Jane thought it better not to point out that Cook frequently volunteered similar innocuous gossip, common knowledge that had been in the village for decades. “I liked the croissants you made this morning,” she offered, like an olive branch. “With the chocolate in them.”
“Sure and you got one of mine,” Cook said, flicking flour into the bowl. “I’ll tell you, none of these girls from the village knows how to make a decent pastry, never mind it’s a skill every mother should’ve taught them. But no one has enough time to fold a thousand layers of pastry, let alone the cost of the butter to go between them, and it does cost, because no one has cows any more than they have the cinema, nothing is the same at all.…”
Detoured on the new rant, Cook briskly dumped honey and eggs into the walnuts, preparing the filling for the tart. Her treatment of Jane brought a sour feeling to her stomach. This is how it had been five years ago, hadn’t it? It was as if all her time with the mask had been undone. And yet, was she wrong to try it? If one way brought frustration to Jane and one way to everyone else, what was the morally correct thing to do?
She sighed, wishing there were a third way. Poule had suggested that her water imagery was the right path, but was it really helping, or was that just wishful thinking? She would have to be pretty darn watery to counteract this curse. But it wasn’t like she had anything else to try, and there was no one inside her head to see the silliness. So why not? She would be a cheerful sparkling pond, drowning the orange flames of her cheek before they could even spring up. So cool and watery that fish could swim around inside her skull, as if her head were a glass bowl. The ridiculous image cheered her.
Poule came through the kitchen door with mail in hand—circulars and a letter for Cook that the woman seemed pleased to get. She silently handed Jane a thick cream-colored envelope. Then, leaning closer, she stared at Jane’s veil. Jane was surprised to realize that she did not instantly take offense at the impertinence. No, she was perfectly calm and interested, a cool still pond, wondering what Poule’s reaction would be. The woman had seemed to withstand it the other night, but … Well. Jane didn’t think she could bear it if everyone in the house hated her.
Poule’s nostrils flared and Jane remembered how she had scented after the fey in the woods. The short woman spread her hand wide and reached high, high to Jane’s face, briefly touched the crook between thumb and index finger to Jane’s chin, as if she were measuring it. Jane managed not to flinch. Poule’s silver hair streamed loose, iridescent in the sun, rippling like the waves on her imaginary Jane pond.
“I’ve felt worse,” Poule said at last. She dropped her hand and turned to go, treading heavily across the grey kitchen stone.
“Wait,” said Jane. “What do you mean?”
Poule stopped at the door. “I mean we have tales of a dwarf named Moum who got cursed with rage. He started three wars, and his children tore each other to bloody bits.” She shrugged. “Say what you like, but I don’t have any urge to rend Creirwy.”
The cook laughed as she beat the filling. “I should hope not.”
*
Jane pulled her paper knife from a drawer and slit open the heavy stationery that Helen favored. Four heavily written-on pages fell out, plus a thin blue-and-white photo of Helen in a dark gown, and a scrap of rose fabric.
She skimmed the parties and balls. Alistair had one of the last working fey-tech cameras, and here she was before opening night of a new production of A Midsummer Night’s Tragedy. She had a new afternoon tea dress, and here was a swatch so Jane could see how it would complement her complexion. Jane laughed, imagining Helen sending a swatch of complexion as well. Then she sobered as she started on the last page.