‘You’re too kind, gentlemen. This is no more than you all deserve for your hard work. It is appreciated.’ I touch Abel’s arm, then Oliver’s, and smile. Neither of them flinch anymore when I do this, having realised that whatever Isolde did to them I do not (cannot) do. That they’ll not be charmed against their will.
‘It’s nice to have it show, Miss, is all,’ mutters Oliver. The longer I am here, the more time I spend in the village, the more open becomes their dislike of Edward Elliott. Still, I feel obliged to defend him.
‘I know my uncle can seem heedless,’ I say, ‘I fear he is not a man used to managing. And he is concerned, I know, about my parents’ long absence. I fear it makes him… neglectful of the feelings of others. Never doubt that you are valued.’
‘We’d been talking about leaving, you know,’ Abel says, and Oliver tries to hush him. Abel forges ahead, nods to where his sons, Jago and Treeve, are arm wrestling on the stump of a large tree. ‘We’ve been a’feared of starving this winter – the road to St Sinwin’s gets impassable in the snow so supply runs can’t happen then, and your uncle’s unwilling to buy in as much as we need to tide us over.’ I try not to press my lips together in annoyance. ‘I was worried for my boys.’ He grins, more than a little drunk. ‘But you’ve put paid to that, haven’t you?’ I smile but say nothing. ‘It’s you, girly, the moment you came back, the land gave once more. We can never thank you enough for that, though we’ll do our best.’ To my great surprise, Abel goes down on one knee and grasps my hand; Oliver follows him and takes the other. ‘We pledge to you, Miss Miren, we will stand by you no matter what.’
‘Oh.’ I’m at a loss, and try to get them to rise before anyone sees it; before my uncle or Nelly look out of the windows. ‘My dear gentlemen, that is so kind, but people will talk! And I do not want either of your wives coming after me with an axe!’
They both laugh and blush, and rise. I pat their shoulders in turn and reassure them lest they feel embarrassed by an act fuelled with alcohol and relief. ‘Thank you, Mr Redman, Mr Woodfox, I am more grateful than you know. I will always do my best for Blackwater. I hope you will always feel free to come to me with problems. If I can help I shall.’
I loved Hob’s Hallow without a doubt but – and this is the first time I have admitted it to myself – I think it was a dead place. If I had stayed there, I’d have been entombed. By the house, by marriage to Aidan, by remaining with Aoife in the cocoon she’d created for herself, smothered by the dream she had of reviving the O’Malley fortunes. It would never have been a life, but a kind of embalming in wealth and position and expectations. No true existence at all.
But here… here there is something to create and grow and nurture. Here, I feel as if I have a purpose rather than a series of activities done simply to survive, to hold back dust and dirt and eventual death.
‘Thank you, both,’ I say. I look up to see who might have noticed this fealty ceremony, and find myself caught in a green gaze. Jedadiah Gannel is staring, an eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. I want nothing so much as to poke my tongue out at him, but I resist the urge. Instead, I look away, look around, move off from the blacksmith and estate manager.
Children are playing chasey, skipping, hoop and stick, Blind Man’s Bluff, tumbling and handstands, a group of girls toy with carved knucklebones to read each others’ fortunes giving rise to great shrieks, several boys are weaving chains of flowers perhaps for the girls. I keep an eye on the ones who are running and jumping, as do their mothers, to make sure they are not too near the edge of the lake. I can almost imagine that the water eats everything, except there are reflections on its surface, clear and true, of whatever occurs above.
Women sit on blankets, passing out “pick food”, things to nibble on before the main meal is ready. Four old dames have settled by a trestle table laden with cakes and breads and other pastries. By the looks of pride, the way they sneer at the younger women’s offerings, I can tell these are their own works. Aged matrons with no fear of death or censure, who’ve spent their whole lives keeping their mouths shut in the interests of protecting the sensibilities of others – no resemblance to Aoife there – but now they don’t care. They’ve got sharp eyes, tongues like whips, and remarks to sting the same way salt does when rubbed into a wound.
One of them, Keziah Eddy, lifts a hand to summon me. I kneel beside her chair and greet her, her sister-in-law Keren-happuch, and their cousins Zara Stark and Elena Yarrow. Widows all, they live in the same cottage – if they’d stayed living with their families they’d have spent all their time looking after grandchildren. This arrangement pleases them best. I asked them, quietly when they’d first invited me for tea soon after my arrival at Blackwater, why they’d not tried the small magics I did to revive the land. They answered that they were reluctant to interfere with whatever my mother had done; that one woman’s spell might not work on top of another’s, or it might be catastrophic, especially where a witch like Isolde was concerned. Her workings, they said, were grand and powerful; none of them are blood-witches. You’re her
