I raise an eyebrow.
‘To the west, there’s a great kingdom – years ago the ruling family was overthrown, all slaughtered, it was thought. But now…’ Fenna waves a finger at me, making sure I’m listening – ‘Nowcomes a princess, her face all scarred, claiming to be of “the blood”. Now comes the princess who was hidden and forgotten. Now comes the one who will claim her throne and restore the family line.’
And I try so hard not to react. I try to freeze my limbs and my features, to not stiffen in my chair, to not gasp or cry out. I try not to show that this has any effect on me, on this day which has been filled with outlandish things. I needn’t have bothered. Fenna’s not paying attention, she’s draining her drink; she’ll want another soon so I force myself upwards, go to the kitchen and heat more honeyed rum.
My hands shake as I do so, listening to her chatter trickle through the doorway. The tale told often for years, then as those years grew longer and further from the source, told less and less. A tale that travelled quite a distance – the savagery of the slaughter, the flames that rose over that city of renown, the losses sustained, the riches gained, the new rulers never quite able to keep hold of the crown and replaced by successive pretenders over and over. The latest one the longest lasting, a wielder of sword and whip, the most brutal yet.
And now, a princess, her face all scarred…
I shake my head. Not my story. Nothing to do with me. I let her words wash over me, pretend I cannot hear. I will not think on it.
3
Fenna left before dawn, without saying goodbye to Rhea, which appears to have made her even more sour than yesterday. Though the girl didn’t seem overly attached to her minder, perhaps being passed from hand to hand, in constant motion, is discombobulating and losing even the slightest connection is upsetting. In fact, Iknowit is, so I try to be kinder over breakfast, which has no effect whatsoever – I’m treated to one-word answers and grunts that I’m quite sure her rich parents didn’t teach her or, if they did, never intended her to use in any situation because for all intents and purposes she was raised to be alady.
It’s only when I finish my porridge, wash my bowl and cup (leaving her to hers), and check the contents of the small backpack I prepared last night (hatchet, length of rope, rolled leather kit of medicinal items, a water skin and a ploughman’s lunch) that she shows some interest. She follows me out the front door, hesitating on the threshold, sounding childlike as she asks, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the woods, I’ve things to do.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Best not.’ I can’t think of anything worse than mother-henning this brat when I’m trying to concentrate. ‘Stay here and settle in, rest. There’ll be work to do if you’re willing – and even if you’re unwilling, work is the price of your safety. Many have deemed you worth saving and put themselves at risk to do so. If you’re going to be in my home, then you’ll be helping around the place.’
‘I want…’ She stops and I can see the effort it takes her not to demand. To sayplease. ‘Please. I want to go for a walk that’s not a forced march for my life. I will help, but… today I want tostroll. I want to explore. And… I don’t want to be alone.’
I decide against taking the bow today, ensure the knife’s in the sheath on my belt, and hitch my skirt up to one side to make the walking easier. My trews need mending and I wonder if the girl’s got any skill with a needle; it’s something I hate doing. I’m careful not to look at her as her voice trembles until she clears her throat, speaks firmly once more. ‘Please.’
‘You can come along if you promise to do as you’re told. No questions, no arguments.’
She nods without hesitation.
I point at her fine dress, dirty as it is. ‘That’s all you’ve got to wear?’ I know it is; she arrived in it, no pack or other baggage. ‘We’ll have to see to that soon.’ She clutches at her fine blue skirts and I recognise the gesture – the idea of letting go of the last connection to home feels like a physical blow. I’m taller than she, my clothes would hang on her like a child playing dress-ups. There’ll be something we can take up, perhaps, but not right now. It was months before I burned my finery, before I could bring myself to let go of those silken rags. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll clean that up, make it like new. You won’t lose it.’
She nods. ‘Thank you.’
I look at the shoes peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt: terribly fine though worn-looking. Her only choice – my feet are much bigger than hers, so my second-best boots won’t help. She’ll just have to cope. ‘I’ll have the cobbler make you a sturdy pair of clod-hoppers. They’ll be ugly but will see you through winter and any further travels, should you need to flee.’
The joke falls flat as she pales; clearly the idea of taking to the roads again is not appealing.
‘Come along.’
But as I close the door behind her and turn towards the path that will lead from my holding and into the woods, I see someone standing just beyond the tree line. My heart thuds, thinking of yesterday deep in the woods, of the sense of beingfound, and hold my breath. Then the figure steps out of the shade and resolves into a man and a woman peering over his shoulder before her shadow separates from his and they both walk reluctantly towards the gate in the white picket fence. I move to meet them, urging Rhea to go back in the cottage.
Up closer, I recognise them: the bakers, Anselm and Gida Hadderholm. They live in the village almost an hour’s walk away – Berhta’s Forge – far enough for it to be an effort to come here, and the village itself far enough from civilisation that no church has ever been built there. No bells ever to ring in the Great Forest.
‘Hello, Gida, Anselm,’ I say gently. Even in places where churches and god-hounds are few and far between, people can be tentative about coming to see a witch in the woods. ‘How can I help? Are you unwell?’
Anselm’s hulking, bearded, a smattering of flour still in his hair, small puffs of it across his dark jacket as if he dressed in a hurry and his wife was too distracted to dust him down, or no longer loves him enough to do so. As I recall they’re a loving couple, no violence between them. She’s small, delicate, seeming to curve in on herself; sometimes that’s aging but many women learn to take up more space rather than less. Perhaps in this case it’s something else.
Anselm shakes his head. ‘We can see you’re about to go out’ – a convenient excuse to not cross my threshold – ‘and we don’t wish to trouble you, but—’
‘—our daughter’s missing. The youngest,’ Gida interjects, her pitch high, sharp. ‘And we cannot find her. We hoped you—’
‘—we can pay.’ Anselm’s pulling a coin purse from his pocket, waving it in my direction like a carrot to a donkey. Not the sack or basket of bread and cheese or game that’s my usual payment-in-kind. ‘We can pay for your help. Only we thought you might be able to see her? See where she’s gone?’
They’ve not brought things I can actually use because, for some reason, they think this is a gold coin service. That its value is beyond that of food (which is foolish – what can I use coin for out here?). Holding up a silencing hand, I ask, ‘When did she disappear? Where was she last seen?’
‘Three days ago. Ari went to collect mushrooms.’ Gida’s wringing her fingers now, fit to twist them off though I don’t think she’s aware of the motion.
