‘And you’ve been searching?’
Anselm nods. ‘No sign.’
‘What was she wearing?’ I address Gida – many fathers arebarely able to recall their children’s faces, let alone clothing.
‘A blue shift. A red cloak. Her grandmother made it,’ sobs Gida. ‘She loves the colour so, my dear girl.’
Neither of them have paid attention to Rhea – whom I note hasnotgone back inside – until now, and the haunted stares make me think their Ari is another bright girl who likes to stand out. ‘That’s my cousin’s child come to visit,’ I lie. ‘How old is Ari?’
‘Eleven next month. Dark hair, brown eyes. Not tall. Takes after me,’ says Gida around the eruptions of hiccups she’s developed in trying to suppress her weeping. I try to remember if I’ve met the child, but there’s only a hazy recollection of the older children, all moved away now to larger towns or small farms in the forest, with their own families started.
‘Did she go past Falda’s holding? Or Brecca’s?’
‘Falda’s. The mushrooms were growing by the pond there – the far bank.’ Hastily said in case anyone thinks they’d sent their child to steal from another’s land.
And not so far from the village. ‘You’ve spoken to Falda?’
They nod. ‘Except she wasn’t home – was at the smithy, having her horse re-shod by Faolan.’
The name makes me twitch. ‘Who saw Ari last?’
‘Caraid Cawes’ children, we think. They saw her walk past while they were playing on the common. No one else has spoken up.’
Or no one else who’ll admit it.
The Hadderholms have always been polite when I’ve been in the village, bought some of their pastries as a treat, dropped my wheat at the mill next door run by Anselm’s sister. Gidaherself has visited the cottage on her own, sat at my table, drunk my tea, taken what medicines I’ve offered, asked me to read cards for the future of this endeavour and that. This, however, is the first time Anselm has come to the woods, and there’s a sense they’re here out of desperation; he’s searched as far as he’s brave enough to, now wants me to do better. I wonder, if Gida were alone, would she come inside?
‘I’ll keep a look out today when I’m in the forest.’ Although why she’d have come this far is beyond me, but it occurs that no one’s brave enough to searchthis farinto the forest. ‘If I can find no sign, I’ll scry tonight.’
‘Why not now?’ demands the baker and I glare.
‘I’ll forgive you that, because I know you’re worried for your child, Anselm.’ I say this to remind him that I’m a witch and I know his name, and my kind might use such a thing for good or ill. ‘Scrying requires much effort, and it costs me dearly.’
‘We can pay!’ Again, the purse is waved at me.
‘It’s not a matter of money. I’ll take no payment for this. Now, do you have something of hers for me?’ Gida pulls a handkerchief – white and embroidered, a fine thing, a name-day gift – from inside her cloak and hands it over. ‘Thank you. Go home. I’ll come to you when I know anything, whether it’s good or bad.’
‘When?’ cries Gida.
‘When I can.’ I hold up a hand once more. ‘As soon as I can. Gida, you’ve trusted me before. I bid you do so again.’
I can see their reluctance, but in the end they leave. They move off, re-join the path that leads into the forest, that willtake them back home, to a house that’s emptier than it should be, to rooms that echo not as they should.
***
‘Will you be able to find the child?’
I’d almost forgotten Rhea was trailing behind me. I’d waited until the couple had disappeared into the undergrowth before trotting off in the opposite direction. Hadn’t mitigated my pace to account for Rhea’s pretty, pointless shoes; so, I slow down, and she falls in beside me, where the path is wide, puffing a little.
‘I don’t know. I’ll try. I’ve another task today that cannot wait, but I’ll keep an eye out. You should too – you need to get to know the forest for however long you stay. I can’t chaperone you every hour of every day.’
‘I don’t expect you to!’ Defensive.
‘It’s easy to get lost is all I’m saying.’
‘Shouldn’t we be searching where the child was last seen?’
As if I’m going to take her into the village so soon. I shrug. ‘Search parties have been doing that for three days. If they couldn’t find her close to home then she’s wandered farther afield, either by her own will or not.’
