‘Careful,’ I say idly, breathing oh-so-lightly as I work. No fire required for the mixture creates its own heat. I’m sweating,this close to it, stripped down to my shift, and the cotton’s sticking to me like a second skin in the midday sun. ‘We’ve got to do this for three hours every day of the week. It needs to be attended to for two-thirds of spring, Rhea, so you’d best get used to it. Wrap a cloth around your face next time since you didn’t listen to me when I said to step back.’
There’s no answer, and I can hear her gagging, trying not to puke, but soon enough comes the sound of vomit spattering the dirt; a waste of breakfast. ‘Sit and rest. Don’t go passing out on me because I’m not leaving this task for hell or high water.’
She grumbles, says something under her breath, something I don’t need to hear to get the gist. There’s the creak of the wooden bench as she settles, and I take a quick glance over my shoulder. Behind her is the tiny rose garden I like to keep, the earth covered in thick green grass, rolling up and down over the tiny mounds of the little cemetery of favoured felines and others. Pale pink roses form a halo around her head. A sheen of sweat glimmers on her top lip and forehead. Even ill Rhea looks pretty.
‘My, my, that is an impressive shade of green and no doubt about it,’ I say. I shouldn’t be so cruel or arrogant – the first time I made this blend I did exactly the same thing, only there was no one here to watch me hurl my guts. She’ll be regretting her choices, I’ve no doubt, all the ones that led her here.
I give her an hour, while I stir the miasmic mix serenely as if it’s not making my eyes water. Revelling in the strength of my body, my stamina. There’s something satisfying about the action, about creating for myself, investing this time in my future. I assay some questions about her life before all this,more details about her flight from Lodellan, but she still hacks and coughs on and off, making conversation hard. So, for a while I sing — I’ve a sweet voice, at least, if not a nature to match — then, bored, begin to tell her tales.
‘While I might be the only witch to dothis, it’s said the first one was born, not made. That it walked from the forest one day and took a wife. It’s said that their children could pass unseen in the woods, could melt into the trunks of the greatest of trees and slumber for year upon year. Some stayed there, some woke and wandered, but when they returned to the place of their birthing nothing remained of their old lives, nothing that made a memory spark, so they soon found new oaks and yews and larches to sink into. It’s said if you come across a woman in the woods with flowers in her hair, she’s not a mortal creature.’
‘So,’ Rhea croaks, ‘no one taught you this?’
‘No one. I… thought of it myself. Dreamt it myself. Remembered the stories and wondered if there might be something I could do. After Yrse died.’
‘The one who was here before you? That’s the name Fenna said.’
I nod. After Yrse died. After Faolan…
My arms are aching from the repeated motions, my joy in the activity worn down, so I harry her. ‘C’mon. Up! I’m not feeding and sheltering you so I can do all this myself.’
No grumbling this time and I don’t bother looking over my shoulder. I simply expect obedience, and she appears at my elbow, apron wrapped carefully around her lower face, eyes slanted up at me, only a little resentful. I nod.
‘Another hour, then lunch.’ Handing over the paddle, Irelent: ‘The hard work we do now ensures that when summer comes, Rhea, our lives will be easier.’
***
At dinner, Rhea’s appetite makes a valiant return and she eats well. I do not – an empty stomach is best for what I’m to do. I won’t lie – I’m glad to have her company while I do this. It’s not entirely necessary, but on my own, it’s much riskier; and the toll on the body is greater than when I was younger.
In the sitting room, I sit cross-legged on a cushion in front of the hearth. I hang four chains from a hook inside the chimney, then link their free ends together so that the shew-stone can be suspended. I’ve let the flames die down, but the heat radiates still and the highly polished mirror – obsidian, best for scrying – warms rapidly. On occasion, I’ve trekked through the forest to the Black Lake, used its oh-so-still surface to see what I want, but not today, not now, not for this. Not after the last time.
I pour a little water onto the stone, add a dash of attar of roses. The smell wafts up immediately and I pull the blade of my knife across my forearm, let the blood drip into the water and oil, paying the red price. The substances mix without any assistance, forming a smooth reflective pane. I take the scrap of red fabric Rhea found in the woods – bloodied and dirty, it’ll be more powerful than the clean handkerchief Gida brought – cut away a corner and throw it onto the coals, watch as they and it begin to glow.
Glancing over at Rhea, sitting straight-backed in the armchair, watching me like a hawk, I say, ‘Remember: no more than a minute,’ then grab up the green apothecary’s bottle from the hearth stones and drip one single drop onto my tongue. Essenceof nightshade, carrying within it death and delusion, but also visions and dreams and the gift of far-seeing. If you know what you’re doing. If you’re careful. If it’s one of your talents.
I stare at the shew-stone, marvel at how it looks like a pond undisturbed. Soon it changes from the darkest red-black to the dimness of the night-forest silvered by the moon. Without warning, I’m no longer in the cottage but flying above the trees, the air cold and crisp against my skin. I’m both moving and not. Somehow, I’m looking over the entirety of the forest from its edges to its centre, and I’m sitting on a spider’s web spread over the treetops, connected down its trunks, into the very earth, into the undergrowth and blades of grass, every droplet of water in every lake and pond and puddle running off the River Ayda. I feel the heartbeat of every beast in the great dark woods, every snore and breath in the village, in every outlying farm and isolated hut and cottage like this one. But I’m seeking a particular breath, a particular heartbeat, that of a girl I may or may not have met, of the girl who wore this red cloak, the smell of its burning scrap of wool almost overwhelming the attar of roses, the rising smell of my own blood slowly cooking.
Then I’m falling.
I’m falling like a bird shot from the sky, I’m shaking in a fit, there’s froth in my mouth, vomit rising, my eyelids opening and closing so hard I should be able to hear them.
And Rhea’s voice, shouting in my ear ‘Mehrab! Mehrab! Mehrab!’Her hands on my shoulders, fingers in my mouth, prying my lips open despite the foam and the vomit, as she pours in a cup of curative then holds my jaws closed until some of it makes it down my throat and I pass out.
***
When I wake, I can smell myself, sweat and vomit but at least not piss. Not shit. There was that much control left to me at least. I’m lying on the floor, the cushion under my head, a crocheted rug over me. And, under the cushion, I realise, Rhea’s lap. When she sees my eyes open, she starts to cry.
‘Oh, thank the gods. I didn’t know what to do.’
My throat hurts as I try to clear it. Waking in company after scrying is definitely better than alone. Patting her hand, I slowly sit up. ‘You did,’ I rasp, ‘what I told you to. Thank you. I’m alive.’
‘Barely.’
‘Don’t be melodramatic. I’m a little worse for wear but otherwise, I’ll survive.’ I shake my head, regret it. ‘However, you might understand now why I’m reluctant to scry, at least as a first choice. And how much harder it is if I’m alone?’
She nods, wipes her tears away, then hands me a mug of honeyed rum. ‘You should eat. I kept the stew on the hob.’
‘Soon,’ I say, not quite able to bear the idea of food. ‘When you scry – and not all of us can do it – it’s not only exhausting, it chips away part of your soul. While you’re looking into the mirror, sometimes other things are looking out. Being noticed isn’t always a good thing.’ I think but don’t say,And when you’ve done dark deeds, you might attract dark things.
