Chapter 17 Isabeau #3
“No,” Mama interrupted gently. “Not for this. These people can barely afford bread, let alone medicine.”
Master Girard’s eyebrows rose. “All of it for free? That’s...” He gestured vaguely at the table laden with vials. “That’s weeks of work, Laurette. And these ingredients—I know what wild honey costs, what feverfew fetches at market.”
“And I know what a child’s life is worth,” she replied, her voice soft but unyielding. “More than coin.”
Something passed between them then, some adult communication I couldn’t fully grasp at that age. Master Girard nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving my mother’s face.
“Very well. I’ll ensure it’s distributed fairly, and without charge.” He began carefully placing the vials into a padded basket he’d brought. “Though you realize the other members of the council won’t approve. They believe illness is an opportunity for profit.”
Mama’s laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Yes, I’m familiar with Councilor Beaumont’s philosophy on the matter. ‘God sends sickness to test our industry’, isn’t that what he says while charging triple for remedies during outbreaks?”
“Among other charming sentiments,” Master Girard agreed dryly.
It never needed spoke aloud, but they were close friends.
He was always respectful, and often delighted spending time with my father.
Master Girard finished packing the vials and straightened, basket handle looped over his arm.
“This will help many, Laurette. I’ll make sure of it. ”
After he left, I watched my mother continue her work, sorting herbs with the same precision Papa used when assembling his inventions. The question that had bothered my young mind finally bubbled to the surface.
“Mama, why didn’t you make him pay?” I asked bluntly. “We need money too. Papa’s water pump didn’t sell at the fair, and winter’s coming.”
She looked up, surprised, then set down her herbs. “Come here, little bell,” she said, patting the bench beside her.
I climbed up, my feet dangling above the garden soil. From this angle, I could see the silver threads beginning to appear in her dark hair. Threads that wouldn’t have time to multiply before death claimed her.
Mama didn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, she stared at her hands, turning them over as if seeing both the skill they possessed and the labor they’d endured.
“Imagine I were sick, Isabeau,” she finally said.
“Burning with fever, delirious with pain. And imagine you knew how to make me well, but you couldn’t because we had no money to buy the herbs, and no one would help us without payment.
” Now she turned to me, those amber eyes—my eyes—filled with a gentle challenge. “How would that feel?”
The tears came immediately, hot and sudden. The very thought of Mama suffering, knowing the cure but unable to provide it, cracked something in my chest.
“Awful,” I whispered.
“Yes,” she agreed simply. “Awful. That’s happening right now to mothers and children across our village. Should their fate be determined by the coins in their purse?”
I shook my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. My mother’s hand found mine, her skin warm and alive in a way that made my adult self, trapped in this dream, aching with longing.
“There are two kinds of people in this world, little bell,” she continued.
“Those who see suffering as an opportunity to profit, and those who see it as a call to serve. I’ve made my choice.
Why would I charge for what nature has provided just because I learned how to utilize it?
” She squeezed my hand. “Someday you’ll make your choice. ”
I couldn’t know then how prophetic those words would prove.
Couldn’t imagine how Gaspard would embody the first kind of person, using Papa’s sacrifice and my vulnerability to serve his own desires.
Or how Beast, despite his fearsome appearance, might represent the second by offering shelter, food, and protection when I needed it most.
The garden began to blur at the edges, my mother’s face growing less distinct as the dream started to fade. I reached for her desperately, adult awareness bleeding into child’s body, knowing this wasn’t real, knowing she was already gone.
“Mama, wait,” I pleaded. “I have so much to tell you. So much has happened—”
“I know, my sweet girl,” she said, her voice already distant.
It was like this wasn’t just a memory, like this was truly happening.
“But you’re stronger than you realize. You always were, even then.
” Her fingers brushed my cheek one last time.
“Remember what matters, Isabeau. Remember who you, who I taught you to be. Nature provides, as long as you ask, you shall receive.”
The garden dissolved completely, taking my mother with it. But her words remained, echoing in the darkness of my sleeping mind, a compass pointing true north when all other directions had been lost in the chaos of curses and beasts and blood-drinking roses.
Remember what matters. Remember who you are. Nature provides, as long as you ask, you shall receive.