‘Come up to the house tomorrow, Oliver, that we might discuss the next supply run to St Sinwin’s.’
‘Yes, Mr Elliott. Good day, Miss Miren.’
‘Good day, Oliver.’
We proceed through the square and I notice how, while we’ve been talking to Oliver, many people have disappeared, that there are doors closing with quiet whispers along our path. Those who remain either throw unfriendly glares at us – at Uncle Edward? – or make a point of looking away. I glance over my shoulder, back the way we’ve come, and see the red-haired woman spit in the wake of our horses and make a gesture Maura told me is meant to ward off the unwanted: the sign of the horns.
‘May we visit the mine today, Uncle? I confess myself most curious to see it.’
Edward Elliott shakes his head. ‘Not today, my dear. I have other tasks to attend to and I rather hoped you might spend a while with Ena this afternoon, perhaps give Nelly a little time to herself. It would be a kindness.’ He smiles. ‘There is no hurry, Miren, the mine will be here tomorrow and the day after that.’
‘Of course, Uncle.’ I smile. We are almost through the village now, and I notice one last house, painted white and green, with a bench seat in the tiny front garden, beneath a rose bush with no roses on it. The spot reminds me of finding Aoife in her garden, dead as doornail, and I swallow, blink hard. Then I notice a man standing in the doorway, eating an apple noisily, staring at us both. A handsome hard-faced man with thick dark curls, and pale green eyes that remind me of the assassin’s and I swallow again, know it’s not him. His clothes are covered in dirt and grass, his hair is pushed back from his forehead and there is the damp crown of sweat on his brow. A scar, white and tight, runs from the corner of his left eye to disappear into the hair above his ear.
Uncle Edward is making a point of not looking at him, then the man says ‘Afternoon, Mr Elliott,’ and there’s contempt there and amusement.
My uncle’s mouth twists in distaste. ‘ Jedadiah.’
The man nods to me and says, in a tone not much different, ‘Miss.’
I merely nod and we pass him by, then we are out of the village. Part of me wants to look back, see if he’s still watching; it’s a great effort of will to not do so. There is a small graveyard not far off but we don’t go that way.
I can tell from the twist of Edward’s lips that if I ask anything now I’ll get no answer, so I file it away for later in the box where I keep all those niggling queries to which I am determined to one day have the answer.
26
The crops are easier and faster to do, requiring only a visit to the four corners of each field. A drop of blood from my thumb, a drop of water from the canteen, stalks of wheat or rye or oats blown across my palm by whispered words. A difference should be seen in a few days, perhaps less if my mother was half the witch Malachi said she was. If any trace of her magic remains in the soil. A true witch would get a bigger result more easily, would need fewer accoutrements, not much more than her will and blood. I’m not a witch, but that’s not necessary, just knowledge of the forms, the tools, the intent.
The orchards are more laborious, although the ritual is similar: blood and water and air at each corner, but then every single tree must be seen to, spoken to, the tiny sigil re-carved with my pocketknife so the sap flows freely. There are four orchards and about fifty trees in each. It takes me a long while to finish and my eyes are gritty, my throat sore and my knees and lower back ache by the time I’m done. It’s still dark when I rise – the timepiece tells me it’s barely three in the morning – so I will easily make it back to the house and my bed. No one will seek me, so I’ll sleep as long as I wish.
The moon is full, thankfully, so I did not need to bring a shuttered lantern with me, and it’s the perfect time for such workings. It was easy enough to slip out when the lights had been extinguished and the footfalls of Nelly – the only servant to live in the house, which seems strange for such a large place – faded to nothing as she paced towards Ena’s room, far down the hall from mine.
I sat with the child in question all afternoon, yet it gained me no credit with the housekeeper. Ena is a tiny thing with a thatch of dark hair and deep-set brown eyes. She’s not as pale as I am, lacking that strange sheen to her skin, but we’re enough alike that a family resemblance might be noted. She was fractious and unhappy when Nelly led me into the room, and the same might have been said of the housekeeper herself. She fussed over the child, seeming reluctant to leave, but I could see from the blue circles under her eyes how much she longed for sleep, and the way her brow creased that the child’s howling was playing on her last nerve. I laid my hand on the woman’s arm and said, ‘She’ll be well with me.’ I’d sat by the cradles of tenants’ children when they’d been ill, the occasional distant cousin too when they’d been brought to Maura for her tisanes and tinctures.
The housekeeper recoiled and left the room.
I’d picked up
