The blood was stubborn. It chipped off the wool in a brown powder that turned her stomach. It was a grisly epitaph, the stains deep. Doubt rose. Who would want to wear the coat their loved one died wearing?
But it felt so good to scrub out her self-loathing and cleanse away her regrets. She bit her bottom lip and lathered and scoured the coat until sweat beaded on her brow, until her shoulders and elbows burned.
She paused. If she didn’t calm down, she was going to rub the wool bare.
To calm her pumping heart, Magdala sang an old Russuli tune her mother used to sing as she churned butter or labored over a pile of bones at her worktable.
Why are you mourning, my springtime, my lily?
Why are you weeping, my lavender love?
Your tears bring the snowdrops;
Your sighs call the crocus
Why are you weeping, my willow tree love?
As her voice rose clear and loud in the night, her hands moved in rhythm with the music.
Why did you leave me, my cedar, my oak tree?
Where did you go to, my green forest love?
Your blood bloomed the willow,
It watered the barrens.
But why did you leave me, my oak forest love?
She imagined herself running over the heath, her patchwork dress billowing, her hair blowing in the wind. Behind her ran her oak forest love, the autumn breeze in his hair. She turned to look at him and let out a startled cry. The soap slipped out of her hand, and she scrabbled for it in the current.
Because it was Asherton’s face in her imagination. It was his honey-green eyes sparkling at her, his calloused hand gripping hers. She giggled like a schoolgirl. She couldn’t stand Asherton on his best days, wanted to strangle him on his worst. So why did the image fit so well in her mind? Why did she lean toward it instead of pull away?
The final verse tremored, melancholy and soft in the summer night:
When are you coming, my sunrise, my moonrise?
When are you coming, my stellar light love?
My arms ache to hold you,
My body to claim you
Say, when are you coming, my blue starlight love?
She pictured them stopping under a crimson tree, the leaves tangling in their hair. He hooked his finger in the binds of her corset and pulled her toward him, then he pressed his lips to hers, and she could imagine their warmth—the tickle of his breath as he laughed against her mouth, his arms tight around her waist …
“What are you doing out here?”
Magdala jumped, guilty as a child caught with their hand in the biscuit jar.
Asherton was standing over her, his hair tangled over his brow and his shirt untucked. He wasn’t looking at her; his eyes darted between the shadowy trees.
“What areyoudoing here?” she retorted. “You’re supposed to be asleep in a locked room.”
“I woke up and you were gone, so I got worried.” Magdala raised her eyebrows and he rolled his eyes. “That you were hiding behind the curtains with a knife,” he amended moodily.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk.”
