13 Curses

by Michelle Harrison

  Rowan cursed aloud. It was not the dogs she was worried about, but rather the geese her aunt kept. They were vicious creatures that delivered bruising pecks at every opportunity, and she had feared them a great deal when she was little. Now, as she peered into the overgrown garden, she could see two geese at the far end, one a great white thing called Boris, and another gray one that she remembered as Tybalt, which was ferociously chasing a little brown duck across the garden.

  Nearer to the house, next to the shed, was an old gray goat with only one horn. Thankfully it was tethered on a long piece of rope and was preoccupied with chewing something.

  There was no sign of the dogs, and as she lifted the latch she realized that they were not in the garden or the house, for had they been, they would have barked. Immediately she guessed that Rose must have taken them out for their morning walk, and that this was a perfect opportunity to get into the house. She sneaked into the garden, closing the gate quietly behind her.

  The garden was so sheltered from the house and from the nearest neighbors that she did not need to worry about being seen. Ducking under the washing line, she made her way to the back door. It was, of course, locked, but this did not deter her. She scouted around the garden, lifting plant pots, looking under the mat and for any place her aunt would have stashed a spare key, but she found none.

  A hissing noise sounded from behind her, and she turned to see the fat white goose waddling toward her.

  “Buzz off, Boris,” she muttered, skirting around him, but the creature would not be deterred. He lunged for her shin, delivering a painful peck, then backed off, honking as if with laughter.

  “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Red began, rubbing her shin vigorously—but then a marvelous idea struck her. “Let’s see how funny you think this is!”

  Pulling her bag off her shoulder, she opened it and removed the fox-skin coat. Tucking her bag safely beneath a nearby bush, she put the coat on and buttoned it up, letting the glamour take effect. The result was very pleasing indeed, and she couldn’t help but give a few little warning yaps, just to make up for all the pecks of the past.

  At the sight of the fox, Boris honked again, but this time it was with fear, as he retreated hastily to the other end of the garden. Tybalt, who had finished terrorizing the duck and had been considering launching his own attack on Red, rapidly changed his mind. Only the goat looked nonchalant, munching on the white thing that looked suspiciously like a pair of knickers. Red sat in the center of the lawn feeling pleased with herself, but the feeling faded as she remembered why she was there. She had to get into the house.

  The answer hit her as she heard the side gate opening. Her disguise was the perfect solution, for Rose would never know the difference. All she had to do was to play on her aunt’s sympathy.

  As her aunt’s dogs came around the side of the house, panting heavily and worn out from their walk, their hackles went up at the sight of her and they started to bark. Red froze with fear until she saw they were still on their leads, and however much they stretched and strained, her aunt was holding them back. She came into sight a moment after the dogs, her pale, pointed face in a frown as she sought to find what the commotion was about.

  “Whatever is the matter with you lot—” she began, then stopped as she saw Red cowering on her lawn. “Quiet, boys,” she said, tethering the dogs’ leads to a drainpipe.

  Red turned away and limped in what she hoped was a convincing way.

  “Oh, dear,” she heard Rose say in distress, and her shoes scuffed the patio as she came nearer.

  Red took a few more steps and then collapsed on the grass, closing her eyes. She smelled her aunt’s perfume, something lavendery mingled with the scent of dog, as Rose knelt by her side. Something soft and fluffy was being tucked around her: her aunt had taken a towel from the washing line.

  Red gave a little whine.

  “Hush, now, I’m not going to hurt you,” Rose murmured, lifting her expertly into her arms.

  Red felt herself being shifted gently into one arm as Rose felt in her pocket with one hand. Then there was the jangle of keys and the sound of the back door being unlocked. She was in.

  Rose threw her keys onto the kitchen counter. Red opened her eyes a crack and saw that they had landed next to a plump cat scavenging on the work surface. The familiar smell of the house washed over her: the ever doggy odor mixed with the smell of fishy cat food. The entire house was dominated by its animal occupants, yet the smell was strangely comforting. It brought back other memories: Red’s first taste of ice cream soda one hot summer (complete with cat hair garnish); splashing in the washing-up bowl in the back garden as a toddler (along with her aunt’s excitable puppy); and being read to in Rose’s living room (animal stories, of course). There was not one bad memory among them and, not for the first time, Red wondered what her parents’ aversion to Rose had stemmed from.

  Her musings stopped when Rose brought her into the living room and set her down on the rug in front of the wood burner. Unwrapping the towel, she ran her hands lightly over Red’s fox coat, applying light pressure here and there as she checked for injuries. Rose’s long red hair tickled Red’s nose as she leaned over her.

  “I can’t see any injuries,” she muttered. “How odd… unless it’s poison. Good grief, that might just be it.” She tucked the towel around Red again, then got up and went back out into the hall, returning a moment later with her keys. “I won’t be long,” she said worriedly. “I’m going to get the vet. He’ll make you well again, I’m sure of it.” She left the room, closing the door behind her, and a moment later Red heard the front door open and close. She was alone in the house.

  In a flash she was up, throwing the fox-skin coat off. Her plan had worked better than she could have hoped. Now she just had to find the charm, and hoped that her aunt wouldn’t return at the wrong moment and be endangered.

  Despite the generous amount of land that came with it, the cottage had no upstairs, existing only on one level. Red knew her way around perfectly, and with the exception of the wallpaper and some furniture, little had changed. There were only three rooms: the kitchen, the sitting room, and one bedroom, plus a tiny bathroom that had been added on in recent years, for in Elizabeth’s time there would have been no bathroom, just an outhouse. For this reason, she dismissed searching the bathroom and decided to concentrate on the rest of the house.

  The kitchen was not dissimilar to that of Elvesden Manor, though on a smaller scale. The ceiling and doorways were low, and dark beams ran the length of the room. She rummaged in the cupboards and drawers, finding countless tins of pet food and animal care manuals, charity stickers, and vet bills. The walls were adorned with framed pictures of the numerous pets, and several of Red herself, before James had been born. After that she had not seen much of her aunt at all. Red frowned as she studied the pictures, for all of them were crooked on the wall, at angles.

  The cat on the counter eyed her lazily before stretching and turning its back on her. In the moments that it got up, she saw that it was lying on a stash of unopened letters, and suddenly she remembered how her aunt disliked opening letters—in fact, disliked any real contact with the world outside her little cocoon of animals. She did not even have a telephone. No wonder the children’s home had struggled to contact her, she thought in disgust.

  She ducked out of the kitchen, beneath an iron horseshoe hanging above the doorway. There was one above the door of every room, and she recalled Rose telling her that it was for luck.

  She went into her aunt’s bedroom. A single bed was heaped with cushions and two more snoozing cats. Above the bed was another crooked picture. Halfway down the chimney breast was a thin mantelpiece with trinkets and knickknacks, all of which she peered into. In the center was another picture of Red, taken when she was about six years old, in a frame that she had made herself from lollipop sticks as a gift to Rose. She picked it up, and as she did, another photograph slid out from behind it and fluttered away from he
r, landing in the empty fire grate.

  Except the grate was not quite empty. Though it had been swept out, there was a small pile of ashes that the brush had not managed to reach. And in those ashes was a tiny, blackened mask. Unthinkingly she picked it out of the ash and rubbed it between her fingers. The soot came away, revealing silver beneath. The mask of Glamour.

  Delving into her pocket she shakily removed the bracelet, connected the charm, then shoved it back into the drawstring pouch. She had what she had come for, and it had been the easiest one of all, yet the knowledge only made her more uneasy. She picked the photo out of the grate and reached for the frame it had fallen from. For the first time she registered what the picture was of, and it shocked her.

  A much younger Rose had been snapped in a hospital bed, looking tired and wan. Her auburn hair billowed around her head in a wild cloud, and in her arms was a tiny baby. Far from looking happy, however, Rose looked troubled and vulnerable.

  Red slowly slid the picture back behind the image of herself, not knowing what to think. She knew that she had stumbled on some secret in her aunt’s past, but she could not begin to imagine what might have happened. She had never heard her mother saying anything about Rose having a child; yet it was clear from the photo that this was indeed the case, and Rose had always seemed to like children. Had something happened to the baby?

  She turned to leave, but hesitated. A nagging feeling would not let her go until she had at least tried to resolve what had happened in Rose’s past, and a horrid little thought pushed its way into her mind. She edged closer to her aunt’s built-in cupboard next to the fireplace. Opening it, she breathed in the ever-present scent of dog hair on the clothes hanging on the rail, but ignoring them she looked above to where there was a shelf of clutter, including a box and a pile of well-thumbed books.

  Taking the box down, she opened it to find a small pile of baby clothes. She snapped the lid back on and pushed it onto the shelf, her heart thudding. There was something eerie about those clothes in isolation. Just clothes, and no baby…

  As she withdrew her hand she caught it on one of the books, and the two nearest the top came sliding down toward her. She caught them, and stared as she took in their titles, first: Protection from the Little Folk, and the second: Ward: The Power of Protection against Magic.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered to herself, thumbing through the books in disbelief. “It just can’t….”

  She paused to read a page that had been folded over at the corner.

  Faeries can be discouraged from coming into your home by keeping iron objects, using herbs and flowers (see here), and with careful use of salt. Smaller deterrents include keeping pictures and mirrors at angles to prevent faeries from settling on them.

  “Crooked pictures,” Red said, turning to the other book, where a page had been marked with an envelope.

  Natural Protection Against All Things Fey, read the heading. To ward off unwelcome attention from the little folk, there are numerous easily obtainable plants that are known to discourage fey activity.

  “Ash,” she read aloud. “Bay, blackberry, clove, garlic, linden, rowan, sandalwood, witch hazel…” Her eyes lingered over the word “rowan,” then ran down the page where there was a second heading. “Plants to Avoid… bluebell, elder, foxglove, hawthorn, primrose…”

  “Rowan? Is that… is that you?”

  Red spun around, dropping the book. Aunt Rose stood in the doorway, staring at her like she was an apparition. She still had her coat on, and her keys were in her hand.

  “I don’t understand…. What… what are you doing here?”

  “I—” Red faltered, searching for some kind of explanation, or possible escape—but there was none. She was well and truly cornered, and stupidly, had left the fox-skin coat in the living room. The irony was not lost on her—that she had found the mask of Glamour, yet it was the very thing she was prevented from using.

  “I… left an injured fox in the living room,” Rose whispered. “The vet was out on an emergency call….” She shook herself. “And now there’s just a fox-fur coat… and you’re in here. Were you wearing that coat? Is it… is it some kind of… glamour?”

  Red shook her head, nauseated. It was too much to take in—her aunt’s carefully hidden knowledge of fairies and glamour. Hidden for so long, and now revealed.

  “I was… looking for something,” she said.

  “What?” Rose implored, still frozen in the doorway. “I don’t understand. What were you looking for?”

  “A charm,” said Red. “Just a tiny little charm…”

  A shadow crossed Rose’s face.

  “You mean that mask, don’t you?” Her eyes searched and found Red’s sooty fingertips. “It just appeared one day, out of nowhere. I knew it must be something to do with… them, so I tried to get rid of it. Threw it into the bin at first. It came back. So I threw it into the stream…. It still found its way back. I was hoping that the fire would get rid of it for good… but obviously not. Why do you want it? Where is it?”

  “In a safe place,” Red whispered. She could not take her eyes off her aunt, this woman she thought she had known. “And you don’t need to know why. It’s better that way.”

  “People are looking for you, Rowan,” Rose said sadly. “Is it true you took those children? Why would you do that?”

  Red gave no answer.

  “My little Rowanberry. What’s happened to you?”

  “Can’t you guess?” Red said bitterly. She gestured to the fairy books. “Is it really that difficult? Why didn’t you tell me you could see fairies? You must have known I could see them too! Why didn’t you share some of this with me, some of this protective knowledge? Instead you kept it all to yourself, along with your other secrets.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Red continued. Her anger had reached boiling point now. “I found the photograph, and the baby clothes. I know your big secret. You had a baby, didn’t you? And I think I can guess what happened to it—the same thing that happened to my brother while we were in care! It was taken, wasn’t it? Taken by the fairies!”

  Rose clutched her hand to her throat as if she’d been stung by some poisonous insect.

  “James… you mean, they took him?”

  “Yes,” Red spat. “And I’ve been trying to get him back ever since. But maybe, just maybe if you’d shared your knowledge with me, or even cared enough to come and get us sooner after my parents died, none of this would have happened! Instead, you left us there for weeks!”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Rose said weakly. “I didn’t know what had happened until four weeks after the accident. I’d been abroad, working in an animal sanctuary. Came back to the awful news. I wanted to come sooner, but I’d contracted malaria—I was bedridden for weeks.” She came into the bedroom and slumped on the bed, no longer blocking the door. Red’s route was now open to escape, but her aunt’s words had pierced her and she was unable to move.

  “But I did come for you, both of you,” she continued, her head in her hands. “By then it was too late. James had already gone missing… and so had you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the fairies?” Red repeated obstinately. “Why didn’t you tell me you could see them?”

  Rose looked up, her eyes shining with tears.

  “Because I can’t.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth. I know they exist, but I don’t see them, at least… not in the way you do. I don’t have the second sight.”

  Red held her gaze.

  “Then what is all this? Why do you live all alone in this little cottage, surrounding yourself with rowan and iron horseshoes? What are you so afraid of? And what happened to your baby?”

  Rose stared back into her lap, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “If you really want to know, then sit down, and I’ll tell you. It’s time you knew the truth, about everything.”

  Red hesitated, then slowly walked o
ver to the bed and perched at the end, away from her aunt. She looked unhinged, sitting there with her frizzy red hair cascading down her back, and her hands twisted in her skirt like a scolded child.

  “Everyone knows how I like to be called Rose,” Rose began. “And not Primrose, which is my real name. But no one, no one, knows the reason why except me. I vowed I’d take it to the grave, because even if I told anyone they wouldn’t believe me.

  “I’d always liked my name,” she continued. “Until one day, in the summer when I was seventeen. It was the day of the carnival. There was one every year at midsummer, and I’d been chosen as a carnival queen. The theme that year was girls who were named after flowers. Naturally, there were a number of girls who took part—a Jasmine, a Lily, two Roses, and two Ivys. But I was the only Primrose. Of course, we dressed to reflect our names. I wore a pretty yellow dress, with green ribbon threaded through it, and a headdress that I made from real, fresh primroses.

  “As the carnival rode through the streets and by the woods near where we lived, I noticed a young man smiling up at me from the crowd. He had the blackest hair, and eyes to match. He followed with the crowd all the way until the carnival procession finished, and there was dancing in the street.

  “I danced with him all night, until my feet were blistered and sore. Even then he didn’t want to stop. He had eyes only for me, despite the other girls watching and waiting, hoping for a dance. The night passed in a dream. I felt giddy, dizzy.

  “I asked him why he’d chosen me out of all the other girls. He just laughed, and said he liked my name. He liked it very much, he said, and he told me how, if used correctly, primroses could be used in a magic to see fairies.

  “I thought he was messing about, or was perhaps a traveler who believed in that kind of thing. By that time, of course, I’d realized that I didn’t know his name. But when I asked him, he simply laughed, and said it was better that I didn’t know.

  “When I could dance no more, he took one of the primroses from my hair. ‘To remember you by,’ he said. Foolishly, I asked what he would leave me to remember him by, to which his only reply was a strange little smile as he went on his way.” Rose fiddled with her hands in her lap. “I never saw him again after that night. No one did, and no one knew who he was. But whoever he was, he did leave me with something to remember him by.” Subconsciously she held a hand to her stomach. “Nine months later I had a child, a tiny, flame-haired baby.”