There’s a scuffling sound, a thump, and a petulant curse uttered in a raspy voice that I recognize all too well.
“Grandmother Riquet?” I call again, taking the door handle.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Sybil Fallon.”
“Sybil?”
She can’t have forgotten me. Then again, she is nearly ninety. Maybe her memory is beginning to weaken.
I hesitate, struck by sudden guilt for not coming to check on her before now. She prefers to be alone, and she has made that abundantly clear to everyone in the area, sometimes with the help of a pitchfork or an old crossbow. I’m not even sure the crossbow still works, but she points it at anyone who comes onto her property without an invitation. She pointed it at me the day I left her for the last time. That threat shocked me more than any of the terrible things she said during our fight. It’s why I haven’t returned, and it’s one of the details I didn’t share with Anne or my mother when I explained to them that I wouldn’t be having any more lessons.
Grandmother Riquet has always been self-sufficient, living quietly and only coming to the village with her donkey cart once every few months to exchange woven baskets and neatly stitched quilts for supplies. But perhaps that is changing. At her age, one can only be self-sufficient for so long, and judging by the presence of the menagerie, her thought patterns have shifted.
“It’s Sybil,” I repeat. With a bracing breath, I add, “The demon girl.”
“Sybil, of course. Come in.”
I glance over my shoulder at the creatures, who are still watching me with inscrutable eyes.
Pressing the handle of the door, I push my way inside.
In the front room of the cottage, a few rays of dusty sunlight filter between the half-drawn calico curtains. It’s musty, with an underlying stink of sweat and mildew. I walk over to the wooden table where Grandmother and I used to sit and drink mint tea or dandelion wine, and I set down the basket.
She’s not in the front room, which serves as both parlor and kitchen, and there isn’t an indoor bathroom, just an outhouse near the edge of the clearing. She must be in the bedroom. Is she ill?
“I brought you some muffins,” I call. “Apple cinnamon, with the crumble topping you like.”
“How kind. Bring one in here, would you?”
“Are you not well?” I open the cupboard and take out a plate. I blow the dust off and carry it to the table, where I use the corner of the checkered cloth to wipe its surface before setting a muffin on it.
“I’m fine,” replies Grandmother in a crotchety tone. “Perfectly fine. Stop worrying. You worry far too much.”
“I suppose I do. There’s so much to worry about once you reach a certain age.”
“A certain age.” She scoffs. “How old are you, sixteen?”
“Twenty-two, as you know very well.” I walk to the bedroom door and peer into the shadows. “Don’t you want any light?”
“I’d prefer not. My eyes are weaker than they used to be.”
“How about a candle? Just so you can see well enough to eat.”
“Very well. Hand me that plate and go fetch one.”
Hesitantly I move forward. I can barely see the veined hand she extends. After giving her the plate, I return to the front room for a candle, light it with one of the few remaining matches from the box in the cupboard, and reenter the bedroom, placing the candle on the bureau.
By its flickering light, I survey Grandmother Riquet. She looks mostly the same. A bristly chin she doesn’t bother to pluck. Her favorite nightdress, mended so many times I can barely see the original fabric through the patches. A cloud of curly gray hair beneath a pink nightcap. Sharp gray eyes on either side of a pointed nose.
But her fingernails are long and ragged, her hair is matted, and her nightdress has a sweat stain around the yoke. She hasn’t been taking care of herself.
My heart sinks, and I sit down on the edge of the bed. She moves her legs away from me under the blanket.
“You’re not well,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll heat some water for a bath. Is the pump still working?”
She stares at me with a neutral expression, neither hostile nor welcoming. When she speaks, her lips barely move. “Why are you here?”
