Sitting outside on the bench in the rose garden, trying to get my breath back. To clear my lungs, to swill out the taste of vomit with the whiskey Rhea brought me when she could tear herself away from the summer husband.He’sstill in the barn, still supine, too new to know quite what to do until he’s told. The girl’s beside me, chattering, asking if I’m quite well, and all I can think of is that she’s champing to get back into the barn. Then she’s tapping my shoulder, hard, and I pay proper attention to her.
‘Mehrab. Look.’
I follow the direction of her nod to where the path feeds out from the forest or leads into it depending on which way you’re going. The hulking shape of Anselm stands there, hesitating, almost as if he’s hanging, suspended in the shadows, unwilling to step into the patches of sunlight that dapple the way to my garden gate. I raise a hand to beckon, then wipe my mouth with the self-same hand.
When he’s close enough for me to make out his expression, I say, ‘I know I look like seven types of shite right now, but you look infinitely worse, Anselm.’
Which is probably not the gentlest thing to say to a man who lost one of his children not so many weeks ago, but my stomach is battling with me still and it makes me curt. But he simply nods, refusing to meet my eye. ‘What is it, Anselm?’
He clears his throat, looks at me at last. ‘Our Ari’s back. But… she’s not the same.’
11
‘How long’s she been back?’ I ask at last. Walking towards Berhta’s Forge, neither of us has spoken for the last ten minutes, me still uncertain of my stomach, he wrapped in his thoughts. Anselm had waited patiently while I bathed the stench from me, drank a ginger tea. Wet hair soaking through the back of my fresh dress, I’m not looking my best or most imposing. I told Rhea to wait in the cottage, to stay out of the barn; I put the bar across the doors just in case this summer husband happened to come to himself faster than others – they’re often different, each one. But the average? He won’t be mobile for another day; birth is exhausting. I personally would like to be in my bed, sleeping off my pains and disappointment and pulling my energy back.
He clears his throat. ‘A week.’
‘And it didn’t occur to you to let me know?’ I can’t keep the peevishness from my tone. Again, they’ve delayed in sending for me. These past weeks when I’ve gone into the village to collect Rhea’s new boots and occasional supplies, Reynald’s whispered there’s been no trace of the child, although hermother’s been seen wandering the forest paths, still seeking. For one part, I think, there’s still a lack of trust, a modicum of fear when it comes to the witch in the woods. For another, I’m out of sight, out of mind, unless they want something. That has its advantages of course. If you’re not on people’s minds, they’re not thinking either good or bad things about you. They’re less likely to blame you for something. Mostly.
‘We were just so relieved to have her back.’
I note he doesn’t say “happy”. That’s the guilt speaking.Don’t let her be gone and leave us with the burden of knowing we didn’t care enough. Love enough.‘And?’
‘At first it was little things, mannerisms, habits. We thought – Gida says it’s the time she’s been away. Gida says that people change when they’re away from family and children are more changeable than adults. Then the way Ari speaks – the accent odd sometimes, the word choice not like a child’s. Words I had to ask Faolan the meaning of.’ He seems to struggle to continue. ‘We’re both sleeping badly – deeply but badly.’
‘And?’
‘And we wake in the night and find her standing at the foot of the bed, just watching. Staring. Gida says sleepwalking’s normal. That’s all.’
‘But?’
‘Sometimes I think her eyes shine like they shouldn’t, not in the dark.’
‘And?’
‘She’s started cursing at her mother, me too, if she doesn’t like something. Things keep getting broken, small things with sentimental value – a vase that belonged to my mother,a drawing by our oldest son, a hand-embroidered apron, even the highchair that’s been in Gida’s family for almost a hundred years. We use it when the grandchildren visit. Came home to find it almost in splinters one afternoon, and only Ari had been there that day. And the handkerchief we gave you? To scry? Found scraps of it in the hearth, mostly burned, but enough left so we’d know what it was.’
‘Maybe Ari’s just feeling lonely and looking for attention?’ I offer, weakly.
He shakes his head. ‘Her best friend won’t have anything to do with Ari anymore. She and Tieve were thick as thieves.’
‘Two months is a long time for children – perhaps Tieve’s made new friends? They’ve grown apart?’
‘But I’ve seen Tieve run away from my daughter, seen the fear in her face. Gida says it’s our punishment for being poor parents.’ He clears his throat. ‘But we weren’t so bad, didn’t beat her or abuse her. Maybe not as attentive as we should have been – it’s hard, when you think you’re done with breeding, you know? That you’ve got some freedom… But Gida says it’s our burden to bear.’
‘Sounds like Gida’s saying a lot of things.’
‘She… she doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong. Won’t believe it. She’s treating the child like a princess instead of—’
‘An irritation?’ I’m swinging between some sympathy and none. Making a child feel like an inconvenience is a terrible thing, yet so many parents wonder why their offspring turn on them as adults (I speak from experience). Anselm colours, a dusky red, and I go on, ‘Exactly what do you think I can do about it?’
‘Talk to Ari? Children listen to you – scare her.’ He shakeshis head. ‘Or talk to Gida and make her see sense. She,’ he coughs, ‘doesn’t know I’ve come to you.’
I cough too, swallow, taste the bitterness of the elixir’s fumes once more. My eyes water at the strength of the memory. We don’t talk for the rest of the journey.
***
‘What are you doing here?’ Gida raises her voice. She’s standing in the kitchen, was staring out the window at the river when we arrived, took some long moments to realise she wasn’t alone.
