Gideon
He had woken warm and disorientingly comfortable in a soft bed.
The rich scent of soil and herbs met his nose, and the source was made plain as he gazed at the high, pointed ceiling.
A living net of plants formed a canopy above him; vines and weeds twined and drooped from the rafters, so tightly packed he could only see glimpses of thatch between them.
He turned to find a quietly crackling fire in the hearth and a scrubbed wooden table laden with all manner of scraps and vials.
There were clay pots on almost every horizontal surface, sprouting seedlings and tiny flowers.
Glass bottles filled with herbs suspended in liquid gleamed upon the windowsill.
Crammed in the shadows along the walls were trunks, stacks of paper, and a few books heaped atop each other.
Behind the table sat a squat hutch where bowls and cups were stacked.
A massive loom occupied one wall, and a line was strung up across the room where his clothing and some shifts were hanging up to dry.
The finishing touch of chaos was the series of narrow wooden shelving and platforms that ran along the walls, as though a tiny person used them to reach the higher areas of the cottage.
The room was oddly circular, as though it were inside a turret, and the bed he was so cozily occupying rested in a round window enclave.
The tiny window actually had some stained glass; a neat little pattern of blues and reds gave a surprising touch of beauty to the cramped room.
shifted and let out a sharp gasp.
His body felt thoroughly tenderized.
Every muscle ached, and a white-hot throb of pain shot up from his ankle each time he moved.
He lifted the quilt that covered him to find that someone had bound it in a poultice and bandages.
The memories of what had happened before he found himself in this strange place bloomed in his mind, sharp and weighty.
His men were dead.
Weakened from the wench’s evil potion, already ill, they were slow and stumbling as they made their way out of the forest.
They had walked all day and had settled down to try and make a camp without supplies.
It had been freezing, and he did not know how they would last the night without a fire.
The whole venture had been a failure, and never had he regretted a decision more as his men sat shivering from fever and weak from poison.
Dusk had begun to fall, and then they heard the wolves.
He urged the men to disperse and move quickly, drawing their weapons.
The howls had grown louder, then the footsteps.
The men were frightened.
He could hear their ragged breathing as they moved near him, and then the beasts were upon them.
called out a warning as a beast surged from the darkness and pounced upon Harris. His man fell screaming, and the others panicked. They sprinted, but they were weak.
ran with his heart flying from his chest, his throat dry and his legs burning.
He could hear the pack chasing close behind, but the darkness and his pounding footsteps were all he could focus on.
He heard cries behind him, and his throat ached with despair as his two other men were cut down.
But he could not stop.
If he stopped, he was as good as dead.
Something sharp caught his ankle, yanking him back so that he fell hard, sprawling.
His foot was caught in the beast’s jaws, and wrenched it free, leaving his boot behind.
A streak of pain made him cry out as a set of teeth caught his bare heel and jerked it viciously.
Trying to pull away made the agony increase tenfold.
With panicked fingers grasped his dagger and sank it into whatever flesh he could find, but this only seemed to enrage the creature.
Through the mindless terror, he found his pistol and fired two shots before the chamber was empty.
One shot found its mark.
The wolf yelped and its jaws loosened.
pulled his foot free and stabbed the beast in the neck for good measure, leaving his now-useless pistol on the forest floor before gaining his feet again.
Soon the sounds of snarling and running paws fell behind him, and all he could hear was his own desperate panting.
The agony that stabbed up from his mangled foot shortened his breaths and made him limp.
Then there were lights.
Ahead, through the trees, lights swam golden and twinkling.
A cottage.
He moved forward, and then the vision swam before his eyes and he stumbled.
He fell hard, his face scraping the forest floor.
Getting back up seemed to be a gargantuan task, and at that moment, he hoped death would take him.
But it had not.
Someone else had.
was abruptly brought back to the present as she walked through the door.
A blast of wintery air followed her, and he saw drifts of pure white snow just before she shut the door.
She lowered her hood and he caught a glimpse of red cheeks before she turned her back to him, tossing her outer garments onto a chair.
With a softly muttered curse, she removed her boots.
She was a tall woman, and he watched as she moved about the room, taking up a dish and a jug.
A plump black and white cat followed at her heels, purring deeply.
The woman’s chestnut braids fell to her waist.
A thick and shapeless shawl swallowed her form, but he caught a glimpse of floral embroidery on her stays, peeking out from underneath all the wool.
“Who are you?” he said.
The woman turned with a gasp and put a hand to her chest.
“Oh, how long have you been awake?”
she asked, setting down the jug and coming to his bedside. She came much too close, and then she reached out and laid an icy hand on his brow. Had she been holding it in a snowdrift before coming inside?
jerked away from her touch. No respectable woman would be so forward with a strange man, and as the Commander’s son, he was not accustomed to common people laying their hands on him.
“Still warm. Do you feel shivery?” she said.
He did, but that was less important at the moment. He pushed her hand away.
“Kindly step back, woman. I’ll thank you not to touch me.”
She removed her hand as though he had singed her.
“It’s a bit late for that.”
He fixed her with a scowl, but before he could say anything, she turned to go to the fire. Her low voice held a slight rasp, making her sound older than she appeared. As she busied herself making some sort of tea, he was able to study her profile. She had a wide mouth—well suited for toothy smiles, he imagined. Pink still lingered on her cheeks, and frizzy curls had come loose from her braids, giving her a disheveled air.
After pouring hot water into a mug, she went to his side and handed him the cup with a hard look. made no move to take it, however. The last time he had accepted a steaming cup from a woman, he had been gruesomely poisoned.
“What is it?”
“Willow bark tea. It will help with the fever.”
“You taste it first.”
Keeping their gazes locked, she brought the cup to her lips and drank. He watched the way her throat moved, and the rim of the cup looked wet when she removed it. She did not seem to be suffering a minute afterwards, so he reached out a hand and took the cup. He gave it a tentative sniff, then took a swallow and made a face. It was quite bitter.
His theory about her smile was confirmed as she broke into a grin. It was the widest and toothiest smile he’d ever seen, and her catlike eyes sparked with amusement. His earlier impression of her plain looks amended slightly. If one liked smiley women.
sipped his drink with a stony expression.
“You have been asleep for three days,”
she said.
“I found you near death in the woods, but with my poultice, it seems you have come out the other side.”
“What are you, a hedgewitch?”
he scoffed.
“Yes,” she said.
felt a twinge of distaste deep in his gut.
Here in the south they were more accepting of witchcraft, and sorcerers were not uncommon in the royal court.
But in the north, all those who practiced magic-craft were looked upon with wary suspicion.
There were magic wielders with benevolent leanings to be sure, but for every good seed there were a hundred bad ones using their magic to trick or to harm.
The lower hedgewitches could inflict their own kind of damage; babes born too early, cursed possets disguised as good luck charms, and, as had so recently discovered, poisoning.
He had never concerned himself with the prejudices that some at the Montag court held on to, having traveled the continent several times over and met with all manner of magic wielders.
From what he had seen, most magic was middling power and happenstance, with some pastes and powders thrown in for dramatic effect.
Magic could be useful when kept in check, like water held by a dam, and for most of his life saw witches as ultimately harmless.
But his opinion of witchery had changed now.
A near-death poisoning had rather soured him towards the entire craft.
“My name is Angharad, but I go by Hara.
What is your name?” she said.
“None of your business. Thank you for your help, but I will be on my way,”
he said, attempting to stand. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he fell back onto the bed with a thump.
“You haven’t eaten in days and you’re still feverish,”
said Angharad as she stood from the bed and went to her table. She took up a bowl and uncovered it, taking out a soft mound of dough. With deft hands, she began to knead it.
“All the same, I cannot stay here any longer,”
said , thinking of how to get a horse and a messenger to his kingdom. Someone should have been sent to look for him by now.
“The snow is knee deep, so I don’t know how you’d go anywhere,”
she said, fitting the dough into a clay bread pan. She slid the pan into a clever little ceramic door that adjoined the hearth, removing another loaf as she did so.
“If you will not tell me your name, what shall I call you? I’ve been calling you Bitty Babe in my thoughts.”
“What?”
he asked, choking slightly on his tea.
“I’ve had to bathe and dress you and change your soiled linens for three days now, like a baby.”
felt his face reddening, which was appalling.
He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so weak and helpless, and he couldn’t stand it.
Fever be damned, he was leaving.
He attempted to rise again. This time he gained his feet, but he winced in pain and stumbled slightly when he put weight on his heel.
Angharad was there, catching his shoulders to steady him.
This woman had no boundaries, putting her hands all over him without fear.
Changing his soiled linens.
With little murmurs, she settled him back down into the bed as though he were a fussy child.
A warm whiff of something sweet and herbal met his senses as she plumped his pillow and moved away to her work table.
The cat jumped up onto one of the narrow shelves on the wall and walked to a platform that overlooked the bed.
It watched him as it crouched into a round ball, a whiskered gargoyle.
rested against the pillows and rubbed at his face with the heels of his hands.
The sharp throb of his foot was slowly ebbing down, and through his ill-temper, he had to grudgingly admit that at least the tea had helped with his headache.
Angharad gathered up some supplies from a store cupboard and began to use a mortar and pestle.
She hummed a strange song and whispered as she worked.
It made uncomfortable, as if he were listening in on something private.
When she came back to his bedside and uncovered his injured foot, apprehension tightened his belly.
He winced as she brought his foot into her lap and began unwinding the bandages.
The wound was nasty, and the bandages were stained with unsightly colors.
At best he would be deformed, and at worst he would be rendered lame for the rest of his life.
She wiped at it with a warm cloth and said.
“Well, Bitty Babe—”
“,”
he said through gritted teeth. Though she was being gentle as she rubbed the poultice onto his wound, it stung like shards of glass under his skin.
“,”
she murmured, her eyes dropping back to her task. She began to whisper and move her hands in a peculiar way, making his skin crawl. A thrill of unease shot through him when he felt his foot becoming numb.
“Stop!”
he nearly yelped.
“I want no spells.”
Angharad halted her odd hand movements.
“It will ease the pain.”
“I can handle pain,” he said.
“Fine. We’ll do this the hard way,”
she said, slathering another layer of poultice onto his wound. tried to ignore the stinging throb that radiated up his leg as he watched her spread the grayish paste.
“What is this potion?”
“It’s to keep the wounds from festering.”
“I don’t trust magic.”
“Really?”
she said dryly. She was mocking him. If she wanted to make him feel foolish, he would not let her succeed.
“What’s in it?”
“Honey, cloves, garlic, and a pinch of my special powder. It halts infection in the blood.”
“How do you . . . make it?”
“Human sacrifice.”
stiffened, and his blood ran cold. Then she laughed, and his irritation almost betrayed him.
As she went to take the bread from the oven, the cat leaped onto the bed and began to knead at his side.
He pushed it away, but it stayed firmly in place, unbothered.
He pushed it more aggressively, but it only stood, walked just out of reach of his hands, and then curled up on his legs.
It watched him with a shrewd yellow stare. Angharad chuckled again.
“Isn’t that the way of cats, always choosing the person who wants the least to do with them?”
“I hate cats,”
he grunted. Angharad made a little squeaky noise, and the cat calmly rose from the bed and went to her, leaping onto her shoulder like a chubby parrot. rested his head against the wall behind the bed.
So he was stuck here. At least until he healed, and then perhaps until the snow had melted enough to walk to the nearest village and get a horse. Did he still have his money pouch? He couldn’t remember.
Angharad came bearing a plate with warm bread and a pat of melting butter.
“Here,”
she said, and he took it.
“See if you can hold that down. Do you know what you were poisoned with?”
He glanced up at her in alarm.
“How did you know I was poisoned?”
“By the way you made me taste the tea earlier. You also had vomit staining your mouth and clothes. It was obvious.”
She settled on the edge of the bed.
“I Saw some of your memories, but only pieces.”
“Then you must have seen the viper who did it,”
he said bitterly.
“Saw” it indeed. He knew some sorcerers had Sight, but it was highly unlikely that this country hedgewitch possessed such a rare skill. Now that he considered it, any fool could have seen the state he was in and guessed what happened.
Angharad shook her head.
“I didn’t look that closely. I only Saw what happened after.”
He did not know how much he should reveal. The events of the past few days had taught him not to trust women who appeared harmless and sweet.
“My men were ill, and our prisoner offered to help. She made a brew—I think the leaves were green and spiny. She boiled them with sweet sap and spirits. Then the pain started.”
“Holly,”
said Angharad.
“You’re lucky. She didn’t aim to kill you, and you seem to have recovered from it well. We just need to get that fever under control and heal your foot.”
Lucky. scoffed and took a bite of his bread. The butter was salty and rich, and his stomach roared with hunger. He devoured the bread in three large bites, and Angharad smiled as she went to cut him another piece.
“Who was this prisoner of yours?”
she asked when she had returned.
If had his way, he would forget it and never mention this folly again.
He had been desperate and it made him sloppy, and for that, he paid the ultimate price.
It seemed straightforward enough to capture the disgraced sister of the Lenwen king and ransom her in exchange for some lands.
He and his men had no intention to harm her, and he thought she understood the benefits to making a clean exchange.
After all, she had only to gain from the transaction.
They had treated her well, letting her go unbound and ungagged. But what he hadn’t taken into account was her bizarre desire to return to her hovel in the village and continue living like a hog in filth.
“Was it a ransom?”
asked Angharad.
He stared at her, unnerved. Perhaps she did have the Sight after all. It seemed pointless to hide things from her, but she said herself that she hadn’t seen the details. He was not going to reveal them blithely.
“Yes. That is all you need know.”
“Did she have long, golden hair?”
She saw more details than she had let on, and it must have shown in his expression. Angharad shrugged.
“That wasn’t even divination, just guesswork.”
Angharad took a large bite of her own bread.
“There’s a newcomer to our village who came from nobility—the bard’s wife, Alexandra. Her husband was frantic trying to find her a few days past. I’ve taught her a little herblore, and all the pieces fit.”
He should have foreseen that the other residents of Little Snail would have taken note of a noble lady living in their midst, but another detail jumped out at him.
“You taught her?”
burst , his soreness over his own failed scheme getting the better of him.
“If you call yourself a healer, why are you teaching people how to poison?”
“Because every now and then an act of evil can be used for good. If you hadn’t abducted her, she wouldn’t have poisoned you. One could argue she was just restoring balance.”
He glared at her.
He was the first to admit that he had a limited moral code and did not feel remorse about using people for his own gain.
But it irritated him when people who painted themselves as pillars of virtue and honor went against them.
He could not abide hypocrisy.
“I don’t think you could call yourself a white witch. Murky gray at best.”
To his annoyance, she seemed to seriously consider his barb as though it were a thoughtful observation.
“You’re probably correct. As much as I say I practice white magic, deep down, I like a bit of revenge. Justice is the noble word for it, but I don’t mind a touch of violence when it’s deserved.”
She leveled him with a penetrating gaze.
“You deserved it.”
felt himself rising to her bait, the vicious retort already forming on his lips, but he stopped. It did not serve him to waste energy arguing with her. He did not know why he should care about this stranger’s judgment, so he put it aside.
“Where is the necessary?”
He’d be damned before he let her change his soiled bedclothes again.
Angharad showed him the little hut near the creek and gave him a knobbled stick to use under his arm as a support.
She tried insisting that he bundle himself in shawls, but he just tugged his cloak from the drying line and wrapped it about his shoulders.
When he stepped outside, the bitter wind cut through the fur-lined robe like it was gossamer.
He wrapped it around himself tightly, tottering painfully on the stick along the path she had made through the snow.
When he returned, he found that she had changed into a shift and was dipping her loose hair into a basin of water.
The woman really had no sense of modesty at all, but then decided that it did not matter.
Until he gained enough strength to leave, she was a convenience.
She was a means to an end.
From now on, nothing she did, no matter how outlandish or overly familiar, was his concern.
He would not allow her that much power. She could dance naked in the moonlight and he would find it none of his business.
She glanced at him as he came in, but did not say a word.
Unclasping the cloak from his shoulders, he crawled back into the warmth of the bed.
Despite his best efforts to keep his sojourn outdoors brief, he was wracked with chills again.
Secretly he wished he had another cup of the bitter medicinal tea, but he stayed silent.
He stared up at the twisting tendrils of green above, but the gentle sloshing of water in the basin was far more interesting, and his eyes surreptitiously drifted to the right.
Angharad scrubbed soap through her hair, bending over the basin and standing in such a way that the firelight silhouetted her body through the fabric of her shift.
He tore his gaze from the way her waist flared into the suggestion of round hips and long legs, concentrating instead on her hands.
Her movements were methodical and thorough, and he watched as she poured clean water through her hair to rinse it.
A wave of wet fragrance washed over him, that warm herbal scent from earlier.
She wrung out her hair, and then she sat upon a nest of quilts by the hearth and began to comb through her wet locks.
It was hypnotic.
He stared at her fingers as they snagged in a knot, felt the tension as she worked through it with the comb, and then the release as it smoothed.
The cat sat by her side, its eyes closed and its paws tucked under its body, making it look like a charred loaf of bread.
When her hair was smooth, she began to twist it into two braids down her back.
Then she blew out her candle and settled down into her makeshift bed.
felt a twinge of self-consciousness, and briefly wondered if he should offer to take the floor instead, but then he closed his eyes and set his jaw.
She made the choice to put him here, so here he would stay.