Chapter 27
Avice
The howling wind tore at Avice’s cloak, and a steady shower of snow fell from the darkened clouds.
She hid her face behind John’s shoulder to protect her chapped scars, grateful for the bolt of cloth that divided them on Epona’s back.
The midwife did not want to be anywhere near the fisherman right now.
His lack of words in her defence had cut her deeply, leaving a wound that would not quickly heal.
How many times had John seen her work miracles with her treatments?
How long had she kept his secrets? How many times had she watched Nell when he needed her to?
How one-sided was their friendship that the one time she needed him he instead sealed his mouth?
She seethed. Can I trust anyone? She squinted down at her familiar, who loped alongside the trotting mare. Besides Bramble, Ashling… and Trewoofe. Her heart warmed at the thought that his condition may have improved when she returned. He may even be awake.
The gale roared and tossed a flurry of snow at them, slowing down their mount.
Avice felt sorry for the mare and thought that having two riders on her back in this storm was particularly cruel.
They were nearly at her cottage, so in a combination of anger and pity, she decided to walk the rest of the way.
“STOP!” she yelled into John’s ear.
He threw her a confused look over his shoulder but tugged at the reins to bring the horse to a stop.
Avice tossed down the bolt of linen. It billowed in the wind for a moment before landing in the snow with a soft thump.
She fell off Epona, landing onto her rear with a painful thud.
Avice hauled herself up and gathered the cloth.
She began to stomp away as she heard John slip from the mare and call after her.
“AVICE!”
She rounded on him. “What?”
He jolted at the bite in her tone. “What is wrong? Why are you behaving like a mad woman?”
Her nostrils flared. “Mad woman? Mad woman! Perhaps I am mad, out here in this storm, aiding men who treat me like dirt.” She stood, her breaths jagged, as rage heated her blood.
“Helping men who dismiss me, do not listen to me, do not defend me, and want me to stay in a place that treats me like a witch!”
John wrung Epona’s bridle, and the horse pawed at the snowy ground as though she could sense the fury crackling in the air.
His face pinched. “…But you are a witch.”
Avice bristled. “Why do you say it like it is something filthy? Like it makes me wrong. You have the sight too, John. You are more like me then you are like them.”
His expression sharpened. “I have been trying to help you, Avice. Living in the woods with a Grim and a Wisp, rarely coming to services, pulling faces at church, whispering to the Good Neighbours no one else can see in front of others, and disobeying the men. What do you think will happen if you continue this way?”
The harsh words pricked against her like a thousand thorns. “What do you mean ‘help me’?”
The muscles in his jaw feathered. “By getting you to come to church and help Benjamin! I thought it would cast you in a better light in the eyes of the village Moot.”
“I do not care what the Moot thinks of me,” she spat. She blinked several times, willing away the tears that threatened to come. “I do care that you did not defend me, that you did not vouch for me. After all I have done for you, when I needed you the most, you were not there.”
With that, she turned on her heel, and stomped away, ignoring his calls as they rolled off her back. She tossed the cloth over her shoulder and marched double-time in the direction of her cottage.
Bramble nosed at her hip as they walked, pushing through the ever-deepening snow. Are you alright?
Her heart still galloped. “No. I thought John was my friend, but he treats me as poorly as the other men in the village.”
I am sorry, Avice. You two will settle this, I am sure of it.
Holding her hood in place as the howling wind snatched at it, she smiled sadly down at her Grim. “I hope so.” Her eyes scanned ahead. “When we get home, we must prepare. It is possible we could be snowed in.”
Agreed. If you like, on the way back, I can fetch sticks? We will need to make sure there is plenty of fuel for Ashling, Bramble offered.
Avice puffed as each stride became harder, hefting the linen bolt onto one strong shoulder, the snow now up to her ankles. “Good idea. Once we are home, I will collect some snow in my cauldrons, for water, and go down into the cellar to bring up some supplies.”
Bramble yipped and bounded into the woods on his mission to collect kindling.
Avice turned her eyes to the sky. Nothing but dark grey.
Her gaze swept the tree line, and her attention snagged on a smear of red.
She tried to focus through the flurry and was drawn towards the colour like a moth to the flame.
Avice pushed on through the snow, the cold flurries numbing her cheeks and nose.
Lying there, on the carpet of white, was the broken body of a Pillywiggin youth.
She felt a stab of pity for the hand-sized Faerie.
The unfortunate Good Neighbour was in terrible condition.
Her beautiful wings had been shredded, she was missing a toe off her cloven-hoofed foot, and her sky-blue blood was stark against the snow.
She startled at the presence of a tiny emerald leaf etched onto her chest, identical to the one on Boarden before he had been given to the Wulver in the Underneath.
Her gut twisted at the discovery. First, the two human infants who had been born under such strange circumstances, a never-ending Winter, this savage snowstorm, and a Pillywiggin youth: marked, mauled, and left in the frost.
Avice blinked back her tears. “You poor Faerie.”
She picked up the Pillywiggin and wrapped her in the bolt of cloth. The midwife was tempted to pull off her gloves to see if her patient’s heart still beat but did not want to linger in the worsening storm.
“I need to get out of this weather,” she mumbled, squinting through the flurry in the direction of her home.
Bramble appeared beside her. He opened his mouth, and the sticks he had collected clattered at her feet. What has happened?
She lowered the swaddled Good Neighbour. “I just found her!” Bramble pushed his nose into the bundle and snuffed. “I have never known for a Pillywiggin so young to wander from the garden. She has been marked, like Boarden.”
Bramble folded his ears back. She smells like the human pups did before the King took them. This worries me, Avice. I have never heard of a Good Neighbour being marked by another type of Faerie before.
Avice frowned down at the bundle and hoped that the little one was still alive; she had no way to assess her in these conditions. “Let us return her to her flock and prepare for the storm.”
Avice and Bramble – his mouth crammed full of sticks – crossed the stone circle that marked her garden.
A gentle hum met her ears as she passed through the protection magic that Trewoofe had cast. The air was significantly warmer in the boundary, and no snow fell.
When she looked up, she saw nothing but white as the blizzard settled on top of the ward.
As she dashed past, she registered Trewoofe’s flowers had regrown, despite Epona’s munching and her own harvest of them.
Bramble trotted towards the cottage as Avice made her way to the holly bushes, rushing to return the Faerie to her clan.
She dropped to her knees in front of the spiky leaves and let out a puff of relief as she felt a wriggle of movement under the cloth.
She tugged it back to reveal the youth shivering in the crook of her arm.
Her teeth chattered as she called out, “Pillywiggins! I have found one of your daughters!”
A streak of red shot out of the dark green and landed on Avice’s knee with a thud.
The Queen’s hooves dug through her skirts as she leant forward to examine the youth.
The injured Faerie reached to hold the hand of her elder, their fingers interlacing in a way that made Avice’s heart melt.
The Queen tilted her head up and let out a caw.
“I found her out in the storm,” Avice explained, shivering. “It looks like another Good Neighbour tried to mark her and steal her.”
The Queen stomped her foot and squawked in response.
Avice rose an eyebrow at her. “Folk? Not a Good Neighbour. You think a wild Faerie did this?”
The Pillywiggin bobbed her head in response as she lifted the daughter from the swaddle.
Avice stopped her and tore off a strip of cloth to wrap the injured Faerie in.
She watched as the Queen dressed the youth and gasped as the scrap of cloth shimmered into a warm cloak.
The Queen jumped down from the midwife’s lap and turned to the holly bushes with the youth in her arms.
“Why would Folk do this?” Avice asked.
The Pillywiggin looked back over her shoulder and shrugged. The midwife huffed, of course she did not know, no one seemed to know much about the Folk.
Avice rose stiffly. “If your flock is out looking for her, call them back, the storm is getting worse.”
The Queen flicked her insect eyes from Avice to the sky, opened her needle-toothed mouth, and screamed. The call pierced the air. Avice’s hands flew up to her ears, in a useless attempt to protect them, as blood oozed out.
Swarms of red Faeries landed on the ground with repetitive thumps.
Each Pillywiggin carefully checked the youth, pressing a claw to her chest; a flare of sparking blue passed from the healthy Faeries to the injured one.
Despite the chill, Avice softly smiled at the tender moment.
She lingered, watching the flock usher the youth into the bushes.
Avice! Bramble called. He stood by the locked door, a pile of branches by his massive paws.
“Coming!” She turned away from the chittering bushes and made her way up the garden path.