“Would you like me to clean your kitchen?” Still, there was no reply. “I know you weren’t expecting me today, but I wanted to repay you for the time I missed.”
When she still didn’t answer, I began my work. Cobwebs were never in short supply at the witch’s cottage, it seemed, as if the spiders knew they were more welcome here than in town. I swept her hearth and scrubbed the floor, aired out her linens, and beat dust from her ratty curtains until there was more dirt clinging to me than there was to the cottage.
At last, as I picked up the sodden cloak I’d laid out to dry by the low-burning fire and fastened it around my shoulders, thinking of home, Morag limped toward me. Her expression was as vague as ever in the low light.
“Well?” she rasped.
I blinked. How was I meant to respond?
The silence between us grew. I removed my cloak again, not sure how long the witch planned to keep me standing there, when she said, “The snigs. You obviously didn’t find any. So where’s my bucket?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry. If you’d like, I can buy some snigs. And I’ll pay with my earnings. Things took such a strange turn yesterday that I forgot about the time. It won’t happen again.”
After a moment’s pause, I added, “Ma’am.” I didn’t want to offer her my excuse until I’d had more time to gauge her mood.
Morag narrowed her eyes, but then her face relaxed. “Never mind the snigs. They weren’t important.” She turned to the stove. “Fetch the kettle. It’s nearly time to eat.”
Relieved, I grabbed the kettle and poured steaming water into two mugs. “Were the snigs for one of your spells?”
Morag shuffled over, carrying a pan of what looked like cake. “Oh, no.” She smiled, displaying all her gray teeth. “I meant to bake a pie. Since you didn’t return with my snigs, I made blackberry instead.” She offered me the hilt of a large knife. “Seeing as you’ve made this place spotless, you can take the first slice.”
Pie. She had sent me to the beach—aware of my fear—so she could bake a pie? I clenched my teeth while trying to maintain a pleasant expression on my face.
“Go on.” Morag waved a hand at my plate. “Try a bite.”
My skin prickled with annoyance, though, just now, her expectant air as she held out the pie reminded me a bit of my gran. Grandad’s death had undone her, and a fever claimed her just a year after his passing.
I forced a smile and cut a small slice. The witch hadn’t attempted to poison me in the past week, so I slipped a forkful of berries past my lips. They burst open, oozing sweetness on my tongue.
“How is it?”
“Quite good.” I took another bite. “It’d go well with milk. Or with an explanation of why you sent me to the beach for pie fixings when I’m afraid of the water.” Startled by my own daring, I dropped my fork. It hit the table with a clatter.
“You were safe,” Morag huffed, reaching for her tea. She glanced at the charm resting against my breastbone. “You still are, long as you keep that on.”
“Oh. Right.” I’d forgotten the hideous Bollan Cross, the fishbone around my neck. “You’re certain you don’t want it? Surely, you could put it on, and go to the beach yourself.”
Morag pushed my mug across the table until it bumped my elbow. “It’s yours. I insist. I’d like my bucket back, though.”
I lifted the mug and took a sip of flowery tea. “I know. And I’ll replace it, as I’ve said. I would’ve done so already, but I was busy saving a boy’s life yesterday.”
“You saved someone? Pray tell, from what?” Morag glowered at me, but beneath her sharp expression lurked … a glimmer of interest. “Tell me the story then, lass. For all I know, you’re just making up excuses for not hunting snigs.”
“The story?” I frowned into my tea. Perhaps living alone for so long accounted for the witch’s abruptness, but she still made me as uncomfortable as wet clothes.
“Tell me how you saved the boy.”
“I found him in the shallows while I was looking for snigs. At first, I thought he was dead. Something tore up his middle—a beast with giant claws, perhaps.”
Morag’s foot smacked against a table leg, making me jump.
“Are you all right?” I started to rise from my seat.
“Yes, yes. It’s this old foot.” She thumped a hand against her left shin. “Has a mind of its own some days.”
Her skirt’s hemline revealed a few inches of bare ankle and calf, the skin there scarred, white, and puckered where a wound hadn’t healed properly. The deep indents around her ankle reminded me of the tooth-marks left on my forearm when Grayse had bitten me as a toddler, but Morag’s looked more severe, as though they’d been made by a knife’s tip.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
Morag shifted, pulling her foot from view. “Doubtless your mam’s told you: staring’s not polite.”