Bessie approached me.
“Begging your pardon, Miss. How does it go?”
“The elixir will help to ease the fever. She will wake throughout the night. But I can care for her.”
“Yes, Miss,” she replied with a nod and retreated from the room.
Finally, alone with Lady Margaret, I set about preparing the room. By the glow of the fire, I arranged a circle of yarrow and vervain, each stalk of the hallowed herbs an emblem of protection. I burned dragon’s blood incense. The glint of moonlight through the curtains spurred me in my endeavors. I recited another incantation, this one louder than the last, calling the spirits to cure her of her ailments.
Then it began, the period of restlessness, marked by moments of lucidity among delirium. When she awoke, I encouraged her to drink the elixir. When she slept, I read by the candlelight. If she felt hot, I bathed her forehead. If she felt cold, I wrapped the bedclothes around her. With each tender moment of care, of my skin upon hers, my heart beat stronger for her. In the early hours of the morning, I fell asleep, seated on thefloor beside her bed, my head resting upon the softness of her bedclothes.
At dawn’s dim edge, her soft hand touching mine stirred me from my slumber. I lifted my head to meet her gaze. Her eyes fluttered open, and a faint smile graced her lips. Her gaze was stronger, but her body still appeared weak. I rose from my position, took my knife from my satchel, and sliced into a pomegranate, the tart fresh aroma piquing my senses.
I offered her the first seed, resplendent in its crimson glory, and she parted her lips. Then the next and the next. As the seeds tumbled from my fingers into her mouth, I whispered, “May your blood be pure, your heart brave, and your desire unwavering. Love me as the earth loves the seeds within you.” The soft yielding of her mouth against my finger quickened my pulse as nurture and desire mixed within me. I fed her the second fruit, juicier than the last. The juice stained her lips, as if her color had returned. Around us, the shadows stirred.
It was not soon after that Bessie came to inquire after her mistress, and to warn me that Doctor Brown was to arrive within the hour. I prepared to take my leave, gathering the spent husks of the pomegranates, my circle of herbs and the bottle of elixir. I gently grasped Lady Margaret’s hand in mine, then ran my fingertips onto her wrist, sensing her pulse.
“Sleep, my lady,” I said in hushed tones, “and you shall feel exceedingly improved.”
“Must you leave?”
“I ought to. The physician will visit soon.”
I gently placed her hand on the bed beside her, then bid my adieu.
* * * *
As the last colors of the sunset faded from the sky onthe evening next, she came to me. She stood at my threshold, looking radiant in a gown of forest green, her recovery most evident. At this most beautiful vision, my heart raced madly.
“My lady,” I murmured, overcome by her presence.
“Please, call me Margo,” she said as she crossed the threshold and entered my humble cottage. “Katharine, you have afforded me the pleasure of using your Christian name, and I must reciprocate.”
She surveyed the drying herbs and flowers that hung from the rafters, my books, and the trinkets of a woman of my lineage. A strange sense of inadequacy suddenly overcame me. My cottage was nothing like the ballrooms and drawing rooms she was accustomed to.
“Your cottage is delightful, and it’s aroma exceedingly pleasant,” she said as she approached me at my position by the hearth where I stirred the ingredients for a sleeping tincture. “As is its owner.”
She stood before me, a picture of genteel loveliness. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Her teal eyes restored to their former radiance. No shadow of her ill health remained.
“I am most indebted to you, dearest Katharine. Bessie informed me of all that you did for me in my hour of need.”
“Margo,” I replied, her name sounding most delightful on my tongue. “It is not a debt. I wished to restore you back to health. To heal you…I did not wish to lose you.”
With not a second thought, I pulled her hand to my lips and placed a kiss upon it. She let out a soft sigh. Her hand fell to her side as I let go of it.
“Katharine,” she breathed, “my miraculous recovery puzzles the physician, Dr. Brown. He has his suspicions that you played a hand in my recovery.”
Her bosom rose with steady breaths, catching my attention momentarily. But her words drew my gaze back tohers.
“At first, I thought I dreamed it, the soft poetry or scripture that echoed in my bedchamber. But then, as my head became clearer and my health improved, I realized that it was not a dream. I had heard it with my own ears. It was something else, something different…”
Her words trailed off, but her gaze remained fixed on me. She took another breath, deeper than the last, and found her words, “are you…a witch?”
Her candidness shocked me, but I remained calm. More than the pomegranate’s restorative powers, even more than its enhancement of love, it was about to unlock my truth.
“Margo, I cannot deny it.”
She did not pull away, nor did she turn her gaze from me.
