Yet I think of Tieve saying how Ari only played with the meanest sort now, those she could manipulate. I think of the spite that seems to be flowing through the girl, and if she even suspected Reynald had given Tieve shelter she’d have done this nasty little thing – or caused others to do it.
***
Anselm Hadderholm opens the door only marginally more quickly than Cylla did, and he looks entirely worse. Indeed, it seems he doesn’t recognise me for a long moment and when he does, he appears resentful.
‘What do you want?’
‘I came to ask how you are, but you’ve answered that. Notsleeping? Or sleeping too deeply?’ He blinks. I continue, ‘The Peppergills are suffering restless nights. May I come in?’
He nods, pulls the door wide, saying, ‘Gida and Ari aren’t here,’ as if that might influence matters.
In the kitchen, on the tall stools, he offers no refreshment, merely slumps on his chair, hands hanging between his knees, a portrait of defeat. There’s something stale about the scent of the place, like a rot beneath the yeast and flour. The smell of baking bread is hours old, not fresh like it usually is.
‘And how is Ari? Has she settled back in?’ I tally the weeks since the girl’s return – two months? Almost? Or more by now? ‘Her behaviour?’
‘Worse. Worse. Swears and steals. We’ve a constant stream of parents at the door saying she’s made their children cry, pinches and slaps them, scares them with tales that have them screaming in the night.’ He shoots me a look. ‘You were no help.’
‘You didn’t send for me,’ I remind him. ‘Just like you didn’t come to me when she first disappeared. You left it for days, Anselm, don’t you recall? And I told you after she returned to tell me if her behaviour didn’t get better. But you didn’t, did you?’
Reluctantly, he shakes his head.
‘Too lazy to walk into the woods, man. I’ll not take responsibility for something that’s not my fault. I have my own life and concerns, baker; I am not your mother, nor the mother of this village. And I’m not, as I am oft reminded, from here.’ I breathe through my nostrils, bullish, yet keep my tone low and even. ‘What else can you tell me? Anything out of the ordinary, apart from this temper and nastiness?’
‘She still watches us. At night, only now if I wake and see her, I can barely breathe. I can’t move.’
‘What of Gida? What does she say about all this?’
‘She just gives the brat whatever she demands. I…’ The baker licks his lips as if to make the words come out more easily. ‘If I’m honest, Gida didn’t even like the child that much before. Resented her, poor mite.’ He clears his throat. ‘I was the same, I admit. But now… history’s been rewritten; it’s as if this was a longed-for child.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘She says not to tellyou.’
I think about Tieve, wonder if the girl’s been left alone; she’s not been to me to say otherwise. I hope she’s kept hold of her little poppet. ‘Have you spoken to Tieve?’
‘Only briefly a fortnight ago. She said Ari’s been trying to get her to go into the woods. Luckily Tieve’s mother doesn’t like my daughter – didn’t before, definitely doesn’t now, won’t let her in the house.’
‘But Ari wasn’t an unlikeable child, not before, right?’
He shakes his head again. ‘No. Entirely likeable, cheerful. Better than we deserved. No temper to speak of, didn’t complain. Biddable.’ A sob. ‘Something’s wrong with her, isn’t it?’
Something’s definitely not right, definitely more than childish resentment. There’s her following Tieve through the woods, there’s the tormenting of her parents, there’s the disappearing orphans, and there’s the matter of a hunk of flesh wrapped in a bright red cloak left on my doorstep seemingly so very long ago now…
And yet…
It’s hard to make accusations against a child. Less hard to make them stick, but hard to make them when you’re from a group that’s always had lies flung at them, lies that are taken for truth without proof. And I, who did not tell the Hadderholms that their child’s flesh had been left as an offering on my doorstep, would need to admit to the omission, and my reasons for not doing so were entirely self-serving. No. Self-preserving. It wasn’t just my safety, but Rhea’s. Ari’s a child, but children can be dangerous; turn your back on them and they’ll slide a knife between your ribs, just as lethal as any grownup and generally less conscience-stricken by such a deed.
And what can I say? The child’s not a witch, no. Something else? Yes – but what precisely? There’s research I need to do before I can do anything definitive, but I don’t tell her father that; the less he knows the better. ‘Be patient, don’t draw attention to yourself, don’t draw her ire.’
‘Will you help? Can you help?’
‘I’ll try. Don’t say anything to Gida, and certainly not to Ari.’ Before I go, I mix him a tonic from everyday ingredients in the kitchen: lemon and ginger, some honey, a pinch of the recently purchased sal-volatile from my satchel. ‘Has Ari said anything about the apothecary?’
‘What? No. Why?’
‘His shop window was broken last night.’
Anselm gazes at me morosely. ‘I don’t think I can say with any authority what my daughter would and wouldn’t do anymore.’
I pat his shoulder. ‘Well, don’t mention it either. Nor my visit.’
‘No fear of that. They both hate you.’
