But how do I tell the reverend mother that?
She will not like the suggestion that he has used her for his own ends. Nor am I certain she will believe me. even so, I fetch a parchment and quill and do the unthinkable. I write a letter to the abbess to tell her why she is mistaken and that her liaison has given her false intelligence.
when I have poured out all my suspicions regarding Crunard, I seal the missive, then begin a second one. This message is for Annith and begs her to write me with the antidote for Arduinna’s snare. Sister Serafina must have something, some antidote she can send. If she does, Annith will surely find it. I also inquire after Sister Vereda’s health, wanting to know if she is still having visions.
when I finish, I approach Vanth’s cage. He is sleeping with his head tucked under his wing and is sorely put out at being wakened. I mumble an apology and secure the notes, then carry him to the window. “Fly fast, if you please. Much depends on this.” Then I toss him out the window. He spreads his wings and rises into the gray sky, and I watch until I can no longer see him.
That done, I dress quickly. There is one possible antidote I know of: a bezoar stone. I am not certain if it will work on poison passed through the skin, but it is worth a try. And there is only one person I can think of who might possess one.
It is nearly a half a day’s ride to the herbwitch’s cottage and even though I have never come this particular way, I have no trouble finding it. I have feared the old woman for most of my life. when I was younger and Mama had first sent me to her for tansy to treat my sister’s fever, I had hidden nearby, crying for hours. I was certain the woman would take one look at me, know that her poison had failed, and finish the job then and there.
Of course, she had not. She had merely beckoned me from the shadows, coaxing me with a bit of honeycomb dripping with golden honey — a rare treat I could not resist. when at last I believed she would not harm me, I had managed to stutter out what I had come for, which she gave to me and then sent me on my way. I had believed that she did not recognize me, and so my fear had left me.
But clearly I had been wrong, for it was she who came for me years later and whisked me away to my new life.
When I reach the small, squat cottage surrounded by a riotous garden, I dismount, tie the horse to the fence post, then open the gate. A merry little bell sounds, making me jump. I weave my way through the hawthorn hedge and the waist-high bushes of lavender until I reach the front door. It opens before I can knock and the herbwitch herself peers up at me through her rheumy eyes. “Still hovering, after all these years?” she asks. “Come in before you let all the warm air out.”
The cottage hasn’t changed much, nor has she. Her hair is still white, flyaway strands of thistledown; her eyes perhaps a bit more faded, her skin more wrinkled. Herbs hang from the ceiling, their sharp, peppery, sweet scents assailing my senses. Three small cauldrons bubble on the hearth, and all manner of clay beakers, pots, and copper dishes cover her tables. It is surprisingly similar to Sister Serafina’s workshop.
"What brings Death’s handmaiden to my humble door?” she asks, not looking the least bit humble. Mayhap she even gloats somewhat.
I open my mouth, then hesitate. It was she who sent me to the convent three years ago. will she know that by seeking an antidote, I am going against their wishes? will she care?
Ignoring my gaping silence, she begins to speak. “I always expected to see you again someday, wanting to know about your mother, no doubt.”
My mother. It is not until she says the word that I realize I am hungry for such knowledge. what had caused my mother to lie down with Death in the first place? Had she been forced? Or had He taken her by the hand and led her away from her harsh life for a few stolen moments of . . . what? Pleasure? Love? Respite? what could Death offer someone such as my mother? And if it had been love, why had my mother sought to expel me from her womb?
The old woman takes a seat near the fireplace and waves her gnarled hand for me to follow. “The first time I saw your mother was when your father — no, not your real father, but that lout she married — brought her to me. He marched her up to my doorstep, holding her arm so tight she had bruises for two weeks after. Gave her arnica root for that, by the bye.”
“And?”
She settles back into her chair, savoring her hungry audience. I do not imagine she gets one all that often. “And he demanded I do something to expel the babe in her womb.”
My mother hadn’t wanted to get rid of me, then. It had not been her choice. Some great, dark weight lifts from me.