“I’m fine.”
I steeled myself to storm off again just to prove how fine I was, but once again my head had different ideas and I made it one step before my whole body swayed as though I’d left my brain stuck in place behind me.
Madame Bracken was at my side with impressive speed given her usual hobbling pace. Although judging by the odd painless throb in my skull, it was entirely possible that my mind was not experiencing time as it happened. Still, she managed to catch at my elbow before I lost my balance, hauling me upright with both hands clutched tight around my arm. I turned my head to peer blearily at her – and found her startingly close, eyes round and fearful, and the ever-present furrow of her brow softened with concern. It was almost touching. I might have thanked her, had she not then bristled and released a string of obscenities under her breath.
“These old bones are not up to hauling around grown bloody women who can’t remember to feed themselves,” she huffed, but she curved a hand around my waist, wedging her shoulder beneath my arm and urging me forward. “Come on now, slow steps.”
She half-dragged me through the adjoining room to the kitchens, ignoring my feeble protests the whole way. Once inside, she led me to the corner with the little table where Sorcha and I ate our meals, and herded me into a chair with a grunt. It was already hot in here, as it always was, and the effort of carrying a woman twice her size had Madame Bracken stripping off her shawl and slinging it over the opposite chair as she huffed with exertion. The almighty bout of head rush had ebbed somewhat, and I made to scoot off my seat to get hersome water, but Madame Bracken clapped her hands at me like I was a misbehaving pet.
“Don’t you dare. Who am I to call if you pass out and crack your pretty golden head open?” She stabbed a gnarled finger at the table. “No, you sit there now until you’ve had a bite to eat.”
I’m not sure why I did as I was told. Perhaps it was because my Flame stirred within me at her demand, almost pleading in the way its glow stroked at my heart as if to sayslow down. So I did. Madame Bracken bustled about the kitchen, peering into cupboards at random and pulling out the items she wanted; sugar, honey, bread, an assortment of tea leaves and dried herbs, fruits, a small copper pot. She glanced up at me intermittently from beneath a furrowed grey brow, muttering to herself all the while.
Gods, she was a mean old crone. I flinched at the odd word I caught, drawing a little further into myself and reaching for the comforting warmth of my Flame with every hiss she sent my way, every briskclickof her knife against the cutting board.
“You’ve made a living of caring for others,” she finally huffed aloud, eyes on whatever she was stirring in the pot. “You should know how to care for yourself by now.”
“My friend died,” I said. I’d meant it as a retort, but the words came out far too quiet to have any real bite.
Madame Bracken looked at me, and though her stern expression didn’t so much as flicker, she didn’t say anything more. She went back to her pot, each brisk stir wafting a sweet, fragrant steam my way and making me aware for the first time of the painful emptiness in my belly. She set the pot aside and sliced up a large hunk of bread, slathering it thick with butter and honey, then ladling whatever was in the pot into a teacup. My newly awakened stomach was gnawing at itself by the time she set the small meal before me and if I had cared what she thought of me I might have been a little embarrassed at the way I tore into the bread. I’d finished half of it in two bites before turning to the cup of tea. I paused the moment the rim touched my lips, my brain already alert enough for self-preservation toseep through the fogginess. I shot her a glance over the teacup.
“What sort of tea is this?”
Madame Bracken arched a brow from her seat across the table.
“I’m not a hedgewitch, herbalist, potioneer, or whatever else you’re imagining,” she said, flapping a hand at me. “Dagda’s arse, it’ssweet tea. Your body is running on fumes, you need a good dose of sugar.”
I watched her over the rim as I took a sip. She could hardly blame my wariness, could she? It wasn’t as though she’d been especially warm towards me – or anyone else – over the course of her stay. I was about to tell her as much, but was momentarily distracted by the explosion of flavour over my tongue. Complex and sweet, the taste of fruits and fragrant herbs layered over the rich, bitter flavour of the dried leaves. It was so good I couldn’t help but take a full gulp, even though it was still slightly too hot to do so and prickled at my throat all the way down.
“This is… very nice tea.”
She sniffed, which seemed to be her begrudging way of accepting my weak compliment.
“Yes, well. You don’t get to where I am without learning to take care of the people around you.”
“Your family?”
Her head snapped up, eyes sharpening as they widened.
“Your sons, and grandsons,” I clarified.
By the suddenly closed look on her face, I realised her taciturn nature didn’t just apply to thatrelationship with magicwe’d skirted around.She seemed a little horrified that I knew she evenhada family, let alone that she’d shared so many details in an apparently long forgotten rant.
“Yes, my family,” she said finally.
I took another sip, just for something to do as the silence stretched and wobbled.
“Well, I appreciate it.” I offered a wry smile; “Though honestly after the week I’ve had, I might need something a little stronger.”
She snorted out a little laugh.
“You and me both, Rosaleen.”
I didn’t think I’d ever heard her say my name before. I was alwaysgirloryou thereor, if she was particularly vexed, a simple click of her fingers. I didn’t realise I was smiling until she narrowed her eyes at me, the wicked green disappearing into the folds of her weathered face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You have an accent.”
