The whoosh of fire igniting, swallowing air like a greedy child.
Behind Arlo his mistress has a great handful of blue flames; she only hesitates a little before she throws it.
The summer husband goes up like a torch.
In the usual way of things, he’d be given a hemlock potion to make him sleep, then would be beheaded with a single axe blow and fed to the hearth on the first night of winter, servinghis final purpose. His body was to have been used throughout the season, for its composition means it burns long and very hot, saving on other materials. But this…
…this is witch-fire and it incinerates like no other; it is fast and consumes utterly.
When Arlo is no more than a pile of cinders, Rhea helps me up. Together we limp out into the wider wood where snow has begun to fall, just little eddies, back towards the cottage and away from the howls of my sin (by no means the greatest), the old summer husband.
21
Rhea’s refused to speak to me for two days, lying on her bed in the same clothes she wore to the fateful grove. Refused to eat. And to be honest, I’ve wanted to stay in my own bed and nurse my own wounds, the hurts the summer husband visited upon me, but I don’t. I can’t. If I take to my bed, I might not get up again, might allow the despair of this awful pass to overwhelm me. So, I swallow my own potions, I put poultices on my bruises and ointments on my scratches and scrapes, and I keep breathing, working, tending – there’s livestock needs feeding, the fields needing final prep for winter, and an orchard in need of proper pruning. Mind you, when I reset and healed my own arm and rib, I almost passed out from the pain of the remaking; if I didn’t truly understand before why folk resent healing that hurts, I do now.
Still, I’ve been watching her carefully these past two days and she’s going to need my help soon. Whether she wants it or not. The girl burned her beloved to save me – which might simply mean she’s going to hatemefor whatshedid. There’s every chance she’ll depart this forest soon, prepared or not forwhat comes next; I admit I’d be sad to lose her. She’s sacrificed something valuable for me, so the most valuable thing I can give in return is a truth, when the time comes.
But, for the moment, I’m content to let her grieve, to ignore me, and I can do with respite from the sound of her guilt-ridden breaths. It also means that when there’s a knock on the front door, I’m fairly certain she won’t come down, won’t want to be anywhere near me, so I don’t need to worry about her being seen. I half-expect Faolan to be on the threshold, but that hope is soon dashed.
***
Thaddeus Peppergill is a dark-haired, dark-eyed man of faded handsomeness, medium height, mostly trim, still striking but his best days are well over his shoulder. I’ve never felt tempted by him, but enough women (and a few of the men if Reynald’s gossip is to be believed) have thought him worth a turn; in addition to the offspring from his recognised mistresses, there are sufficient children in Berhta’s Forge bearing little resemblance to their own fathers, and an embarrassingly strong stamp of the Peppergill features. At my kitchen table, he’s opted for a glass of honeyed rum – early in the day, but the weather’s sufficiently chilly that no one would raise an eyebrow, unless they’re like me and can smell the scent of alcohol already on his breath. I cobble together a ploughman’s lunch to soak up the excess and hopefully keep him from tumbling off that very fine roan horse tied to a post by the barn. I’ve treated him more than once over the years for mildly embarrassing conditions, done my best to ensure he doesn’t pass anything on to his partners. Still, not the worst of men.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Thaddeus?’ I sit across from him, begin picking at my own plate of meat and cheese, pickles and bread. ‘Is Matthias well? No ill effects of his adventure?’
‘The boy’s well. Well. But…’ There are shadows under his eyes that hint at stolen sleep, the skin beneath his chin is slack, like that of an even older man. ‘And I thank you for finding him, Mehrab. Deva and I are so grateful. But…’
‘Neither of us is getting any younger, so I’d suggest you spit it out.’
There’s a flare of irritation in his eyes, just briefly, and I know he’s not used to anyone talking to him this way. Of course, I’ve never spoken to him any other way, so there should be no surprise on his part.
‘Come, come, Thad. Speak plainly.’ I think,I know too much about you for you to play coy. Then he manages to surprise me.
‘More children are missing, Mehrab.’
The bread in my mouth is suddenly dry, tastes like sand and I can barely swallow. I gulp down my water, wishing I’d opted for rum. It’s a few moments before I can say, ‘How many? Whose children?’
‘Five. All young, seven or eight, all of them under the charge of Widow Wilky.’
‘Shit. When?’ Why hasn’t Tieve come to tell me? The widow’s not a bad sort – a little grumpy, but that’s no crime – and she provides for those children whose families die and leave them unable to care for themselves. She did so even before her wife died, and she herself became ‘Widow Wilky’. Gods knowI’ve kept an eye on her myself for years, just to make sure she’s not a monster in disguise. But the orphans she cares for return to help her after they’ve left, invite her to weddings and name-days, some call her “mother” or “aunt”.
‘The last few days – and before you shout, remember that some children disappear for several nights in a row before they return, tail between their legs, begging her charity again,’ Thaddeus warns. ‘But these ones… well, the widow’s experienced enough with children to know whether they’re the wandering kind, and she’s adamant these were not.’
It’s true. Not all want to live under another’s rules. Some think they’ve escaped such tyranny when a parent or parents shuffle off their mortal coil. Some run, heading for other villages or settlements. One or two have settled themselves in the woods, becoming foresters, hunters, small croppers, returned to trade with the village. But all have been trackable, all have been traced.
‘And no adults have gone missing?’ I ask; he shakes his head. ‘What are their names? The children?’
‘Uh. I—’
‘You didn’t ask. Just took the numbers.’
‘Mehrab, what can we do? There has to be something. We can’t just lock them all up, watch over them night and day. Not indefinitely. Work must be done, life must go on.’
I rub my face, trying to feel less tired, less fuzzy-brained. ‘Salt. That is the easiest thing I can think of on short notice: pour a thick line of salt around the village, make sure there are no gaps.’
He sits back. ‘That’s a lot of salt.’
‘A lot. I’m sure there’s a good supply of it in your emporium, Thad. Think how grateful folk will be to know you generously donated your own stock to help keep their children – and yours, of course – safe.’
