Read Online The Bloodletter's Daughter by Linda Lafferty - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Lafferty
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Marketa noticed a shiver catch her and shake its way up her spine.
The next day, Pichler set out for Vienna and the barber-surgeon guildhouse, where he kept abreast of the latest phlebotomy studies. He kissed his daughter good-bye and warned her to behave and keep peace with her mother while he was away.
Marketa sighed and promised to make herself useful in the bathhouse. She worked hard that morning washing a mountain of linen bath sheets and hanging them out to dry by the banks of the Vltava. When her mother nodded approvingly at the rows of flapping white laundry strung between the trees, Marketa smiled.
“Daughter, you deserve time away from the bathhouse. Dana and Kate can help me this afternoon.”
Marketa kissed her mother’s cheek, knowing she was trying to make amends for striking her the night before. Her mother embraced her quickly and shooed her away, encouraging her to enjoy a few hours of free time in the sunshine.
Marketa sought out her best friend, Katarina Mylnar, the miller’s daughter. They sat side by side on the riverbank, their feet dangling in the water, looking at the great walls of Rozmberk Palace looming above them. The Mylnar family’s waterwheel groaned behind them as the girls took pleasure in a few rare moments of leisure, basking in the afternoon sun.
Marketa found her friend’s company comforting, especially after her mother’s strange outburst the night before.
Katarina smelled of flour and sugar, especially on Saturdays. That was the day her mother did the most baking and provided cakes for the town and the Rozmberk family.
Katarina was plump, and the flour and fine sugar would find their way deep into the folds of her damp skin, nestling in her neck and cleavage, elbow crooks and fingers. She was fair-hairedand laughed at everything as if she were pleasantly drunk at a holiday feast.
The millers’s daughter had many admirers, for who would not love a woman who loved life with such passion—and whose family baked buttery cakes for nobility? As they exchanged secrets, their feet splashing in the cool water, Katarina whispered to Marketa that she wished one day the blacksmith’s son would taste her skin all night long, his tongue savoring every sugared crevice.
Marketa laughed in conspiracy at her friend’s confession, but she knew Katarina’s desire would never come to pass. Katarina’s father was not keen on the match and scowled at the sweaty-faced lad with sooty fingers. He felt his daughter could attract a better suitor, perhaps a butcher or even a wealthy merchant.
In fact, Katarina’s father forbade her to spend time with any man. His daughter was to be surrounded by women and girls until he found her a suitable husband. Katarina chose to spend most of her time with the bathmaid, although Marketa could not understand why the town’s beauty would want to spend time with the bloodletter’s daughter.
But Katarina loved Marketa’s strong character and admired her fierce interest in science. Her stories fascinated the miller’s daughter, for Marketa could read, a skill that was rare among women.
In the winter, the two girls loved to skate down the icy cobblestones on hilly Meat Street in their wood-soled shoes, slipping and falling to the hooting of the butchers. The meat cutters would cheer them on with muffled claps of their fingerless gloves, their bodies wrapped tight in woolen cloaks while they stamped their feet against the cold. Marketa’s cheeks flushed red and hot from the contrast of the steaming barrels of the bathhouse and the damp, frosty air. Katarina’s pale skin would glow warm pink, sticky with sugar, like a frosted cake.
The two were inseparable, and Katarina spent many an afternoon combing and braiding Marketa’s long hair, particularly on lazy warm days such as this one.
“The most peculiar and enchanting hair in the world,” she sighed in wonder. “It has every color of every girl’s hair. Amber, chestnut. Look! Here is a strand
The next day, Pichler set out for Vienna and the barber-surgeon guildhouse, where he kept abreast of the latest phlebotomy studies. He kissed his daughter good-bye and warned her to behave and keep peace with her mother while he was away.
Marketa sighed and promised to make herself useful in the bathhouse. She worked hard that morning washing a mountain of linen bath sheets and hanging them out to dry by the banks of the Vltava. When her mother nodded approvingly at the rows of flapping white laundry strung between the trees, Marketa smiled.
“Daughter, you deserve time away from the bathhouse. Dana and Kate can help me this afternoon.”
Marketa kissed her mother’s cheek, knowing she was trying to make amends for striking her the night before. Her mother embraced her quickly and shooed her away, encouraging her to enjoy a few hours of free time in the sunshine.
Marketa sought out her best friend, Katarina Mylnar, the miller’s daughter. They sat side by side on the riverbank, their feet dangling in the water, looking at the great walls of Rozmberk Palace looming above them. The Mylnar family’s waterwheel groaned behind them as the girls took pleasure in a few rare moments of leisure, basking in the afternoon sun.
Marketa found her friend’s company comforting, especially after her mother’s strange outburst the night before.
Katarina smelled of flour and sugar, especially on Saturdays. That was the day her mother did the most baking and provided cakes for the town and the Rozmberk family.
Katarina was plump, and the flour and fine sugar would find their way deep into the folds of her damp skin, nestling in her neck and cleavage, elbow crooks and fingers. She was fair-hairedand laughed at everything as if she were pleasantly drunk at a holiday feast.
The millers’s daughter had many admirers, for who would not love a woman who loved life with such passion—and whose family baked buttery cakes for nobility? As they exchanged secrets, their feet splashing in the cool water, Katarina whispered to Marketa that she wished one day the blacksmith’s son would taste her skin all night long, his tongue savoring every sugared crevice.
Marketa laughed in conspiracy at her friend’s confession, but she knew Katarina’s desire would never come to pass. Katarina’s father was not keen on the match and scowled at the sweaty-faced lad with sooty fingers. He felt his daughter could attract a better suitor, perhaps a butcher or even a wealthy merchant.
In fact, Katarina’s father forbade her to spend time with any man. His daughter was to be surrounded by women and girls until he found her a suitable husband. Katarina chose to spend most of her time with the bathmaid, although Marketa could not understand why the town’s beauty would want to spend time with the bloodletter’s daughter.
But Katarina loved Marketa’s strong character and admired her fierce interest in science. Her stories fascinated the miller’s daughter, for Marketa could read, a skill that was rare among women.
In the winter, the two girls loved to skate down the icy cobblestones on hilly Meat Street in their wood-soled shoes, slipping and falling to the hooting of the butchers. The meat cutters would cheer them on with muffled claps of their fingerless gloves, their bodies wrapped tight in woolen cloaks while they stamped their feet against the cold. Marketa’s cheeks flushed red and hot from the contrast of the steaming barrels of the bathhouse and the damp, frosty air. Katarina’s pale skin would glow warm pink, sticky with sugar, like a frosted cake.
The two were inseparable, and Katarina spent many an afternoon combing and braiding Marketa’s long hair, particularly on lazy warm days such as this one.
“The most peculiar and enchanting hair in the world,” she sighed in wonder. “It has every color of every girl’s hair. Amber, chestnut. Look! Here is a strand
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