I sit back in my chair.
‘No one knew, not really. Not beyond us, the family. But Maura, damn her, saw it, taught the girl herbcraft and more and Isolde took to it. Maura just makes her tonics and tisanes for health; Isolde experimented. You don’t need much more than intent and ingredients to do small spells, but when a woman is born with magic in her veins? Then she can really make things happen. That was your mother. She could call storms, had a talent for making things big or small and that’s hard graft, she could enchant almost anyone she set her mind at, even Aoife wasn’t proof against her although she was the strongest. Charming can be a tricky thing, not everyone succumbs, and even those who do sometimes figure something’s not quite right… and they get resentful, suspecting their will’s not their own. And Isolde, thank the gods, wasn’t mean-spirited, but she’d touch your hand and you’d be the happiest you ever were in your life, you’d swear devotion to her and it took some time for that to wear off. She was mostly sweet, mostly kind, she thought the magic was a plaything. But, missy, your mother was a witch and she could bend others to her will – and that will was as powerful as Aoife’s.’
My mother was a witch and she left me behind, like a kitten in a barn; no better mother than a cat.
12
It’s early afternoon when Aidan arrives riding a fine black stallion. I sent the potato-faced footman with a message as soon as the sun rose. Behind him comes a cart containing an ebony wood coffin with gold fittings. A priest – the same one who mumbled over Óisín – sits beside the driver, looking miserable. Poor man, two visits to Hob’s Hallow in such quick succession! As if consecrating two O’Malleys will see him damned. Who knows, it just might.
Aidan dismounts, throws the reins to one of the stableboys as if there’s no doubt they’ll be caught. The lad’s nervous and pale, but he manages, then leads the beast away. Aidan comes towards me and takes my hand, says, ’I’m so sorry for your loss, Miren.’
‘Yes.’
‘So soon to be bereaved again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I do hope this is fine enough for her.’ He gestures to the death-bed, which is very fine indeed, so highly polished I can see my face in it. He’s sourced it very quickly, has Aidan, but then again for a man of his wealth I doubt there’s much waiting for anything. I’ve changed into another made-over hand-me-down mourning gown, so plain that even the jet buttons don’t stand out against the black fustian; I had to take it from Aoife’s closet. My hair’s pulled back in a tight bun and there’s no makeup on my face. I don’t look like a bride, at least not a joyful one. The ring on my finger still feels like a stone – I don’t really know why it remains there, only that somehow it felt like it needed to stay for a while at least, until I’m done with him forever.
He lets my fingers go, then, and I can’t suppress a shudder, thinking of the night at the theatre, his hand around my wrist, squeezing. He was drinking, his self-control was low and he showed his true self too readily. That the hurt was for his pleasure and also to punish me for whatever bargain Aoife had driven him to, whatever high price she managed to extract. She’d made him feel like a boy, a powerless boy, I’ve no doubt, and he was going to get his money’s worth of revenge on me in whatever shape he could. Well, without Aoife’s will and determination, there is no deal. Soon, this will all be over.
‘Come in,’ I say and turn around, do not check to see if he follows. As I take the steps I feel the weight of Óisín’s penknife in my pocket, tap-tap-tapping against my thigh.
* * *
The funeral is small and quick, and I think how annoyed Aoife would be to have so few witnesses. She’d have wanted us to wait, to recall all the mourners who came to see Óisín off. Yet there’s just Aidan and I, Maura and Malachi, Ciara and Yri, the stable lads, the cartman and the potato-faced footman. No one’s seen the green-eyed footman since... well, no one can recall, and I confess I’d not looked for him after I’d had my use of him. Aidan, the footman, the biggest of the lads and I carry Aoife a’down, though Malachi protests. I tell him that this is my duty, but truly I don’t trust him on the stone stairs in the gloom.
The priest goes ahead of us holding a lit torch and we follow him slowly. The coffin is heavy, but though there’s only four of us for this office Aoife’s so light she barely makes it worse. This is my first time here – where I thought my parents rested – and I find I’m holding my breath. There are niches cut into the walls not so far down but there’s nothing in them but wooden boxes: well-made to stay intact, to keep the dead beneath.
The flickering flame makes every bit of darkness come alive. The steps stop abruptly, or abruptly for me because I’m looking around like a child, trying to take in every detail. I’m not afraid, but didn’t I see my own grandmother rise from her death, however briefly? What could be worse? Again the walls are lined with niches. At the foot of the far wall is another set of steps, leading further down, down where
