The instant I say it, I regret the confession. I never told Anne and Mama about that.
Grandmother’s keen eyes meet mine, and her lips twitch back for a moment, revealing those sharp teeth. But all she says is, “Eat.”
“Thank you.” I fill a bowl for each of us, giving her the larger portion.
“Did you come for a lesson?” she asks.
“No. Like I said, I’m just checking on you. I didn’t like how we left things.” I’m not sure if she remembers what occurred during my last visit. She might have been having some sort of episode. She’s certainly cleaner and better kept now, and she seems to have regained some of her mental faculties.
“I have periods of darkness,” she says.
“Darkness?”
“Darkness, sadness, mire and murk. You know. You’ve been there, too. I can smell it on you, the doleful dark.”
“I think I know what you mean,” I reply. “Anne had it worse than I did, during the winter. I never want to see her like that again. That’s why I wish I could marry the man from whom I took these.” I nod to the oranges.
“You need his money.” Her teeth click together, a snap that feels like a rebuke, even though she just told me I should marry him.
“Yes, I need his money. But I’d want him without it, too. He’s…magnificent. Magnificent and sweet and dangerous. I think I could love him. Maybe I could even make him happy.”
“Perhaps. But can he be trusted? More importantly, can you? Marriage is about trust, you know. Having faith in one another. Honoring your word, keeping your promises. Can you do that, Sybil?”
“I would try.”
Grandmother shakes her head. “Trying isn’t enough. You are either trustworthy, or you aren’t. You either have a true heart, or a deceitful one.”
After we eat, I help with the dishes, sweep the cottage, and then split some firewood for her. The last task is a strenuous one, and the afternoon sun is warm. When I start sweating, I strip down to the light petticoat I’m wearing beneath the dress. It’s white, sleeveless, and so thin it’s basically translucent in the sunlight or the rain. It’s my garment of choice on a hot day when there’s no one else around.
As I hoist the axe and slam it into the logs, I notice Grandmother standing at the corner of the cottage, watching me. I’ve worn petticoats for chores or meditation at her cottage many times, so that can’t be why she’s staring. Maybe she doesn’t like the way I’m splitting the logs. It’s not my best work—a lot of them are split unevenly, but they’ll burn fine.
It doesn’t help my concentration that the demon-creatures have gathered in a big circle around the stump where I’m splitting the logs. I’m afraid a splinter or a chunk of wood will hit one of them, so I have to keep warning them to stay back. They retreat for a while each time, but then they start creeping closer again.
Whatever Grandmother’s problem might be, she doesn’t complain. She simply stares while I finish the work. By that point, I’m soaked in sweat. I should have worn a corset today; I could have used the extra support during the labor of chopping the wood.
Taking a faded ribbon from my pocket, I tie my hair up, off my sweaty neck. Then I head for the pump and fill a bucket halfway. Bending down, I cup handfuls of the water and splash it over the back of my neck, my forehead, and my chest. I end up using too much and drenching the front of the petticoat, but I’m not worried. The weather should stay warm for another couple of hours, and the material will dry during my walk home.
Grandmother is still watching. I walk up to her and lean the axe against the wall of the cottage. “All done.”
“Good.” She clears her throat. “Off you go. No need to check on me again, I’m quite capable of managing here, as you can see.”
“Of course you can. But it’s alright to ask for help sometimes. I’ll try to return soon.”
She eyes the way my wet petticoat clings to my breasts, her face a mask of disapproval. “Don’t forget your clothes.”
“I won’t,” I reply, irritated. “Before I go, I wanted to ask—have you seen a very tall wolf in the forest?”
Grandmother’s gaze narrows. “A wolf?”
“Yes. A wolf with legs as tall and thin as trees, and with the hooves of a cow, and two heads. Well… not twoheadsexactly, but two snouts. Like its head split halfway. Anyway, if you see it, be careful. I think it’s hungry. It might try to eat you.”
She gives a gruff chuckle.
“I’m serious. Keep your crossbow nearby, just in case.”
“Hurry along,” is her only response.
Moments later, I’m leaving the clearing with my cloak, my dress, and my basket slung over my arm, waving to her with my free hand. She didn’t say thank you for the oranges, the jam, or the tea, nor did she express gratitude for my help with the chores. Yet I feel a grudging affection for her, no matter how grumpy she is or how much she changes. She’s part of my life. She has a place in my heart.
