At one time, I would have relished it. Now I felt entirely at sea.
I went to the kitchens to find Wolf. She was butchering a chicken, slicing a paring knife around joints and sinew.
‘Do you require something?’ she asked when she noticed me.
I hovered at the doorframe. I was not so confident in the Witch’s regard for me that I would risk her wrath; the questions I had asked on our mountain walk had been dangerous enough.
But surely it wouldn’t hurt to loose my curiosity on Wolf.
‘Does the Witch go away often?’
I thought of the black-rimmed letter. She had not left then, what could it be that drew her now?
‘That is my mistress’s business.’
‘She received a letter. I thought the postmark from Vienna perhaps?’
‘I would not know.’
This, at least, was a lie. Wolf had delivered the letter to our study, Wolf would have seen exactly where it had been sent from.
‘Only, I wondered how long the Witch would be absent. Vienna is no short journey.’
Wolf ignored me as she took a cleaver to the bird’s spine, severing the ribs on either side and pulling it out in a fleshy line. The spine and feet and neck went into a stockpot, the bird itself she splayed open like a butterfly, pinned in place for the roasting.
‘Will you take supper in the dining room?’
I thought of that cavernous space and myself, stranded at one end of a table meant for so many more. ‘No. Send a tray to my room.’
As I left, the back of my neck prickled. Wolf was watching me with narrowed eyes, knife in one hand and bones in the other.
b
The castle was too large and too silent without my Witch. Our study cold and lifeless. I spent the first evening there, trying to work as normal at my desk but the harder I tried the deeper the loneliness dug in.
I wondered how the Witch had managed like this for so long.
I moved to her armchair, feeling the dip in the seat from the weight of her body, the coarse patches on the arms worn away by her hands, and then to her desk, sitting behind it as though I could summon some ghost of her spirit back by occupying her place. Something sharp and painful expanded in my chest and I cast around for anything to distract myself. She had not tidied before she left, and her ledgers filled with rows of unintelligible numbers were scattered around between sheets of blotting paper and almanacs and books in Greek I could not read. My fingers hovered over the pages: here was my chance. An uninterrupted stretch of time to investigate as I had done before.
But I had made a promise.
I rose from the desk sharply, knocking over the chair. My will was weak and I did not trust myself.
I spent the next night in my room away from temptation. For a while it was easier in this place that held so few memories of the Witch, but then I found my thoughts straying back to those nights when I had lain feverish and she had stayed by my side and nursed me; and the night we had spent dozing fitfully side by side after the fire. I could conjure up the feeling of her cool, slim hands on my forehead, the brush of her hair against my cheek and it set me so sore with longing I could not stand it.
The door to last Tuesday stood quiet and undisturbed since my visit many months ago. I opened the door and looked in. Today was Friday, but through the door I saw the Tuesday just gone.
The Witch was alone, leaning against her desk and staring into the fire. Minutes passed and she did not stir, hypnotised by the flame, until finally she roused herself, took out the viola I saw her so rarely play. She did not raise it to her chin, but instead plucked it like a fiddle, picking out an unfamiliar tune. Lilting and sorrowful and discordant in places; it sounded old, the music of wild boar hunts, ancient forest, sword and shield.
I came back the next night, and the next, watching her silently from the shadows. Every night she moved the same, staring deeply into the fire before picking out that tune on the viola. I realised she was mouthing something along to it – a song. The tune became familiar to me, hooked in my mind as I went about my solitary days.
Until one night I came to the door and she was gone. The room was cold and empty, the grate raked clean of coals, and I realised my mistake: a week had passed.
I was looking at a new Tuesday. A Tuesday without her.
My heart lay heavy in my chest. That was that then. She was gone, fully, until whenever it was she chose to come back.
b
