All the Murmuring Bones

of the storm the night my mother died, and think how perhaps it was even more violent because my sister died then too, in the burning cauldron of her cradle. All three rest now in the cemetery that serves the village. It took me a long while to realise that Blackwater is without a church, and the big house itself without a chapel. I can only assume that hidden out here Isolde saw no need to pay lip service to a god not her own, nor her people’s. The more I hear them speak of her, the more I think she was as close as they got to a deity. But there is so much I will never know.

There are only tales of things that might once have been, and I write them in the book of stories Isolde had begun. I write the old from memory and the new when I can bear the pain of them.

I’m considerably rounder and slower than I was five months ago, so it’s a relief there’s been no sign of anyone else coming to find me. I remind Lazarus every day to remain alert at the hedge gate, and another gatehouse is being built at the now carefully concealed other entrance. One of the Cornish brothers will take up residence there.

Bethany Lawrence has Aidan’s fortune, she has Hob’s Hallow, she has no need to seek me out. I doubt she’ll bother to hunt after Aidan. In a few more months, I’ll send someone to Breakwater to see how the land lies, to see how Brigid fares. I’ll dispatch a letter and suggest she come for a visit or to stay for good.

The Woodfox boys returned from Bellsholm just this morning. Jago and Treeve took goods to sell while they made discreet enquiries about Ellingham and his troupe. They brought news that they are well enough, although the manager Viviane has a scar on the right side of her face courtesy of Aidan Fitzpatrick; of the wolf-boy Ben there has been no sign, although Ellingham has said the boy is known to wander. I hope he was simply away, roaming the roads on four feet. But they now have a permanent spot in a small theatre for Ellingham has decided to give up travelling.

The boys took a letter from me, saying I was well and handed over a purse of the silver scales, which Ellingham accepted with no complaints; yet he wrote no reply. One day, perhaps, I will visit. Perhaps Brigid will too. Or they will come here. One day, when the baby is born and she can travel, for I will not leave my own behind, not for any reason at all.

One day I will have the blacksmith here make delicate things: ship’s bells from the scales I have kept, bells for all my children to protect them should they ever take to the sea – though I promised the sea-queen they would not, what mother can guarantee her children’s actions? For Ena, too – I believed she was my little sister for too long to cast her aside. She cannot bear the burden of her parents’ sins, and I will never tell her or anyone else that she is not an Elliott. But I will never tell her she’s an O’Malley, either, for I think that has done generations more harm than good. Best to let the old name die, living nowhere but between the pages of dusty books, whispered in legend and rumour. I’m Miren Elliott now for it’s what I can bear – you claim what you can endure from your once-life and burn the rest.

I miss Maura and Malachi and think of them often. I miss Óisín and I even miss Aoife some of the time. I cannot say I truly miss my parents for I never knew them, but I miss the opportunity to have found out who they were; I think some days that I would not have liked them very much. But I can never really know. The one I think of most, however, is the sea-queen. Daily, I wonder how she fares and touch the ship’s bell necklace, made from her scales – this was why the mer could not hurt me. Some nights I dream I am beneath the sea, that I swim beside her, that she is hale and hearty once again, that she’s found her people and reclaimed her place. She’ll never leave me, shadowing my life forever it seems.

I do not think of the men I have killed.

We don’t live in the big house. It’s falling into disrepair, some of the fine furniture taken by the people of the estate, some used for Jedadiah’s cottage which I now share, and Lazarus’s gatehouse, too. I don’t miss the mansion: it was only ever a way-station for me, and Ena and I would rattle around inside it on our own to what end? We’re happy enough here and she treats Jed as if he is her father, and he behaves that way. I imagine he will be the same with the new one.

He says he loves me.

But I am wary of love.

Says he needs me.

And I am weary of need.

He is hurt when I don’t reply in kind; I’ve been finding he’s easily hurt. But he is gentle so I say to him something I hope he will one day understand.

‘I don’t need you,’ I say, ‘I want you. That should be enough. That should be better because it means I’ve made a choice.’

Perhaps one day he will understand.

AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

You might recognise some of the tales Miren tells herself in this novel. That’s because some of them are versions of stories from my Tartarus Press collections/mosaic novels Sourdough and Other Stories and The Bitterwood Bible and Other Recountings. I wanted to have a world where the tales I’ve told readers in the past are ones that these characters also grew up with.

Thanks to Mike Mignola for letting