“My friendship with Isobel.” As she speaks, she begins to snap matured broccoli crowns from their stalks. “Looking back, I can’t remember any specific moment when we fought. It seems like one day I woke up and decided she wasn’t someone whose company I cared for anymore. I mean, we’ve been friends for years. Why would I suddenly change my mind without cause?”
Another valid point.
“But mostly, it’s how I feel in here.” Harper presses a hand to her heart. “I look at Thornbrook, and I feel changed. Do you understand?”
I understand more than anyone. And since she has admitted herapprehensions, I feel comfortable sharing my own experience. “I think someone’s watching me.”
Harper goes still, a head of broccoli clamped in one fist. “Really? Who?”
At least she isn’t claiming I’ve slipped into insanity, though that’s a definite concern I have for myself. “I don’t know. I believe it’s a man.” The breadth of the shoulders, the height and narrow hips. “I can’t make out his features. He’s never close enough.”
“You’ve seen him inside the abbey?”
“Twice on my walk to the forge.” Then this morning, on my way to breakfast, though I’d only sensed his presence.
A man watches me. What does he want? I haven’t informed Mother Mabel of my concerns. My trust in her is no longer absolute.
Harper appears deeply disturbed, for men are forbidden to enter the grounds. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I feel stuck. Stagnant. I am not sure of my path forward.
She frowns, then says, “I will pray for your memories to return—and my own.”
It is not her prayers I need, only that elusive truth. But I nod, and gather up my basket, and harvest carrots until the noon bell tolls.
42
KILKARE BEGINS TO STIR ASwe arrive at the market to set up shop. Soon, the scents of burned sugar and roasted meat saturate the air, and color brightens the wide thoroughfare, the stalls overwhelmed with abundance.
Within the first hour, I sell four knives. By noon, three more daggers have disappeared from my collection.
What’s surprising is how many people ask after me. Though I do not remember, it’s been months since I attended Market Day. They ask how I have been, if I am well. They inquire about my studies and ask if I will one day offer private commissions: knives, axes, swords. I’ve considered it. Thornbrook, however, comes first.
“I understand,” the local baker, Gabe, says with a smile. “But if you ever change your mind, consider me your first client.” He passes a small pastry box to me. Inside, four raspberry tarts sit like sweetened fruits, ripe for plucking.
A few stalls down, Isobel eyes my gift, her long coiled braids secured in a low tail. I select a tart, its cool white icing smearing my fingertips, and shove it into my mouth, all without breaking eye contact. She sneers, then returns to her bartering.
“Are you the abbey bladesmith?”
A short, cloaked figure approaches my table. I peer down at the visitor, frowning. “I am.”
Pushing back her hood, the patron reveals herself. I gasp and stumble back. She is short and rotund, with twiggy legs and long, knobby fingers. A shabby waistcoat hangs over a gauzy white dress. Dull, stony eyes swallow the brightness of midday. An ancient gaze, cunning despite her childlike appearance.
Fair folk. I thought they couldn’t pass through Kilkare’s iron gates, but I wouldn’t put it past them to carry enchantments that protect against iron, even salt.
My frown returns as she continues to stare. The weight of my dagger reminds me I am not without a means of defense. “Is there something I can help you with?” Surely, she would not attack me in broad daylight, though little is known about the fair folk and their motives.
The girl-woman’s lower lip pokes outward. “You do not remember me, sweet?”
“I’m sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else.” From the corner of my eye, I search for Mother Mabel. I haven’t seen her since our arrival, hours ago.
“Then it is true what they are saying,” she whispers. A lock of snowy hair brushes her chin. “You have forgotten us.”
I straighten and take a long look at the unwanted visitor who claims to know me. I think of the months I’ve lost, the knowledge drowned. “Who have I forgotten?”
“The fair folk, of course.”
One of the textile merchants across the lane crows in delight as she makes a sale. Still, I do not move. “We have met before?”
