The good day had turned into a bad night. The tipsy woman that the universe had tossed his way had not taken kindly to being called by the wrong name twice in three minutes. That stuck-up tart had shoved off from his chest and upturned her half-full pint in his lap before storming away. He didn’t shout after her, mostly to avoid attracting attention to his soaked trousers, partly because he’d already forgotten her name again. He settled their tab with an extra tip for whoever might be mopping up that night and slunk home resigned to his fate. The chase was over. Tired and cranky, it would have come to nothing anyway. So, he slept, and in the morning rediscovered the note than William Harforth had given him in his discarded shirt. It read:
Violet Templeton
Four Meadows Farm on Auldcastle Road
Follow the curve near old boulder and turn left at big tree
Sir Roger knew Auldcastle Road well enough, and so was able to ignore Mr. Harforth’s directions of questionable use.
Four Meadows was a small farm, cleared from the wilds long ago. It sat in a little dip in the land; forest on one side, hills on the other. Most of this dip was a garden; shrubs, vines, vegetables flourishing in the sheltered sunlight. A small cottage, thoroughly worn but well-maintained, sat at the end of the path from Auldcastle Road. A picket fence contained a number of roaming chickens in the surrounding yard.
The only thing Sir Roger had eyes for was the tower. It stood opposite the dip from the cottage, looming over all, casting a huge sundial shadow. It was overgrown with climbing vines; only a small wooden door at the bottom and a large window at the top were clear of plants. Whatever castle it had once been a part of had long since crumbled away.
In the cottage’s back yard, next to a tiny woodshed and currently unoccupied chicken coop, a woman was chopping firewood and making a quick job of it. The timber stocks melted under her axe. Looking at her, Sir Roger felt relieved to have come bearing both crossbow and pistol. She was at least as tall as he and twice as stocky, thick with muscle. Her hair was cut short, dusty black curling tight against her scalp.
The woman did not stop chopping as he approached the back gate, nor as he entered it, nor as he paused a few feet from her. He watched her for a moment in silence, hands on hips.
“Good morning?” he said, when the waiting became too much.
“Morning,” said the woman. She brought her axe down again with a crackling thump. Still, she did not look at him. “How can I help ya?”
“I’m not looking for help, dear lady,” said Sir Roger, with a smile. “I’m looking for a witch.”
His dramatic pause went unnoticed.
“You won’t find one here.” Thump. “Sorry. Closest one I know is Ms. van Allen, up the moor there.” She indicated the hills to Sir Roger’s back with a jerk of her head. “Blue cottage past the mill.”
“Aha, well, I’m not looking for Ms. van Allen. Anymore,” he added. “The witch I want goes by Violet Templeton.”
The woman had been reaching for another block of wood. She paused and finally looked Sir Roger in the eye. Slinging the axe over her shoulder, she turned to face him. It was like staring down a bear.
“I’m Templeton,” she said, “but I’m not a witch.”
“Really? Not even a tiny bit?”
She shrugged at this. “A poultice every now and then is as far as I go. Who told you otherwise?”
“I’ll be able to answer that,” said Sir Roger, “after I’ve introduced myself properly. My name, Ms. Templeton, is Sir Roger Blank. I am currently in the employ of the Steadney Inquisition, acting as a liaison between inquisitors and inquisited. The Council, my dear, wishes to ask you some questions, and I wish to escort you to them.”
The look she gave him couldn’t have been more sideways had they been in two-dimensional space.
“What’s this about?” she asked coldly.
“About? About! Nothing. They’re simply looking for information.”
“Concerning what?” she persisted.
“Ms. Templeton, I cannot speak for them. I’m only a messenger,” said Sir Roger pleasantly. “If you would accompany me back to Blankston, they will explain themselves.”
“Ain’t going nowhere. Sorry,” she added, unconvincingly. “Not without good reason.”
“The inquisitors do not act rashly in the interests of public safety. I assure you, there is good reason.”
“Tell it to me, then.” She punctuated this statement with a little come-forth wave of her fingers. The first fiery creep of indignation flickered on Sir Roger’s face. Ms. Templeton did not give him a chance to rebut.
“Who’s orders you here on, boy?”
His lordship bristled further at ‘boy’.
“The Council’s, I told you,” he snipped. “If—“
“Who, though? Who brought me forward? What’s his name?”
“I don’t believe I need to tell you that, Ms. Templeton.”
In a swift, slow, single movement, she let the axe head fall from her shoulder into the palm of her opposite hand. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I don’t believe I need to allow you passage on my property,” she said, devoid of inflection. The witch hunter narrowed his eyes, and thought very carefully. The only thing more dangerous than a witch was a lawyer. The only thing more dangerous than a lawyer was an axe.
“William Harforth brought this case to the Council, I believe,” he murmured. The look of incredulity on her face was enough to wither a houseplant.
“Dear old Bill’s still thinking about me, eh? Isn’t that sweet of him. Listen, if he’s got something to say to me, he can come say it in person. I’m not lettin’ him tie up legality with his petty personal problems.”
“There is nothing petty about public safety, Ms. Templeton.”
She had already returned to her work on the woodpile. The conversation, it seemed, was over. Sir Roger set his hand firmly on the butt of his pistol.
“I really do think it’s best if you come with me,” he declared. She looked at him, at the gun; back at him.
“Don’t you threaten me.” It was an order, not a request. Sir Roger had to force himself not to move his hand. “You ain’t got a leg to stand on and you know it. Now, you get back to your Council and you tell Bill that he’s welcome to drop by any time he has the mettle to face me again. Until then we have nothin’ to talk about. Good day, sir.”
She turned back to her firewood, not sparing him another glance. The dip of the farm was filled once again with the echo of the chopping block. Sir Roger, after a moment’s careful reflection, came to a decision. Then, three things happened, three small things in perfect clockwork sequence.
First, the witch hunter reached up and over his shoulder for the crossbow at his back. His pistol was already loaded, but his aim wasn’t as good with the new-fashioned firearm. If he did have to fire on Ms. Templeton he wanted to be sure it wasn’t fatal.
Second, the back door of the cottage opened. Sir Roger was distracted by the motion, riveting on it, his arm hanging crooked in the air over his shoulder. The look of grim determination on his face froze, then faded, slower and slower until his mouth hung open. His eyes went wide.
A young lady had emerged from the cottage. A fairly plain young lady, as young ladies went. She had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a plain cotton skirt with sturdy boots. A basket was hooked on her arm.
Maybe it was the way the light touched her face as she stepped into the fresh morning air. Maybe it was the way she flicked her ponytail, catching a gentle breeze as it passed. Maybe it was the way she smiled at the sunshine, as if it were a treasured gift from an old friend. For any number of reasons, Sir Roger did not see a plain young woman step out of the cottage. He saw a goddess. He saw a vision. He saw beauty incarnate, the image of grace and all that was good in a sensible cotton dress.
Third, Sir Roger snapped his arm back to his side, standing stiffly, not sure whether he hoped to be noticed or not. As she approached the woman chopping firewood, the goddess spared him a momentary glance and a smile. His skin crawled.
If Ms. Templeton had noticed him reaching for his crossbow, she hadn’t acknowledged it. The goddess tripped over to her and said:
“I’m off to dig up some turnips, Auntie.”
“Sounds good, my girl,” said Ms. Templeton. “Could you grab a cucumber too?”
“Of course!”
The young lady turned her attention to the visitor in her midst. He appeared to be a bit soft in the head, staring at her slack-jawed. She gave him her most pleasant smile.
“Hello,” she said kindly. She looked to the other woman. “You have a visitor, Auntie?”
“Just a local boy lookin’ for a poultice,” said Ms. Templeton. Thump. “He ain’t stayin’ long.”
The goddess made a half-curtsey to him, and started off to collect her turnips. She passed by him on the way to the back gate. His head swivelled as she sauntered by, skirt swishing, hair rippling. The noise of the gate latch clanking closed behind her snapped him out of his stupor.
“I-! Uh-!” blurted Sir Roger suddenly, raising a gloved hand out to her. The young lady turned, surprised, and then relaxed into a smile. She waited politely for him to continue. He pulled his hand back in, curling it in a loose fist at his chest.
“My name’s Roger,” he squeaked.
“Oh,” said the young lady, “it’s very nice to meet you, Roger! My name is Lucy.”
“Yes, nice to, uh, meet…uh.” That seemed to exhaust his speaking capabilities.
“Have a wonderful day,” she said, pleasant and genuine. She curtseyed to him again and headed up the path to the turnip patch. He watched her until she vanished into a trellis of beans.
The thump and crackle of a log splitting startled him half to death. He whirled on the older woman, still focused on her work. Their eyes met as she looked up. She raised a querying eyebrow.
No, he agreed silently, there was nothing more to talk about today. He left with only a few glances back at the garden.
The laundry had been sorted and stacked away. Mantels had been dusted, floors had been swept. Night had fallen and the roast had come out of the oven at just the right time.
“I’ll see to the odds and ends, dear,” said Annabel, whisking off her oven mitts. “Could you set the table? Just one door down the hall, there. Oh, and Roger’s in tonight so don’t forget a place for him.”
Marigold gave her a quizzical look. “I thought lords and ladies didn’t eat with their staff.” Having grown up in a family where even housestaff were considered posh people, she couldn’t be sure.
Annabel smiled as she mashed some butter into a huge bowl of steaming potatoes. “It’s not done in other houses, no, but this one’s too empty not to. We’d never see the man if it weren’t for eating together.”
The servants’ dining room had a similar layout to the masters’ above, only smaller. They each sat the same dozen-or-so people, and had the same pair of sideboards flanking the door. Pine and birch for the servants, oak and mahogany for the masters. This went for the chairs and table as well.
From the sideboards, Marigold pulled three plates, three forks, three knives, and just to be on the safe side, three spoons. She chose, correctly, to set the three places closest the fireplace at the far end of the room. Annabel came in carrying the bowl of potatoes post-haste.
“Dear, could you put down a trivet for me?”
Marigold scuttled back to a sideboard and retrieved a metal trivet for the still atomically hot potatoes. Annabel dropped the bowl on top of it next to the table settings, smiled at her young protege, then frowned at the plates still awaiting their cutlery.
“Is Crone not joining us, dear?”
Marigold tried. She tried so very hard to put that sentence together. The most she could understand was ‘dear’.
“Sorry, what?”
“Crone. Is she not coming for dinner?”
“Sorry, who?”
Annabel suddenly became stern, what passed for her as stern: her eyebrows scrunched together slightly.
“That man!” she declared. “He didn’t even introduce you to Crone?”
“No, I suppose he didn’t,” admitted Marigold. “Who’s Crone?”
“She lives up in the tower, dear. A boarder, though I’m not sure what the rent is if any. She’s a sweetheart. And a witch, too! I know she’d love to show you a few things.”
Marigold leaned on a chairback with one hand, blocking Annabel’s return to the kitchen. She stared the older woman right in the face.
“Annabel,” she said firmly, “tell me right now and do not lie: how many witches live under this roof?”
The housekeeper smiled. “Three, heart, including you. I promise there won’t be any more surprises. Though knowing how little Roger has told you, perhaps I shouldn’t speak too soon!”
They met the man himself on their way back to the kitchen.
“There you are, you cheeky thing!” said Annabel. She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a platter of vegetables from the roasting pan. She thrust these into his lordship’s hands. “Set that down and use a trivet.”
The two witches could not help noticing the vacancy behind Roger’s eyes. He accepted the platter seemingly without noticing what it was.
“Done,” he murmured, and wandered off into the dining room. Annabel and Marigold exchanged the briefest of confused glances before retrieving the roast and a basket of bread, respectively. On their return to the table, Annabel was surprised to find that Sir Roger had in fact used a trivet. Marigold was surprised to find that he had not taken the seat at the head of the table, as she had assumed he would. They took up the two places across from him, leaving the head chair alone.
Annabel did not wait. She began doling out potatoes and roast onto her plate with gusto. Marigold followed suit, and nobody seemed to mind. Roger halfheartedly scooped some carrots onto his plate, some onto the table. A slice of roast was dragged to its doom beside.
“Are you feeling alright, dear?” Annabel asked of his lordship. It took a moment for his eyes to drift over her way.
“Hm? Sorry?”
“Do you feel sick at all, Roger? You don’t look well.”
“No, I feel, just…good,” he murmured, and smiled faintly. And kept smiling. Annabel reached over the table and felt his forehead. Satisfied that the plague was not about to take him, she shrugged at Marigold.
A shadow appeared in the doorway. Marigold watched, as politely as she could from the corner of her eye, as an old woman made her way past the rows of chairs. Compared to the average person, she was hunched and slow. Compared to the elderly that Marigold knew, she stood tall and walked quickly, using her cane in the most perfunctory way. Watching this, Marigold felt that the moniker of Crone was a touch hyperbolic. This witch was old, no one would argue that. Old enough to be Marigold’s grandmother, but this news had not seemed to have reached her. Her hair was entirely white; not a speck of grey remained, but was full and thick and tied in a neat bun at her neck.
Crone settled herself in between Roger and Marigold, hooking her cane on the back of her chair. She began to serve herself without a moment’s hesitation. Her hands did not shake as she broke a bread roll over her plate.
The old witch suddenly looked over to catch Marigold staring. A chill stole over the housemaid. She had only known the elderly to have clouds in their eyes. Crone had two clear skies, bright as a full moon in winter and just as full of stars. She didn’t seem to mind being observed, as she smiled.
“Got a name, then, girl?”
“Um, Marigold. My lady.”
Crone nodded as she sopped up some juices from the roast with her bread.
“Well met, Um-Marigold,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I’m the Crone I’m sure you’ve heard about.” The old woman looked to Roger, who was drawing patterns in his own roast drippings with a speared celery moon, then at Annabel with a raised eyebrow.
“I think he’s coming down with something,” whispered the housekeeper. Crone shrugged and turned to Marigold again.
“You were van Allen’s girl,” she observed.
“Er, yes, I was, my lady.”
“How’d you like it?”
“Oh, very much,” answered Marigold brightly.
“Do you have a speciality? Herbs, medicine, midwifery?”
The young woman considered this.
“I think I like apothecary the most, my lady. Unguents are just so fascinating.”
Crone nodded her approval, ruminating on a piece of soggy bread.
“How’d you like van Allen?”
Caught off guard, Marigold looked down at her potatoes.
“Er…she was always kind to me.”
Crone’s gaze did not waver for a moment, nor did her faint smile. Marigold cleared her throat.
“She was hotheaded, sometimes, I suppose,” continued the young woman. “But she taught me a lot.”
“Good to hear,” said Crone.
“Do you know her, my lady?” ventured Marigold.
“Not well. I heard of her more than saw her and that was enough for me. She never struck me as the witching sort, to tell the truth.”
Marigold did not know how to respond to this. Part of her wanted to object, and part of her knew that the truth had, as promised, been told. She ate some carrots to have an excuse not to speak. Annabel, similarly unsure what to say, defaulted to mothering mode. She stood in an awkward crouch to reach across the table and scoop up some of Roger’s potatoes and onions with his spoon. She offered these to his lips, currently humming something tuneless. He started from his stupor, wide brown eyes meeting Annabel’s stern blue ones; relaxed into a pout, and took the spoon from her. He dutifully ate its contents. Annabel sat back, satisfied that he would not waste away.
“D’you enjoy this work, girl?” continued the Crone, as if nothing had interrupted her flow. “Scullery and the like?”
“I do, my lady. Well enough,” added Marigold, as those two clear skies twinkled at her. “I’m happy just to be working. I like to put my own shirt on my back if I can.” She spared the slightly more coherent Sir Roger a nod across the table. “Lord Blank was awfully kind to make me such an offer.”
Crone snorted at this. Roger glared at her sideways, but said nothing.
“Don’t be fooled, girl. He’s kind when he’s told to be. Though, there are some who aren’t,” she added, defusing Roger’s daggers with a suddenly soft tone. “We can say that much for you, can’t we?”
“This is why I eat at the Ram’s Staff,” he muttered, largely to Annabel. Crone ignored him.
“Who told him to be kind?” asked Marigold, though she knew already.
“The only one who can, my girl. At supper a few nights ago he started running his mouth about van Allen’s arrest. I asked what had come of her apprentice and he said he’d handed her to the Elite and thought no more of it. I told him if he didn’t find her and offer her help before I could reach my walking stick he could say goodbye to his front teeth. And here we are!”
Marigold kept the old witch’s gaze as she thought.
“Well, I…suppose I should thank you, my lady, for thinking of me. And you, your lordship, for following through.”
Sir Roger nodded at her, working at a chunk of roast that Annabel had silently willed him to eat.
“You’ll still be a witch, if you wish it,” continued Crone. “For what it’s worth I think you should. You have the temper for it and that’s the important part. Annabel and I can see you through herbs and splints as long as your heart’s in it, which I know it is.”
Marigold thought back to the first day she’d set foot in Blank Manor. Her brief meeting in the parlour. Sir Roger glancing over her shoulder at a seemingly unoccupied doorway.
“You listened in,” she said. “To see if I might be a good student.”
“And it seems you are, my girl. Attentive, patient, and in your own words, ready to do the job in front of you. Yes, you’ll make a fine witch, if you don’t develop a taste for scullery.”
Marigold couldn’t help a smile.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” said Crone, “bring tea up to the tower. We’ll see where you’re at.”
