THE STEPMOTHER’S STORY
I was seventeen years old and I was afraid. Afraid for my daughters, afraid for the babe in my belly. Afraid even to hope that one day I would no longer be afraid.
“It’s time for bed. Hurry.” Hurry. Before he comes home.
I held Mary with one hand, but Anna would not take the other. At the top of the stairs, she tottered, then slipped and fell against the hard lump of my stomach.
I breathed in. Then out. Slowly, so I could not scream in pain.
“Mama, are you all right?”
When had I become “Mama?” I’d been a little girl myself not so long ago, my own mother holding tight to me when my father was expected home.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Fine.”
“You’re hurting me, Mama. Let go.” Anna pulled away.
“Be careful, please,” I warned her.
“I am careful, Mama.”
Up she went, past the big bedroom at the top of the stairs. She knew not to go in there. It was for the baby—if it was a boy.
In the girls’ small and musty room, I laid Anna and Mary down on the silky threads of my wedding quilt. It was all I had left for them. Mary’s thumb slid into her mouth and she fell asleep.
“Mama, I’m not sleepy,” said Anna.
I let a finger drift to her golden hair, her soft cheeks. She looked so like him. How could I hate him so much and love her beyond bearing? But I had not hated him in the beginning. I had thought him handsome as a prince.
“Just close your eyes and rest a while,” I whispered. I felt dizzy with hunger. I’d given the girls all the dinner we had. A few carrots from the garden, and water from the stream. For me—and the babe—there was nothing.
“Mama, I’m afraid.”
Anna trembled and I tried to hold her, but I trembled, too. “What are you afraid of?” I thought she would say her father. But she did not.
“Of the dark.” She moved closer to Mary. “Sarah says there is magic in the dark.”
Sarah was our maid, and she was still filled with a girl’s fanciful ideas. I was not much older than she, but my belief in magic had long since died. “There is no magic,” I said firmly. I stroked Anna’s hair over and over again.
Anna’s heartbeat slowed next to mine. And then—Was that the sound of a carriage?
I stood up quickly. I had to be downstairs to greet him. But I was not careful enough. A corner caught my foot halfway down. My body twisted, then flew through the air. When the feeling of rushing stopped, I felt the bottom stair crack on my knees. I toppled forward, hitting my head on the floor below.
I might have cried out in pain then, but the blood rushed up and my vision clouded to dark.
No magic in it, as Anna had feared, however. Only memory, of another time, another place. Not better than this one, and not worse. The world I had thought to escape, but had come back to all the same.
#
“Catherine, you must see your father now.” My mother, dead all these years, stood before me, small and old. Her hair, once dark and rich, had faded to a colorless mix of white and dark.
“Why?” I asked her.
She shook her head, refusing to look me in the eye. In some ways she was more a servant in the house than any of those who stood at dinner. No one paid any attention to her but me.
“Is it about money?” I asked.
Her lips pursed and I could see the beginnings of the tears in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Mother,” I said. I was impatient with her when she showed signs of weakness like this. I’d learned years ago not to cry about anything my father did. If you thought hard enough about something else, you didn’t feel the pain.
Mother sighed. Or was that just the way she breathed these days? “He said for you to come to his study. Remember to knock on the door before you go in.”
“Is it punishment?” I thought of the books under the boards under my bed, hidden there all these years. I thought of the serving boy loaned to us last year for the important dinner with Father’s friends, and the kiss I’d given him under the willow tree. I thought of the coin I’d given to a beggar in town on an errand with Father, though Father said I must not.
Who would have betrayed me? And what Father consider appropriate punishment?
“Go and see him,” said Mother.
I went. Slowly. When I reached the study, I knocked.
“Come in, Catherine.”
I pushed the door open. I could tell immediately that Father was sober. And even better than that, he was smiling. It seemed a good sign. Perhaps he would not punish me in front of his friend. Perhaps he would not punish me at all.
“Catherine, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” said Father, holding out his hand to the man in front of the rows of bookcases.
I turned to look at him, prepared to like whatever I saw. After all, here was a man who had transformed Father, if only for a day, back into a gentleman.
The first thing I noticed were the dark green eyes deep set into a finely shaped head, green eyes that held my gaze and seemed to promise me all I had ever dreamed. I thought of my book again. Perhaps this was the day, after all. And if all I had to do was hold out my arms, well, I was ready.
“Lord Darrett,” said Father.
The man gave a short bow. He wore his hair clipped short and tidy, unlike Father’s long pony tail in back, and he was clean-shaven. I could see the beat of blood in his neck and the wide expanse of shoulders to the side. “You may call me Stephen,” he said.
Father snorted.
“Stephen,” I tried it out.
We were married the next day, and I thought him the way to my escape from the deadness in my mother’s eyes, and the blackness in my father’s soul. Instead, my eyes grew dead and his soul more black.
#
I woke at the bottom of the stairs, a pool of warm liquid around my legs. Blood? There were no candles to see by. I put a finger to the liquid, and lifted it to my mouth. Not blood. Water. The babe was coming.
The front door creaked open. “Catherine?”
I remembered the sound of the carriage, the fall. And the dream. I had not dreamed for months. I did not think I had the strength to dream.
“Catherine?” My husband called again, angry.
“I’m here,” I said, to make sure he did not come charging over me.
“What are you doing there?” he asked. He smelled of drink, as he often did after a night of dice.
“The babe,” I said, speaking through my teeth. “It is coming.”
He said nothing, staring at the hard rock of my stomach as if he could see through it to what lay within.
“It is a boy. I can feel it,” I chattered.
“You thought that the second one was a boy, too. And the first.”
“This one is different. I have felt different—all along. It is a boy.”
He looked around. “Where is the woman from the town?” There was an edge of irritation in his tone.
I realized I could not remind him he had refused to pay her the last time. “I did not want to call her,” I said, thinking quickly for an excuse. “She is too coarse.”
He considered. “Yes, that is true. And for a son—”
Was he beginning to believe me? I did not know if I should hope for it or not. If I was wrong, he would surely punish me for my presumption. But he would punish me regardless, if it was not a son. I might as well enjoy his solicitousness while he offered it.
“If you will help me to the kitchen,” I said. “And bring a blanket or two.”
There would be a knife there, and I had brought water in for breakfast in the morning.
“Yes, the kitchen.” He took my hand and pulled me up, then walked with me through the door. A hand on my back, he guided me towards a strong oak stool.
I leaned against it through the next pain. I heard nothing but my own panting until it was gone. Was I simply too weak to bear it, or had this early pain been worse than I remembered, with
Anna and Mary?
I bit hard on my lip, but I would not cry out. When I could breathe again, I felt the taste of blood in my mouth and spat it out.
“You will call me when he is born?” My husband moved to the door, his hands twisting anxiously in each other.
“Yes,” I said. “I will call you.”
Another pain hit before the sound of his footsteps faded. The pains were too long and too close together. It had not been this way before. Was this one come too early? I did not know. But the lack of food these last months, the lack of ease—they could not be good for a babe in the belly.
My back burned. I bit down on my hand. The skin was salty, the flesh cold. I told myself I must stretch my strength. But I had no chance to recover, to send my mind to another place to rest. I could not plan as I always had. I could not think myself away.
This pain did not ebb and flow. It rose and rose and rose again. I thought it was the worst I could bear, and then it would grow tighter, hotter. And I would bite on my lip again, until I felt the teeth break through on the other side.
I could feel the tears streaking down my cheeks, joining with the blood on my chin, and falling to my ragged shift.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I said aloud. But this babe did not care what I could or could not do. It was coming all the same.
My breath caught and caught again. I wondered each time if this was the end. My body felt as though it would crack open. And then—far too soon—I felt the urge to push.
Suddenly the pain was bearable. I could do something about it. My ragged, swollen lip I sucked back into my mouth tenderly. I held onto the stool and squatted. I was prepared for an hour of sweating and groaning, as I’d gone through with the others.
But this time, the babe slid out with one effort. Though surprised, my arms did not falter. I laughed aloud and brought the red and wrinkled body close to my breast, warmth to warmth. The face was perfect, the eyes closed. Still asleep? After all that work?
Finally, I thought to see if it was a boy. I held him out, stared at his tiny manhood and felt a moment’s relief.
Until I realized that the tiny, perfect body beneath me had never cried, had never moved, had never breathed. Shaking, I lifted the soft head towards me. I put my lips to the babe’s. I tried to give him life, but he would not take it.
Then in despair, I cried out, at the moment when it was most important I keep silent.
“Lady?” It was Sarah, the maid. She poked her head in, saw the babe, and stepped inside.
“The babe is dead,” I said.
Sarah’s mouth opened, then closed, and opened again. “Oh, poor thing,” she said, her hands outstretched with more comfort.
I did not want it. “He will come and kill me. I have given him two daughters already. He demands a son and I have used my chances. Sarah, you must tell me of the magic.” I had never been so desperate to ask her before. “How do I make it come to me?”
“You call it with blood.” She stared at the babe’s body. “You dip your hands in it and speak your bargain aloud.”
“What bargain?” She seemed to think it all so obvious, but I had never been taught any of this. Did all servants know such things?
“You make an offer of payment. Then you speak your wish.”
“I have nothing to offer.” The house was not mine. The land was not mine. Even my husband’s title was not mine. I had only his daughters and they were the one thing I would never bargain away.
Sarah was quiet for a long moment, staring into my eyes. Then she sighed. “There are only three choices for the magic’s payment. Your heart, your soul, or your mind.”
My heart, my soul or my mind? How could I choose between them? Surely I could not live without any of the three.
I could not imagine helping my daughters if I had no mind. They would need my sharpest wits. Even if the magic gave us the safety we needed for now, there would be other perils when they were older. Perils too subtle for magic to see through.
My soul, then?
It was tempting, but no. My soul was the only hope I had of seeing my daughters again, in the after-life that could only be better than this one. I would not give that up frivolously.
“Are you sure?” asked Sarah when I told her I had chosen my heart. “I have seen women without mind, without soul, and without heart. But it is those without heart I pity most of all.”
In answer, I simply leaned forward and smeared my hands with the drying blood, then waited for the magic to come, if it would.
I was surprised when I felt my fingers begin to tingle with heat.
“Speak the bargain!” I could tell Sarah was shouting, but somehow she did not seem very loud.
My ears were filled with the sense of power that was in this blood. Why had I never tried it before? It was wonderful.
“I offer my heart for my husband’s death.” As soon as the words were spoken, the heat in my hands leaped up my arms and straight to my chest. I choked, unable to breathe. My heart was being twisted, pressed, ripped into pieces. I would die on the floor and in the morning my starving, helpless daughters would wake to find me here. No help to them at all.
Then just as suddenly as it had started, the pain was gone. My breath came in short heaves, but the feeling of heat had faded. And my heart? It beat steadily under my ribs.
And then came the sound of my husband’s voice calling for me from the stairs.
It had not worked! Sarah and her foolishness!
But a creak of wood, and then a cry. I heard him tumble down the stairs and I heard him hit the bottom with a low thunk.
Sarah ran out, and then ran back in. She nodded her head.
He and his son, both dead, then.
And I could no longer feel my heart. My chest was cold and numb. Just as well. I did not need it anymore.
I lifted the babe’s body—so much smaller now, it seemed, than when it had been in my belly. I buried it in the kitchen garden, where I had pulled up the last potatoes. Then I took my two daughters and I left the house.
I had used magic for my husband’s death, but now I would use my own wits for the rest. I must find another husband. One who needed a mother for his child, and who loved children himself. A man who was weak enough to be manipulated by me, and wealthy enough for his death to matter.
I had already made sure of one husband’s death. It would be easier the second time.
The Grief-Bearer
She opened the door a crack, and then wider.
She had been warned.
She knew of the Pain-Bearer
And the Fear-Bearer
And the Hate-Bearer.
They had never tempted her.
“It won’t cost a thing the first time.”
The voice was pleasant, no pressure.
The face was familiar, seen everywhere,
But no one’s friend.
The bearers weren’t friends.
Not even with each other.
They did not bear for free,
Except the first time.
“Just this once,” she said, and stepped back.
The Grief-Bearer stepped in.
There was a moment then when she reconsidered.
She thought of the consequences.
But she was alone.
Her husband was asleep.
The chatty neighbors had left her a meal to warm.
It stood on the table, cold and unappealing.
Why did they think she could eat?
They did not know grief.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Sit. And think. And breathe. That is all.
I will hold your pain for you.
I will feel it as deeply as you would feel it.
I will give honor to the one lost,
And I will remember the futures you wished for,
And planned for, and expected,
And did not receive.”
The Grief-Bearer did not even touch her.
B
ut she felt the change immediately.
Her heart was cool.
Her shoulders lighter.
Her feet seemed to float, and not drag on the ground.
It was as if she had been before,
And had not known how beautiful it was.
Not to have grief.
“And now it returns to you to bear.”
The warning came too late for her to protest.
It felt like a stone pressing against her ribs.
It felt like a wool blanket, smothering her face.
It felt like a sharp pang in her throat, holding back words.
It felt like cold and sweat and the urge to urinate.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Please.”
“That was a taste of my services. It will cost you for more.”
So she paid, and she paid well.
And slept.
And paid again.
THE QUEEN’S TRUTH
Queen Galatea held the song globe in her hands. It appeared to be nothing more than glass, yet when she thought of Prince Arak, the globe lit up and began to sing, directly into her mind. It was a beautiful gift, and certainly proved that the prince had done considerable study into her character. None but those of the royal house had the magic capable of making such a thing. Or if they did, they had never been trained to use it and it was death to show it.
Of course, Prince Arak must have had information from his network of spies in Parestia. He was as surrounded by advisors as Galatea had been in the first year she had come to the throne. And they had done well. She loved music. It was the thing she had studied before her brother died, before she had known she was to be queen. Hours every day she had played, and then it had been taken from her because it was not suitable for a queen to play her own music. She had had to content herself since then with music that others played, however badly.
But this globe—she could change its sound depending on the way she thought of Prince Arak. If she imagined him from a distance, it gave her a deeper sound. If she thought of his eyes alone, it gave her a high-pitched sound like the mating call of the lluli bird. With practice, she thought she could manipulate it almost as well as she had learned to play the strings of the yua. And no one would ever know what she was doing.
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