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Authors: Angela Slatter
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her to the bottom of the pond, but I do not have the time to spare. I must slip back into Edda’s Meadow, back to my house.
I can leave behind neither Fenric, nor Wynne’s book. I’ll be in and out before dawn cracks the sky.
Chapter Thirteen
The sky is still dark when I reach my home, though there are wisps of pale light streaking up high. Inside, Fenric sits by the front door, whimpering at being left alone yet again. He follows me to my room, where I change into trousers, a thick shirt, and stout boots. He’s at my heels as I run down to the cellar, and there’s something of a dance in his step as if he senses we will be travelling once more. I lever up the flagstone with a twist of bent iron, and heave aside the slab. I brush away the thin layer of soil and there it is, Wynne’s book wrapt tight in an oilcloth. Next I push the panel to the hidden room and grab one of the satchels therein, for there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to reach the alder grove. I seal the chamber once more; no reason why anyone else should benefit from my hard-earned savings, and I cannot carry too much. I slide the book into the bag, then stretch, feeling the ache in my bones that comes with age and insufficient exercise. The evening’s activities have reminded me how sedentary I’ve become. The thought of the open road, of running, holds a strange anticipation that I do not quite understand. Perhaps it’s a taste of what Wynne loved so much, of what kept her on the move.
It’s not lost on me that I’m doing precisely what I wouldn’t let Flora do: go back for something. But I tell myself it’s not frivolous, not jewellery or clothing or any other kind of replaceable frippery. My mother’s book is the only link to her I’ve got left, apart from my blood, the only inheritance she ever gave me, and keeping it has been a balm to my conscience over the years, the only sign of loyalty I’ve been able to make in all this time, the sole apology I could give for setting her aside.
As I take to the stairs again, I wonder if I should torch the place, draw attention here while I slip away, but then there is the sound of someone at the front entrance. Not a polite knocking, either. Out through the kitchen and into the garden, Fenric close by me. I’m almost at the bramble way when there’s a noise to my right. As I turn to look there’s a pain in my head, an explosion of light, which soon becomes black and I know nothing more.
“Is she awake?”
It takes time for me to come fully to my senses. The left of my skull aches infernally and I cannot open the eye on that side. I panic, try to touch it and find that I cannot move. I take a deep sobbing breath, try to clear my mind: my hands are tied behind my back, the fingers grown numb. I am sitting on a chair, or rather am bound to it, and have been for some time judging by the heaviness in my legs and the ache in my back.
Have I been blinded? It takes me a moment to figure: dried blood from the head wound, a crust has formed over the lid and held it in place. Just a little warm water and I shall see perfectly well once again. I let the breath out and with it some tension, some fear. I’m not dead yet and while there is a skerrick of life in me I will fight for it, fan it into a great flame that will blaze upward and consume anyone who tries to hurt me.
I focus on those in front of me. The two churchmen, both grey-haired, grey-faced, merciless; their eyes brown as shit. Thin men, puffed with the importance of what they do for their idea of God. One bends to look into my face.
“Are you awake?” he asks loudly as if I’m an idiot. His breath smells like rot and I flinch instinctively, to find death seemingly so present.
“Of course I am, you dullard.” Indignantly, I say, “What is this? Why are you treating me thus?”
“You know very well, sorceress,” thunders the other, but I notice he doesn’t get too close. Loudest declamation equals the greatest fear. He’ll be
I can leave behind neither Fenric, nor Wynne’s book. I’ll be in and out before dawn cracks the sky.
Chapter Thirteen
The sky is still dark when I reach my home, though there are wisps of pale light streaking up high. Inside, Fenric sits by the front door, whimpering at being left alone yet again. He follows me to my room, where I change into trousers, a thick shirt, and stout boots. He’s at my heels as I run down to the cellar, and there’s something of a dance in his step as if he senses we will be travelling once more. I lever up the flagstone with a twist of bent iron, and heave aside the slab. I brush away the thin layer of soil and there it is, Wynne’s book wrapt tight in an oilcloth. Next I push the panel to the hidden room and grab one of the satchels therein, for there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to reach the alder grove. I seal the chamber once more; no reason why anyone else should benefit from my hard-earned savings, and I cannot carry too much. I slide the book into the bag, then stretch, feeling the ache in my bones that comes with age and insufficient exercise. The evening’s activities have reminded me how sedentary I’ve become. The thought of the open road, of running, holds a strange anticipation that I do not quite understand. Perhaps it’s a taste of what Wynne loved so much, of what kept her on the move.
It’s not lost on me that I’m doing precisely what I wouldn’t let Flora do: go back for something. But I tell myself it’s not frivolous, not jewellery or clothing or any other kind of replaceable frippery. My mother’s book is the only link to her I’ve got left, apart from my blood, the only inheritance she ever gave me, and keeping it has been a balm to my conscience over the years, the only sign of loyalty I’ve been able to make in all this time, the sole apology I could give for setting her aside.
As I take to the stairs again, I wonder if I should torch the place, draw attention here while I slip away, but then there is the sound of someone at the front entrance. Not a polite knocking, either. Out through the kitchen and into the garden, Fenric close by me. I’m almost at the bramble way when there’s a noise to my right. As I turn to look there’s a pain in my head, an explosion of light, which soon becomes black and I know nothing more.
“Is she awake?”
It takes time for me to come fully to my senses. The left of my skull aches infernally and I cannot open the eye on that side. I panic, try to touch it and find that I cannot move. I take a deep sobbing breath, try to clear my mind: my hands are tied behind my back, the fingers grown numb. I am sitting on a chair, or rather am bound to it, and have been for some time judging by the heaviness in my legs and the ache in my back.
Have I been blinded? It takes me a moment to figure: dried blood from the head wound, a crust has formed over the lid and held it in place. Just a little warm water and I shall see perfectly well once again. I let the breath out and with it some tension, some fear. I’m not dead yet and while there is a skerrick of life in me I will fight for it, fan it into a great flame that will blaze upward and consume anyone who tries to hurt me.
I focus on those in front of me. The two churchmen, both grey-haired, grey-faced, merciless; their eyes brown as shit. Thin men, puffed with the importance of what they do for their idea of God. One bends to look into my face.
“Are you awake?” he asks loudly as if I’m an idiot. His breath smells like rot and I flinch instinctively, to find death seemingly so present.
“Of course I am, you dullard.” Indignantly, I say, “What is this? Why are you treating me thus?”
“You know very well, sorceress,” thunders the other, but I notice he doesn’t get too close. Loudest declamation equals the greatest fear. He’ll be
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