the cottage to get the clamming shovel, and dumped an old pair of shoes caked with dried mud into a bucket. She would put the shoes on when she reached the rocky edge of the shore. Even her thick calluses were not proof against barnacles.
The morning sky was a rich turquoise, dotted with cumulus clouds that promised a day of gentle sunshine. The tide would be at its lowest point for the month in about an hour and a half, and she knew she would not be the only clam digger down on the bay today.
She tried to push any thoughts of the baron out of her mind. He was a scoundrel in aristocrat’s clothing, and if she knew what was good for herself, she would not have anything more to do with him.
The walk down the narrow, overgrown path from the meadow took her twenty minutes, winding between hills and through wind-brushed pockets of trees. The walk back up would not be half so pleasant, she knew, lugging a bucketful of clams and tired from the digging. Oscar flew off ahead, eager to scavenge, leaving her to her own unsettled thoughts and the breezy quiet of the walk.
The path ended at the shore, dumping her out onto a bank of rounded stones and driftwood. The main path from Greyfriars ended a half-mile to the south, across a shallow stream that emptied into the bay, its waters carving a channel through the sandy mud. She saw figures in the distance, dotting the shining expanse of muddy sand, and smiled, breathing deeply. The air smelled of rotting eggs and salt water, the familiar scent of the uncovered seabed.
She sat on a pale piece of driftwood and slipped on her shoes. They felt stiff and crusty on her feet, the mud flaking and falling off in scales. It was a relief to start walking and wade through a saltwater puddle, and to feel the cold squish of the water in her shoes, softening them.
The seabed was a mix of sand and mud, fairly firm in places, slippery and soft enough to sink into several inches in others. She poked the ground in front of her with her shovel every few steps, testing for quicksand. She had been out here many times before, and knew there were several places, fed by underground water, that it formed.
The mud suddenly quivered beneath her, and her foot sank past the ankle into liquefied sand and mud. With her free foot she calmly took a step backwards, and pointing the toe of the buried foot, slowly pulled it out, watching in mild fascination as the vibrations of her movement kept the mud liquid. Once she was free, the ground resumed its firm appearance. With her knowledge of how to escape, the treacherous sands had long ago lost their power to scare her.
She made a wide circle around the area, and continued on, finding a nice stretch of mud perforated with the holes denoting buried clams. She set to digging, feeling a vague sense of community with the other clam-diggers, for all that they were some distance away and gave her no greeting.
Eddie the blacksmith’s son and his two best friends were slouched behind a pile of driftwood, enjoying a jug of purloined liquor. Johnnie, whose father owned the inn, had filled the jug over the course of two weeks with splashes of whichever alcohol was at hand as he served, and whatever dregs were left in the cups. His father kept an eagle’s eye on his inventory, and knew too well the temptations of drink for a young man. He did not trust his son with a key to the cellar.
“Gawd, Johnnie, this is a hellish mixture you have made,” Stinky Samuelson declared, gasping, as he passed the jug to Eddie. Stinky’s real name was largely forgotten, his present moniker being the result of a sad fact of his existence: If something around had a foul stench, sooner or later Stinky would manage to fall into it.
“I think I got more whiskey this time,” Johnnie said, and belched.
“Not so much wine,” Eddie agreed. They were all feeling quite pleased with themselves. Ale was a regular part of their diets, but not one of their parents would approve of the luxury, waste, and ill effects of their sons drinking anything stronger.
With three-quarters of the jug gone, they were feeling cross-eyed and bold when Eddie lurched upright, bent over the log they leaned against, and vomited onto the rocks on the other side. When he raised his head and looked out over the bay in an effort to clear his head, he blearily made out Valerian digging her clams. “Now there is good female flesh wasted.”
Stinky and Johnnie crawled to their friend and poked their heads up above the log. Good female flesh was always worth a look.
“Who?” Johnnie asked.
“ ‘Er,” Eddie grunted, pointing with his chin. He propped his elbows on the log and tried to hold his head steady with his h
ands.
“Miss Bright?” Johnnie asked disbelievingly.
“Have you ever really looked at her? Really looked at her?” Eddie asked Johnnie.
“Why would I want to?”
“Ssshe is beautiful,” Eddie answered.
Johnnie was not buying it. “Not beautiful. But maybe she would be kind of pretty, if she were not . . . you know.”
Eddie belched, and wrinkled his nose at the taste of vomit, exhaling through his mouth. “What? You think she is going to turn into a badger and bite off your pecker the next time you take a piss in the woods?”
Johnnie colored. “You would not make such fun, if you had heard the things I have!”
“Aaaa, what things? A bunch of gossip. You have been washing too many dishes with your mother, Johnnie-boy.”
“My mum says there is plenty that goes on out at that cottage that we are better off knowing nothing of.”
“All I know is she has not ever done anything to me,” Eddie said.
“Well, I do not see you courting her, and you are the one lusting after her.”
Eddie shrugged. “Too old. But I tell you, she came into the smithy yesterday. I had not ever really looked at her. Was afraid to, I guess. She never seemed quite . . . I dunno. Friendly. Seemed like she would as soon whack you with a stick as talk to you.”
His friends nodded.
“But yesterday she was different. I caught her looking at me. You know. Looking at me like she wanted me.”
“Miss Bright?” Stinky asked incredulously.
“I think I could have had her right then and there if I had said anything.”
“I think your da’s been using your head for an anvil,” Stinky said.
“She was staring at me, her eyes all over my body. It was like I could feel them on me. And her face got all soft. She was pretty. And she has nice titties.”
“Do not let Gwen hear you say that,” Johnnie warned.
Eddie scrunched his face. “Gwen.”
“I thought you liked her?” Stinky asked.
“Sometimes she seems like such a child.”
“Oh,” Stinky said, rolling his eyes. “I understand. She won’t let you touch her, will she?”
Eddie rolled a shoulder in reply, and his friends hooted.
“So now Miss Bright,” Johnnie said, taking a swig from the jug. “To teach Gwen a lesson.”
“I did not start it with her. She was the one looking at me.”
“Sure. We believe you,” Stinky said. “Right, Johnnie? No question but she is lusting after him, making love potions to pour in his drink. Miss Bright! Hoo hoo!” The two of them rolled onto their backs, laughing, punching each other in high humor.
Eddie glared at them. “You do not believe me?”
“Aww, sure we do. Why, I bet if you went out there right now she would not be able to keep her hands off you,” Johnnie said, laughing. “She would have you down in the mud before you knew what hit you, stripping off your clothes, moaning for you, Eddieeee, Eddieeee, take me, Eddie, take me. . . .”
Eddie’s face went crimson. “Shut up! She would, I tell you! She looked at my crotch like she was drooling for it!”
“Eddieeee. . . .” Johnnie crooned.
“Touch my titties, Eddie, my lovely titties,” Stinky said, holding his palms up to his chest and making squeezing motions.
“Want me to prove it to you?” Eddie hollered at them.
They stopped their teasing to look at him in hopeful glee.
Valerian tossed another clam in the bucket with a wet “plurp,” then straightened up to stretch the muscles in her back. She peered into her bucket. Her clams were ajar, siphoning salt water in and out. She would give them clean water before leaving, so they could wash the sand out of their own bellies.
Movement caught her eye, and she squinted against the glare of the sun. Who was that coming toward her? The figure slipped, arms windmilling, then righted itself and continued toward her, feet moving gingerly on the uncertain ground, arms held out for balance.
As he came closer she recognized Eddie, and pursed her lips in concern. What did he want? This did not have anything to do with yesterday’s encounter, did it? She saw two other figures stumbling around closer to shore, but did not have a chance to identify them before Eddie was upon her.
“Good morning,” he said, stopping beside her bucket.
She caught the stench of alcohol and vomit. “ ‘Morning.”
His eyes shifted down to her bodice, lingered, then found their way back to her face. She frowned disapprovingly at him.
“Uhhh . . . Digging clams, are you?”
“Yes.” She paused, waiting. “Is there something I can do for you, Eddie?”
“No, no. . . . just saying hello.” His eyes searched her face, skittered away over her shoulder, to the bucket, and finally alit on the shovel. “So! Is the shovel working well for you, then?”
“You did an excellent repair . . .” Valerian trailed off as she noticed the two figures, vaguely recognizable now as Stinky and Johnnie, horsing around and shoving each other as they wended an irregular route toward her and Eddie. They were wandering near the place she had encountered the quicksand. It was not dangerous, as long as you kept your head about you. If Eddie was any indication, though, they none of them were particularly rich on wits today. They had probably been stealing liquor from the inn again.
Valerian waved her hands in the air, and shouted at the two young men. “Johnnie, Stinky, stop! Go back!”
Eddie looked over his shoulder. Seeing his friends, he nodded at them, and waved. Valerian grabbed his shoulders and tried to turn him all the way around. “Send them back, or they will get caught in the quicksand!”
Eddie grinned stupidly, and he tried to shoo his friends back with his hands. After a few flicks of his hands, he turned back to Valerian. He swooped forward and wrapped her in a bear hug, knocking foreheads with her, then planting a sloppy wet kiss on the side of her mouth.
Valerian let out a sound like a stepped-on mouse. She tasted alcohol and bile in his saliva, the fumes filling her nose. His arms were warm and strong, his chest hard against her breasts, but all she felt was repulsion as his lips crept like slugs over her mouth, leaving a slimy trail, and she struggled to break free.
A terrified howl echoed across the mud, breaking Eddie’s amorous concentration. He loosened his hold on her, and she squirmed out of his grip.
A hundred yards away, Stinky was flailing madly in a welter of quicksand, and Johnnie, shouting ineffectually, was trying to reach him. Valerian took in what had happened in a moment, grabbed her shovel, and began to run as best she could over the slippery mud.
By the time Valerian reached them, with Eddie bringing up the rear, Stinky was up to his shoulders and wild-eyed with terror. Johnnie was weeping, lying in the mud, still trying to reach his friend.
Valerian tested the ground, then lay flat at the edge of the quicksand. She pushed the spade end of the shovel out to Stinky. Johnnie screamed.
“Stop her, Eddie! She is trying to kill him!”
Eddie jerked, and made a move to obey, but then Stinky’s hand lashed out of the liquefied sand and grabbed the metal blade. Eddie threw himself to the mud next to Valerian, his longer, much stronger arm reaching out and taking the handle of the shovel.
Stinky practically climbed up the shovel in his desperation, and Eddie pulled him to the edge of the quagmire with his powerful blacksmith’s arms. When he was close enough, Valerian grabbed one of Stinky’s arms and helped haul him out of the muck.
“I told you to go back,” she chided, both angry at his foolishness and relieved he was all right.
Stinky lay gasping, covered in mud, staring wildly at Valerian and Eddie. Other clammers had heard the commotion and finally reached them, gathering round, voices raised in excited questions that the three young men tried to answer all at once, suddenly realizing they were the center of attention.
The press of bodies and the jabbering
of voices made her uncomfortable, and reminded her that many could have seen Eddie kiss her. People would blame her for that somehow, and part of her felt they would be right to do so, after the way she had looked at Eddie yesterday. She did not want to hear their accusations.
She slipped out of the group and went back to get her bucket of clams. As she headed back to shore she made a wide detour around the milling group, but then remembered the shovel. She hesitated a moment, then continued toward the dry sand. Doubtless someone would leave the shovel for her at the Giving Stone, she told herself. She would rather trust that to happen than have to explain to anyone her part in what had just occurred.
At the top of the beach she stopped to slip off her shoes. The front of her clothes were soaked through, and were heavy and cold against her skin. Looking down the beach, she could see Stinky being led away, concerned arms around his shoulders, and suddenly she wished someone were there to comfort her.
She watched disconsolately as the last of the group drifted away, leaving her shovel lying in the mud. Then one of the women, Gwen judging by the color of her hair, turned back and got it, then did a quick little jog to rejoin the others.
Most likely someone had seen Eddie kiss her, and sooner or later that news would get back to Gwen. She sent a prayer heavenward that Gwen would not hear of it, but that had about as much chance of happening as she herself did of waking tomorrow as a duchess. She might as well go ahead and count Gwen on the list of people who hated her and wished her dead.
In the Raven Hall greenhouse, Theresa snipped away dead leaves and tested moistures with her finger. The air was warm and humid, scented with that unique hothouse combination of dirt and foliage. She usually enjoyed coming here, but today her mind was uneasy.
Her psychic abilities, such as they were, were impressionistic and vague, and did not reach beyond the near future. She sometimes thought that the immediate past and the near future somehow became jumbled with that moment of time that was the present, and that it was that confused mix of events that she was somehow able to hear better than most others.
