Hilde
As she’d said to Elmwood, she’d always thought that the magic worked by magicians and witches in old tales sounded an awful lot like the work of Charmers.
The witches in “The Three Trees” intrigued her.
Clearly, they had been trapped by the trees in some way and were freed only when the boy did as they bid in his dreams and broke their bonds.
Why had they been imprisoned and separated?
And once they were free to wreak their vengeance, it seemed that they did so together, combining their powers to put the village into its enchanted sleep.
If the witches were Charmers, did that mean that at some point in Eldmere’s ancient past, Charms could be cast together somehow?
She made to close the book, but as she did, one of the pages sliced across the pad of her finger, giving it a shallow cut.
She hissed as blood welled up with a sting, then popped it into her mouth.
When she withdrew it, she studied the frilled edges of the cut, which were beginning to bead up with red again.
It had never occurred to her to deliberately test the bounds of her Charm.
She had learned early that it could preserve food and turn back the clock on rot of various kinds, and that had seemed like more than enough to have to hide from the world.
Every now and then, some new use presented itself naturally, but she had tried her best not to be too curious about it.
What good would it do to put herself at further risk by pushing the limits of her ability?
But meeting Elmwood and having someone with whom she could discuss Charms had sparked something inside of her.
Now she wanted to understand. She yearned to discover what she might accomplish.
Her finger continued to ooze blood.
Healing was the work of nature. But did people not give nature a helping hand when they could, by means of stitches and salves and tinctures? Surely it would not be arrogant to see if perhaps her Charm might do the same.
So she focused on her finger, coaxing forth her Charm. She brushed the fingers of her other hand over the cut, willing the skin to freshen itself and heal.
The cut gaped back at her, still open. But the bleeding had stopped. That was something.
She set the book of fireside tales on the table beside the bed and blew out her candle.
The following morning was absolutely wretched.
After her late night with the fireside tales, Hilde had continued to toss and turn.
Even worse, she had told Ed he could sleep late after his evening of frantically endeavoring to make Merewyth habitable, but she had been too distraught by her parting conversation with Elmwood to remember to inform Cook, Han, or Francie about this allowance, so she awakened after only a few scant hours of sleep to the ruckus of Cook and Francie having some sort of row about the fires and then the sound of Ed being roused harshly and moaning about the injustice of it all.
She likely ought not to have sent him in the first place.
Elmwood had made his feelings about her continued involvement in his affairs very clear.
But, she told herself, it was not for his sake that she had sent Ed.
It was for Lady Isobel and Miss Floret, who did not deserve the chaos into which they had landed.
Then, before the sun had even fully risen, Sam, the village blacksmith, turned up saying someone had sent for him, and no one could seem to figure out why or who had done it.
He was cross, Han was belligerent, and Hilde had to intercede wearing nothing but her dressing gown and shift before it came to fisticuffs.
Then Cook wanted to know when more salt was to be purchased, and Hilde said that it would have to be sent for from the market in Neck, and Cook pointed out that Thorgoode could bring some back with him, and Hilde had been forced to agree with her, almost gagging on her own lies, all while wondering if she ought to come out and confess that he was dead, seeing as her grand plans had all come to nothing anyway.
Simmering beneath it all was the agitation of Elmwood.
For some reason, her mind seemed unwilling to banish the memories of his hands grasping at her when he had finally relented and said he would say yes to anything she asked.
How, in that moment, it had not been his assistance in saving Croftholde that she had longed to ask for.
She also kept remembering the expression on his face when he had exclaimed that she understood nothing. That she would not listen. It was not an expression of condemnation or anger, but rather a beseeching one. It begged her to understand.
She had refused.
She decided that what she needed was a good sobering up, so she went down into the cellar to visit Thorgoode.
She hadn’t checked on him for several days, and the realization made guilt wash over her until she was drowning in it.
Sitting on an empty apple crate beside him, she took a deep breath and pulled back the blanket.
He looked for all the world like he was sleeping. He still seemed so near the border of death, as if it would take only one tiny little push to bring him back.
“I’m making a terrible mess of things,” she said to him.
“I tried to blackmail someone to bring you back to life, but he refused, and since then I keep making the wrong decisions and being hurtful when I don’t mean to be, and I know I shouldn’t care about whether I hurt him, but I do.
I care far too much. That’s probably an odd thing to tell you, but the thing is, you were the person I told things to. ”
Thorgoode kept his own counsel.
When she emerged from the cellar, Han was striding across the yard to talk to her.
“You never said good morning,” said Han. They had jumped right into sorting out the confusion with the blacksmith without exchanging any pleasantries, and Hilde had hardly noticed.
“Good morning,” said Hilde.
“Why did you send Ed to Merewyth last night?”
Mercy, the last thing this situation needed was one of Han’s interrogations.
“Lord Elmwood had some unexpected guests arrive while I was there. His lawyer and his…betrothed, along with her chaperone. He needed help preparing their rooms.”
“Huh,” said Han, almost as circumspect as Thorgoode had been.
“Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship?”
Hilde turned, and there was little Peg Bramley from the village. She held a rope in one hand, and the other end was attached to Rollo.
“Sorry to bother you, Lady Croft,” said Peg.
“My mam found this doggie digging in her garden this morning. He’s very nice and I want to keep him, but Mam said he’s a fancy sort of dog and he must belong up here at the Croft, and she sent me to bring him to you.
Is he your doggie, Lady Croft? What’s his name, if you please? ”
“His name is Rollo, and he isn’t my dog, but I do know where he belongs.”
“Oh,” said Peg, disappointed. “If he was my doggie, I would name him Sausage Bun. Because he looks like a sausage bun. Mr. Jayme who lives in the house next to ours named his dog Black because she’s black. She doesn’t like me to pat her, though.”
Hilde crouched down to Peg’s level.
“Sausage Bun is an excellent name, but I’m afraid his owner will be missing him.”
Indeed, Elmwood would likely be half-frantic, seeing as Rollo was his sole remaining claim to Merewyth—to any property at all. Without the dog, he had nothing.
It had been unwise of him to share that fact with her.
Aggravation and a sort of tender anxiety filled her on his behalf.
Why did he not take better care to guard himself and his affairs?
It left him open and vulnerable to the worst sort of people.
People who would use the information he shared so unwisely against him, for their own gain.
People like her.
An ugly idea had just occurred to her, and it was growing in her mind with great intensity, like a pebble caught in a shoe that would eventually consume the wearer’s every thought.
What if she didn’t send Rollo straight home? What if she offered Elmwood an exchange? The return of Rollo for the use of his Charm.
Would he be more inclined to bargain for the dog than he had been for his own life?
The dog’s importance to his ability to live at Merewyth might not be enough, for he had been willing to gamble with his safety the last time she’d blackmailed him.
The thing was, despite his protestations to the contrary, she had seen him with Rollo, and she knew that he loved the silly little badger hound.
He might not barter for Rollo to secure his own well-being, but he would do it for the dog’s sake. To protect him.
Not that she would ever harm the dog. Of course not!
But he didn’t know that. He already knew she was a terrible person.
She was a blackmailer, a false friend, and a lackluster seductress.
She was a liar and a grasping strumpet. Elmwood knew her worst self better than anyone, and he had made it clear that he thought her despicable.
It didn’t matter. Not to Hilde.
Because Hilde was the only one who could save Peg Bramley and Mr. Jayme and the idiot blacksmith and Black the dog and Francie and Ed and Cook and Han and everyone else who called Croftholde home.
It was the responsibility that she had bought with her privilege and power.
She would undertake whatever means were necessary to pay it back, no matter what it cost her.
Having installed Rollo in her study, Hilde decided it was no use putting off the disagreeable task before her and set off on foot for Merewyth without delay.
It was a fine day for walking, the woods resplendent with wild snowdrops, but Hilde noticed almost none of it, intent as her mind was on trying to determine what exactly she ought to say to Elmwood.
You were correct, I am an unfeeling monster, and I’m holding your dog for ransom.
That was so awful it was almost funny.