‘Where’s Maura, Ciara?’
She bobs a curtsey, pausing in the middle of preparing a breakfast that I can’t imagine eating. ‘Still in her bed, Miss. She was asleep, tossing and turning, she didn’t seem well, so I made her a posset and left her to slumber.’
‘Are you making a list?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ She points to a sheet of rough paper on the bench, held down by the stub of a pencil and some tidily printed words.
‘Excellent.’ I turn to leave.
‘Are you alright, Miss?’
‘Yes, thank you, Ciara.‘ I smile distractedly at her.
Maura’s room is in the attic of the tower (the floor above Óisín’s old suite), up where one is meant to store one’s servants. It’s surprisingly cold there. I’m puffing a little when I reach the landing, pause to catch my breath, thinking how the old woman must feel as she does this climb every eve – I think she must be moved down to one of the ground floor rooms, whether she wishes it or not, then I realise that I won’t be there to oversee it. I walk along the narrow corridor. Two doors are open displaying neatly made beds with small tapestry bags at their foot. The maids have settled in.
I knock on the last door, Maura’s, and get no answer. My hesitation is brief and I push it to, and heat puffs out. It’s the largest room here, yet still smaller than my suite by quite some margin. But there’s a biggish bed, two chests of drawers, a wardrobe, a small desk, a washstand, and a blanket box, and I cannot imagine what Maura would have to store in all those things. Then again, this is a huge house, it’s old and so is she: she’s been its curator for so long I’ve no doubt she’s squirreled things away that caught her eye. Things no one would notice missing.
And why shouldn’t she?
Does that cavalier attitude to theft come from the fact that my mother’s a thief?
But Maura.
Maura’s never sick.
Not even when anyone else has been sick and she’s nursed them. She never catches anything, has never spent a moment longer in her bed than she had to, and even as her ability to take care of the house has faded with her physical deterioration, she’d still never stopped doing it. The quality has only lessened in line with the degree that she can no longer reach high shelves or low, can’t quite see the dust enough to remove it, and the house is too big, her energy too much on the wane.
But now, here’s Maura still abed at eight in the morning.
There’s a fire in the hearth and the space is overheated. All I can see from the threshold is the snowy quilt Brigid gave me, but as I get closer I notice there are spots on it, up the top edge nearest her face. Some are the dark red of dried blood, some bright and new; and Maura’s gasping, eyes closed, a rattle in her chest, a whistle in her throat. I wonder how much of this was there when Ciara came? It would have been very dark, then, easy to miss, and there is more new blood than old so this is a recent thing. The posset is on the bedside table and I can see the pink spot where blood has been expectorated there and almost disappeared.
‘Maura!’
She can only puff at me, her eyes are wide open now, face pale and scared. Her fingers are clenched over the edge of the quilt and it’s like she’s trying to push it off but hasn’t the strength… then I realise that’s exactly what she’s trying to do.
And I can smell something, too, something cloying. I sniff closely at the quilt and the scent is coming from there. Almost… honeysuckle sweet, jasmine sweet – something I couldn’t smell before, something not activated until a slumbering body’s warmth was present.
Wild woodbine, if administered incorrectly will cause paralysis… but she hasn’t, I don’t believe, taken it orally. Maura knows better. So…
I tear away the quilt, throw it as far from the bed as possible, and the old woman sits straight up like a jack-in-the-box, gasping and heaving and trying to get swear words out and air in.
‘That fecking thing! That fecking fecking thing!’
‘Oh, Maura. Maura, are you alright?’
‘Do I look alright?’ She coughs again, but the tone of it has changed, is nowhere near as rough and wheezy. As dire. ‘Why would you give me such a thing?’
‘I’m so sorry. It was a gift from…’
Brigid.
Brigid.
Brigid who’s so clever with her hands. Brigid who made this fine present. Brigid who most definitely is not happy about me marrying her brother. The time of great magics may well be gone but there is still harm that can be done with no more than intent and a spell by anyone with the mind to do so. No need for a proper witch or the blood of one, just ill-wishing and determination.
‘Brigid.’ I wipe blood away from Maura’s mouth and chin with the corner of a sheet. ‘She meant that for me.’
‘Little bitch.’ The front of Maura’s white nightgown is speckled red. ‘Mind you, it’s well-made.’
I laugh at that.
‘I didn’t feel anything until I tried to get out of bed. Imagine that, a good night’s sleep before you die.’
‘How considerate.’ I plump pillows and put a few behind her back. There’s a jug of water next to the posset and I pour her a glass. ‘Did she want to kill me, do you think?’
‘I don’t know, my girl. But… someone would have come looking for you sooner than you came for me.’ She shakes her head. ‘Fool I am to be taken by something so simple.’
And I feel guilty, though that’s not her intention, she’s merely stating the truth. I fought with Aoife so I came looking for Maura because I needed her. I did things out of my usual routine. Otherwise… otherwise I’d have found her too
