She furrowed her brow. “I do not think I would like to marry him.”
I laughed. “Perhaps not,” I said. “Where does he live?”
“In the East.” A shadow moved over her face, and I was determined to remove it.
“It’s not always accurate,” I said. “Sometimes the plant likes to play tricks on people, especially young girls.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” I said. I put a finger over my lips. “But don’t tell anyone.”
“I want to do it again,” she said, excited, and for the first time a genuine smile lit up her face, and I was astonished at how wonderful it felt to make her happy.
I plucked off another leaf. She closed her eyes, and I swept the leaf over them.
She frowned and looked up at me. “I still see my cousin!” she said, stamping her feet. “Those plants are mean.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe your cousin will grow up to be a very dashing man.”
“He is already grown!” she said. “He is the age of my father.”
I burst out laughing, despite myself. “I’m sure the plants are having fun with you, then. You will marry a very handsome man.”
“Maybe I’ll never marry. Maybe I’ll write poetry in my room.”
“Forever?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling at me.
I smiled back, delighted at the change in her, and pointed again. “There’s poison in this plant.”
“There is? Is it dangerous?”
“Only if you eat it, but the most poisonous part is in the ground. They say that slaves used to eat very tiny bits of it so that they’d be too sick to work.”
“But is it magic?”
“I don’t know. Is that magic?”
She furrowed up her face again. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, either,” I said. “It’s just how things work.”
“And that?” she asked, pointing to another plant.
“That will cure eye aches, if you boil it and put it over your lids.”
“I will not see my cousin again if I do that, will I?”
I laughed. “I hope not! If you do, I might begin to wonder if you do not love him, despite all your protestations!”
She made a horrified face. “You tease me!” she said, like a child not at all used to being teased. She rushed ahead, full of energy now, practically jumping up and down. “And that one?” She pointed.
“This one is very special,” I said. I plucked off a blossom and handed it to her. “This one will make you have very special dreams, when you put it under your pillow.”
“What kind of dreams?” Her eyes were large as she stared at me, her face wide open.
“Happy ones, of the most beautiful places.”
“I would like that,” she said. “Do you think I might dream of my mother in heaven?”
“I . . . I think so,” I stammered, taken aback. Her longing was so intense, and it was no different from what I’d felt almost every day in the forest from the women who came to see us. “Put the blossom under your pillow and see.”
“All right,” she said. My heart nearly broke as she carefully folded the blossom into her palm. “You can also change people into animals, can’t you?”
“Is that what people say?”
She nodded. “They say it happened before.”
“Well, people like to tell stories, you know. There are many, many wonders in this world.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Everyone at court likes to talk.”
“You do not?”
She squinted up at the sky. “I think it’s silly sometimes, the things people talk about. I like to read and play music and dance.”
“What about now? Do you like talking with me?”
“Yes. You aren’t like other people.”
“Neither are you.”
For a moment we looked at each other. Had things been different, she might have been my own daughter. I wished, more than anything, at that instant, that she was, that none of the rest of it had ever happened and it had only been me, and her, and him, this whole time. And then, as if it were the most natural thing, she reached up and took my hand. I held on to it carefully, as if it were made of glass.
“It’s pretty here,” she said. I followed her gaze. Around us stretched the gardens’ never-ending pathways. “I like knowing that these plants can do so many things.”
“It’s important to know what they can do,” I said. “You could walk right through this garden and have no idea. And all the while, the plants are scheming and plotting.”
“Now I know their secrets,” she said.
In the near distance a large structure appeared, like some kind of house. “What’s there?” I pointed.
“The falconer is there,” she said.
I nodded. “You know, I lost my mother, too,” I said.
“Isn’t the witch your mother?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “My mother lived in the kingdom, but she was not a good mother. It was the . . . It was Mathena who saved me, and took care of me.”
“She does not sound like a bad witch.”
“She’s not.”
“Someone said that you were the daughter of the witch and a stag.”
I stopped short. “Where do you hear such things?”
“Everyone is always talking,” she said. “People forget sometimes that I can understand them. I understand everything, you know.”
“I know,” I said, bending down until we were face-to-face. “People are wrong to forget it. I assure you, I’m not the daughter of a stag. Look at these hands! Look at my face. Don’t you think I’d have fur, like a stag, if I were the daughter of one?”
She studied my face and then made a great show of looking over my hands. “That is true,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m wondering about my grandmother, though.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
A devilish look came over her face as she answered. “She had a mustache!”
At dinner, she sat stiffly at the side of her nurse, occasionally stealing glances at me. I made funny faces at her to make her laugh, and when she did, I felt as if I’d accomplished a significant feat. Josef caught us at one point, and reached under the table to stroke my leg, my hair that was resting on it. His happiness streamed up into me.
That night, as would become his habit, he came to my room but left in the early hours of the morning, leaving me to wake alone.
“Your daughter is lovely,” I said, as he slipped into bed beside me. Across the room, the mirror rippled.
He nodded. “I know. I’m glad you’ve taken to her. She needs someone like you, with your great heart.”
I was surprised by his words, flattered that he saw me that way. I did not have a great heart, I knew this. And yet the child had moved me.
“She has changed much, since her mother died, yes?”
“Yes, but she’s always been a serious sort,” he said. “Even when her mother was alive. Always reading, keeping to herself. As an infant, even, she barely cried, just stared up at you with those blue, knowing eyes. It was a bit unnerving. She seemed like she could understand everything.”
“Doesn’t she have other children to play with?”
“Some. There are other children at the castle, but I’m told she has not taken to them. I’ve watched them in
