Rhea timidly.
Maria laughed then, a rich, rollicking belly laugh that filled up the kitchen and rang the pots and pans.
“Oh, no, no, no,” said Sylvie, shaking her head. Wispy hair flew.
“Bless your heart,” Maria said, wiping her eyes. “Servants indeed. No, my child. We’re Lord Crevan’s wives .”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Wuh-what? Wives?”
The words meant nothing to Rhea. They were in some foreign language. People did not have more than one wife at a time. Lord Crevan was—technically—her betrothed. You didn’t get betrothed to people who still had wives. Certainly not to people who had three of them!
I am very tired. I am not hearing things correctly. That’s all.
“I’m sorry,” said Rhea carefully, “but I think I must have misheard you.”
The cook’s eyes danced with a kind of jovial malice. “No, you didn’t. Wives. Wives, wives, wives. As in married. As in more than one. As in me, and Sylvie, and Ingeth, and the clock-wife and the golem-wife and the Lady Elegans, who is lying out in the graveyard.”
“Six of us,” said Sylvie. “Except Lady Elegans, because she’s dead. But she’s still one of us. And you, now, of course.” She sat up very straight. “You’re welcome. You should be welcome. We’re glad to have you. I mean, not glad that you’re here, because that’s not very nice for you, but…” She trailed off in some confusion, knotting her fingers together. “It’s nice to have someone else to talk to,” she said finally.
Maria sighed. “Poor child,” she said, without any malice now. “I don’t suppose you were in love with Himself, were you?”
“What?” asked Rhea blankly. Sylvie’s words had filled her with vague dread. Not very nice for you was much more menacing than it should have been.
“Lord Crevan,” said Maria patiently. “Your husband-to-be. Himself.”
“Oh! No!” Rhea shook her head. “Um. It was all very strange. He talked to my father—you can’t say no to lords, not if they’re wanting to marry your daughter—not if you’re the miller— you know—”
Maria nodded. “Oh, aye. I know it well. Why do you think I married him? I wouldn’t have set my cap for him by choice. I’d had three husbands already and his magic wasn’t a patch on mine.”
“You were a magician?” asked Rhea.
“I was a witch,” said Maria. “Hearth and heath and heartwood. I could call the great beasts out of the earth and wire them together with silver chain.” She tipped another egg onto Rhea’s plate. “Ah, well. That was longer ago than I’d like to admit.”
“You shouldn’t brag,” whispered Sylvie. “It isn’t nice. It’s vain. We can’t be vain, Maria.”
The blind woman’s hands trembled when she spoke. Maria reached over and took her hand firmly. “Don’t fret yourself, dear. It’s late and he’s away and we’re all a bit tired. Isn’t that right, Rhea?”
“Absolutely,” said Rhea, who was very, very tired. The hedgehog had finished its raisins and was curled up in a small prickly ball against her plate. “Um—you said he was away?”
“Off on business,” said Maria. “Nobody here but us.”
“Can I leave, then?” asked Rhea. “If he’s not here—I was supposed to meet him—”
Hope didn’t even have time to flower. Maria was already shaking her head. “Back down the white road? I don’t recommend it, unless you’re looking for a painful death. He called up things on the white road and didn’t have wit or will enough to put them down again. I don’t think he knows what’s down there himself.” Her smile was oddly satisfied.
“He told me to come here, and he knew he wasn’t going to be here?” Rhea scowled into her eggs.
“Very like him,” said Maria. “He’ll set you tasks merely to prove that you have to do them.” She patted Rhea’s shoulder. “Best get some sleep. Ingeth!”
Ingeth appeared in the doorway, looking sour. Rhea tried not to look at the terrifying
Maria laughed then, a rich, rollicking belly laugh that filled up the kitchen and rang the pots and pans.
“Oh, no, no, no,” said Sylvie, shaking her head. Wispy hair flew.
“Bless your heart,” Maria said, wiping her eyes. “Servants indeed. No, my child. We’re Lord Crevan’s wives .”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Wuh-what? Wives?”
The words meant nothing to Rhea. They were in some foreign language. People did not have more than one wife at a time. Lord Crevan was—technically—her betrothed. You didn’t get betrothed to people who still had wives. Certainly not to people who had three of them!
I am very tired. I am not hearing things correctly. That’s all.
“I’m sorry,” said Rhea carefully, “but I think I must have misheard you.”
The cook’s eyes danced with a kind of jovial malice. “No, you didn’t. Wives. Wives, wives, wives. As in married. As in more than one. As in me, and Sylvie, and Ingeth, and the clock-wife and the golem-wife and the Lady Elegans, who is lying out in the graveyard.”
“Six of us,” said Sylvie. “Except Lady Elegans, because she’s dead. But she’s still one of us. And you, now, of course.” She sat up very straight. “You’re welcome. You should be welcome. We’re glad to have you. I mean, not glad that you’re here, because that’s not very nice for you, but…” She trailed off in some confusion, knotting her fingers together. “It’s nice to have someone else to talk to,” she said finally.
Maria sighed. “Poor child,” she said, without any malice now. “I don’t suppose you were in love with Himself, were you?”
“What?” asked Rhea blankly. Sylvie’s words had filled her with vague dread. Not very nice for you was much more menacing than it should have been.
“Lord Crevan,” said Maria patiently. “Your husband-to-be. Himself.”
“Oh! No!” Rhea shook her head. “Um. It was all very strange. He talked to my father—you can’t say no to lords, not if they’re wanting to marry your daughter—not if you’re the miller— you know—”
Maria nodded. “Oh, aye. I know it well. Why do you think I married him? I wouldn’t have set my cap for him by choice. I’d had three husbands already and his magic wasn’t a patch on mine.”
“You were a magician?” asked Rhea.
“I was a witch,” said Maria. “Hearth and heath and heartwood. I could call the great beasts out of the earth and wire them together with silver chain.” She tipped another egg onto Rhea’s plate. “Ah, well. That was longer ago than I’d like to admit.”
“You shouldn’t brag,” whispered Sylvie. “It isn’t nice. It’s vain. We can’t be vain, Maria.”
The blind woman’s hands trembled when she spoke. Maria reached over and took her hand firmly. “Don’t fret yourself, dear. It’s late and he’s away and we’re all a bit tired. Isn’t that right, Rhea?”
“Absolutely,” said Rhea, who was very, very tired. The hedgehog had finished its raisins and was curled up in a small prickly ball against her plate. “Um—you said he was away?”
“Off on business,” said Maria. “Nobody here but us.”
“Can I leave, then?” asked Rhea. “If he’s not here—I was supposed to meet him—”
Hope didn’t even have time to flower. Maria was already shaking her head. “Back down the white road? I don’t recommend it, unless you’re looking for a painful death. He called up things on the white road and didn’t have wit or will enough to put them down again. I don’t think he knows what’s down there himself.” Her smile was oddly satisfied.
“He told me to come here, and he knew he wasn’t going to be here?” Rhea scowled into her eggs.
“Very like him,” said Maria. “He’ll set you tasks merely to prove that you have to do them.” She patted Rhea’s shoulder. “Best get some sleep. Ingeth!”
Ingeth appeared in the doorway, looking sour. Rhea tried not to look at the terrifying
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