And where has it come from and why now?
I shake my head. There are safe boundaries within which we can live for the moment. I will tell Rhea, in a few days, about the huntsman – thus far, I’ve kept that knowledge to myself. Why? Fear. Fear of being thought mad. Fear of having anyone ask why would such a thing appear to you? What inyouwould call toit?
No. Let me find it first. Let me discover its nature. Let me concoct a plan before I mention this to anyone else.
‘Mehrab?’
She’s wrapped in the thick colourful quilt around her shoulders, but her feet are bare, her hair a wild golden halo, the skin beneath her eyes puffy, and her complexion ever so slightly greenish. A trick of the light, I think, because when she sits beside me it’s gone or so subtle I can’t see it any longer.
‘You’ll catch cold like that,’ I say, and she gives me a look that saysHow much worse can that be?I cannot fault her.
‘You’re going into the village again?’
‘There are things we’re going to need when – when the time comes.’ I shake my head, say without thinking, ‘Things I’d let run out because my time for such things is done.’
She nods slowly. ‘You said… you said that’s why you’d chosen the rose garden. Easy to visit. This happened to you, that’s why you’re so certain of everything, of course.’
I don’t have the energy to lie. ‘Yes. That’s how I know how fast it comes and that they never live.’ Tears heat my eyes too quickly and begin to spill, though my voice remains steady.I nod towards the five little mounds scattered around the spot where Yrse lies. ‘Why do you think I spend so much time out here?’
‘Mehrab—’
‘Each time I’ve given birth, I’ve been alone. It’s always terrifying. At least you won’t go through that. I won’t allow it.’ I don’t look at her but feel her hand on mine. We don’t say anything, and I cry. When I’m done, I look at her at last, then pull my hand from hers. ‘Oh!’
In her hair blossoms are sprouting, white and pink, thickest along the hairline and around the shells of her ears. ‘Oh.’
‘What’s wrong, Mehrab?’ And the girl – she’s a child after all – sounds scared.
‘It’s all right, don’t fear. You’re blossoming – quite literally – it happens. It happens. It’s just sooner than I thought.’ I laugh, gently plucking one of the flowers to show her. I don’t say that some of mine are pressed between the pages of a book. Her look of shock dissolves, replaced by wonderment, and she giggles.
‘I’m a meadow!’
‘A meadow, a garland, a bouquet, whatever you wish.’ I rise. ‘But it means your time is closer than I thought, and I must get moving.’
She holds the horse’s head as I mount, stroking the velvety nose. ‘Will you visit the Widow Wilky? Ask about her orphans?’
‘Eavesdropper.’ She’d not mentioned my conversation with Thad Peppergill until now, but I should have known. ‘Yes. I’ll see her. Now promise you’ll not stray from the holding. Stayin the warmth, eat well, drink a lot of water – you will thank me – and don’t answer any knocks at the door.’
Her brows lift, her head tilts. ‘Anything else, Mother?’
‘Awful child. I’ll be back before nightfall.’
***
It might be time to start bringing Rhea with me when I go into the village. Or soon. After the baby comes and goes, when she’s well again. It’s been months since Fenna brought her to me, months during which the likelihood of pursuit has faded. It wouldn’t hurt for her to become acquainted with our nearest neighbours, find younger folk to talk to so I’m not her only company. Meet men not made of wood. If she stays, of course. If she stays.
I make no plans, merely consider contingencies. If she stays, she can take over some of the village errands; it won’t hurt me to do less. It’ll be healthy for her to engage with humanity again. At the very least, she should meet Reynald, do some lessons with him because he knows things I do not, has greater skill in his field.
If she leaves, it won’t matter.
Abruptly, Rosie whinnies and stalls, dancing sideways. I gentle the skittish beast, trying to see what’s bothered her. I took the river path today, a change of scenery, just a slightly longer route – up ahead, there’s something lying in the middle of the way. I dismount, keeping hold of the reins but letting them play out as far as I’m able. The horse isn’t so keen, snorting and tossing her head as I get further away, but she stays put despite her disapproval.
I’m careful in my steps, sweeping aside any leaf matteras I go, making sure there’s no wolf-pit been dug here for the unwary or a metal trap, hidden, full of gnashing teeth, and no raised earth to say a penitents’ path like the one that caught me all those months ago has been laid here. Nothing. And when I get near enough, I laugh out loud. Then I look closer.
A knitted bear of golden-brown wool. Wracking my brain, trying to recall why it’s familiar, it finally hit me: I last saw it clutched to the chest of a sleeping Matthias Peppergill at the foot of the tree in his parents’ garden. What’s it doing out here? Has the boy gone a’wandering again? I pick up the bear and cast around for any sign of the child.
There’s nothing. No footprint, no discarded shoes or scrap of fabric torn from a coat or breeches. Nothing disturbing the earth or leaves except for me in my overabundance of caution. From the corner of my eye, however, I’m sure I see something to my left, bobbing in the river. The moment I turn my head, it’s gone, no sign of it, and I’m left with an impression of something definitely too small to be a child.Ifthere was anything there in the first place. Hyper-alert, I stare for long moments at where the water runs quickly over a small weir, froth and foam as it hits the lower liquid.
No. Nothing.
