I squeeze the little rock I’m still clutching. “Was that lady on the shore Bronwen, Mamma?”
Silence.
“Mamma?” I fan my hand in front of her face, but she’s retreated into her scarred mind.
Sighing, I return to the shelf and place the rock beside the book. For several minutes, I stare at the engraving, wondering what the V could stand for, or rather, who? I unearthed it from one of her dresses’ pockets when my body finally filled out and I inherited her wardrobe. I told Nonna it was mine, so that she wouldn’t throw it away.
It isn’t that my grandmother lacks empathy, because she doesn’t; she merely believes the past will harm Mamma further, so endeavors to keep it from her.
The little rock blurs as I picture the turbaned woman from Rax. Should I go to her? The idea of traveling to the mortal lands is as terrifying as it is tempting. Nonna would never let me go, but I’m twenty-two. I don’t need her permission. What I need is coin and a pass to board the ferry that travels between the wharf and the swamps.
Coin, I have, but a pass will be difficult to come by. After all, I’d need a valid reason to visit Racocci, and it isn’t as though I can tell the Fae guards in charge of delivering the passes that I’m looking for a stranger by the name of Bronwen.
They’d report my request to my grandfather, who’d not only object, but also inform Nonna to rein in her granddaughter.
I catch the splash of a yellow serpent tail, and my pulse foams like the water it’s disturbed.
I could call to Minimus and grip his horn, so that he swims me across. But what if he carries me into his lair instead? I could, I suppose, paddle beside him. He’d surely stick to my side. What if he didn’t, though? What if he abandoned me midway? Would one of his fellow serpents snatch me?
A better idea forms. One that calms my pulse. I’ll write a letter, which I’ll ask Flora to deliver to Bronwen.
After inking a small notecard asking how she knows my mother and what she wants from me, I kiss Mamma’s chilled cheek, pull a wool blanket over her freckled shoulders, and leave her to her sunset-gazing.
* * *
I getto work early and offer to help Flora prepare the upstairs bedrooms. My suggestion earns me a frown, but the mother of twelve doesn’t turn me down. After all, she’ll get home earlier, and even though I’ve heard her tell Sybille’s parents how glad she is to get away from her brood, I can’t imagine she prefers working over mothering.
I wait until we’ve finished with the third bedroom before I ask, “Flora, do you know a woman named Bronwen?”
She hisses as though I’ve just splashed hot oil over her skin.
“You do know her.”
Her brown gaze shoots to the open doorway. “Nay.”
“Then why did you hiss?”
Flora concentrates on fluffing the down-filled pillows.
I slip my hand into my pocket for the note but extract a copper instead. “I just want to know who she is. That’s all.”
Flora glances at my offering, then away, her overworked fingers bundling the soiled linens.
“Anything said in here will remain between these walls. I swear it on my mortal life.”
She looks at my coin again. I retrieve a second copper. Her eyes gleam hungrily, and she nods to her skirt. My heart pounds as I drop both into her pocket.
“I’ll daineye spehking ’bout ’er if I’m quaistioned, ’ear me, ’alfling?”
“I hear you.”
She looks at the open door, then back at me. “Like I sayed before, I dain’t know ’er meeself.” Between her low volume and strong Racoccin accent, I have to concentrate on her shifting lips to parse out her words. “But I know of ’er. It is sayed she’s a dayviner.”
“A diviner? She can tell the future?”
“Shh.” Flora’s usual ruddy complexion is as pale as the sheets she holds against her ample bosom.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
