EPILOGUE
To hood a hawk requires practice—a light hand, and the ability to watch the bird carefully, and read its signals. The girls all stand with their goshawks in the clearing, practicing.
“Wait until they turn their heads toward your shoulder,” I instruct, demonstrating with an imaginary bird in front of me. “The beak needs to pass through the opening, not strike against the side.”
“My fingers are lead,” complains Rosie. The feathers around her bird’s beak are still downy.
“You won’t be able to feel it properly with gloves on.” Mathilde has already hooded her bird twice.
Goshawks are spooky birds. Pale eyes and huge talons. They kill in thickets, with short, brutal dives off the falconer’s fist. They will pursue prey anywhere. They do not need land or air or a manor hall—the benefits of gentility—to hunt.
“Conceal the hood in the palm of your hand,” I remind Rosie. “Touch the bird’s foot to make it look down.”
“There!” Elin marvels at her success. Her gos’s head, now covered,swivels, seeing nothing. She cries: “Practice pursued diligently always bestows an abundance of capability!”
“Is that necessary?” Mathilde snaps.
“Sorry.” Elin winces. “How much longer until we can fly them properly?”
“Bit by bit.” I follow her gaze. We stand in the woods. Not far from where Simeon’s body lies decomposing. A year in the ground.
Felon or savior: I have tried to present all to you with an even hand. Goodness is always contextual. I took a finger. I took a life. But stories are made by organizing and reciting details. You can arrange them in so many ways.
When the prince never returned home, the palace sent out parties looking for him. They came through Bramley, barging through our rooms, snuffing about in the cellars as though we might have him tied to a grate. But I do not think they suspected us. Not truly. It didn’t fit into Sigrid’s understanding of the world. We would not harm him when we had so much to lose. If we were hanging on by just a thread—who would sever those final fibers with their own hand? The queen never thought to search her own lands. And after months of fruitless looking, Hemma was declared the heir.
A few weeks after Simeon went missing, I heard the news from Lavinia. It was a miracle, she said, shaking with the excitement of new gossip. She did not notice my diminished place at the market, or the fact that I had come to sell cider. The queen, she told me, hands in a clawlike grip on my arm, was with child. Her joy in those last two words turned her breath hot.
I did not go into the city or ever see Sigrid’s swelled form with my own eyes. She did not interact with my family again. But when the babe was born—as white-blond as Hemma, the criers said—I had enough sense to know for certain what others might only guess at.
Otto oversaw the hunt for Simeon, but really, he told me, to watch what happened with Hemma. After her child’s birth, he left the palacefor good. He has asked for my hand three times. Three times I’ve said no. Not to the man, but to the consignment of oneself. He says that is fine, and he will stay by my side anyway. Another set of wrists to hold up our roof. I worried, at first, what people would think. But I’ve found that, ultimately, I do not care. I can no longer bear passing up an opportunity for happiness.
Alice has grayed, further, with passing time, but is a little bit less stiff. A little bit less grim. Wenthelen has taken on a helper in the kitchen. A new mark for delighted remonstration. The hole in the roof remains, and worsens, but we are saving for repairs. Moussa came back a few months after I sent him away, missing another tooth, and ready to drink us dry. I finally took his advice and started selling our cider. His instinct was right. We do not have enough apples to meet the demand. We buy both meat and sugar.
The girls, for now, are still my own. Their own. Unmarried, with varying feelings about it. Elin works on her trousseau. Rosamund has taken an apprenticeship with a seamstress—her first commission was from the Enright twins. And Mathilde has become my shadow: Making cider. Pestering me about the birds until I relented. But, collectively, I think we’ve all come to see: Marriage is not a savior. Just a choice. And while the blue dress still sits in paper, it will serve as a witness of, not a cause for, happiness.
Lest you find yourself searching for a neat bundle, nicely tied with a crisp bow, I will remind you: Our futures remain uncertain. All the women are unmarried. A mother lost her child. And a body rots in the ground. You tell me: Is this a happy ending?
High above us, I see a wild hawk hurtling across the sky. “Cover your birds,” I instruct, though all the goshawks already have their hoods on. Overhead, the falcon carries a bit of bloodied meat in her foot. Ferrying dinner to some unknown nest. To her children.
“Look,” I tell the girls.
They comply. Three upturned faces. Three arms extended afore, birds held aloft. I want to reach for them. Pull them close. But I do not haveenough hands to hold them all. So, instead, I watch them. Absorb each detail. Twin sable braids and blond curls. Freckles and scars and mud. Scary, aggressive birds that hint at madness.
I look around, taking in the dappled darkness, the forest. The leaves rotting in layers. The shadows designed to hide. The light playing games, turning branches to claws, twigs to snakes. It is a place to hide or be hidden from. A place for outlaws. Pariahs. A place that should frighten me.
But forget the wordshould.
Over the months, I have thought more about my compendium. My list of things the girls should know. Learned to update my own lessons. My book of maxims—life, distilled—would be short:
You do not need to be afraid. You do not have to be good. You do not need to hide your fleshy interiors behind a carapace of frills and lace. Life is not meant for measurement. There is but one beat to heed. Live like this and you will know with certainty:
Youare the scariest thing in the woods.
