‘No,’ I say and I don’t care if he thinks me hysterical and overcome with grief; my voice has certainly gone higher than its natural wont. I indicate the bier. ‘Here.’
Because I don’t want her lying beside Óisín. I don’t want her forced to lie unwillingly beside him for an eternity because wasn’t a lifetime long enough? Let Aoife rest up here, above the first of us, the last queen the O’Malleys will ever see.
Aidan chooses not to argue with me, not here in the almost dark, not in front of servants or witnesses. But his expression tells me he’s adding this to a list of things to be corrected; that he’ll have the crypt reopened when he’s here as lord and master and have the old woman moved to her proper place – the one he’s chosen for her. He nods to the others and we all give a little heave to get the death-bed onto the flat surface, then angle it into place so there’s minimal scraping and pushing. The lad struggles but does well and I pat his shoulder then shoo him up the stairs. He goes gladly, followed swiftly by the footman and Aidan.
I take a moment longer, looking around, aware of the priest’s gaze on me. I put my hand on the box and think Here is the thing I didn’t tell you: that I loved you no matter what.
‘She’ll burn, you know,’ the priest says. He’d not be saying that if Aidan were here, whether Aidan pretends to follow the god-hounds’ tenets or no. ‘Witch and whore, defiler of the laws of man and Church and God.’
‘Interesting, the order of your words,’ I say, then lean close so my breath reaches his face, and I hope it feels like a curse. ‘So will you, burn. I’ll see to it. I won’t even have to leave the comfort of my home. I’ll send a hex on the wings of a crow or in the belly of the next fish you eat. You’re well aware that witchcraft travels in the blood, fool priest.’ His face goes pale so it stands out in the dimness of the crypt like the moon against a night sky. I turn and walk up the stairs. His footsteps behind me are rapid as if he doesn’t want to remain below on his own, but not so fast that he will catch up with me.
Up in the air I signal Malachi to begin the closing of the tomb once again. The god-hound scampers out. I send the maids and Maura off to make a meal, and leave the lads and footman to help Malachi. I walk down the aisle with quick long steps. A hand closes around my upper arm and I shake it off before Aidan can get too good a grip.
He must notice something in my expression as I turn because he steps back; and I can see once again that calculating look, the mental jotting of things that must be fixed.
‘Miren, I realise you are distressed but I feel we must talk. There are matters to be discussed and settled.’
He saw Aoife’s body when we loaded her into the coffin, saw the white dress. Does he know it was meant to be my wedding gown? Perhaps not, but perhaps he guessed. Perhaps Brigid told him. Brigid. I have a matter to settle with her. I nod, slowly, as if considering.
‘Yes, Aidan. At dinner, if you please, I would like to rest a little before then. It has been a trying time, cousin.’ I’ll play the fragile female for a while if I must.
‘Of course. It will be pleasant to speak alone.’
No, it will not.
‘A suite has been prepared for you in the East Wing.’ I say. ‘Yri will show you. I shall see you at dinner.’
The ring on my finger burns cold.
* * *
In my own room, I take Brigid’s quilt from where I hid it in a cupboard.
I’ve borrowed Maura’s fabric shears, the big ones, and I slice away a large corner. I wear a pair of thin leather gloves, though it makes the going slow; having cut into the thing, its magic will likely spill or be easily rubbed off and I don’t want Brigid’s spite on my bare hands. I pull the stuffing from between the two halves, then slice the fabric again into the coarse likeness of a doll. I stitch it together roughly – Aoife would frown at my laxity – and soon there’s a flat thing. I gather the stuffing up and push it into the figure so it looks like a small dumpling of a girl. It doesn’t need clothes or features, just my intent and the materials to hand. I snip at another corner and pull it apart to find what I’m after: a lock of blonde hair. Brigid made this, it would have been enough to simply use the materials she’s touched, but this curl, so personal, so intimate? She used it to strengthen the spell; I’ll use it now to do the same as I stuff it inside the head. Neither of us needs the blood of a witch in our veins to do this, merely intent. I’m careful not to prick my own finger while I make the thing for it’ll do no good to risk an infection, but I’m equally careful to make sure I use the bits of the quilt with the most of Maura’s expectorated ichor on it; her fear and anger will be embedded there. I take the tiny blue vial Maura gave me earlier and upend it: a glittering grey fall tips into the doll’s
