I nod, urge the mount towards the path that’ll take me home. ‘Then thank you again.’
‘And I’ll see you at harvest home?’
I don’t reply, but grin knowing he can’t see me.
‘Mehrab? Mehrab?’ His chuckle is loud and rolls after me.
***
I shouldn’t let Faolan help me. I shouldn’t even be thinking of him, let alone owing him favours. Then again, he is the only source of horses for leagues and leagues, and I do not propose to leave the forest – or even go just as far north as Sarith’s Ford – to buy one. I remind myself of the hurt and burn of being cast away by him. I wonder, again, if I’d had a child – been able to carry a child to term – would it have been different? Would he have stayed? Would we have lasted? I let my mind wander paths it’s not been allowed on for long years.
Then I stop.
I remind myself of his wife, the woman he chose over me. Younger than I was, far less worldly, less questioning, far less independent. Like most women in places like this, she took all that such a life offered: a husband, children, housework, cooking, perhaps grandchildren, then death – although in her case, death came sooner than expected. And if she’d wanted anything different – yearned, dreamed – she buried those desires lest they interrupt the flow of existence. She knew of me, resented me because I’d been first – it’s only a natural thing – but she still came to me when she couldn’t fall pregnant, just as Deva Peppergill had. Children are an anchor for women such as they. Easier to help her than Deva, with youth on her side, but in the end there was only one child. Orin. And I’dnever seen her again, not even to hear her say thank you. Easier to help such women when I couldn’t do that for myself.
So, I remind myself now: he did not choose me. He is not mine. He hasn’t been so for a very long time, if indeed he was ever mine at all.
Still…
Harvest home.
On the green, dancing and feasting after the last of the wheat is taken to the mill for grinding and turning into flour before being returned to each householder for the coming wintertide, and spring and summer after that. The burning of corn-dolls, the roasting of meats and vegetables, a round of meeting and mating inside and outside of matrimonial bonds with not much offence caused. An event which I’ve never attended, except my first year in Berhta’s Forge, under Yrse’s watchful eye – or at least until she fell asleep under a tree after too much mead. I think about Faolan, the contours of him, the feel of his skin, where it’s lighter protected from the sun by his clothing, the scars from stray embers, careless knife cuts and occasional hammer bruises; the marks where horses have taken their ill-temper out on the big man who’s nothing but gentle with them.
I shake my head. My attention is needed on the path homeward. I remind myself I’ve had several near scrapes in recent weeks, although to be fair this morning’s was merely a stalking child. Mooning like a lovesick girl won’t keep me safe. So I think again about all the wrongs done me by Faolan, how my heart was broken to hear him say he would be married but not to me (even though he had asked, and I’d refused). That he believed, though, that we would continue as we had been,but because I wouldn’t give him children (couldn’t carry one to term, and he’d not noticed, and I’d kept the secret of each miscarriage), he must have a wife. A proper wife. And I, with no desire to ever marry, suddenly found an utter bereftness inside me that only hatred could fill, especially when I saw the girl he had replaced me with, in looks a younger version of me, sweet of face and voice. How I avoided the village and her until the day she appeared on my doorstep, begging aid – and then again after that, avoiding the smithy and any place I might see either her or him. Quite the feat, for all those years, to know nothing about them, to never enquire after their health or otherwise, for no one in Berhta’s Forge to ever offer gossip about them.
The memories work, and by the time I reach the cottage, I’m in a much worse mood, resenting the loan of the horse, the talk of buying a foal, of him bargaining for a heavy horse on my behalf. Of having to speak to him again, of returning Rosie, of harvest home. When I dismount, I see Arlo and Rhea coming out of the trees. I wonder if they’ve hidden there all day. I’ll warrant no work’s been done, and even though I know it’s irrational – I told them to hide – I’m irked. I remind myself that one of the unforeseen advantages of the summer husband is that he’s kept Rhea uninterested in the village. She no longer asks about accompanying me and no one’s seen her except Anselm and Gida, and they think her family.
‘Mehrab! What happened?’ Rhea rushes up, trailed by the summer husband; her expression is one of relief. ‘Are you all right? Whose horse is this? Who was the child?’
She rattles out her questions rapid and staccato as ahailstorm – I think the fact that her summer husband cannot speak is wearing, the conversation a lack. Rather than answer, I say: ‘Arlo, the vegetable patch – there’ll be ripened things that need picking before the birds find them. Off you go now.’
I say it as I have to previous summer husbands over the years – possibly even more politely since this one’s not really mine – and they’ve all obeyed with alacrity. Today it’s the garden, in a week more it’ll be the wheat needing to be scythed, gathered up, tied by Rhea and me in the wake of Arlo’s cutting, ready for threshing. A week after that, the hay must be cut and baled and stacked in the barn. The small fields grow enough to see two to three mouths through winter snows, and enough set by for spring and summer, but it’s the job of several days to harvest and thresh it, then put it in sacks and load it into the cart, hitch up old Fyren and coax him along with the right treats into the village mill. There’s a schedule to be adhered to so we don’t get behind, don’t miss the best chance for harvest, at least a dozen other tasks needing to be done. And, in spite of my temper, I’ve said it casually, kindly enough; bitten down on my ill-humour for it’s not their fault I’m in a mood, not this time at least. Not to start with.
Andthisis the work he was made for, his very reason for existing. When he looks away from me to Rhea for her word, it’s such a tiny thing, such a slight gaze, such a glancing blow, but it has the effect of a punch. He does as he’s meant to, but it’s athercommand, not mine.
It’s all I can do to keep my temper, to throw Rhea the reins and tell her to take care of poor Rosie while I heft baskets inside.
18
That night, I take precautions against sleepwalking – either from the impetus of my own troubled mind or from the call of something out among the trees, something that thinks if it can’t get to me, it will draw me to it. I do what I should have done on the second night, even the first, but I hadn’t realised then what was happening.
I take a tall glass of water and drink it down, then I refill it and sprinkle salt over the top and dried lavender leaves, and a pinch of grave dirt. I push the glass under the bed, as close to the middle as I can get. The events of the day have worn me out, so I have no trouble falling asleep. In the morning, the water in the glass is black, shimmering and churning just a little:aqua nocturna. The water of nightmares, an ingredient witches will pay dearly for – I don’t recall my nightmares, I slept very well, and now their essence lies in a glass. I decant it into a bottle before breakfast; I’ve no doubt I’ll find some use for it – or Reynald will gleefully pay good gold for it.
***
The ritual continues to work and I’m back to remaining in my own bed during the dark hours, and I can focus more on the training sessions that have been scarce in past weeks. Between the labours leading to harvest, the habitual everyday tasks, and the hours she’s spending with the summer husband, time for magic lessons has been a rare commodity. Evenings are shortened by exhaustion, the opportunities for, or willingness to, chatter or concentrate are low, and some nights now I don’t even hear their whispers and soughs.
So, this morning, when the summer husband is occupied with threshing the wheat in the barn, I take the opportunity to see whether Rhea’s skills have deteriorated. Today’s target is two planks attached to a buoy anchored out in the middle of the pond, which bobs and dances a little with the current from the stream. It looks a little like a person. I’m pleased to note that Rhea’s aim remains wonderfully accurate. The thing goes up like a church martyr dowsed in oil.
‘Well done,’ I say, nodding approval.
Her face is gleeful as she laughs. ‘Looks like the prince the day I burned him!’
I freeze. She covers her mouth, too late, the secret let out.
‘What did you say?’
She doesn’t reply, but takes her hand away, lips pursed tightly as a gate locked after the horse has bolted.
