The Inheritance and Other Stories

she was just giving her good fortune to a man she despised, a man who would not treasure it, and losing whatever coin she might have gained from Hilia.

In the cottage, she rolled up one coverlet and stuffed it into her carry bag. She slung it from her shoulder and wished her goods were heavier even as she wondered how long she could carry them and Gillam. Her knee was swollen and thick. It didn’t matter. She didn’t try to wake the boy, but picked him up, settled him on her shoulder, and limped out. She left the door hanging open behind her. Clouds hung low, threatening rain. Not a good day to begin a journey, but her only choice.

Pell hadn’t come home. Was he sleeping it off in the tavern? Had he gone to his parents’ house? How long would it be before he came home and discovered she was gone, stealing his son? When would he see the cow and her calves and realize that she hadn’t taken the animal anywhere, that she had simply left? She contemplated the climb up the steep trail to the cliff-top path reluctantly, comforting herself that once she was there, the trail leveled out and the walking would be easier.

“Good-bye, cottage,” she said.

Gillam lifted his head. “Look. Marmy!”

It was the cat. He was coming down the path from the cliff’s edge at a dogged trot. He was wetter and more bedraggled than she’d ever seen him; he must have been out on the hills all night. Probably too afraid to come home after what Pell had done to him. Gillam suddenly struggled in her arms.

“Marmy! Marmy hurt!” He twisted out of her grasp, hit the ground, and darted up the path to the cat.

“Oh, Gillam,” she cried, and limped after him.

As soon as they reached the cat, Marmalade sat down and licked his shoulder. He purred when Gillam hugged him, then wriggled gently from his grip. She could tell his ribs were sore, but he hadn’t scratched the boy. The cat stood up on his hind legs against her, and she took him up, cradling him gently in her arms. He was wet and smelled musky and was uncharacteristically dirty. He’d been into something sticky, and it had clotted dirt onto his chest. “What am I going to do, Marmalade? I can’t leave you here, and I can’t take you with me.”

She set the cat down gently. He rumbled as if displeased and went to Gillam. The youngster sat down and the cat clambered into his lap. Purring, he rubbed his face against the boy’s. She watched them for a long moment, wishing this was the start of an ordinary day, and that she could leave them as they were and go about her chores. Then she glanced at the path up to the cliffs. At any moment now, Pell might return. The tide would be all the way out. Should she follow the cliff path or cut across the beach? Which way would Pell come home?

“Gillam, we have to leave now. We can’t stay here any longer.”

“Don’t weave. Stay here.”

The words came from Gillam. His child’s voice was at odds with the adult diction. He sat looking up at her, his dark eyes wide and confident. The cat sat beside him, his blue eyes echoing the boy’s stare. “No,” she said softly. She knew whose thoughts he was uttering. Her mind reeled with the idea that her child was Witted, blessed or cursed with that forbidden magic. It couldn’t be. Pell was not Witted, and there was no history of the blood magic in her family. She stared at him.

He isn’t. He’s no more Witted than you are. Cats talk to whomever they please, Witted or not. He can hear me because he has the sense to listen to me. Unlike you. You hear me, you know I’m telling the truth, but you keep trying to ignore me. You can’t run from him. You’ll have to stand and fight him. I did my best, but I fear it wasn’t enough.

The thoughts took shape in her mind, unwelcome and unavoidable.

“I can’t, cat. I can’t fight him. He’s too big and strong. He’ll hurt me, or kill me. I can’t fight him. I won’t.”

Gillam spoke again, a babyish inflection of adult words. “You have no choice. Here he comes.”

If you don’t fight him, he will hurt you or kill you. If you do fight him, he may hurt you or kill you. But at least you’ll have the satisfaction of hurting him first. It won’t be free for him. I saw him in the streets in town. I ran ahead of him, but he’s coming. Coming soon.

She turned to follow the cat’s stare. There, indeed, was Pell trudging down the path toward them. He looked much the worse for wear. She wondered what had befallen him; he looked much more bedraggled than an ordinary night at the tavern should have left him. He limped as he came down the hill toward them, and mud had smeared all the fineness from his clothes, just as anger had chased all the handsomeness from his face.

She gathered Gillam into her arms and stood up. If she could have, she would have fled, but it was too late now. There was nowhere she could run, no place to hide from him. The cat sat by her feet. He curled his tail neatly around his paws.

“He comes to kill,” Gillam said softly. The words chilled her. She knew the thought belonged to Marmalade, but to hear her son verbalize it made the truth ring louder. Today, he would kill the cat. Tomorrow, it might be her. Even if he did not take their lives, he would kill the life she had built here and with it the future she had imagined for herself and her boy. It wouldn’t matter if she were dead or alive; he would steal the boy from her and change him into someone she could not love.

“Go inside,” she instructed them both. “Gillam. After you shut the door, pull in the latchstring. You know how; you’ve seen me do it. And then go up in the loft and stay there.”

She didn’t wait to see if he would obey her. It was a stupid, useless precaution. The cottage was not so well made that Pell could not get into it, even with the latchstring drawn. There was no place inside that a boy or a cat could hide from him. But the orders might, she thought, at least keep the boy from seeing what was to come. As she heard the door thud shut, she went to the chopping block and wrenched her hatchet free of the stump. She turned to watch Pell come down the hill to her. Something bumped her ankle. She looked down to see Marmalade sitting calmly beside her. Wait until he’s closer, the cat cautioned her, and she was rattled by how clearly his thoughts reached her mind.

We think as one on this topic, the cat wryly agreed.

She hefted the hatchet in her hand, then clutched it to her chest, gripping it with both hands. Her heart was pounding. She had no chance. She could imagine how it would unfold; she would swing her weapon at him, he could catch her arm and twist it, disarming her. And then he would either beat her or kill her. Probably both.

And then Gillam would be alone with him. Brutalized into submission. Or worse. Raised to be just like his father. With no one to intervene, no one to suggest a different way to him.

“I can’t do this,” she said aloud. Sanity seemed to flow back through her veins. “He didn’t really hurt me, cat. He just pushed me aside. He left Gillam and me, but he didn’t try to kill us . . .”

No. He thought he didn’t have to. You had no leash on him, no proof the boy was his. Perhaps he hoped you would die in childbirth and free him from the burden of both of you. Perhaps he thought you’d both starve or catch your death of cold in this cottage. I wish I could say that he hadn’t tried to kill me. He nearly succeeded.

“But . . .”

I have to admit I don’t understand your strategy. You’re going to wait until he really hurts you or Gillam before you fight back? Doesn’t seem to put the odds in your favor. The cat’s thoughts were so calm in her mind. So dry of mirth and brittle with sarcasm. He sat beside her, calm as a king, his tail curled neatly around his front feet.

Pell was getting closer. He was limping; his clothes were muddy, wet, and torn; and his face was set in a rictus of fury.

Not a strategy I think heplans to use. I think he’s going to kill me and give you a severe beating first. Before he even talks to us.

She huffed out her breath and held the hatchet up in her shaking hand. There was no strength in her arms. Her ears were ringing and she wondered if she would collapse from terror. “Go away, Pell!” She tried to shout the words. Her heart was beating so fast that she had no strength to put into them. “You don’t live here anymore. I won’t let you come in. I won’t let you touch me or be around Gillam. Go away!”

In response to her words, the man broke into a lurching downhill run. “Bitch!” he shouted. “You and your Wit cat. You tried to kill me last night! You both deserve death. You trapped me! You ruined my life!” The cat vanished suddenly, streaking off behind her. She couldn’t blame him. She wished she could run away. But she was the only thing that stood between Pell and Gillam.

She brandished the hatchet. “I mean it!” she shouted, but her voice squeaked and then broke on the words. Did she? Did she mean it? Wasn’t this a huge mistake, one that would get her killed?