Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 14 Read online

  I set out my embroidery thread. I had thread dyed in shades of green and rose and scarlet, gold and oak-orange, all the colors of sky and sea, and the russet browns of the forest. I took up a linen petticoat, and began to ply my needle.

  "Don't you mark the cloth first?” Dran asked, when he came in after his chores were done.

  "No need,” said I. “The design comes to me as I go."

  "I'd make it lopsided."

  "Mine will be straight. Check back in a week and tell me what you think,” I said with a grin.

  "She's cooking another whole week? Ma, you've got to have some pity on us. We're all losing weight."

  "So am I. Maybe you could help her."

  Dran laughed. Help his sister in the kitchen? “When sows have kittens!"

  My needle flew. The weeks were passing too fast. My fingers were sore, my eyes red. I sat up late nights, using my best candles over Owit's protests.

  The embroidery grew, a band three hands deep along the length of the hem: tiny leaves and serpents, vines, trees, and birds, in a pattern that only looked regular from a distance. Intricate flowers, stars and sea-creatures, insects and fantastic animals danced almost knee-high.

  Owit fingered the petticoat I had finished.

  I had no mind to tell him that the petticoat was embroidered with recipes, for someone who had eyes to see it. Recipes like:

  * * * *

  A spell to prevent conception.

  A spell to ensure conception.

  A spell to end conception.

  A spell to increase a man's desire.

  A spell to decrease a man's desire.

  An ointment for the eyes to enable the user to see past illusion.

  * * * *

  These I had embroidered on her petticoat, recipes for the life that really matters, where life itself touches a woman's body.

  For her shawl, on a rich, wine-red wool, I had chosen less intimate recipes.

  * * * *

  A soup that sharpens the senses.

  A sweet-cake that dulls the perceptions.

  A sleeping potion.

  A wakefulness potion.

  A cream that encourages healing.

  A tea the produces clarity of mind.

  * * * *

  If she looked closely at my handiwork, if Gerinet studied them—as I hoped she would—I knew she would recognize it for what it was: a collection of recipes stitched in the language of her childhood. I'd told her these stories as I'd brushed her hair and readied her for bed not so many years ago, as my mother had told me, and as her mother had done before.

  For Gerinet's cape, in cloth of deep forest green, I'd embroidered directions:

  * * * *

  For opening locked doors.

  For finding the way home.

  For seeing in the dark.

  For telling truth from falsehood.

  For sending a message over long distances.

  For shape-changing.

  For returning to one's true shape.

  * * * *

  Owit dropped the petticoat, seeing nothing but colored threads. I could read his expression: Typical woman's foolishness, to waste all that effort on something that will never show!

  Once he was gone, in the hem of her cloak I dropped a small, white stone, and embroidered it in place with a spell.

  At last Gerinet's wedding day came. The clothes and linens were packed for the trip. Carac Frye wed my daughter and prepared to take her away. As he checked the horses’ packs, I pulled the heavy green cape around Gerinet's shoulders. “Remember this. If you should find trouble and miss home, look to my needlework and think of her who sewed it."

  Gerinet, round-eyed, whispered, “I will, Mama.” Then my son-in-law put a possessive arm around her and drew her away.

  One day, about a week after Gerinet and Carac Frye had left, I found a stone in my shoe, a twin to the one I'd sewn into my daughter's cloak. Already, I thought. That's not good. I put the stone in a cup on the mantle.

  As the months went by, I added stones to the cup, once a week or so at first, but then more often. I found them in my shoes, in my teakettle, in my pockets, on my pillow. Most were white, a few troubling pebbles were gray, and, one terrible day, the stone was red. Gerinet was in danger and there was nothing I could do but wait and hope that she would find her way home.

  The next day's stone was pink, and the stones on the following days grew paler, which eased my mind somewhat. Still, they kept turning up, in my wash-basin, in my mug of tea, in the dough I was shaping into bread. The cup on the mantelpiece overflowed.

  * * * *

  It was May, and the first thunderstorm of the season had caught us by surprise. Our best mare was in foal, and Owit and the boys stayed in the barn to look after her. I went back to the house. As I changed out of my wet clothes, I heard a scratching at my bedroom window. It was a starveling gray tabby cat, all spine and legs and green eyes. I opened the casement. “Come in,” I said to the poor, soaked creature. “It's a bad afternoon to be out."

  The cat leaped into the room and settled itself in the middle of the floor, making a puddle. It neither groomed itself nor explored. It simply sat and looked at me, as if waiting.

  I reached out to touch its head, and said experimentally, “Gerinet?"

  The cat hissed. I pulled back, and ran to my locked cabinet, where I stored my own potions and supplies, those that would keep. With shaking hands, I brought out a small, earthenware jar with a narrow mouth. I removed the stopper and passed it under the cat's nose. Its nostrils flared with distaste, and it sneezed.

  And suddenly I was touching my daughter's lank hair, plastered against her shivering body. I pulled the quilt from the bed and wrapped her up and held her while she cried. She was thinner than she should be, and her face was drawn.

  She dressed while I slipped downstairs, ladled up some broth from the soup pot and cut her a fresh slice of bread, and brought the meal up to the bedroom. In between bites, Gerinet told me her story:

  "Carac wanted so much of me, he was always after me. At first it was flattering, but I could never do enough to please him. He said it was my duty to look after him, and I tried, I really did try. He said I was spoiled. I was to work as hard as the servants, and set them a good example. If I made a mistake and dinner wasn't right, he would lose his temper.

  "When he was working on a spell and it didn't succeed, he would blame me. Once I answered sharply, and he grabbed my arm and bent it back and said if I ever spoke that way again to him he would break it."

  I laid a hand on Gerinet's arm. It was too thin; I felt even I could snap it with little effort.

  "One night, he hit me.” She bowed her head, then looked up at me through her damp hair, newly combed.

  "I saw no one else but the servants. Carac said it wasn't fitting for me to make friends with them. I believe he told them stories about me, to make them unfriendly. I was really quite alone. And I wasn't allowed to go out on my own. Oh, Mother, you have no idea how lonely I was.

  "And then I found out I was pregnant. I thought Carac would be happy—I thought everything would be all right again. I would have a baby to love and there would be laughter and brightness.

  "But one day I put something out of place. Carac accused me of trying to ruin his work. He hit me in the stomach, hard, and left me on the floor. A servant found me there, bleeding, and brought me to bed. I lost the child that night."

  Her face was so still, her voice flat. She would not meet my eyes.

  "When I could sit up in bed again, I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders, the red shawl that you made for me. It was so warm, and the colors so alive. And I began to notice something in the embroidery. That it had meaning. That I knew the stories it was telling. It all meant something, the colors and the way they were related, the symbols and the patterns. The very stitches, the different weights of thread, had different meanings. And I began to read them.

  "Once I understood, I rummaged through my trousseau, through al
l the things you'd sewn. I found all the recipes. All of them."

  * * * *

  I got Gerinet under the covers at last and settled her down. In sleep she seemed younger, her pain smoothed away. I had to make a plan.

  I knew he would come looking for her, and soon. Carac Frye was not one to let a wife go. He would come, crackling with angry magic, and Gerinet was no match for him. For that matter, I wasn't sure I could take him on. When your daughter is the target of an angry wizard, what's a mother to do?

  Get cooking.

  After all, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I meant to reach in, hold his heart in my hand, and squeeze it dry.

  Owit and the boys were still in the barn. I hoped the mare was not in trouble. Gerinet slept the rest of the afternoon away. I got supper going, then went upstairs to wake her.

  I had to check my own trousseau for some of the recipes. Some I had never tried before. Together, Gerinet and I opened the linen press and shook out a creamy embroidered tablecloth, that was a gift from my mother and grandmother both. I remember them working on it in the months before my wedding. The cloth came with twelve matching napkins, each embroidered with a different spell. My trousseau had been quite extensive, unlike my daughter's hastily made-up wardrobe.

  "Yes! There it is,” I said. I pointed to a section of embroidery featuring a cat and the new moon, orange-flowering herbs, and falling rain. “Can you make it out?"

  "A spell to hide a person from all seekers,” said Gerinet slowly.

  Exactly. It was time to get to work. Carac Frye would soon be upon us, of that I was sure.

  Though Gerinet was exhausted, she wanted to help. We hauled out a cast-iron pot that I reserved for such work, and gathered ingredients. I began by dry-toasting the necessary spices until the kitchen was fragrant. Gerinet pounded catweed seeds in a mortar, and added them to the pot. Then I added rainwater, and pickled moonflowers, and false saffron, each according to its nature, and boiled it down into a thin paste. I passed the mixture through a sieve.

  With a horsetail brush I painted the soles of my daughter's feet, the palms of her hands, and her lips with the warm mixture, leaving an orange stain on her skin. “Concealment: only I will hear your step; only I will feel your touch; only I will hear your words, until this is washed from your skin,” I chanted softly. Gerinet turned her hands and feet to inspect the outcome. “Don't worry—it will wear off in a couple of days if not renewed."

  "But then he'll come back,” said Gerinet.

  "Not if we take care of him properly the first time. But until then you must not wash your hands or face, nor walk in wet grass barefoot."

  Dran came clattering in from the barn, his eyes shining, startling us both. “She's born! She's born!” he said. “A little filly! Brown with two white stockings. I helped rub her down."

  "Dran, I'm back,” said Gerinet.

  He took no notice of his sister. “But Dad and Jerret want to stay with her a while, and so do I. They're cleaning out the dirty hay. It's a mess! I'm to bring out some food for all three of us."

  "Dran, I'm right here,” said Gerinet. She waved her orange palms in front of him. He brushed his nose as if flicking away a fly.

  "And how is the mare?” I asked as I cut thick slices of bread and leftover lamb, and filled a pitcher of cider, trying to ignore Gerinet as she danced giddy circles around her brother.

  Dran—his mouth already half-crammed with cheese—answered, “She's all right. She's nursing the foal already."

  "I'll help you bring supper over,” I said, and secretly nodded to Gerinet. “I want to see the foal, too."

  There was no way to pretty it up: I wanted the wizard dead. I didn't want to do a killing, but I wanted Carac Frye to be stiff and cold and trouble us no more. How else to keep him from harming my daughter again?

  And there was another, more shameful thing, past justice, past reason, past self-protection. He killed my grandchild-to-be, and in doing so nearly killed Gerinet. I wanted him dead.

  It was a wretched thing, that hate, that dark thing that crawled out of my soul and sat on my shoulder. I had a good long look at it. Its twin sat on my daughter's shoulder. It had an ugly stench.

  * * * *

  That night, when the rest of the household was asleep, my daughter and I desperately searched through my trousseau for the recipe that would end a wizard's life. Napkins, aprons, tea-linens, towels: a spell for binding, a spell for loosening, a spell for concealment, a spell to reveal that which is hidden. . . . Pairs of recipes, one to do, the other to undo, but none to create or end the life of a man. Sheets, blankets, shawls, smocks: a spell to create fear, and another to dispel fear, an oil to sharpen hearing, and one to cause deafness. . . . The women of my family were healers, not murderers, I thought. They had not foreseen my need. I pulled a length of blue cloth, embroidered but not finished, from the pile, and studied the patterns closely.

  "It might work,” I murmured.

  "What is it?"

  I showed the embroidery to Gerinet. “See here? This is a spell to enhance memory. And below it, a spell to erase memory. That's how we'll do it."

  "I don't understand.” Her eyes were swollen and I could see it was an effort for her to hold up her head. I put an arm around her. “Go to sleep,” I said, “and don't worry about a thing. I've found the way to deal with Carac Frye."

  * * * *

  It was early morning.

  I was up, of course—there's no late-sleeping on a farm—and Owit and the boys were already out and about, getting the early chores done. I had a little pan of something simmering on a grate over a few coals.

  The insects fell quiet—their normal meadow racket gave way to utter silence. I poked my head out the door. A flock of starlings startled and flew away. There grew a waiting sense like before a thunderstorm.

  I saw a shimmering disturbance down the lane, like the air above a pot of boiling water, as tall as a man and almost as wide. It disappeared; then, a minute or two later, reappeared, closer this time. And again.

  Then it resolved itself into Carac Frye.

  He shook himself, like a dog, as if to settle himself into his own skin. He peered up at the house. I grabbed a bucket and clattered out the door in the direction of the well, startling him.

  "My goodness, it's Carac! It's so good to see you!” I cried, giving him a big hug. He smelled of dangerous magic: it clung to his skin, to his hair, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I held him back at arms’ length. “But where is Gerinet? Don't tell me you left her at home!"

  "She—"

  "Just let me get some water and I'll be right with you,” I interrupted. “And then I want to hear all about her. And you, of course. But not a letter in all this time, shame on you two. Being newlyweds is not an excuse. Gerinet is my only daughter, after all. She is well, isn't she?"

  Gerinet stepped out of the door onto the stone step. The door slammed behind her.

  "What was that?"

  He could neither see her nor hear her footstep, but she'd forgotten that she could still cause noise.

  "I don't know. Did one of the cats slip out? I'll have to get Owit to put a weight on that door. I asked him once before but it must have slipped his mind.” I could see my chattering was starting to irritate him. So much the better. I wanted him distracted.

  But how were we going to get past Gerinet into the house without her stepping into the wet morning grass?

  "Do you know, we had a foal last night, out of Willow. Owit and the boys had quite a time of it. But she's a real beauty. Come see!"

  "Perhaps later,” he said politely, running a hand through his dark hair.

  "Do you by chance know a charm to help the foal grow straight and strong? Or one to help the mare heal quickly, or sweeten her milk? That would be a kindness. Oh, do come, there's something special about a newborn that I wouldn't have you miss."

  "Later, mistress, it will still be there,” he said, starting toward the house. Gerinet's eyes grew w
ide as she realized the danger, and she put an orange hand before her orange mouth. Her husband had almost reached the step, and she was readying herself to jump aside when there came a shout.

  "Carac Frye, by all that's holy!” Owit rounded the barn and came striding up to his son-in-law.

  I grasped my bucket. “I've got to get this inside,” I said, and eased Gerinet in before me while Owit gave Carac a hug and an enthusiastic thump on the back.

  I glared at Gerinet and hissed, “Go upstairs!” then popped my head out of the door and called, “Breakfast in a half-hour! Owit, Carac doesn't want to see the foal. See how tired he looks? Let the poor man come inside."

  He stepped over the threshold, and straightened his spine, and snapped his fingers, then splayed them, palm up, in a gesture that said, Come—I am waiting. Gerinet silently walked into the room, unable to resist.

  "I know you are here,” he said.

  She made no answer.

  "I am not a patient man,” said my son-in-law, looking in the wrong direction. “You are my wife, and you are coming home with me. And if I am kept waiting, I will have to make you obey—and so much the worse for you.” He turned and faced me where I stood by the hearth. “Alrea, my wife's dear mother, who sees so much and usually says so little, what shall I do about you?"

  "Go home, Carac,” I said. “There is nothing for you here."

  He began to laugh. It was an ugly sound, thick and muddy. If he had not been exhausted from his pursuit of Gerinet in all her forms, I could never have managed to fight him. He was a powerful man.

  "I know what you are, mistress, and how you and your kind manipulate every man within your reach—how you've poisoned my wife's heart against honest marriage. Don't think you can touch me with your pathetic spells and potions."

  I permitted myself a brief smile. “They brought my daughter home."

  He bashed the linen press—the only piece of furniture within his reach—with his fist. The paneled door cracked. “Her home is with me!"

  "Never again,” said Gerinet. I could hear her, but her husband could not. She wiped the stain from her lips with the back of her hand. “I will never go with you again."