“Chamomile,” I say, though I’m not sure if the name means anything to them. Not everyone cares to know what works and why, the way I do. I add honey from the fresh comb I collected in the garden, and one would think it were manna straight from God himself, the way they drink it down.
I wonder—but don’t dare ask—how far they must’ve come. How fast they must’ve run. I wonder if anyone is looking for them.
“The man lives in our village,” the woman says when her mug is empty. “He has a wife, Mistress. A family. But it wasn’t my Sophia who caused him to stray, you have my word.”
I don’t need her word, but I don’t say as much. I want to tell her that I would help her regardless, that she is a child and he is a man. That there would be no excuse. But these types of things aren’t said by decent people, I have learned. So, I remain quiet.
“He visited our farm while my husband was away. We thought he was a good man when we invited him inside.” She puts her hand out, taking her daughter’s. “We were very wrong. I tried to stop him. I begged him to take me instead, to leave her be. She was… She was promised to another man, and now she’s ruined. We’d already paid her dowry, and we haven’t got anything left. She’ll be penniless, as will we. Unless…” She looks at the girl, whose stony eyes remain fixed straight ahead, at nothing and everything all at once. “I’ve had eight children myself, Mistress. I know the signs.”
Something twists deep inside of me. Ancient pain. Fear that feels even older. I think of my daughters, long since grown and gone.
“Does anyone in town know? You said they sent you to me. Who?”
“No one knows, ma’am. I assure you, I would never tell a soul. I asked for help with my sleeping. Told the ones I asked that I’ve been waking hot as a flame. They were friends, not enemies, but I couldn’t take any chances.” She shakes her head, pinning me with an angry glare. “They’ll blame her, you know. Say she tempted him, that she tricked him somehow. Or worse, still—they’ll claim it’s devil’s work. That she lay with the devil himself. They’ll kill her, Mistress. There’s still plenty of men who remember the trials, who are just aching to sink their teeth into the witches again. Like they…” She bows her head. “Forgive me, but just like they did your mother.”
My eyes go sharp. I feel them and refuse to soften them. Does she think I’ve forgotten the trials that took my mother away from me? All on the accusations of a man who meant to harm me? Does she suspect I’ve forgotten how they tried to burn down Foxglove with us inside, how my mother let them take her to save me? I will never forget that day, nor will I forget that evil man, though I heard he died before the rope went around Mama’s neck.
She quiets, looking ashamed.
They left her body hanging in a dirty shift while Mary and I watched from the tree line. We were just girls then, despite the baby growing in my sister’s womb, hidden beneath layers of cloth. We were too young to run—and had nowhere to go should we have tried—but too old to forget the way her face looked as she went still.
After, we buried her alone next to the oak tree, next to our gran. Next to the others. And with her death, I vowed to never use the knowledge she’d given me, to never help this town that took her from me ever again.
Whether or not she meant it, this woman has just reminded me of why. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. That work died right along with my mother.”
“They will kill her,” the woman reminds me, angry.
“Perhaps.” My voice sounds cold to my own ears. “Perhaps not.” I stand, moving away from the fire. “There are others who?—”
“No.” The woman slices through my words with her own, dripping with venom. “There aren’t. Not anymore. The ones who survived moved away. Or they married or joined the church. Do you know how far we had to travel to see you? Do you have any idea what we’ve done? They said you?—”
“They misspoke.”
She bites her lip, and I can see that she’s fighting back a rage as hot as the fire itself. The room is still, silent. The only sound comes from the fire crackling in the hearth, reminding us it’s there. Alive. Right here with us.
“You should leave,” I tell them. “The woods aren’t safe after dark.” The world isn’t either, but I don’t say as much.
The mother doesn’t move except to look at her daughter, and when she does, the girl finally looks up. But it’s not her mother’s face she looks into, it’s mine. Her eyes are so dull and deep, like the river stones I used to skip with Mary. She looks lost in there. Drowning.
“Where can I go?” she asks me, her voice small. “Where can I go that he’ll never find me again?”
That does it. Her words, the innocence in them, crack something open inside my chest that I’ve kept bound up with rope and silence for as long as I can remember. I feel it unwinding, unfolding. In her eyes, I see myself. Alone. Afraid. Marked by Mama’s death. Condemned for surviving.
Slowly, I turn away from her. I don’t speak, just act. I find the cupboard and open the false back. Inside, I take down the old bundles and vials no one has touched in what feels like a lifetime.
I open cloths Mama wrapped in twine. Inside, I find some of her favorites. Sage, pennyroyal, and ginger in one. Rosemary, turmeric, mint, and tansy in another. In a third, valerian and thyme.
All forbidden.
All remembered.
The linens are stiff with age, and the herbs crumble beneath my touch as I slowly run my fingers over each of her ingredients, thinking of my mother. These items were her life’s work. It meant so much to her to learn and to help, and in the end, it cost her everything.
I close my eyes, tracing the edge of one of the cloths with my fingers. When I turn back around, the woman is watching me. She doesn’t want to look afraid, but I see the fear in her eyes.
The girl still doesn’t look afraid. She doesn’t look as if she feels much of anything, and deep inside my chest I understand why. If I can help her, I must.
Yesterday, I was merely an old woman, prepared to take our secrets to my grave. Now, I’m no longer certain these secrets should be forgotten.
