As she spoke she was fussing over Rosa, looking at her cut, bruised, and now-burned hands, patting her hair away from her face, tugging at her dirty clothing. 'I...was running away and they grabbed me,' Rosa managed, finally, a certain alarm rising in her, for she thought she recognized this situation as a Traditional Path — but how could anything be worse than the situation she was already in? 'I asked them for help, and told them I'd do anything — '
'Ah, and the horrible things called it a bargain, did they?' The old woman frowned. 'They would, and they'll use that to hold you here as long as they like. Well! I'm Old Maggie the bee lady. Aren't I, my sweets? And good little things you were to tell me about this poor, poor little wench!'
While she had been speaking every bee in the garden had left what it was doing to come circle about her as if the old woman was some kind of enormous, fragrant flower. She held up her index finger, and one of the bees landed on it, vibrating its wings to make a buzzing that almost sounded like speech.
'You are my brave little workers, so you are,' she said tenderly. The bee flew toward the old woman's face, making Rosa flinch, and touched its head to the tip of the old woman's nose before flying off. The rest of the bees went back to their business.
And a thought managed to make its way up out of the depths of Rosa's exhaustion-fogged mind. No bee will abide in the presence of evil.
So whoever, whatever she was — this 'Old Maggie' was a friend.
Rosa burst into tears.
About an hour later, for the first time in days, Rosa was feeling better. Old Maggie chattered nonstop, making it almost impossible to get a word in, but that wasn't so bad, because it meant Rosa didn't have to say anything herself.
As for the rest, Maggie had taken charge of the entire situation.
She'd tested Rosa's manacle and chain herself, said a very ladylike curse and pronounced herself 'fair gobsmacked,' which Rosa assumed meant she was baffled. Out of the basket had come a lovely little loaf and end of ham, a pot of honey and the sort of salad that a woods-wise person can make if she knows what's edible — a great deal of watercress, some crisp roots, a little sorrel, some tender goosegrass and a few edible flowers. That alone would have convinced Rosa that the old woman was what she seemed to be. She could not begin to imagine her Stepmother recognizing any of that, much less knowing it was good to eat.
Now all that food was inside Rosa; she sat combing her hair, working the tangles and knots out with a comb that Maggie had produced from a skirt pocket, while Maggie 'Set the kitchen to rights.'
It looked almost like magic. Truly. Somehow Maggie had gotten the ancient mop, which was as stiff as wood, to soften. She'd gone into the cellar and returned with a dirt-encrusted box which she declared with glee had soap in it — and so it did. She had already scrubbed the table, the sink and the counter, and the grime had just dissolved away. It was rather hard to tell, because the wood and stone were so stained and blackened that they didn't look much different, but if you touched them you knew the difference. Now she was doing the same with the floor.
'This soap is nasty stuff, my duck, strong but nasty,' she chattered. 'Wonderful for floors, but not so nice for you, pretty. Old Maggie will just — '
Then she stopped, tilting her head to the side. A bee had just flown in the open door and was buzzing at her. Her face took on an expression of alarm.
'My land, one of those horrible Dwarves is coming!' She bustled over to Rosa, but Rosa was already on her feet, shoving the comb into her pocket. Her mind seemed a thousand times clearer now, and it was obvious what she needed to do. She took the mop from Maggie, and Maggie whisked out the door. A few moments later, Coward bumbled inside. He looked about and grunted, threw the morning's catch on the table, shoved her roughly aside and helped himself to the remains of the porridge in the pot on the hearth. When he had eaten it all and scraped the pot clean, he went out again. A short while later, Old Maggie reappeared and took the mop from Rosa.
'You just get your poor hair unsnarled, pretty,' she said, head bobbing. 'And you leave the rest of this mopping to Old Maggie, and after your hair is set to rights, I'll be cleaning while you deal with those poor conies. Tomorrow I'll bring you some nice soap so you can be getting yourself clean.'
Being clean again sounded heavenly; Rosa worked industriously at the tangles in her hair so that Old Maggie wouldn't start cleaning the rabbits herself. The closer she got to her head, the fewer tangles there were, so by the time Maggie was about two-thirds done, she was at the butchering. And Maggie kept chattering.
'Trust me, my duck, we'll work on getting that shackle off and getting you away. But that takes doing, and Old Maggie will have to be at some hard thinking, and you, too.' The mopping was done, and so was the butchering. The two of them added the meat to the simmering vegetables; after some consideration, Maggie threw in a couple handful s of flour.
'That'll thicken the broth so it's more stew and less soup. Fill them up and make 'em less likely to beat you.' The old woman held out her hand for the comb, and with a sigh, Rosa handed it to her. 'You might boil those shirts with that soap. They won't look any better, but they'll stink less. I'll be back in the morning, ducky, yes I will. Old Maggie keeps her promises!'
The old woman moved faster than Rosa would have thought she could. She was out the door and out of sight around the front of the cottage before Rosa got into the garden.
Her throat got tight for a moment when she realized she was alone again. She might have cried...
But she fought back the tears and straightened.Some sort of help had finally come. It wasn't a handsome prince, or a brave shepherd, or a wise hunter. But it was help, and it was welcome, and if Old Maggie was just a little crazy, she was also very clever. A handsome prince probably wouldn't be able to beat the craft of her shackle, either, and would have done nothing about the floor, her hair or her empty stomach.
On the whole...if The Tradition had finally elected to do something for her, it could have done a lot worse than Old Maggie.
Rosa went and got a spoonful of that harsh soap, stirred it into the kettle outside and put the shirts back in as the old woman had suggested.
