Read Online Seventh Bride by T. Kingfisher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. Kingfisher
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worse than she thought.
She went downstairs and found the kitchen by following the smell of bread baking. The black-and-grey tile floor was quiet underfoot. She stamped her foot on a tile, and it was as solid as the foundations of the mill.
There was a clock in a corner of the hall. It was enormous, as wide as the altar of the village church and twice as tall. A glass door enclosed the mechanism which looked, to Rhea’s practiced eye, rather like a dozen interlocking millwheels.
No one in town had a clock like this. Big clocks were expensive. Waterclocks and marked hour-candles were still more common in town. The rat-speaker in Barrelridge was famous for his clocks, but she’d never met anyone who could afford one.
She wondered if this clock was one of his. She thought not. The gears were small, but still on a scale made by humans, not by rats.
At the moment, the hands stood at nine-thirty, comfortably far off from midnight. Also nowhere near four in the afternoon.
Maria said it was the clock-wife. Is this what she meant? Is it a real wife at all? Lord Crevan can’t have married a clock. That’s…I mean…normal people don’t marry clocks.
Normal people don’t marry seven wives at a time, either. Normal people don’t marry fifteen-year-old peasant girls.
Rhea scowled. Her reflection in the glass scowled back.
Maybe that wife makes clocks. Maybe this is her clock. That doesn’t explain the thing with the floor…
Is there anything that could explain the thing with the floor?
“You’re up early,” said Maria, as Rhea entered. “I expected you to sleep the sun round.”
Rhea shrugged.
“Oh, to be young again,” said the cook. “Well, you’re here now, so you can make yourself useful. Eggs and potatoes again?”
“Yes, please!”
“Good.” Maria slid a pair of shears across the scarred tabletop. “Go out in the garden and cut a bouquet of herbs, and it’ll be done when you are.”
“What sort of herbs do you need?” asked Rhea.
“Anything that smells strongly,” said Maria. “They’re for Sylvie. She can’t see flowers any more, so we make do.” She smiled faintly. “They don’t even have to smell completely good, just long as she can smell them.”
Rhea nodded, and slipped out the door into the garden.
There were high walls around the garden. Over the tops of the walls, Rhea could see branches. The wood pressed up close against the house here. Some of the branches had apples.
An overgrown orchard, then. Judging by the shapes of the trees, nobody had tended it for a long time.
It looked as if her Aunt’s dreams of an army of servants were going to be thwarted. Rhea took a small, grumpy satisfaction in that fact.
It was a damp morning. Fog hung in tatters from the trees. The kitchen garden was organized in squares, with broad rows of radishes and cabbages and lettuce. Herbs stood in a wheel at the center.
Through an archway in the wall, she could see the wood. The leaves lay thick under the apples, the ground choked with grass and brambles. A few of the apple trees had their trunks half-buried in blackberry thickets.
She let the hedgehog out of her pocket and it immediately trundled off into the beds. “I’ll…um…come back for you later?” Rhea called.
The hedgehog nodded over its shoulder to her.
Well, it’ll take care of any slugs they may have, I suppose…
She cut the bouquet carefully, taking her time among the herbs. Rosemary of course, and a short length of oregano. Hyssop and fennel. One late rose, missing half its petals but still producing a sweet, rounded fragrance. The rest had gone to rose hips. She wrapped it all in thin stems of chickweed, which smelled like nothing except green.
Rhea went back inside. Maria looked over her bouquet and nodded approval. “Good. The chickweed’s a nice touch. She won’t know that one right off, and it’ll make her happy guessing.”
“Shall I cut off the thorns?”
She went downstairs and found the kitchen by following the smell of bread baking. The black-and-grey tile floor was quiet underfoot. She stamped her foot on a tile, and it was as solid as the foundations of the mill.
There was a clock in a corner of the hall. It was enormous, as wide as the altar of the village church and twice as tall. A glass door enclosed the mechanism which looked, to Rhea’s practiced eye, rather like a dozen interlocking millwheels.
No one in town had a clock like this. Big clocks were expensive. Waterclocks and marked hour-candles were still more common in town. The rat-speaker in Barrelridge was famous for his clocks, but she’d never met anyone who could afford one.
She wondered if this clock was one of his. She thought not. The gears were small, but still on a scale made by humans, not by rats.
At the moment, the hands stood at nine-thirty, comfortably far off from midnight. Also nowhere near four in the afternoon.
Maria said it was the clock-wife. Is this what she meant? Is it a real wife at all? Lord Crevan can’t have married a clock. That’s…I mean…normal people don’t marry clocks.
Normal people don’t marry seven wives at a time, either. Normal people don’t marry fifteen-year-old peasant girls.
Rhea scowled. Her reflection in the glass scowled back.
Maybe that wife makes clocks. Maybe this is her clock. That doesn’t explain the thing with the floor…
Is there anything that could explain the thing with the floor?
“You’re up early,” said Maria, as Rhea entered. “I expected you to sleep the sun round.”
Rhea shrugged.
“Oh, to be young again,” said the cook. “Well, you’re here now, so you can make yourself useful. Eggs and potatoes again?”
“Yes, please!”
“Good.” Maria slid a pair of shears across the scarred tabletop. “Go out in the garden and cut a bouquet of herbs, and it’ll be done when you are.”
“What sort of herbs do you need?” asked Rhea.
“Anything that smells strongly,” said Maria. “They’re for Sylvie. She can’t see flowers any more, so we make do.” She smiled faintly. “They don’t even have to smell completely good, just long as she can smell them.”
Rhea nodded, and slipped out the door into the garden.
There were high walls around the garden. Over the tops of the walls, Rhea could see branches. The wood pressed up close against the house here. Some of the branches had apples.
An overgrown orchard, then. Judging by the shapes of the trees, nobody had tended it for a long time.
It looked as if her Aunt’s dreams of an army of servants were going to be thwarted. Rhea took a small, grumpy satisfaction in that fact.
It was a damp morning. Fog hung in tatters from the trees. The kitchen garden was organized in squares, with broad rows of radishes and cabbages and lettuce. Herbs stood in a wheel at the center.
Through an archway in the wall, she could see the wood. The leaves lay thick under the apples, the ground choked with grass and brambles. A few of the apple trees had their trunks half-buried in blackberry thickets.
She let the hedgehog out of her pocket and it immediately trundled off into the beds. “I’ll…um…come back for you later?” Rhea called.
The hedgehog nodded over its shoulder to her.
Well, it’ll take care of any slugs they may have, I suppose…
She cut the bouquet carefully, taking her time among the herbs. Rosemary of course, and a short length of oregano. Hyssop and fennel. One late rose, missing half its petals but still producing a sweet, rounded fragrance. The rest had gone to rose hips. She wrapped it all in thin stems of chickweed, which smelled like nothing except green.
Rhea went back inside. Maria looked over her bouquet and nodded approval. “Good. The chickweed’s a nice touch. She won’t know that one right off, and it’ll make her happy guessing.”
“Shall I cut off the thorns?”
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