The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston Read Free Book Online

to enthrall her. Her mother’s wisdom had been passed down to her by her mother, and her mother before that had gathered herbs and plants to concoct remedies and tonics. Bess lacked her mother’s patience and wished she had more of her levelheadedness so that she might one day take up her work. She knew she had much to learn and at times heard exasperation in her mother’s voice when she forgot which tea softened the pains of childbirth or what oil should be given for ringworm.
    ‘Bess?’ Her mother called from the fireside. ‘Be quick with that cider.’
    Bess hastily resealed the oil and did as she was told.
    They ate their supper in familiar silence except for Margaret’s occasional commentary and the spitting of the fire. Light summer evenings were a blessing, but they brought long hours of work in the fields, and none of the family was inclined to energetic talk. With the table cleared, John sat by the last of the burning logs with his pipe. Thomas went outside to tend to the stock before night. Anne lit two candles and sat in her beloved rocking chair by the girls, who had already fetched their lacework and bobbins from the linen chest. Bess disliked the fiddly task and was never wholly satisfied with the results of her labors. Margaret, on the other hand, had a natural talent for the work, her nimble fingers speeding the bobbins this way and that with never a loose stitch or lazy finish. She put Bess in mind of a tiny garden spider spinning its web to catch the morning dew. Her sister became aware she was being watched and grinned at Bess. There passed between the two a silent communication, a tiny nod, a stifled laugh.
    ‘Go on, Bess,’ Margaret whispered, ‘ please!’
    Bess smiled but shook her head, using her eyes to remind her sibling of how close by their mother sat. She tried to focus on the lace. The low candlelight forced her to squint at the fine thread, and the effort was starting to make her brow ache. Irritation began to mount within her. Why should they have to ruin their eyesight and test their nerves with such bothersome work? Where was it written that she, Bess, must spend so many hours engaged in such vexing labor, just to put a few coins in the family purse? The thought of some well-to-do Lady, who no doubt spent her time on far more interesting pursuits, adorning herself with the results of Margaret’s handiwork brought a further knot of anger into Bess’s head. For a second she failed to keep a tight rein on her temper, and in that second it escaped, an invisible ball of pure energy. At once the candles on the table began to spit. Then, feeding on this rich new fuel, the flames grew, up and up, brighter and brighter. Anne gasped and jumped to her feet. Margaret squealed with delight.
    ‘Yes, Bess!’ she cried, clapping her hands. ‘Oh, yes!’
    The room was filled with light, as if a hundred candles had been lit. The flames towered above the table, threatening to reach the ceiling. John sprang to his feet and was on the point of dousing them with his cider when, abruptly, the candles went out. In the darkness Bess could not see her mother’s face, but she was certain she had heard the snapping of her fingers just a second before the flames had been extinguished. The air was heavy with the fatty smell of smoldering wicks. John took a spill from the fire and relit the candles. Anne’s expression was stern.
    ‘Press on with your work, girls,’ she said.
    An urgent knock at the door startled Bess so much she dropped the lace she had been clutching.
    John let in a red-faced boy of about twelve. He all but fell into the room, panting heavily.
    ‘Why, ’tis Bill Prosser’s nipper,’ John said. ‘Sit thee down, lad. What devil chases thee?’
    ‘Our Sarah,’ he blurted out, ‘the baby…’ He turned tear-filled eyes to Anne, ‘Will you come, Missus? Will you come?’
    ‘Is not Old Mary attending your sister?’
    ‘Was Old Mary sent me to find you, Missus. She told me to tell