When I looked down, I saw bones scattered among the moss-covered stones. Animal bones, I told myself firmly, trying not to look at the one that looked disturbingly like part of a human skull. It felt as though I was being watched by thousands of unseen eyes, and a thousand unheard voices were crying out at me to run away.
For the briefest moment, I wanted to do just that. Forget this place being able to frighten a child; as a grown man, I was frightened now. Every sensible instinct I had told me to go back, to take Laurel somewhere else and to refuse to place her life in the hands of a woman who lived among bones and smoke. But if this was where I could find help for Laurel, I would stay.
As I neared the front door, it creaked slowly open.
An ancient, hump-backed woman emerged, older than anyone else I’d ever seen. Wispy white hair streamed behind her as if stirred by a wind I could not feel. She wore ragged, patched clothing and clutched a heavy black shawl around her bony shoulders with one knobby hand. In the other, she gripped a thick cane.
“Baron,” the woman rasped. “Do come in.”
The use of my name sent a chill through me.
“Do we know each other?” I asked.
She smiled. It was not a comforting expression. Broken, yellowed teeth showed between her thin lips, and several large warts dotted her face, including one on her cheek with a small tuft of hair sprouting from it.
“I know all about you, dear boy,” she said. “But you do not know me. You may call me Mother Margarite.”
Her appearance didn’t matter. The state of the cottage’s repairs didn’t matter. The bones, the smoke, the watching birds, the cold feeling crawling beneath my skin… None of it mattered. Only Laurel did.
“Can you help her?” I asked, lifting Laurel a little higher in my arms.
“Of course.” Mother Margarite gestured toward a wooden table in the center of the room.
I hesitated. Everything here felt so wrong. Or perhaps I only thought so because I was exhausted, terrified, and carrying the woman I loved while her life slipped away with every passing second. How much was my instinct trying to protect me, and how much was paranoia?
Mother Margarite watched me without blinking. “Lay her down.”
I looked at Laurel and slowly laid her down. Her face was pale, her lips dry and parted. She had stopped making sounds, even when I had to shift her. Was she so far gone that she no longer felt the pain?
Margarite moved closer and placed two wrinkled fingers against the side of Laurel’s throat. Her expression didn’t change. “She doesn’t have long at all,” Mother Margarite said. “You brought her just in time.”
Mother Margarite only gazed at me. What was she waiting for?
“Please,” I begged. “Please help her.”
“Only the truly desperate come to me,” she observed mildly. “Are you desperate, Baron Blackwellson?”
“You know I am.”
“And you don’t want her to die. She’s more than just a friend to you, isn’t she?”
My jaw tightened. “That’s complicated.”
“Most worthwhile things are.”
I didn’t have time for her riddles. “Are you going to help her?”
“What will you give me in return?”
I fumbled for the heavy pouch of coins James had given me and held it out. Mother Margarite glanced at it and chuckled. “I don’t deal in things as trivial as coins, boy. You’ll need to do better than that.”
“Then name your price. I’ll give you anything.”
Her smile returned, slow and unsettling. “Anything?”
My hand gripped Laurel’s. This had to be a trap. I felt it as surely as I had ever felt a snare hidden beneath leaves. No one asked for anything unless they intended to demand something terrible. But Laurel’s breathing had grown even fainter.
“What do you want?” I asked again.
