“Your dress, too.”
Persephone paused. It would take her ages to get dressed again. “Is that quite necessary?”
The hedge witch’s single eye traced her up and down. “I must see you, to see if you are truly with child. If it’s modesty you’re worried about, I need only see your belly.”
Persephone paused, then reached behind her neck and unfastened the clasp. She peeled herself out of the gown, carefullyfolding it on the table. She began to unbutton the front of her corset—a simple cotton over-bust, one that didn’t press so painfully on her stomach. Then she stood, exposed, wearing only her shift. Her barely noticeable belly spilled out, and she felt as though she could breathe again.
The hedge witch shuffled forward and extended her hands, reaching under Persephone’s shift. The old woman’s fingers looked like bulbs of ginger. Something—some delicate current—flowed from them and into Persephone’s stomach.
“Has the sickness started yet? In the mornings,” the hedge witch asked.
Persephone hesitated, but then nodded.
“And your blood?”
“Not for two months.”
The hedge witch made a gruff sound and then took her hands from Persephone’s stomach. She could feel the little rootlets on the old woman’s fingers peel away from her skin.
“Aye. You are with child,” the hedge witch said. “You can cover up, now.”
Persephone lowered her shift slowly. She felt a pang of panic, hearing the woman say those words. Perhaps, in the back of her mind, she had still hoped she was mistaken. She picked up her gown and held it against her chest.
“Can you get rid of it?” Persephone asked.
The hedge witch nodded. “For a price.”
Persephone opened her reticule and produced a few small coins. The hedge witch took the coins and began counting them. It wasn’t that much, all in all. Funny, how little it cost to kill something.
No, Persephone thought—not kill. Just like plucking a daisy. That was what his letter had said. And she supposed it was true. Toremove a seed from its soil does not kill a flower; nothing dies that cannot live on its own.
The hedge witch nodded, and the coin purse vanished into the folds of her robes. “Sit,” she said, gesturing at the table. Brownish-red stains and long scars marred the wood, the thousand marks of a blade. Persephone sat, holding her gown in her lap like a child holding a blanket. On the far wall, above the fireplace, hung a series of rusted tools. A blade, a pair of forceps, a sharpened hook, and a long, thin set of shears shaped like a bird’s beak. All of them caked in red dust.
Persephone’s stomach clenched. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her gown. “Will you… will you have to cut it out?”
The hedge witch looked to her and then to the blades. “Oftentimes, yes. But you are not so far along. There are other ways.”
The hedge witch shuffled to the far wall where a tall shelf waited, crammed with glass jars. The witch picked one, opened it, and shook seven black seeds into her palms. She placed them in the wooden mortar on the table and then shuffled back to the shelf, muttering to herself and grabbing another jar. When she was finished, the hedge witch lifted her knobby hand above the mortar and closed her single eye. A violet flower crept from her fingertip, then wilted in an instant, turning black and falling into the mortar. The witch grunted as she ground the herbs into a paste, her ancient hands working surely around the pestle. Finally, she fetched the kettle from above the fire and filled the bowl with steaming water.
“Drink it,” she said, offering the bowl to Persephone.
“What is it?”
“Pennyroyal flower, to remove the seed. Oil of valerian root, to put you to sleep while it happens. Yarrow leaf and seed of thethistle, to keep the pennyroyal from harming you. Willow bark for the pain. That’s all.”
Persephone looked at the mixture, a purple-black sludge that smelled like rotten pomegranates. She cradled the wooden bowl in her hands. “Will it hurt?” Persephone asked. Her voice shook.
The hedge witch gave her a sympathetic look. “Of course it will, child. But not right now. Not at first—I promise,” she said, “but later. When the seed is gone and needs to get out. That will hurt.”
Persephone looked at the woman and then back at the bowl.
“The whole thing, child,” the hedge witch said.
She lifted the bowl to her lips and drank. It tasted foul, like liquor and dirt. Chunks of the herb tickled her throat, and more of it spilled down her chin, dripping onto her gown. By the time she was halfway through the sludge, she felt woozy. By the time she’d taken the last drop, the room was spinning, and her mind was full of vapor.
“My gown,” she said, dropping the bowl. Trails of black liquid stained the bodice, marring the white fabric.
“It’s all right, little one,” the hedge witch said. She caught Persephone as she collapsed, lowering her gently onto the slab. “Sleep now. It will be over soon.”
