‘My aunt will tell them there’s no one like that in Silicia just now,’ replied Maylie. ‘She’s the healer of the village and consulted on all things magical.’
‘She’s got a Gift?’
‘Of course not! She’s no magic-wielder.’
Maylie scowled, but the boy was staring straight ahead.
‘Last summer a girl from Pienzi went with the King’s men,’ he said. ‘My oldest brother said she were going off to learn proper magic in Galasque and that’d be the last we ever saw of her.’
Maylie fiddled with the frayed sleeve of her woollen jacket. Like all her clothes, it had once belonged to Esmelie and needed repairing. ‘What were the girl’s Gift?’ she asked.
‘Something to do with music.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I heard her sing once and it were like a dream.’
They fell quiet and Maylie sought for something to say. She had a few friends at the schoolhouse, but outside of lessons, she suspected them of avoiding her. She knew everyone disapproved of her father and she had overheard a few mutters about her ‘reckless’ sister.
‘Are you gonna start taking lessons?’ she asked.
‘My grandmam says I should.’ The boy scratched at his head and added quietly, ‘I’ve not been to a schoolhouse before.’
‘You’ll like it. The minister’s wife is the teacher. She’s kind.’
They reached the edge of the village and began climbing the steep slope towards the forest, following the bank of the stream that wound down the mountainside. Ahead of them stood Tadrie’scottage, rickety and covered with vines, set against the backdrop of the looming trees.
‘’Tis here so you can go now,’ said Maylie, but then felt guilty, thinking that perhaps she had been rude. ‘I guess I’ll see you when lessons start at the schoolhouse?’
The boy nodded.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked, just as he began to turn away.
‘Chrisanie,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Goodbye, Chrisanie.’
She watched as his gangly frame climbed away down the mountainside.
Maylie
Twelve winters old
ON THE PATHahead, Esmelie stopped and twirled, kicking up golden leaves. She had sewn herself a new pinafore from one of their mam’s old dresses. She was a gifted seamstress and though the fabric was faded and threadbare, Esmelie’s deft stitches had given it new life. She wore it with such pride that it might as well have been a silk gown.
‘Can you see any firewood?’ Maylie called, trudging closer. They were following a path on the west outskirts of the village, gathering kindling.
Esmelie stopped spinning and staggered with a giggle. ‘I look like Pap when he comes home at night.’ She rolled her eyes skywards and belched.
Maylie forced out a laugh. She generally tried not to think of Pap and she could go whole days without setting eyes on him. Each morning, she crept past his bedroom door on her way to Tadrie’scottage, and each evening, she left out a plate of food for him to devour when he returned after nightfall. The few times she did encounter him face to face in daylight, she would stand very still, stunned into silence, as if she had met a wandering mountain wolf. In return, he merely glared at her, muttered some profanity, and stumbled off.
‘Did you hear the village tavern has barred him again?’ said Esmelie. ‘It were after they found him face down in Hedrie’s vegetable patch.’
Maylie winced.
‘Won’t stop him though,’ said Esmelie with a shrug. ‘He’ll just go off to Pienzi and drink there. At least we’ll have the cottage to ourselves for a few days.’
Maylie did not want to talk about Pap. ‘Any firewood?’ she asked again.
