I reach into the cool flow, to pluck out the shining thing and cup it in my palm.
It’s a scale.
It’s silver, properly metal, not some fishy membrane.
It’s the size of two of my thumbs sat side-by-side and feels heavier than I’d have believed possible. I touch the ship’s bell pendant at my neck and think that the scale would be the perfect size to craft just such a thing.
I think of the sea-queen trapped by the woman with the bone harp, about the clever construction of the cellar trap in the gut of Hob’s Hallow. I think about the locked cellar in the depths of Blackwater House. I think how the silver mine has not been producing since my mother “left”. I think about a man who stumbled upon a fine kingdom, who fancied himself its new king when he saw an opportunity, but did not understand how it worked, what was required to keep the tiny world turning and healthy.
I’m sitting there when Jedadiah Gannel comes ambling past on his long legs, a lantern in one hand to light his way. I’m so still he almost doesn’t see me. In fact he doesn’t see me until I speak, and the effect of my voice is to make him jump. I laugh in spite of everything. He comes over to sit beside me, places the lantern between us. The circle of light seems to grow warmer against the night.
‘What are you doing here, Miren?’ He touches my face and I lean into his palm like a cat, and don’t answer. ‘Are you well? Are you safe? In that house?’
‘I think so,’ I say, but I don’t know if I am. I hold up the scale so it glimmers. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’
He takes it from me, turns it over in his fingers, and nods slowly. ‘Sometimes we find these in the mine, not in a seam, not embedded in the rock, but scattered in spots where water trickles out.’
I take it back from him, examine it a moment longer, then slip it into my pocket. I wonder what might be done with such a thing, if it might be used as a seed of some sort. ‘My uncle knows nothing about mining, you could tell him anything. Are the seams running out? Truly?’
He snorts. ‘Truly, Miren.’
‘You all live here in secrecy.’
He looks away. ‘It was the condition of the life she offered us. We did not ask questions, Miren. Blackwater… many of us lived in terrible places, scraping by an existence, then your parents – your mother – came and she promised a better life if we’d work for her. Apart from the flood, we have had far better lives. There was no reason to break our oath to her, to leave.’
I touch the scale in my pocket. Somehow Isolde found a way to make a fortune. I think of her fertility magic with the crops and stock. I can think of no good reason she couldn’t apply herself to this. I remember Malachi’s words, about Isolde and her talent for making things big or small. I think about the red price that would have had to be paid to turn barren earth into a rich silver mine. Oh, Mother, what did you do?
‘Why are you here?’ I ask. ‘Wandering in the dark?’
‘Going to see my father. He reckons something’s been trying to come over the hedge the last two nights.’ He shakes his head, grins. ‘Maybe the old man’s hearing things.’
‘Who wouldn’t, here?’ And the air around us is not as silent as before. There are chirrups and shrieks and squeaks, snuffles and snorts and barks: the animals have returned to Blackwater, as the place has grown to giving again. ‘It’s out of your way, but will you walk me to the house?’
‘Of course.’ He smiles and rises, then helps me up, pulling me into his arms. We kiss, but I nudge him away before it goes too far; I need a clear head, no matter how pleasant his attentions might be. I hold his hand as we walk so the rejection doesn’t sting too much. He’s a smart man and doesn’t push his luck. I kiss him goodbye when we reach the last of the trees before the house lawn, then send him off into the darkness. I watch as the fiery pinpoint of the lantern grows smaller and smaller and finally disappears. Then I face the place I’d hoped to make my home.
* * *
I stand at the threshold of the room containing the burnt cradle and hold my carefully crafted silver lantern high, then take a deep breath before pushing myself into the space. Last time I approached ignorance sheltered me. Though I have no proof, only suspicions, now I feel as if my skin has been peeled off, that I’ve no protection left. The tall window by the baby’s bed, its panes cracked from the heat of the fire; only blackness is outside, and my own reflection on the inside. I barely recognise myself.
Ena, when not teething, is such a happy child. Nelly was frustrated by her but as far as I could tell not to the point of losing her temper and offering harm. But what if Ena is not Ena? What if it’s Nelly own child, her own
