In such circumstances, Grayling wondered, would I choose the cottage over such magic as Desdemona Cork’s? The word cottage awakened memories of rain on the roof thatch, the comforting whisper of her mother’s spinning wheel, and mugs of warm cabbage soup. Soup. Her belly rumbled. Desdemona Cork’s roast meat seemed so long ago. When might they eat again? And what? Would they be reduced to catching and cooking weasels and badgers?
“I have gone my limit,” Auld Nancy said at last, while the sun still shone in the sky, “and can walk no more now, not with these old bones.” She sat on a stump and rubbed her knees, and Sylvanus dropped down beside her. Pansy slid off the mule’s back and stretched. Grayling could not say who looked the more weary.
She put her basket down, and Pook the toad crawled out. He flipped his pink tongue at a passing insect, snatched it right out of the air, and gulped it down. Then with a shudder, he became Pook the mouse again. “This mouse is grateful for this new shifting,” he said, “for he feels much disgust at the eating of bugs.” He spat a tiny spit before clambering up Grayling’s skirts and into her pocket. Grayling peered into the basket with its cargo of blackened herbs, bits of broken jars, and toad droppings. With a homesick sigh, she dropped it at the side of the road.
She turned to Auld Nancy and, at the sight of her drooping there, frowned with concern. Auld Nancy had been less peevish of late, Grayling realized, and less bossy, as if she did not have the strength. Pain marked the old woman’s face as she rubbed her neck and her knees.
Grayling bent down to Sylvanus. “Is there aught you can do to relieve Auld Nancy?”
The magician shook his head.
“Not spell? Charm? Incantation?” Grayling grew increasingly frustrated with him. “Not draught? Elixir? Brew? Anything?”
Sylvanus waved her away. “I choose not to deplete my skills by using them on petty complaints.”
Grayling scowled at his selfishness and dropped down next to Auld Nancy. “I have heard my mother sing a song,” she said to the old woman, “that might help with your pains.” She began to chant, slowly and softly:
Aches from cold,
Aches from old,
Aches, go away.
Rub rocks and stones,
And not old bones.
Aches, go away.
Let Nancy rest,
Not feel so old.
Aches, go away.
After a few moments, Auld Nancy stretched her limbs and smiled. “I believe that did help some. Almost like magic. Gramercy, Grayling.”
“You would do better to thank Hannah Strong, for it be her song.”
“Aye,” Auld Nancy said, “but ’twas your voice and your goodwill.”
When they were ready for the road once more, Sylvanus helped Auld Nancy onto the mule. Pansy, of course, sulked. Grayling reflected that Pansy was irritating, annoying, and a hindrance on this journey. Why hadn’t Auld Nancy sent her back to her mother? Her mother was a reader of palms. Perhaps she had a grimoire and enough magic to be rooted, too? Was that why Pansy was here?
No matter the why. Pansy was here and walking next to Grayling. “When did you come to Auld Nancy?” Grayling asked.
“’Twas shortly after Lammas Day. My mother sent me to make something of myself.”
“Were you not something already?”
“Not something my mother approves. For the most part, she looks at me and sighs.”
“I know that sigh,” said Grayling, shaking her head. “Feeble Wits, my mother calls me, and Pigeon Liver. Are you now becoming something?” she asked Pansy. “Has your time with Auld Nancy changed you? Are you—”
Pansy interrupted. “I hope we will be eating soon.”
Seemingly not, then, Grayling thought.
“We turn here,” Sylvanus called, and he led the mule onto a rutted path that headed due south.
“Nay,” Grayling said. She gestured to the west. “The grimoire is this way.”
“We must first call on the widow Bagley, whose cottage is through here. She has a cinnamon and garlic cheese I must sample. Certes, the struggle between the two strong essences will provoke especially powerful visions.”
While Grayling stuttered “but . . . but . . . but . . .” and pointed west, Desdemona Cork, stumbling over a tree root on the rough and rugged path, asked, “Cheese? We are doing this for cheese?”
“Aye. As you know, I am an adept of divination with cheese.”
“I thought that was a silly jest,” said Grayling as she joined the others on the path to the cheese woman’s cottage.
Sylvanus scowled at her. “Many things,” he said, “have the power to foretell the future or discover what is hidden. Not only cheese but dust, flour, roosters, and ice, if you know how to use them.”
“Nay,” said Grayling.
“Aye,” said Sylvanus. “Also spiders, pig bladders, and shoes.”
“Truly?” asked Grayling.
“Truly,” said Sylvanus.
Grayling shook her head. The world outside her valley was full of wondrous things, but was the wonder worth the trouble?
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