He smiles fondly. ‘Not yet a year, almost six months.’ His face clouds. ‘You mustn’t think them terrible for leaving her behind, Miren.’
‘They left me behind,’ I say, and I cannot help but sound bitter. There is no reason for me to doubt my parents would do the same to my sibling. It makes me hate the child less. Oh, I must admit to that surge of loathing when I heard of her existence, but now… now, I understand Ena’s like me.
‘They had their reasons, my dear, and your mother especially will want to reveal them to you herself, so I shall say nothing more but to beg you to think kindly of them until they come back home. All will be explained.’ He touches my hand. ‘You must understand, Miren, this house, this estate, its running affects more than simply your parents and me. The mine, the smelter, the orchards – there is a village that depends on this place. On every aspect of it working properly. So far we have managed to keep going on the stores and stocks set aside from earlier harvests and minings, but those resources are running down. And the crops, the orchards have stopped producing – I cannot divine why. So, we must pray that your parents return with a solution.’
There is a brisk knock on the door, which is opened before Edward says anything. Nelly enters. She’s wearing a pink dress, again with embroidered flowers, this time in gold thread; again, it looks tight as if it’s not made for her, and the skirt’s a little too long. I look more closely and think there’s evidence of rough hemming. So: taken up once and badly. Her lips are pressed tightly together, and she bobs a curtsey to Edward but her heart’s clearly not in it.
‘Sir?’
‘Ah, Nelly. Would you be so kind as to bring my niece some porridge and toast?’ He looks to me for confirmation and I nod.
The woman’s lips tighten further and I think they might twist themselves into her mouth and down her throat like a corkscrew of irritation.
‘Thank you, Nelly,’ I say, but that seems to irritate her further; her eyes flare. She doesn’t answer, but flounces out, the door closing behind her with something that is barely not a slam.
‘You must forgive her shortness. Her nerves haven’t quite been the same since the fire.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘I forget you’ve only just arrived!’ He laughs. ‘Some months ago, there was a fire. It’s done terrible structural damage so that wing is kept locked. Nelly and your parents barely escaped with their lives. Your father is determined to have it repaired as soon as he can.’ He smiles sadly. ‘So, while I encourage you to explore the house to your heart’s content, I must insist you give the East Wing a wide berth for your own safety.’
Then Uncle Edward says, ‘And poor Nelly’s sleep has been broken while she’s been sitting up with Ena. She’ll come round the moment she has a good night’s slumber. So, you shall break your fast, then we’ll take a turn around the estate? I shall answer your questions and you shall tell me, if it is not too painful, of your life before this and how you came to find us. Perhaps later you will be happy to meet your sister?’
25
‘And you said the orchards had stopped producing?’ I ask as we ride past the naked trees. I’m on a roan mare, he on a bay stallion from the stables – we saddled them ourselves as there were no lads to do so. Uncle Edward apologised for not having stabled my “horse” which has disappeared; he’s sure it will be found wandering the estate at some point. I agree, which is better than explaining I’d entered into a deal with a kelpie – I cannot yet know how my uncle feels about such creatures so best to remain silent. The sun is out and I’m sweating a little beneath the damask blouse, glad of the broad-brimmed straw hat I took from the stand by the front door.
‘A blight of some description,’ he says. ‘No one can identify it. It’s not a mould or fungus, not a rot. Yet there’s been nothing for almost three months. The fields lie empty and there’s not been the birth of a lamb, goat or cow since.’ Edward shakes his head. ‘They look otherwise healthy, the trees, do they not? Frankly I’m at a loss as to what to do. Do we simply burn them all then replant?’
‘It seems a terrible waste,’ I say as I think of Hob’s Hallow, fruiting no matter the season; of how Maura showed me what to do when I was very small so I could help her with the ritual every year. I urge my horse off the road and over to one of the apple trees. I dismount, smoothing my skirts down – they’re voluminous enough that I can take the hem of the back and pull it up between my legs to tuck into the waistband: instant riding trousers.
I crouch, eyes searching the base of the trunk for… aha! There it is. The same tiny sigil Maura demonstrated how to fashion, like an ‘s’ with a diagonal line through it; marks of the craft. It didn’t need Malachi telling me my mother was a witch to figure that if Maura had taught me the correct forms, there was no reason she’d not have instructed Isolde before me.
The orchards have been bewitched. They should be blooming all year round. But without Isolde here to keep up the tiny red tithes required to
