He looks sheepish. “I have no need to go into Brimmond Wood.”
“Good. And send a message if anyone else seems a likely target. Until we know what makes this creature attack, what it is, and how to kill it, we need the village to be cautious, especially any amorous villagers. Let the guests at the Goose know to only travel in groups and that we aren’t sure yet what it targets. Drunkards and men who try to bed anyone available ... That’s what we know so far based on Hugh.” I meet Girard’s eyes. “It took no money, but the death was brutal. The Hunterwillstop it, but until then ...”
“I will be sure every household in the village knows.” Girard heaves a deep sigh and says, “Could we marry so I can take this burden, and you ... seek your pleasure with Ashmore or others? I care about you, Gabrielle. The thought of you having to hunt these creatures haunts me.”
My heart aches a little, realizing he understands that my interest is still fixed on Isabeau and that his affections did not sway me. “This isn’t about bedding, Girard. This is about my familial duty. I have been raised and trained to be the Hunter my entire life.”
“But you’re so small.”
I snort. “My father lacks your tree-trunk legs, too. There are gifts that come with the duty, ones that help us survive longer.”
“And surviving is enough? Marry me and—”
“My father’stheorythat it would pass to a man I marry is untested.” I don’t mention that it’s also insulting. Instead I point out what should be obvious. “You—and the village—arealsoa part of why the Fleuristes have and continue to succeed in our duty. Don’t forget that.”
Although my duty doesn’t feel like a gift sometimes, I cannot imagine a life where I chose to hand it away, even if I could, even as I wince when I mount my horse, even when my head thunders from an attack, even as the fear blooms inside me when I realize that either my attacker or my rescuer took my samples.
This is who and what I am.
Chapter 6
“The night-washers (eur tunnerez noz) are evil spirits who appear at night on the banks of streams and call on the passersby to assist them to wash the linen of the dead. If they are refused, they seize upon the person who denies them, drag him into the water, and break his arms. These beings are obviously the same as the Bean Nighe, ‘the Washing Woman’ of the Scottish Highlands, who is seen in lonely places beside a pool or stream, washing the linen of those who will shortly die.”
—Legends and Romances of Brittanyby Lewis Spence [1917]
For the next three days, I have nothing to do but pore over the Hunter journals. My microscopes sit unused. Faery blood is faery blood, and there are no samples from Hugh’s death in my box. I think the question of who or what stole them is as much of a weight as the possibility that we are facing something unknown.
The purple fluid on my wound is a clue, I think, although it was not at the site of Hugh’s death. It’s also not something I recognize, and I failed to collect a sample before salting it.
I write out possibilities of names of faeries that might be strong enough, but that are not typically in our world. I list each creaturetype’s name, and then I start to search for any details on those creatures in my lists.
Bean Nighe.
Phynnodderee.
Ankou.
Pooka.
Aughiska.
Far Darrig.
Mourioche.
I sleep with notes nearby in case epiphany strikes in the wee hours, and in a circle at the top of the page is the other question:
Who took the samples?
Tonight, I sleep fitfully, waking to read my notes, dozing, and repeating the process. Three days with no answers. Three days with no return by the Hunter. The waiting is always worse than the fighting.
If whatever struck me took the samples, that makes it a faery who can endure steel. If it was a person who struck me and stole the samples, why was there faery blood? Further, the only person I saw in the woods was Isabeau. Although Father would like to find her guilty of something, I see no explanation of why she would steal from me—or injure me. She certainly wouldn’t bleed green.
Breaking my heart is far different from assailing me.
The lack of any answers to share with my father upon his eventual return is frustrating. All I have that is solid is what I have gleaned about the victim, Hugh, and a few new injuries. Faeries are bold creatures, so the strike to the back of my head seems more likely to have been made by a man.Or a woman.I can think of no reason Isabeau would have done so, but I also cannot fathom a beast clever enough to think to steal the evidence or strong enough to overcome the feel of steel. Without the samples, I am left with nothing to do but think—and wait for another victim.
“Gabri? Wake, child.” Mother’s voice interrupts my half-sleeping musings.
