Chapter 48
Avice
Central Lamorna was unrecognisable to Avice.
Whatever magic she and Trewoofe had spread from their dance had claimed the village.
Daisies and dandelions had popped up in vast swathes in the gaps between the granite cobblestones, smothering the air with their bitter-sweet scent.
Ivy claimed the stocks and gallows. The strong vines enveloped the frame, noose, and iron-barred cages, crowning it in emerald leaves larger than her head.
Even the church had been taken. Massive creepers climbed the grey stone and wound their way around the belfry, choking the bell with blooms so huge it would never ring again.
Avice eventually landed her gaze on the rectory. She smirked. It had indeed been obliterated to rubble. With all the flora and greenery, she could not detect the acrid scent of the oil in the pollen heavy air.
Considering how small the village was, it was positively bustling. People were milling, gossiping, and generally enjoying the warm sunshine after such a long Winter. The tavern was open, and a small queue had formed at the open shutter. The wafting smell of Cornish pasties made her mouth water.
Bramble’s nose twitched, and his tongue lolled. Those smell delicious. Can we have some?
“I promise we will get some after we see Mister Benjamin. I have some pennies in here somewhere.” Avice patted her satchel.
They hurried across the square, dodging people, and kicking up pollen and petals.
George Courier’s home was not far. It was easy to spot, made from the same grey stone as the church and smashed rectory.
The ivy had also begun its claim of the walls.
A log fence formed an enclosure – complete with a stable – that housed the Courier’s mare, Epona.
She nickered as Avice marched past and trotted over to the fence.
“Not now,” the midwife said. “I am in a rush.”
Epona huffed and tossed her head.
She just wants a pat, Bramble observed. She has been worried about you since the blizzard.
Avice rolled her eyes but surrendered. “Hello, Epona.” She swept over to the horse and offered her an open palm. The mare lipped at her, sliming her fingers with saliva. “Yuck,” she chuckled, wiping her hand on her aproned dress front.
It seemed that was what Epona had been planning all along.
While the midwife was distracted, she reached to snag Trewoofe’s flowers that had been sticking out of her satchel.
The very same ones that Avice had forgotten to give to her patients in all the excitement of the day so far.
Epona pranced away, tossing her head gleefully at the pilfered blossoms she held in her teeth, before chomping them down in a quick bite.
Avice shook her head at the mare. “Lucky for you, I had forgotten to give them to my ladies earlier today.”
Epona nickered and regarded her with such a startlingly intelligent look that Avice did a double take. Then, she was a normal horse again, dropping her head to crop at the pasture that was up to her knees.
Avice arched an eyebrow at her familiar. “Just a pat?”
That is what she said, Bramble huffed. Let us get on with your last visit, shall we? I want to get a pasty.
She giggled and strode after him as he went up the cobblestone path that led to George’s door. Avice rapped at it and waited while footsteps echoed through the house. Goodwife Margaret – Father Peter’s maid – answered, squinting around the half-open door.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, opening it wider. “Good afternoon, Midwife Avice.”
She smiled in response. “Hello, Goodwife Margaret.”
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I came to see Mister Benjamin. I heard that he was here,” she replied, patting her medical satchel.
Margaret bobbed her head. “Of course, come in.”
The maid stepped back and beckoned Avice to enter.
“How is he doing?” the midwife asked, crossing the threshold.
“Fine, I suppose. Eating, drinking, and sleeping well. I have been giving him the medicine you left with Mister George, and it helps with the pain.”
“That is good to hear.”
Bramble followed her inside, in his way that only Avice could see. Margaret gestured for them to follow her, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
“Mister George is not in?” Avice asked, falling into step behind the maid.
The house was single-storied but sprawling. Her dirty boots rapped loudly on the highly polished wooden floor. Avice gawked at the ornate tapestries that tumbled down the stone walls, the woven threads depicting images of hunts and feasts.
Margaret shook her head, her coif and wimple rustling with the movement. “He is out. I believe at a meeting with Father Peter.”
Avice cringed inwardly at the mention of the priest. “Last time I saw you, you were in Father Peter’s employ?”
“Yes, but when the rectory was destroyed, so went my employment,” Margaret replied. “Luckily, Mister George needed help with his brother’s care and offered me the position.”
Avice curled her fingers into Bramble’s fur, guilt pricking at her.
On the stormy night she had bargained with the Nightly Neighbours, she had only wanted to keep Trewoofe safe.
She did not know that the Faeries would destroy the rectory and spill the oil into the streets, and with it end Goodwife Margaret’s employment.
“How do you like it here?” Avice questioned as they rounded a corner, hoping to ease her conscience.
The maid glanced back at her. “I like it well enough. There is a lot of work, but Mister George mostly leaves me to my duties, and Mister Benjamin is pleasant when I attend him.”
Avice dropped her shoulders, relieved that it had turned out alright for her. Margaret stopped at a door and knocked. A muffled affirmative came from within. The maid opened the door and beckoned her inside.
“Mister George,” Margaret said, “Midwife Avice has come to see how you are faring.”
Margaret stayed near the door as Avice entered.
Bramble made his way into a corner so he could watch unseen.
He was there if she needed him. The man in question was sat up in a plush bed.
Pillows supported his back, and his bandaged stump was elevated on a cushion in his lap.
He awkwardly lowered the book he had held up to his face and closed it beside him on the bed.
Avice could not tear her eyes from the object.
She tried to ignore the envy coiling in her gut.
Besides the texts that the priests read from in church, she had only seen a handful of books in her life.
She felt it was its own kind of magic: that the words people spoke could be recorded with ink, and those chosen few who were taught could understand the etchings.
How she longed to learn and be able to read them for herself.
Focus. Avice chided herself, ripping her gaze from the book and to her patient’s face. The sooner you get this done, the sooner it will be tomorrow, and the sooner you will see Trewoofe.
She dipped her head and removed her hat. “Mister Benjamin, how are you feeling?”
The man arched an eyebrow at her uncovered head. “I am well enough. I hear I have you to thank for my survival.” He pushed himself up slightly, his eyes squinting from the sunshine that beamed in from the open shutters.
“That is correct,” Avice replied, making her way over to him and plonking her hat and satchel on the bed. “I will begin by assessing your general health and then the injury, if that is acceptable?”
“Do as you see fit,” he agreed.
Avice went through the motions: checking his gums, pulse, and skin colour. “You are still peaky, and there are dark circles beneath your eyes. Your gums are nice and pink, and your heart is strong.”
“It could be worse then,” Benjamin acknowledged.
“Most definitely. All in all, I would say you are healing well.” She gestured for the maid to come over. “I would focus on diet to get his colour back: hearty bone broth, plenty of meat, and the sunshine exposure is also very beneficial.” She smiled up at Margaret. “Was that your idea?”
She blushed from the praise. “Yes.”
“Well done.” Avice turned back to her patient. “I am going to check your wound now.”
Benjamin nodded his consent, and she began to unwind the bandage from his arm.
She was glad to see the calendula in the layers.
The dried flowers wafted down to the quilt as she pulled the final wrap away.
The stump was pink, clean, and the parts she had sewn were scabbing around the threads.
Avice counted the days on her fingers and rose her eyebrows.
It was a quick recovery. The herbs and healing waters had proven their worth once again.
She pulled the copper knife from her satchel.
“The stitches are ready to come out, and then, some exposure to the air would be beneficial to the skin.” She glanced at Margaret.
“You may wish to roll some lambskin beneath the wound, just in case. Sometimes when stitches are removed, small droplets of blood follow.” The maid nodded and scuttled over to a coffer.
Avice turned back to her patient, brandishing her blade. “Are you ready?”
Benjamin went even paler. “Will it hurt?”
She suppressed a snort. “No, sir. It may irritate you. It is a peculiar feeling, at most.”
His throat bobbed, and he nodded his assent. Avice snicked the first stitch and tugged it through. The way her patient reacted, you would have thought he was giving birth sideways.
He threw himself back in the bed with a yelp. “Ouch! You said it would not hurt!”
She shot him a withering look, remembering how still and patient Trewoofe had been when she sewn him up, and removed his stitches. “It does not,” she scolded. “It will hurt if I accidentally nick you while you are flailing like a fish!”
“Do not speak to me that way!” he snapped, settling back into a sitting position.
“I will speak to you how I wish when you are being ridiculous,” she retorted, flexing the small knife in her grip.