I don’t try to hide my answering grin. “You know, I really think he does.”
6
Beresford visits me briefly the next evening, bringing with him a pair of beautifully carved crutches, an ankle brace with leather straps, and a huge basket full of food and wine. Mama and Anne are astounded by the bounty, but I’m most touched by the quiet way in which he explains the function of the ankle brace and adjusts the straps to suit my needs. He purchased both the crutches and the brace from a carpenter in Mulhouse who specializes in crafting mobility aids. After he left me at home, he must have traveled all night to reach the city and procure the items.
“I’m having another dinner party tomorrow night,” he says. “Of course I understand if you can’t make it, but I would love to see you there. Every accommodation will be made for you, Sybil,” he adds, with a warm smile.
When he departs, my mother and sister clamor his praises. They heat a pot of soup they found in the basket, and we all partake of that and a bottle of excellent red wine.
The wine loosens my tongue and my emotions. In addition to feeling suddenly very affectionate and grateful for my family, I begin to despise the notion of hiding things from them.
“I had a terrible time in the woods yesterday,” I tell Anne and Mama. “I saw things—monsters. It was frightening.”
“They’re just the harmless little demons you’ve summoned,” Anne assures me, her own cheeks pink from the wine.
“Not this thing.” I shake my head sagely. “This was different. Perhaps I summoned it, but I don’t think it’s harmless. I’ve seen it twice, both times not far from the Barrow. Speaking of the Barrow—Mama, didn’t you tell us a tale about it once?”
“I don’t recall any such thing.” Mama grabs the wine bottle and pours herself a bit more.
“You did, though!” Anne puts in. “I remember.”
My mother gulps her wine. Her face looks a shade whiter than it did a moment ago.
“Yes,” Anne continues pensively. “You’d had three glasses of wine before we even went to bed, which was odd. Whenever you drank in front of us, it was only half a glass at dinner. But that night you had three full ones. Papa was out. I think I was maybe eight years old—”
“Seven,” says Mama tonelessly.
“Which would make Sybil five at the time. You started telling us a story about the Barrow, about amanat the Barrow, a man who wanted a son. He had a daughter already, but he wanted a son, and he had heard that wishes made upon the Barrow sometimes came true. I don’t remember the rest of it, because Papa came home, and the two of you started to argue, so I took Sybil upstairs.”
Mama is still pale, but she is calm, so very calm. “That was the week I found out your father was cheating. When he cheated thefirsttime, that is. There were other times.”
“I thought the tinsmith—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“The tinsmith was the last in a line of affairs.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
“I stayed with him, because what choice did I have?” Her lips wobble as she smiles. “I couldn’t see a way out, not without hurting you children even worse. I didn’t know where else to go. At least here they didn’t—they wouldn’t—” Her eyes find mine, and she bites her lip.
“Here, in this village, they were kinder about me and my oddities,” I finish.
“Yes. I was afraid that if I took you elsewhere, you’d be in more danger.”
I don’t know how to reply, or how to cope with the fact that I was one of the main reasons she stayed with an unfaithful man.
Mama rises, still wearing that shaky smile, her eyes wet. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”
Anne and I listen to the creak of her footsteps mounting the stairs.
“I hate our father for treating her that way,” I murmur. “I hate him for leaving us, and for hardly ever being around when he did live here. I was around twelve when he left, but I don’t have many vivid memories of him. Do you?”
Anne leans back in her chair. “I have some. Probably more than you do. He was different when I was little. More fun. I remember him joking, laughing, playing music, and telling stories. He was a bard, you know, and a very popular one. That’s why he traveled so much. He performed stories and songs for many rich and powerful people, and he lived very well while doing it. That piano we used to have was a gift from the queen.”
“I remember Mama saying that when we sold it. The money paid for the roof repairs.”
“So it did. His lyre paid for the broken window, and the jeweled vest took care of the broken pipe in the kitchen.”
“He did leave that chest of coins for us, too,” I muse.
