“Shhh, mother, not so loud,” Mia said. “Bjorn is in bed.”
Margarite frowned, thrusting her face closer to Mia’s. Mia took Margarite’s face in her hands and turned it.
“Your son is asleep,” she repeated directly in Margarite’s ear.
Margarite nodded gravely. Mia sighed, reaching up and smoothing back Margarite’s thinning white hair. It fell forward again, the ends smearing across the mess on her mouth.
Mia patted her own hair, her searching fingers pulling free the tortoise-shell comb, a wedding gift from Father Stefan. She admired its beautiful brown patterns for a moment. A lovely piece, not fitting for a housewife who never had visitors. Father Stefan had been so generous to give it to her when she was still a stranger. Bjorn had brought her here from another town years ago, and Father Stefan had been kind. This comb gave her courage to attend his Masses. The gift meant more to her than he could know.
She pushed Margarite’s hair back and tucked the comb into place on her head. Letting go, she ran her fingers across Margarite’s face. “There. That’s better. You look lovely.” Margarite grimaced and moaned.
“Is the pain worse today?” Mia asked, not expecting an answer.
Urine pooled under Margarite’s chair. Mia stood to grab some straw to scatter over it, holding her back in pain from so much work. She spread the straw under the chair and sat to resume the feedings. She could try asking again if anyone in town knew of more remedies she could try, but the women were so cold to her—all but Dame Alice. Dame Alice wanted to feed her, surely only to pry her heart open and see what Mia hid. Mia did not trust herself yet. Not enough time had passed. Her memories were still open wounds. Unless she could find a salve for those—a salve that made her forget.
Mia knew the women whispered of a healing witch who lived far off in the woods, but the thought of her frightened Mia. What good was a healing if it was cursed? Mia did not want healing if it angered the Lord. Even if healings could ease Margarite’s pain. Or save Alma, whose breathing became high whistles when the air turned cold. Every shriek for air, each shredding sound from her chest twisted Mia’s heart, making her half mad with fear.
Alma stared at Mia, raising one tiny, soft finger to wipe a tear off Mia’s cheek. Mia took her hand and blew a raspberry into it. Alma smiled and squealed, showering them both with pottage.
Bjorn stood in the doorway between the main room and the bedroom. His bedclothes were dark with sweat. Mia rose and took him by his arm, leading him to sit by the fire.
“I am sorry,” she said. “We woke you.”
He took the long spoon and used it to stir the ashes beneath the pot, then stood gazing at the swords hanging over their doorway and the pilgrimage badges on either side. Bjorn’s family was descended from a ghost warrior who served under Arminius. The memory of the ghost warriors of Germany still left villagers cold. Soldiers would paint themselves black, waiting until the darkest hour of night to attack. Victims saw only the whites of a ghost’s eyes before they died. Arminius had used them, used all the warriors Germany had, to betray his Roman master and slaughter the Roman army as they marched through the Black Forest. Ghost soldiers left a legacy of shrewd betrayals.
She watched Bjorn without speaking. There seemed to be no end to the emptiness behind his eyes. She alone knew this about him. She alone knew this secret, how empty his eyes could become. She blamed herself for being a poor wife.
Bjorn closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping forward.
“Bjorn, what is it?” she asked, a little fear pricking at her heart. Bjorn was not a weak man. He did not stumble under his burdens.
Bjorn reached for her skirts, pressing his face into her stomach.
“Bjorn.” She pushed him back to look at him, her hands trembling. “What has happened?”
Bjorn watched the fire. “I am tired,” he said.
“Bjorn, come,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Go back to bed, husband. There will be no more mischief for now. It’s daylight.” She pointed to the window. He did not move.
“Unless you would wish me to come with you.” She teased, trying to make him abandon this dark stupor.
He recoiled as if she had bit him. He stood up, glaring down at her.
“You don’t know what you are saying,” he said.
“Bjorn.”
“You have a child to tend to,” he said.
“Aye, and I’d like another,” she murmured, stung. Other women flirted outrageously with their husbands, and they found it delightful.