One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries by Marianne de Pierres Tehani Wessely Read Free Book Online Page B

howls.
     
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    Cora had gone from Brona’s hovel straight to her quarters. Straight to her own small corner of milord’s great manor, and into her husband’s bed. Convinced, at last, they’d conceive a child who would stay. Who would cling to her, and hold fast.
    At first Cole is surprised by her enthusiasm. Then fervent. Eager. Delighted as Cora slides up and down on him. She isn’t dry tonight; her nethers don’t rasp against his. For once, this isn’t a brief, grunted rutting. Cora is liquid on top of him. She slurps and sloshes. Cole groans and moans with each glide of her. And he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts and hollers. Growls. Slaps.
    “ What is this, woman?” he shouts, punching her off of him. She splays on the bed while he scrambles away, scrubbing at his red-soaked cock, yanking up his red-soaked trousers. The feather bed, a wedding gift from Cora’s mother, is awash with crimson.
    There should be no blood until a baby is born , she thinks, smearing the scarlet on her bloomers, staring at it blankly. Her husband retreats, head moving from side to side like a confused hound. Seeing the bewilderment on Cora’s face, Cole hesitates, and hope rises in her that he might, just this once, offer some sympathy. Some care. What he gives is his broad back. The door closing behind him as expressive as Cole is ever likely to be.  
    Cora inhales deeply, gathers herself. She has felt this before. Has no doubt she’ll experience it again. Down the hall, she grabs thick rags and a worn calico belt from the linen cupboard, into which she struggles, refusing to cry.
    In the pantry, there is dried nettle and yarrow to staunch the flow.
    Her feet are leaden on the stairs.
    She doesn’t give M’Amie a second thought until she reaches the kitchen. Sees the carmine trail dragging from the fireplace to the closed pantry door. It takes all her strength to push it open. To step aside and let a sliver of morning light splash across the girl’s shivering, huddled form. Her twisted, desperate face. The bloat in her nightdress. The blood.
    Little bitch , she thinks again, but half-heartedly. Little bitch, little bitch, that baby should’ve been mine .  
    Might be it still can…
    Cora grabs the herbs she needs, enough for herself and for the ailing maid. “Come. Now,” she says. She’ll make a quick poultice for each of them, jam it between M’Amie’s legs herself if she has to — the girl can’t lose the baby. A tisane, too, to slow things down, to keep the child within. The baby must be saved. Her grip on M’Amie’s arm — her young, plump arm — is harder than it needs to be. The maid squirms, but Cora’s hold tightens.  
    “ Get up,” she says, adding a boot to her command. “We’re going back.”
     
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    When tipped, the jars’ contents glide into the tub, graceful and playful as otters. The cunning woman stirs once or twice with a long wooden spoon, then abandons it in favour of flesh upon flesh. Water froths with the flickering slickering of overfed leeches. Brona’s lips twitch with a twickering smile. Once they’ve all latched, round mouths to round tracings, she hooks them in place with careful, precise whispers. Fixes them to Cavan’s skin.
    Her fingers, though soak-shrivelled and thick at the knuckles, are nimble. Submerged in the tub, they squeeze and stroke. Careful of the wyrms’ tender flesh, so delicate when engorged. They frisk gently, rubbing and tugging. Quick, confident motions. Ones she’s practised many times before, when accepting and returning favours. Giving and taking comforts. She milks the leeches, resisting the urge to clench, to rush. Rushing doesn’t return any favours. Rushing takes more than it gives. Time. Effort. Joys. Boys.
    Her fingers work and work, massaging. Coaxing spurts of her son’s soul from wriggling fat bodies, grey-white gouts of the spirit the leeches have feasted on in the Grumnamagh all