undo the harm she’d caused. If it was possible.
She sighed, and leaned against the doorframe and looked around the yard. The vegetable garden inside its fence, the henhouse and the washing line, everything seemed ordinary. Except...the vegetables struggled to survive. She saw it in the withered leaves and stunted growth. When she’d come to steal she’d not noticed how cracked and bare the ground was, how parched. It was as if there was a drought and no rain had fallen for months.
But it was spring and the river was in flood.
It wasn’t spring in this garden, this yard. The soil had seen no water for a long time.
Melke shook her head. The barrenness was more than poverty; something was ill here.
She shivered and rubbed her arms.
The hound came back into the kitchen. Melke closed the door. “Are you thirsty?” she asked him. “I am.” He sat on the cool flagstones and watched with pale, suspicious eyes as she opened a cupboard.
Earthenware crockery, much of it chipped, was stacked neatly on the shelves. She took down a bowl.
The only water she could find was in a pot on top of the stove, the same pot she’d taken water from last night to bathe her feet. The stove was cold, as was the water. Melke filled the bowl and placed it on the floor. “Here,” she said to the hound.
The hound rose to his feet and walked over to the bowl. He sniffed the water, his eyes on her, and began to drink.
Glasses were in the next cupboard. Melke took one out and turned it between her fingers. The glass was finely blown, thin and tinted blue, chipped. These people had once had money.
She took water back upstairs in the largest bowl she could find. She needed to see Hantje, needed to see the rise and fall of his chest and the pulse beating in his throat, needed to know that he slept and that he lived and that he was all right. But she also needed to wash. Hantje had Liana, who could heal him, whereas all she could do was stand uselessly and watch.
“I’m going to bathe,” she told the hound, shutting the door and looking at him. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t watch.”
Perhaps the hound understood her. He stretched out on the hard floor and closed his eyes. He appeared to be asleep.
Melke used the last precious sliver of soap, wrapped inside her washcloth at the bottom of her bag. The scents of salamander and sweat were finally gone, overlaid by sandalwood.
Dressing was easy; she had so few clothes left now—two blouses and a skirt, a change of undergarments—all of which lay scattered on the floor. Wrapping fresh bandages around her feet was less easy; her legs refused to bend properly. She concentrated on the strips of cloth and not on her flesh, swollen and bruised and torn, winding the fabric firmly and tying tight knots.
Combing her hair took forever. The braid was a tangled, knotted mess. Her arms ached long before she’d finished and her scalp felt as if it had been stripped raw. “Easier to cut it off,” she said to the hound. He didn’t bother to open his eyes.
There was no looking glass in the room, but she didn’t want to see herself, didn’t want to look into the eyes of the creature she’d become.
Hunger knotted painfully in her belly. Her hair could be re-plaited later. The room, her belongings...
The comb and her stones went on the shelf. The second blouse, the belt and its knife, the knapsack with its few remaining items at the bottom—the herbs she used to wash her hair, the spices in twists of paper, her nightshift—hung on the three hooks on the wall. Putting the linen on the bed took a mere minute. “Servants’ bedding,” she told the hound as she tucked a sheet over the musty mattress and shook the thin pillow into a pillowcase.
The hound opened his eyes, and closed them again.
Another sheet went on top, darned at the hem, and then the thick blanket she’d slept under last night. Melke smoothed it carefully with a grazed palm. The coarse weave caught at the
She sighed, and leaned against the doorframe and looked around the yard. The vegetable garden inside its fence, the henhouse and the washing line, everything seemed ordinary. Except...the vegetables struggled to survive. She saw it in the withered leaves and stunted growth. When she’d come to steal she’d not noticed how cracked and bare the ground was, how parched. It was as if there was a drought and no rain had fallen for months.
But it was spring and the river was in flood.
It wasn’t spring in this garden, this yard. The soil had seen no water for a long time.
Melke shook her head. The barrenness was more than poverty; something was ill here.
She shivered and rubbed her arms.
The hound came back into the kitchen. Melke closed the door. “Are you thirsty?” she asked him. “I am.” He sat on the cool flagstones and watched with pale, suspicious eyes as she opened a cupboard.
Earthenware crockery, much of it chipped, was stacked neatly on the shelves. She took down a bowl.
The only water she could find was in a pot on top of the stove, the same pot she’d taken water from last night to bathe her feet. The stove was cold, as was the water. Melke filled the bowl and placed it on the floor. “Here,” she said to the hound.
The hound rose to his feet and walked over to the bowl. He sniffed the water, his eyes on her, and began to drink.
Glasses were in the next cupboard. Melke took one out and turned it between her fingers. The glass was finely blown, thin and tinted blue, chipped. These people had once had money.
She took water back upstairs in the largest bowl she could find. She needed to see Hantje, needed to see the rise and fall of his chest and the pulse beating in his throat, needed to know that he slept and that he lived and that he was all right. But she also needed to wash. Hantje had Liana, who could heal him, whereas all she could do was stand uselessly and watch.
“I’m going to bathe,” she told the hound, shutting the door and looking at him. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t watch.”
Perhaps the hound understood her. He stretched out on the hard floor and closed his eyes. He appeared to be asleep.
Melke used the last precious sliver of soap, wrapped inside her washcloth at the bottom of her bag. The scents of salamander and sweat were finally gone, overlaid by sandalwood.
Dressing was easy; she had so few clothes left now—two blouses and a skirt, a change of undergarments—all of which lay scattered on the floor. Wrapping fresh bandages around her feet was less easy; her legs refused to bend properly. She concentrated on the strips of cloth and not on her flesh, swollen and bruised and torn, winding the fabric firmly and tying tight knots.
Combing her hair took forever. The braid was a tangled, knotted mess. Her arms ached long before she’d finished and her scalp felt as if it had been stripped raw. “Easier to cut it off,” she said to the hound. He didn’t bother to open his eyes.
There was no looking glass in the room, but she didn’t want to see herself, didn’t want to look into the eyes of the creature she’d become.
Hunger knotted painfully in her belly. Her hair could be re-plaited later. The room, her belongings...
The comb and her stones went on the shelf. The second blouse, the belt and its knife, the knapsack with its few remaining items at the bottom—the herbs she used to wash her hair, the spices in twists of paper, her nightshift—hung on the three hooks on the wall. Putting the linen on the bed took a mere minute. “Servants’ bedding,” she told the hound as she tucked a sheet over the musty mattress and shook the thin pillow into a pillowcase.
The hound opened his eyes, and closed them again.
Another sheet went on top, darned at the hem, and then the thick blanket she’d slept under last night. Melke smoothed it carefully with a grazed palm. The coarse weave caught at the
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
