Page 66 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Safety

Moll spent the night in the corner of the laundry, watching the mushrooms she’d so painstakingly gathered wither and wilt on the floor. She could do nothing but pray that Charlotte and Lady Haddon still lived—but truly, what was the point? Even if they had survived the night by some miracle, she could no longer help them. The mushrooms were destroyed, and even if she could freely wander into the wood to harvest more, she must wait for the light of the moon. There wouldn’t be enough time. Charlotte, for certain, would not last the day, and from what she knew of Lady Haddon, ‘twas likely she was in the same dire straits.

The two men tasked to guard her had spent an uneasy night watching her every move. Each time she coughed or even shifted on the makeshift pallet in the corner of the laundry, their hands moved to the hilts of their blades as if she would turn into some dragon creature they would be forced to slay.

Soon after the morning bells rang, the laundry door slammed open and the men leapt to their feet as Lord Haddon and Taran strode into the room.

Moll’s heart leapt to her throat. She searched Taran’s face for a hint of Charlotte’s fate, and at his slight nod, exhaled in relief.

Then, Lord Haddon barked at the guards. “Out.”

The men hesitated, but as Taran turned their way, they left without a word, and the latch had no sooner clicked shut, then Lord Haddon stood before her.

“Save her, Moll,” he rasped, his lean cheeks sunken with worry. “Save her and I’ll let you go unharmed. You’re a witch. Save her with your magic.”

Moll swallowed.

“I must be mad,” Lord Haddon choked as he turned away.

Then, Taran was there, pulling her briefly into his arms. For a timeless moment, she focused on the steady beat of his heart. How she wanted to stay there, safe and at peace, but now ‘twas clearly not the time. “Charlotte?”

The muscle on his jaw twitched. “She holds on, still,” he whispered in her ear.

Moll closed her eyes, again savoring the relief—but it was a relief short-lived.

She slipped from his embrace and rushed to the mushrooms still scattered about on the floor, their caps crushed and the stems ground into the stones. A hot tear dropped onto the back of her hand as she simply knelt there and stared. ‘Twas too late. The mushrooms were damaged behind all hope. With no life left, what healing could they bring?

Moll’s stomach clenched with despair. “’Tis too late.” Her voice caught in her throat. She couldn’t help Lady Haddon or Charlotte, now.

“Can ye not find more?” Taran asked, dropping to one knee beside her.

She shook her head and wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

‘Twas then she saw it, something small, white from the corner of her eye. ‘Twas a mushroom. A single one had rolled far from the others. All sounds around Moll faded away. She stretched out her hand, slowly, refusing even to breathe as with the greatest of care, she picked up the fragile mushroom by the stem. Cradling it in her palms, she carefully rose to her feet.

The pulse of life beat from the white-capped gills into her hands. This mushroom still thrived with life, but it wasn’t enough. Tears burnt her lashes. She wasn’t powerful enough. Even her mother wouldn’t have been able to capture the life beating within to brew a potion capable of saving one life, let alone two.

“’Tis not enough,” Moll whispered aloud.

Taran’s strong hand dropped on her shoulder to give her a comforting squeeze. “I have faith in ye, lass.”

Moll snorted. How could she expect him to understand?

Then, a new voice spoke, coming from across the table. “Dinna fear, lass. There’s no stronger than ye in all the lands. For this, were ye made. Hurry. There is so little time for them both.”

As if in a dream, Moll glanced up to see a lady standing there, clothed in white. Mist swirled about her like a cloak and her raven hair fell down to her waist in waves. She was young, beautiful, but ‘twas her bright, unearthly eyes that startled Moll the most.

“Bertha?” she gasped.

The moment her lips parted, the vision vanished before her eyes, leaving her staring in shock.

“Bertha?” Taran’s puzzled baritone rumbled by her side.

Moll licked her dry lips. Raised by the most powerful witch in Wales, Moll had been trained, and had on occasion, experienced extraordinary things—but never something such as this. She closed her eyes and shivered.

Making up her mind all at once, she lifted her head, resolute. “I must hurry. There is so little time for them both.”

She lost herself to the brewing, then. Dimly, she recalled Taran remaining in the room, but he stayed well out of her way. Whispering the words of power all the while, she boiled the water, trimmed the single, lone stalk and with every last fiber of her being, prepared the brew.