Chapter 23 #2
He shakes his head again. ‘No. Entirely likeable, cheerful. Better than we deserved. No temper to speak of, didn’t complain. Biddable.’ A sob. ‘Something’s wrong with her, isn’t it?’
Something’s definitely not right, definitely more than childish resentment.
There’s her following Tieve through the woods, there’s the tormenting of her parents, there’s the disappearing orphans, and there’s the matter of a hunk of flesh wrapped in a bright red cloak left on my doorstep seemingly so very long ago now…
And yet…
It’s hard to make accusations against a child.
Less hard to make them stick, but hard to make them when you’re from a group that’s always had lies flung at them, lies that are taken for truth without proof.
And I, who did not tell the Hadderholms that their child’s flesh had been left as an offering on my doorstep, would need to admit to the omission, and my reasons for not doing so were entirely self-serving.
No. Self-preserving. It wasn’t just my safety, but Rhea’s.
Ari’s a child, but children can be dangerous; turn your back on them and they’ll slide a knife between your ribs, just as lethal as any grownup and generally less conscience-stricken by such a deed.
And what can I say? The child’s not a witch, no. Something else? Yes – but what precisely? There’s research I need to do before I can do anything definitive, but I don’t tell her father that; the less he knows the better. ‘Be patient, don’t draw attention to yourself, don’t draw her ire.’
‘Will you help? Can you help?’
‘I’ll try. Don’t say anything to Gida, and certainly not to Ari.’ Before I go, I mix him a tonic from everyday ingredients in the kitchen: lemon and ginger, some honey, a pinch of the recently purchased sal-volatile from my satchel. ‘Has Ari said anything about the apothecary?’
‘What? No. Why?’
‘His shop window was broken last night.’
Anselm gazes at me morosely. ‘I don’t think I can say with any authority what my daughter would and wouldn’t do anymore.’
I pat his shoulder. ‘Well, don’t mention it either. Nor my visit.’
‘No fear of that. They both hate you.’
No surprise there.
Before I leave Berhta’s Forge, I find Tieve’s house and, feeling like a wandering tinker, knock politely.
Immediately her mother’s there, shouting at me to go away and slamming the door shut.
I’m not sure she even sees me properly – but I spot Tieve’s small face in a window, tense and pale, eyes huge.
I know better than to knock again, but at least I know the child’s safe indoors, and I can understand she couldn’t get away to bring me news of the orphans’ disappearance.
From Anselm’s comments, the mother is unlikely to let her out on her own, and I suspect Tieve won’t want to go out either.
Not ideal, but I’ll take what I can get.
The reception at Widow Wilky’s is marginally warmer but she doesn’t let me inside her large three-storey house – in no way luxurious, but solid, warm and clean, enough rooms for her collection of other people’s offspring.
Doesn’t want to admit any of her charges are missing either, until I advise that Thaddeus Peppergill has already told me.
Her voice is faint as she says, guiltily, that she’d not been worried when the first three went missing – tearaways all, two girls and a boy, though she has hopes of redemption – had assumed they’d either return from an adventure or not.
It was the other two that set off an alarm: good lads, kind and gentle and polite, clever.
Of them she expected greater things, maybe even travelling to one of the university towns in years to come.
But no, she couldn’t say what had happened, or even when, really – over the week of the disappearance, the lads were there all day, were tucked into bed and gone by sunrise.
She’d noticed nothing strange any of those days.
I urge her, without much hope, to let me know if she thinks of anything else.
* * *
The ride home is untroubled, but the second I step into the cottage I know something’s wrong.
The pungent smell of blood and sap, a puddle in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Water broken. A groan tumbles down from the attic room.
I wonder how long since it started, can’t believe she heaved herself up all those stairs instead of lying on the sofa (although part of me is relieved she did).
So fast! I thought we had days yet. None of mine have ever been so quick.
I rush up the steps, calling the girl’s name as if she’s my own child, my own flesh and blood, my own future.
Rhea’s half-on, half-off the bed; the coverlet has been discarded, balled up on the floor.
The window’s open, the little hearth fire’s out, and the air is cold but I don’t have time to worry about that.
Rhea gives me a wounded look as if she’d never expected it to hurt like this.
I’d assumed her mother had told her this at least, but it seems not.
Again, I thought we’d have another month, that this would be a deep-winter birth, and I’ve been reminding myself to dig a grave now while the earth is still soft enough to allow such a thing.
Make a resting place for it in the rose garden, beside my own little losses.
‘How long?’ I ask. Rhea’s kneeling as if praying, top half against the mattress, a bright sheen of sweat glistening on her face.
She looks uncomprehendingly at me. I begin to unlace the back of her gown – no point being entirely uncomfortable during the most uncomfortable experience of one’s life.
‘Rhea, how long since your water broke?’
‘Not long, not long,’ she moans. ‘Mehrab, it hurts so much, will I die? Why didn’t you tell me it would hurt?’
‘Oh, love. Did you think it would be any other way? And no, you’ll not die.
’ Not if I have anything to do with it. ‘It hurts, Rhea, I know. It hurts, but I’ve medicine to take the edge off the pain.
’ I remove my satchel, begin to rifle through the contents.
‘Now, lie down for a bit while you can. You’ll want to walk but I’ve found it’s best to rest when you can.
Crouching is good but for the moment, lie down, so I can see how far along you are. ’
‘Oh, you’re not going to look at—’
‘Trust me, I don’t want to be down this end either but—gods!’ Which, given the circumstances, is not the most helpful thing I could say, and as I shout, she begins to yell in pain.
Another contraction; the crown of a small dark head, which was already between her legs, is joined by narrow shoulders, a torso.
So fast! I say ‘Push!’ and she does, and she makes a noise that I’ve made myself more than once, a scream of evacuation, an incantation to rid yourself of this heavy tearing burdensome agony.
The little thing – skin the slightest blush of green, hair black and studded with wet blue blossoms, cupid’s bow lips, delicate features.
A quick inventory shows ten fingers, ten toes, a little girl, nothing out of the ordinary, except the eyes – green, green, green – are open which none of my babies’ have been and that little mouth splits to issue a protest at eviction from its warm wet home into the world beyond.
* * *
A little while later, after I’ve wiped Rhea’s brow and cleaned her up as best I can, placed the moss pads and bandages around her bruised core, given her a tisane to make her sleep, to help dry up the bleeding, and after I’ve settled the little miracle on her chest so it could feed until sated and sleepy.
After I’ve kindled the fire again and closed the window to keep out the cold.
After I’ve told Rhea how well she’s done, what a good brave strong girl she is.
After Rhea herself has dropped into slumber, only then do I take the child and wrap her in a soft woollen blanket and carry her to the old rocking chair by the dormer window.
I sit, rocking back and forth, telling a story oh-so-quietly, so quietly that neither baby nor her mother can really hear, because it isn’t really the right one to tell.
I’m telling it because it was the only one my mother ever gave to me, meant for me, and my tears drip onto the tiny, perfect face and onto those closed little lips.