Chapter 7
I drop the pattern in to Edric the Cordwainer, who looks pleased to see me; perhaps business has been slow.
He supplements his income by the manufacture of bags and belts, saddles and bridles, straps and aprons; any purpose or shape to which leather can be bent.
The shop is small, an outpost of the felt-makers’ building, really.
(Felt is one of the items produced in Berhta’s Forge that goes out into the world in bulk, commanding high prices, turned into protective vests and tunics for soldiers, horse blankets, hats, boot lining, jackets to ward off winter, and padding for any number of things).
I choose a buttery tan leather – I’d not thought to ask Rhea what she’d prefer, but since I’m paying for them, she’ll like it or lump it – ask for the soles to be thick and the lining of sheepskin.
I tell him they’re for a young cousin because he knows my feet aren’t that small, and I pay the price he asks even though it makes my eyes water as it doesn’t pay to insult the man who makes your footwear when winter’s as cruel as it is in these parts.
At the seamstress’s shop, I exchange pleasantries with Mistress Godiva, and a little gossip: Rosina Tolkas’s daughter is pregnant, and Rosina demanded payment from the boy’s father in the form of one of the cottages the family owns.
Godiva says he gave in less out of shame and more from a desire to no longer be yelled at.
Good for Rosina, I say, and Godiva agrees.
Edberg Zimmer, his wife gone to her well-deserved rest, has been trying to talk one of twelve village widows into marrying him (one at a time, not all at once, moving on after each rejection); alas for his plans none of them are foolish enough to accept his proposal.
Why would they inconvenience themselves?
I ask and Godiva agrees. And Ceryth Danby’s got her ninth child on the way and doesn’t know what’s causing it.
Someone should tell her, I say, and Godiva agrees.
When I ask about Ari’s disappearance, she can offer no more than I already know, but she murmurs, Poor Gida, and I agree.
When I leave, it’s with two lengths of cotton – a sunflower yellow and an azure blue – and only the vaguest idea of how to turn them into dresses.
I get them cheaper in return for a love potion (for her husband’s flagging libido) and a tea to help her sleep.
Though the bell above the door rings cheerfully when I step into the apothecary’s lair, the store remains empty for long moments.
I take in the myriad shelves and jars, coloured vials, scales, alembics, mortars and pestles, sacks and pots of all manner of liquids, lipids and medicinal pounce and leaves, twigs and poultices.
The light is low so as not to upset the delicate balance of the merchandise.
In the end, I call, ‘Reynald, if you don’t appear this second, I’ll steal something.’
From deep in the back, behind walls and curtains, I hear the clatter of shoes, the tinkling of light fixtures set too low for the height of the man who works here, and I hear cursing. Profound and impressive cursing which ends on a mild ‘Don’t you dare, you light-fingered witchy bitch.’
Reynald Alberic, slender and elegantly dressed in shades of dove-grey not really compatible with a profession involving powders and bubbling liquids, steps through the doorway like a stork being born – if storks weren’t hatched but rather entered with all the aplomb of a chorus girl on stage in Seaton St. Mary or one of Bellsholm’s finer theatres.
Yet he’s no dancer, but the person who formulates and mixes materia medica for those like me and for others, far-flung, who call themselves doctors.
Reynald has a keen mind for the chemistry of ingredients, for their alchemy.
We work with similar intent, he and I (though his skill is the greater), but only I will be condemned if something goes awry; apothecaries live, witches die.
His means of distilling essences are better than mine, the equipment more finely tuned and expensive, so I’m glad to trade with him: raw plants of rare sort for the processed liquids of another – he prefers not to have to gather ingredients out in the woods.
His husband, Lucien, runs the Fox no coin ever passes between us for this barter is far more useful, more profitable.
‘Can I help you with anything else, Mehrab?’
‘The child who went missing, Ari Hadderholm?’
He nods. ‘The baker’s girl. Such a shame. Quite a nice child.’
‘Did you see her the day she disappeared?’
‘Not that day, no.’
‘Another?’
‘Most days because she and the other urchins gather on the green when they’re out of school.’ His smile droops. ‘Poor mite. I don’t hold out much hope.’
And I don’t tell him any different because the tale will soon spread from the Hadderholms’ bakery, grief lit and flying like wildfire in a field. ‘And no sign of her anywhere?’
‘Lucien hears things; people talk over their meals, drinks. There were footprints leading to the pond by Falda’s, then some on the other side as if she’d taken a dip.
Along the northern trail and into the common orchard, across to the opposite fence then gone.
Like she’d been plucked up and carried off. ’
‘Poor mite,’ I echo. ‘Nothing else of interest?’
He appears to hesitate, and my interest is piqued.
‘C’mon, Reynald, spill it.’
‘Promise you won’t be mad?’ He’s not really fearful, but definitely reluctant, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this in the years I’ve known him.
‘Promise – within reason.’
‘Best I can hope for.’ He sighs. ‘Faolan’s wife died two months ago.’
Despite my best effort it seems the shock shows on my face.
Not the news I expected. Not sure what he expected from me, but he goes on quickly as if to forestall a reaction: ‘You’ve not been into the village for the last few months, and it didn’t seem like something you’d want anyone rushing to tell you… ’
I shake my head. ‘No. No, you’re right. No reason to tell me at all.
’ I do not ask if the blacksmith is well.
I will not. I had nothing against the woman, though there was so much…
history there. The feelings are so old; they should not sting.
I’m precise as I pack the wrapped vials into the satchel, careful as I sling it over my shoulder.
My voice is level as I ask, ‘Do you have any special requests for the next harvest?’
He hands me a list on a fine piece of paper; I peruse it, nod, and bid him farewell.
* * *
Outside, the traffic has thinned with villagers going home or to the inn for a midday meal. My tasks are all done, so I could begin the walk home and be returned by early afternoon. Or I can walk the path to Falda’s holding, to the pond and around it, then into the orchard to see what I can see.
At Falda’s cottage, I speak to her as she leans against the doorframe, one babe on her hip while two others play by the hearth.
She doesn’t ask me in, nor do I request it.
While she’s sympathetic about Ari’s loss, her tone tightens when she mentions the child hunting for mushrooms on her holding.
Says she wasn’t even aware of her presence until the parents came knocking.
Falda doesn’t strike me as the sort of person to do away with a child over stolen mushrooms or anything else.
I thank her and assure her that I’ll steal nothing while looking at the orchard.
There are no prints in the dirt as I pass, not now, not of hers, or none that are recognisable – too many searchers have gone this way on too many heedless feet. On the far bank of the pond, there are very few mushrooms, only the old, withered.
In the shared orchard, I look at the apple trees, think how in early winter the villagers will gather here, pour cups of warm spiced cider onto the roots of the oldest trees as a gift to whatever old things might live in their trunks.
Briefly I wonder if something went wrong with last year’s offering – I don’t attend, am not invited – and some discontented sprite decided to pluck their own offering.
But it would have been a long time to wait, though, from ritual to revenge, especially when children cut through here all the time.
Why would Ari come here after the mushrooming?
And how’d she get to where I found the scrap of her cloak?