Plain Kate coughed and sneezed. And then she was really awake.
She was not in heaven, but in a little bunk on a boat. The painted ceiling was close above her. The slap of water thudded through the wall at her ear. Taggle’s tail flip-flipped over her face. She smelled his scorched fur. He squirmed around and soon his face appeared from under the blanket. “Taggle,” she whispered. Her voice was rough with smoke.
He made a little meow. There weren’t any words.
The golden light stirred. A rush lamp of pierced tin swung over her like the night sky. A pale face floated above it. “Fair maid of the wood,” said a familiar voice. “Are you awake?”
“You,” Taggle spat. Because it was Linay.
He barked with surprise and laughter. “This was your wish? A talking cat!”
Taggle’s ears went back. “We don’t like you.”
Linay grinned. “Well, now, I don’t blame you, catkins. But I can heal you, like me or not.” He hung the lantern. “Can you sit, little one?” Plain Kate struggled to sit and he put his arms around her shoulders. He had a little jar in one hand; it smelled of herbs and thunder. Taggle sniffed once, squinted in disgust, and started backing up.
“What—?” Kate tried to say, and coughed. Her throat felt like it had been filed down with a rasp.
“Shhhhh,” he said. “It’s only salve.”
“What do you want?” she whispered.
The salve felt cool as seaweed on her burns. Linay was humming. He put the salve on her forehead and cheekbones. The humming faded into song:
Lenore my sister: she had power
She could bring the bud to flower
Seal the wound or soothe the fever
And so she spent her life
In their fevered year they found her
Drove her mad with whips and fire
Drove her to the freezing river
And there they thought she died
But her wronged soul turned into water
Rusalka, lost ghost of the river
Vampire, siren, doomed to wander
and never find her rest
Lenore, my sister—I would save her
I would pull her up the river
Do to that town what they did to her
and so remake her life
The song was important. Kate tried to hear it and keep it, but she could not. She felt as if she might break into the air as salt breaks into water. “Drink,” Linay said. There was a cup at her lips. The drink was both cool and warm.
She slept.
?
Kate woke again, and again the boat was rocking. She felt as if she had been asleep for days and days and days, sunk halfway in long bad dreams. The current spoke in the wood by her ear, and she could feel the surge of the boat against it and hear the plosh and clock of a pole. They were moving.
They. Linay.
She sat up. How long had she been asleep? There was dry sourness in her mouth, and the dream stretched out so long behind her. “Taggle,” she whispered, and it came out croaky.
The cat was curled up in a nook by her feet, between a little cauldron and a lumpy bag: three round heaps. She didn’t spot him till he lifted his head and cracked an eye open. “Oh.” He yawned. “Hello.”
“How long—” She rubbed at her eyes and her fingers found patches of numbed slickness on her face. “How long—where are we?”
“A boat,” he said, getting up and leaning into a long stretch. His fur was scorched off on one side, but the bare patches were with new fuzz. “I do not care for it: There’s water. But also, fish, which is nice for me.” He sidled over and rubbed the corner of his mouth on her hand, marking her with his scent.
“How long—I don’t remember anything. How long have I been asleep?”
Taggle shrugged with his whiskers. “It is not a matter for cats, how long.” He tilted his chin up and looked at her—he seemed almost concerned. “I have eaten many times,” he offered. “Many fish, many mice, three muskrats, two rabbits, and a small bird that was sleeping. You have had broth.”
She tried to remember broth, but couldn’t. There was only the long dream about burning and drowning and a woman made of fog, hungry and terribly sad. Stivo crumpling to the ground at a single touch. Daj turning away. Drina bleeding. Behjet throwing the lamp. She shook herself. Broth. It would have been hot. But she felt cold: In her sleep, Linay had fed her, had dressed her—her skin shuddered and her hair prickled. She got up.
The ceiling was low and hung thick with trinkets and bundles of herbs. They tangled and bumped in her hair. She stooped and inched away from the bunk and into the dim and tiny space.
Her scorched smock that had been her father’s, that she had worn for years, was gone. She was wearing a linen dress, white and embroidered in white, a fine thing edged with lace. It was too big for her and the lace trailed on the floor. She hitched it up.