Page 3 of The Queen’s Witch

“—have yer ceremony now. It be her wish—no, do not glare at me; did ye think we never discussed such a chance? Her wish be that ye take her familiar while she can still give it. Sarah, give Frances some of that wine.”

Mistress Prentiss’s hand shook as she broke the seal on my wedding wine and poured it into a pewter cup. Raising Grandmother’s head, she held the cup to her mouth. Some of its liquid dribbled over Grandmother’s lips, but she swallowed enough that her color brightened slightly. Gently, Mistress Prentiss turned Grandmother’s head to face me.

Grandmother could not be dying—she must not. I could not do without her. Mother Redcap was ancient, but Grandmother was so much younger. She must not die.

“Do something!” I cried to the roomful of Sisters. “Help her!”

Mother Redcap’s voice hardened. “She be beyond our help. No one can hold back death. Stand up, Alysoun. Do what Frances asks, and do it now. There be not much time.”

I stood. The room blurred, wavered, and I fought to stay upright. Have my ceremony now? Become a cunning woman while Grandmother lay dying? But . . . this be Frances’s wish. Her dying wish. Still, I could not . . .

I must.

Stumbling to take my place in the circle of women, I proceeded through my ceremony as if spelled, unable to do anything, to think anything except what I was told. It was as if I watched myself from above, somewhere on the herb-festooned, candle-blackened rafters. It was all happening to someone else, someone who belonged in the evil dream of Grandmother’s death, as I did not.

The other women began chanting. Matilda, outside the circle, watched wide eyed as my grandmother’s familiar, Pipkin the brown mouse, was placed first on Grandmother’s breast and then into my shaking hands.

Mistress Prentiss handed me a cup. “Drink,” she said gently, and I obeyed.

Mother Redcap said, “Open your bodice . . . Good. Put the familiar to your breast.”

I pulled down my shift and held Pipkin against my breast, where Mark’s hand had so recently rested. Pipkin nipped gently and swallowed a drop of my blood.

“Now repeat after me. ‘I, Alysoun, daughter of Joan, daughter of Frances, daughter of Camma, the descendant in blood of Ælfwynn of olde—’”

“I, Alysoun, daughter of Joan, daughter of Frances, daughter of Camma, the descendant in blood of Ælfwynn of olde—”

“‘—step from impotence into knowing, from night to dawn—’”

“—step from impotence into knowing, from night to dawn—”

“Speak up, child. ‘—to become a wielder of small magicks for the aid and solace of men and women.’”

“—to become a wielder of small magicks for the aid and solace of men and women.”

Mother Redcap began another chant. The cup, filled with more wine, was put into my hand, and I felt a jolt, a shifting within me of something nameless. I drank, and over the rim I saw Grandmother close her eyes and give a great shudder.

“It is done,” Mother Redcap said. I rushed back to the settle as my cup clattered to the floor. I put my ear to her chest, my fingers to her wrist—nothing. Grandmother was dead. A shudder ran through my whole body, and for a moment I could not see. Then sobbing overtook me in great racking shudders. Grandmother, who had raised me in so much happiness and love . . . Grandmother.

“Oh!” said young Matilda, the only other sound. Then, after what seemed an eternity but must have been only a few minutes, Matilda screamed again, a shriek of pure terror.

Grandmother’s eyes flew open. Her cooling corpse rose into the air and began to jerk and howl, the lappets of her cap twisting wildly around her head.

“What is it? What is it?” Matilda cried, staring in horror at the screaming body writhing in midair. “Make it stop!”

Mother Redcap, moving faster than such an ancient woman should be able to, grabbed Grandmother by the shoulders and forced the corpse back onto the settle. She put her mouth over Grandmother’s and breathed, her right hand curving into rapid shapes I had never seen before. This went on for long moments before my grandmother’s body stilled and slid to the floor, too heavy for Mother Redcap, again an ordinary bent crone, to keep on the polished wood.

Matilda began to cry. Ignoring her daughter, Mistress Prentiss said, “Is Frances safe?”

Mother Redcap glanced at me. “We be safe here.”

I grabbed Mother Redcap’s bony shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘We be safe here’? What just happened? Tell me!”

“If ye do not release me,” the old woman said evenly, “ye will not live to hear what happened.”

I let her go and, as reason returned, said, “I am sorry! But—”

“There are no buts, girl. Not even for ye. Never lay violent hands on a thrice-braided witch. Never.”