Of Sorrow and Such by Angela Slatter Read Free Book Online Page B

other than the tidy rectory.
    “And we have guests,” she continues as she fusses with her string bags of fruit and celery. “Important men from the Lodellan diocese.”
    “A long way from home,” I say lightly. “Some special honour for your husband?”
    She laughs without rancour. “Oh no. A criminal they’re seeking. A runaway. The archbishop has sent his hounds to find her. See?”
    She drops her bags and reaches into her pocket, pulling forth a piece of heavy paper, illmade. She unrolls it and shows me the black-and-white drawing: Selke’s waves of curling hair and large eyes, full mouth, and stubborn chin. It lists her name, says that the aforementioned eyes are green, the hair red, that she’s a thief and a murderess, an ungodly witch and to be feared, that she has committed crimes against Archbishop Narcissus Marsh of Lodellan and God. I suspect the deity would be put out to find himself listed second. I do not reach out to take it for fear my hands would tremble. I nod at the rough-sketched face.
    “A dangerous creature it seems,” I say with a steady voice. I pray that Selke is far away.
    “Oh yes,” Charity breathes and her tone is worshipful.
    “Well, take care of yourself, my dear. You know where I am if you need me.”

    Despite the promises I made to myself to not interfere, I sent Gilly off to pay my book bill in the hope that putting her in proximity with Sandor might help things along. Though I might feel tempted I would never use a love potion, for such love is never
true.
I wonder sometimes why I push her to this, to being a wife, and the sole answer I can find is because it’s the only chance I can see for her to have a safe life when I am gone. And at some point I will be gone, whether it be through death natural or otherwise, or a need to run. I
will
be gone and she will be alone.
    I’ve spent the afternoon in the cellar reading my mother’s book of
Magica
,
adding in the notes I took from Selke’s instruction, the things I learnt about her use of herbs and the waterweed in particular, of the living clay and all the things it might do. She said it was harder and harder to find nowadays, fewer and fewer suppliers, fewer folk willing to be caught digging in the saturated, sacred earth of a graveyard to harvest it, few willing to risk being found by either the church authorities or the corpse-wights that wait for unwitting souls. Hours passed without my noticing, so that by the time I put the tome securely away and came back upstairs, night had already fallen.
    When there is a battering on the front door I think how tired I am of that sound, how it seems to have become so regular in such short order. I curse the night Flora Brautigan came to me, I curse Ina Brautigan for sending her here, and I curse myself for offering help as it seems the demands for it will never end. I suffer no surprise to find Ina on the doorstep, her face whiter than usual so she looks like a ghost against the black of the evening, a hooded sable cloak held close about her. I suppress a sigh as I draw her into the house.
    “What has Flora done now?” I ask, and my tone is brisk and bitter.
    “Gone to the old mill. Or I think so. I can’t find her.”
    I shrug though I feel ill. “Why, for gods’ sake?”
    “You know why. That’s not the worst of it.” She gulps back her fear. “Cotton was meant to leave today, indeed he set off on his horse after lunch, but I just saw him return, then he and Karol left again, three men with them. They were heading to the old mill.”
    “Flora will talk. Flora is weak,” I say.
    “Gilly is with her.”
    It seems, in that moment, that the world splits open beneath my feet.

Chapter Eleven
    I wrap a dark cloak around myself, then press a long nail into my palm to draw the blood needed: a whispered incantation makes the night cling to me, and another dampens the sound of my footsteps; I press a few drops of red against Ina’s attire. Small spells, a small price. Ina