The Threadneedle Witch of Heather House

The Coins of Fate

“A love potion? ‘Tis dangerous, Lucy,” Moll warned as she twisted her curls into a knot.

A pox on her hair. ‘Twas always curling like a corkscrew. Leaning over the half-rotten board that served as her makeshift market stall, she jabbed her finger on the wood emphatically and continued, “If potions are brewed from the heart, they can’t be undone.”

Her red-headed, round-faced friend didn’t mind. “I’ll never love another, Moll. Please. I need this.”

Lord help her, how could she open Lucy’s eyes? “You’ve only known him three months, Lucy. ‘Tis not long enough to know the way of a man’s heart, and you’re far too young to know its love.”

“Young?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “You’re not a day older than I, and you’ve been wed to Thomas nigh on a year, already.”

Moll grimaced. Nigh on a year? It felt like ten.

Thomas was old, ill-tempered, and he’d been wed four times afore Moll—what had become of his previous wives he refused to say.

The mystery hadn’t stopped her father on agreeing to the match.

How she’d begged him to choose a different man—any man, really—but with fourteen mouths to feed, her father had turned a deaf ear to her plight.

Moll, you must wed the tailor for the greater good.

Listen to your father now. ‘Tis for the greater good. Greater good, be damned. Her father’s ‘greater good’ had been a year of hell, though her father had exited the arrangement richer by a pair of woolen breeches and a felt hat.

“I’ll never want another man ‘till my dying day, Moll.” The whining pitch of Lucy’s voice intruded on Moll’s thoughts. “From the moment I laid eyes on him, ‘twas love at first sight.”

“Oh, come now.” Moll snorted. Love belonged in tales, and if love itself was a myth, the first-sight variety was doubly so.

“Very well, then,” Lucy conceded in lofty tones. “If you won’t sell me the potion, I’ll go to Old Lizzie.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the herbalist across the lane.

Moll expelled an exasperated breath. As a Witch of the Heart, she’d sworn to heal all heart’s ills that crossed her path, but more than that, she needed the money—desperately.

Her friend smiled, knowing she’d won.

“On your head be it, then,” Moll grumbled as she reached for her basket under the table.

Love potions ranked amongst her bestselling items, but with Thomas for a husband, she struggled to peddle promises of love to dewy-eyed maids.

The deed always made her feel the shyster.

Still, someone had to put food on the table.

Lord knew Thomas couldn’t—or wouldn’t. His fondness for whisky had all but ruined his once thriving tailor shop on Threadneedle Street.

Not for the first time—nor the last—she rolled her eyes that she, a witch who dabbled in potions of love, knew the least about love herself.

“Do hurry, Moll,” Lucy urged.

Moll tossed her a look. What man had struck Lucy’s fancy?

The stable hand at the Three Crowns Inn?

Perhaps, ‘twas the tinker she’d been flirting with the month before?

Whoever he was, Moll could only hope he was truly a decent man.

Carefully, she set the basket on the table and slipped her hand beneath the cover.

Only three golden-gilled mushrooms remained.

She’d have to find more, and soon, if she wished to keep herself fed the winter, but of late, the mushrooms had proven hard to find.

With a shake of her head, Moll cleared her thoughts and intoned, “With a pure heart, I, Moll, Witch of the Heart, call the fates of destiny and the wings of love to guide Lucy in her quest. Will a golden gill come forth? Will love choose her?” ‘Twas balderdash, all. Such words weren’t required, but she’d learned long ago that theatrics kept her customers happy and coming back for more.

A small dried stalk slipped between her fingers.

“Did a mushroom choose me?” Lucy gasped in excitement.

Of course. I need to eat, Moll wanted to say, but solemnly replied instead, “Yes. Fate has answered your prayers.” With a deep bow, she reverently plucked the mushroom from the basket and dropped the shriveled stalk into Lucy’s outstretched palm.

“Oh, Moll,” the maid breathed in awe.

Moll shoved the basket back under the table and straightened. A twinge of pain pinched the base of her spine. Thomas vented his displeasure with a few choice whacks of his belt whenever sales were slow. This week had been particularly bad.

“I’m so pleased.” Lucy giggled with shining eyes. “Tell me, how should it be brewed?”

‘Twas a question Moll answered several times a day, but oddly, this time, she could almost hear her mother’s soft voice whispering in her mind, reciting the words along with her, “Think only of love and the life you wish whilst the water boils, then with your fingers entwined with your love, share the brew from the same cup.”

Lucy nodded, excited, then a thread of suspicion clouded her brow. “Are you certain ‘twill work?”

Now was a fine time to wonder. Moll bit back a snort. “I’m my mother’s daughter, am I not?”

Her mother’s reputation as the most powerful witch in Wales had stood unchallenged until her death in childbed—even after.

Lucy grinned and dropped a farthing onto the table. “Thank you, Moll.” And with that, she dashed away.

Moll pocketed the coin and frowned. Her mother had always believed in spells of love. Herself? Not so much, or at least, even if they were true, she wasn’t the witch to sell them—if she even was a witch, at all.

Almost as if in answer to the thought, her mother’s voice again whispered through her mind, as soft as a summer’s breeze. ‘Tis in the blood, child. You carry the gift to ease pain of the heart.

Moll rolled her eyes and slammed her palms flat on the market stall board. ‘Twas a curious gift, to be chosen to heal the pain of the heart when her own heart held so much pain.

A gust of chill wind blew against her face as a well-dressed woman turned down the lane with two rosy-cheeked children in tow.

Picking up a scrap of material, Moll called out, “Velvet, my lady. Fine velvet scraps and silk, as well.”

The woman passed her by with nary a look. The children paused long enough to stick out their tongues before hurrying after their mother, giggling along the way.

Moll scowled and rubbed her arms through her thin sleeves.

A drop of rain struck her cheek. From the looks of the dark clouds roiling overhead, ‘twould be yet another long, cold night—unless Thomas had finished the mayor’s peasecod-bellied doublet and collected the price.

The thought summoned a bitter smile to her lips.

The past few months, Thomas rarely touched a needle and instead spent his days lying abed, cradling a bottle of spirits in the crook of his arm.

The cathedral bells tolled in the distance, and across the street, the Leadenhall merchants roused themselves to close their stalls.

‘Twas time to go home. Moll knotted her brows in yet another frown. She’d sold only three silk scraps the entire day.

‘Twas only enough for bread. Again, she would have nothing left to pay the moneylender, but what could she do? Tell the man the truth and pray he’d find pity enough to grant her more time?

The thought made her laugh. Pity? From a moneylender?

“You’ve gone mad, Moll,” she muttered as she packed her wares.

As the last cathedral bell chimed, she grabbed her basket and took off for Lombard Street.

If the moneylender did—by some strange twist of fate—grant her the time, she had barely time to buy the bread and run home before the Bow Bells rang.

She couldn’t risk angering Thomas by showing up late again. Her back was sore enough.

Fat raindrops spattered around her on the cobblestones as she flew down Pudding Lane. She’d nearly reached the end when someone shouted, “Moll, wait!”

She didn’t stop. She recognized the voice. ‘Twas either George or Francis, the twins, redheaded-cutpurses who roamed London’s streets. They were just boys, really, hardly more than children she’d befriended upon her arrival in London, a year ago.

Again, the boy called her name.

She hadn’t the time to spare. Whatever he wanted would have to wait.

Moll scowled and ducked into a narrow alley.

As she headed deeper into the maze of London’s streets, the gusts of wind blasted her nostrils with the usual stink of dead fish, but oddly, this time ‘twas mixed with an acrid stench.

Smoke? The realization furrowed her brows all the more and she slowed her pace to glance about, uneasy.

A man galloped past, riding low over the back of his horse, the beast’s hooves furiously striking the cobblestones. Moll watched with a dark sense of foreboding and quickened her step, and despite the scattered rain, the stench of smoke only grew stronger the further she went.

As she turned onto Lombard street, the looming confrontation with the moneylender pushed all other thoughts aside. Again, she began to fret. Surely, he wouldn’t take the only coins that would keep her fed? Surely, even a moneylender could possess a shred of compassion?

Gnawing her bottom lip with worry, she passed by the slate-roofed, half-timbered townhouses lining the street, the iron signs hanging above their doors the only defining feature that set them apart.

Finally, Moll paused beneath the sign fashioned as a bag of coins.

Mercy. If only the man would show mercy. The desperate thought made her eyes roll. Mercy? From a moneylender?

“You’re an addlepated numbskull, Moll,” she half-growled as she shoved open the door.

The weathered-wood floor creaked beneath her feet as she stepped inside the shop. ‘Twas empty, save the small table holding the leather-bound ledger and quill, but she’d no sooner closed the door and heard the sound of footsteps.