Tadrie pursed her lips.
‘She were just joking, Auntie.’
‘That sister of yours is going for trouble, May.’
Tadrie bent and snatched the cloche from the floor, then stomped across the room and slammed the front door shut.
‘I’ll bring you my ribbon when I get it,’ said Maylie, her chest squeezing painfully at the thought. ‘You can sell it on to someone in the village.’
Tadrie shook her head. ‘Don’t worry yourself, May. Keep your ribbon. ’Tis the principle of the thing that upsets me.’
Maylie tried not to show her relief. At the end of the day, her aunt would send her off home with half a pie for supper, as she always did, knowing there would be no food for either of her nieces otherwise, and Maylie would wait in her pap’s house until Esmelie eventually returned from frolicking about the village with her friends and then – finally – she could hold the precious ribbon. The prospect was thrilling.
‘It were kind of Esmelie to get me a gift,’ said Maylie. ‘She’s such a nice big sister.’
But Tadrie was not listening. ‘Esmelie’s a headstrong, foolish girl,’ she muttered, shaking her head. ‘Too stubborn. Too pretty.’ Then after a pause she added quietly, almost to herself, ‘Too much like her mam.’
Maylie
Eleven winters old
THE FRONT ROOMof the Governor’s cottage was a crush of bodies, the windows fogged with steam, the air full of eager chatter and the smell of spiced milk wafting from the kitchen. Girls wove through the crowd, handing out mugs and sugared crackers, while the older women laid claim to the stools and armchairs, settling in for the afternoon.
Maylie waded across the sea of homespun skirts, looking for her aunt. The Split was an annual tradition where the women of the village gathered to trade what they had woven, knitted and sewed over dark winter evenings. It was usually a lively, joyous occasion, but Maylie could not help feeling a little overwhelmed by the hubbub after many quiet fireside days in her aunt’s one-room cottage. She knew she ought to be sorting through the sheets, clothes and trinkets that were on offer, and haggling with the other Silicia girls and women, but she felt self-conscious and the heat fromthe roaring fires mixed with the scent of the sweet spices made her dizzy.
Finally, she spotted her aunt by the kitchen threshold, a tray of herb pouches in Tadrie’s hands and a gaggle of women circled around her.
‘This spring it were a girl from Guiniel,’ an older woman called Hedrie said as Maylie approached. She was some sort of relation – perhaps a second cousin by marriage – but anything wider than immediate family did not count for much to Mountain folk. ‘The only girl in that family. A tragedy.’
‘Don’t matter if you have the one girl or twelve,’ replied Beatrovie, the baker’s wife. ‘’Tis a tragedy all the same to lose a daughter to the Maiden Sacrifice.’
All of the women nodded.
‘How old’s your eldest niece?’ Hedrie asked Tadrie.
‘She’s fourteen. We’ve a few winters yet.’
‘The lot don’t fall to Silicia often,’ said Beatrovie. She reached forward and patted Tadrie’s arm. ‘May the Great Creator protect her.’
Tadrie took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, can I interest you in a linen pouch?’ She caught sight of Maylie and smiled. ‘I made them with my apprentice.’
The women all turned and clucked approvingly at Maylie.
‘’Tis good for you to help your aunt,’ said Hedrie. ‘She was like a mam to your own mam and she’s been a mam to you too.’
‘And we need more healers,’ added Beatrovie.
All winter Tadrie had been plagued with a rasping cough that no elixir seemed able to shift. She had remained weak and out of sorts, unable to fulfil her usual tasks. Under her instruction, Maylie had tended the herb garden, foraged for wild plants and mixed simple tonics. She had accompanied Tadrie on visits to villagers’ cottages,administering to the sick, and delivered medicines around Silicia, acquiring the nickname ‘Little Healer’.
Hedrie picked up one of the linen pouches on Tadrie’s tray. She looked ready to begin a haggle, when she paused.
Something in the air had shifted.
Cloche-covered heads bowed in feverish whispers and a ripple of agitation rolled through the room.
The kitchen was at the back of the Governor’s house and it took a moment for the mutters to reach Maylie: “The King’s men are here …”
A hand grabbed Maylie’s shoulder. She looked up to see her aunt tugging her away, pulling her towards the back door.
