and the sea will claim her. And what about your father?’ She pinched my cheeks harder. ‘I don’t see much of him about you.’
Bunches of herbs hung down from the beams along with other things: dried and scaly, dark and leathery, the desiccated remains of snakes and lizards, toads, frogs and bats’ wings. Many came to her for charms, to ward off the evil eye, to guard against the sprites and spirits that haunt graveyards and deserted places, gather at crossroads, lurk under gateways or hover close to running water. Illyrians are a credulous people, ready to see malevolence everywhere, but she was no ordinary market charm seller or fortune-teller. My mother had never been to her, as far as I knew, but other ladies consulted her, including the Lady Olivia, who was of the country and as superstitious as any. Even my father sometimes summoned Marijita to find out which days were auspicious. My people keep the feast days and go to church on Sunday, but they are ever mindful of other forces at work around them and she was a mistress of that invisible world.
‘Let me see that wound.’ She examined the gash on Guido’s head, gently probing with her long, thin fingers. ‘Looks worse than it is. Boys have thick skulls. You, Count’s boy, fetch me some water.’
Stephano filled a basin while she went to a long cupboard set against the far wall. The shelves were crammed with different-coloured bottles and pottery jars. She took what she wanted and came back to Guido. She washed his face and swabbed at his matted hair, parting it carefully to find the long, jagged cut still oozing blood on his white scalp. She dabbed the wound with sharp-smelling liquid that made him wince. Then she threaded a needle and Guido did his best not to flinch as she held the edges of the gash together and sewed it as neatly as she would sew a seam.
‘There!’ She stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘That will heal clean and leave no scar.’
Feste leaned against a bench covered in carvings at different stages of completion. He whistled softly to himself and whittled away at a piece of wood, while above our heads the swallows whirled about like birds on a child’s stick.
‘Feste, stop whistling at my birds. You are confusing them.’
While she tended Guido I stood by the window, looking at a stone set on the sill: a milky white moonstone about as big as a man’s fist. I found my eyes drawn to it, to the different hues of violet and blue playing across its shining surface. This was the seeing stone that she used to tell the ladies’ fortunes. It was like looking up into the sky on a cloudy day. I began to see shapes there, and then something else in its depths: little dancing spots like agitated grains of sand. It was like being in that state between waking and dreaming when fancies take form. The spots began to come together and turn themselves into a fleet of tiny ships. I blinked, thinking it was a trick of the light, that an image had been captured from outside, like the pictures cast on to the wall in Father’s dark chamber, his camera obscura. I looked out of the window. The ships moving across the sea below were small carracks, coastal craft, nothing like the long war galleys that I had seen in the stone.
When I looked back, the stone was opaque. I could see nothing beneath the shining surface.
‘My shewstone.’ Marijita held the stone cradled in her two hands. ‘Before you came, I had a reading. I put the stone there for the sun to burn away any lingering darkness. You saw something.’
It was not a question and she did not need me to confirm it. She knew. Her hand went to the charm she wore round her neck, a cimaruta, an amulet, made in the shape of a branching sprig of rue and hung with tiny charms: a key, the moon and a serpent. I’d seen them before; many women wore them who held to the Old Belief. The charms represented the goddess in her triple form: the key of Hecate, the moon of Diana, the serpent of
Bunches of herbs hung down from the beams along with other things: dried and scaly, dark and leathery, the desiccated remains of snakes and lizards, toads, frogs and bats’ wings. Many came to her for charms, to ward off the evil eye, to guard against the sprites and spirits that haunt graveyards and deserted places, gather at crossroads, lurk under gateways or hover close to running water. Illyrians are a credulous people, ready to see malevolence everywhere, but she was no ordinary market charm seller or fortune-teller. My mother had never been to her, as far as I knew, but other ladies consulted her, including the Lady Olivia, who was of the country and as superstitious as any. Even my father sometimes summoned Marijita to find out which days were auspicious. My people keep the feast days and go to church on Sunday, but they are ever mindful of other forces at work around them and she was a mistress of that invisible world.
‘Let me see that wound.’ She examined the gash on Guido’s head, gently probing with her long, thin fingers. ‘Looks worse than it is. Boys have thick skulls. You, Count’s boy, fetch me some water.’
Stephano filled a basin while she went to a long cupboard set against the far wall. The shelves were crammed with different-coloured bottles and pottery jars. She took what she wanted and came back to Guido. She washed his face and swabbed at his matted hair, parting it carefully to find the long, jagged cut still oozing blood on his white scalp. She dabbed the wound with sharp-smelling liquid that made him wince. Then she threaded a needle and Guido did his best not to flinch as she held the edges of the gash together and sewed it as neatly as she would sew a seam.
‘There!’ She stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘That will heal clean and leave no scar.’
Feste leaned against a bench covered in carvings at different stages of completion. He whistled softly to himself and whittled away at a piece of wood, while above our heads the swallows whirled about like birds on a child’s stick.
‘Feste, stop whistling at my birds. You are confusing them.’
While she tended Guido I stood by the window, looking at a stone set on the sill: a milky white moonstone about as big as a man’s fist. I found my eyes drawn to it, to the different hues of violet and blue playing across its shining surface. This was the seeing stone that she used to tell the ladies’ fortunes. It was like looking up into the sky on a cloudy day. I began to see shapes there, and then something else in its depths: little dancing spots like agitated grains of sand. It was like being in that state between waking and dreaming when fancies take form. The spots began to come together and turn themselves into a fleet of tiny ships. I blinked, thinking it was a trick of the light, that an image had been captured from outside, like the pictures cast on to the wall in Father’s dark chamber, his camera obscura. I looked out of the window. The ships moving across the sea below were small carracks, coastal craft, nothing like the long war galleys that I had seen in the stone.
When I looked back, the stone was opaque. I could see nothing beneath the shining surface.
‘My shewstone.’ Marijita held the stone cradled in her two hands. ‘Before you came, I had a reading. I put the stone there for the sun to burn away any lingering darkness. You saw something.’
It was not a question and she did not need me to confirm it. She knew. Her hand went to the charm she wore round her neck, a cimaruta, an amulet, made in the shape of a branching sprig of rue and hung with tiny charms: a key, the moon and a serpent. I’d seen them before; many women wore them who held to the Old Belief. The charms represented the goddess in her triple form: the key of Hecate, the moon of Diana, the serpent of
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