“There, love, almost done,” she crooned as she watched Hester’s throat muscles moving convulsively as she swallowed.
Once done, she placed the cup on the table and grabbed the muslin cloth, wiping Hester’s mouth gently. Picking up a long-sleeved linen nightgown, she dragged it over Hester’s head, pulling her arms through the sleeves, and as she hooked her hands under her sister’s arms, she pulled her to her feet, allowing the nightgown to unfold down her body.
They didn’t have far to go in the small single room cabin, only a few steps before she was able to drop Hester down on her sleeping pallet by the fire, tucking her gently beneath the blankets as she smoothed the long dark locks, the exact color as her own, away from Hester’s face.
“Sleep well, sleep deep, upon moonlight wings, dreams will creep. Rest now, rest long, lulled away by moonlight song…” she muttered beneath her breath as she leaned forward and kissed her sister’s temple.
She pushed herself once again to her feet, stumbling slightly as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Forcing herself to keep moving, she refilled the tin cup and lifted it to her frozen lips, draining it in one go, ignoring the bitter taste of herbs and seeds. She slumped down into the rocking chair by the fireplace, only meaning to rest a moment, but before she knew it, the tin cup clattered to the floor from her limp fingers, and she succumbed to the bone-deep exhaustion that had plagued her the whole way from the clearing.
Hester opened her eyes and blinked as harsh daylight spilled into the cabin. She pushed herself up, loosening the blankets as she moved. Her whole body felt weak as if she were recovering from some terrible illness. She glanced down at her nightdress and the cleanly dressed wounds on her palms.
Bridget had obviously taken care of her, although Hester could barely remember anything beyond the circle. She certainly didn’t remember returning to the cabin.
She glanced over to her sister’s sleeping pallet, concerned to find it empty. Her whiskey-colored eyes tracked across the room, and she found her sister slumped in the rocker by the dying fire. Hester sighed and dragged her legs out from beneath the warm blankets, wincing slightly as her bare feet connected with the cold, rough floor. She crossed to her sister and took in her disheveled appearance, frowning when she noted the dried blood marring the side of Bridget’s face from the undressed wound at her temple, and her wet boots from the night before still on her feet.
It was so like Bridey to take care of Hester and neglect herself. Her sister may only have been older by a few minutes, but she took the responsibility of an older sibling seriously, a feeling which had only been compounded by them losing their mother so young.
Bridget didn’t stir as Hester knelt at her feet to unlace Bridget’s boots and remove her wet stockings, frowning at the wrinkled and damp skin. Then she stoked the fire and added more wood, and as the room began to warm, she retrieved her own now dry wool stockings and carefully slid them onto her sister’s frozen feet.
Retrieving a blanket from her bed, she covered Bridget gently. Although still exhausted, she moved quickly and with purpose as she set more tea to brew before cleaning and dressing Bridget’s wound.
By the time Bridget began to rouse, Hester was standing in front of the fire, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders tightly as she stirred a pot of warmed milk hanging suspended over the fire from a large hook. She added corn flour and continued to stir the thick, mushy pudding.
“You’re awake,” Bridget croaked as she began to rise stiffly from the chair.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Hester gently pushed her back into the rocker. “You did enough last night, Bridey. Let me take care of you.”
Bridget let out a sigh. She slumped back into the chair as Hester scooped the thick, hasty pudding into a bowl and topped it with a generous dollop of molasses.
“Thank you.” Bridget smiled tiredly as she spooned the pudding into her mouth, letting the warmth seep slowly down into her belly. “How are you feeling?”
“About as good as you do, I expect.” Hester gave a wan smile as she filled her own bowl and sat down at the table, spooning the thick mixture into her mouth, her stomach growling loudly.
“You burned up a lot of your strength last night with that spell.” Bridget watched her. “I’ve never seen that kind of power before.”
Hester paused, her spoon hovering in front of her lips. “I’ve never conjured that kind of power before,” she finally answered quietly before continuing to eat.
They finished their pudding, neither much inclined to conversation until Hester finally broke the silence. “I had the strangest dream last night,” she murmured.
“What did you see?” Bridget asked curiously. Hester’s dreams were never just dreams.
Instead of answering, Hester rose from the table, leaving her bowl sitting empty, she moved back across the room and reached beneath her sleeping roll to withdraw something.
“You still have that?” Bridget’s eyes widened slightly and she frowned in confusion.
Hester stared down at the battered old journal in her bandaged hands, her fingers tracing the letters etched into the cover.
Theodore Beckett.
“Why do you still have that, Hess?” Bridget asked. “He’s been dead for years.”
“No.” Hester shook her head slowly. “You’re wrong, he’s not dead, just... not here.”
“What do you mean?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.
Hester once again declined to answer, her eyes distant, lost in thoughts Bridget could only guess at. She watched as Hester retrieved a small smooth chest made from pink flowering dogwood and reinforced with metal edges. Lifting the lid, she set the journal inside and closed it up, laying her hand on it.
“By magic seal and magic sake, by magic alone shall this spell wake…” Hester muttered as the wood beneath her palm glowed.
