Page 72 of Bane Bloom

Hamish Graham, from the neighboring farm, called early this morning. He has a mare in birthing difficulty, and I’ve gone back with him. I’ll return as soon as I may, but the walk is short, should you need me. Graham Farm is the one on the slope above the road, before the woods.

I’d met Mr. Graham, of course, at church the previous day. He’d mentioned being a neighbor, but I hadn’t realized he was the nearest. This note told me something else, too: Thomas was on friendlier terms with at least one of his neighbors than I’d realized. He had told me he sometimes traded for things he needed, so I supposed it stood to reason. Nor was it particularly surprising to find he knew something of horses, as he had Daisy to care for and seemed knowledgeable about the fell ponies.

I went down to make breakfast—and discovered it was nearly eleven. Had Thomas used his sleep spell on me again?

Thomas is the sleep spell.

It seemed a kind of magic that his presence alone was enough to either waken all my senses or lull them.

He’d not returned by the time I finished breakfast, and I decided to go on with my work without him. I wasn’t sure he would approve, but I had to be practical about things. Who knew how long he might be, and I had already slept through a good part of the day.

I entered the glasshouse with some trepidation, but I remembered what he’d said about wards, and I also noticed a jar of cowslips on the tea table under the fig tree. I didn’t see how these delicate flowers could provide any real protection from the likes of the fairy queen, and indeed I’d read in Arthur Bane’s book that cowslips were beloved by fairies. But he’d also said they could ward against fairy malevolence, and the Elfbloom spirit had clearly been bothered by them. Perhaps they signaled a person’s benevolent intentions toward fairies, or could even serve as a kind of fairy conscience.

I wasn’t fool enough to scoff, at this point, and I plucked a stem from the jar and threaded it into my hair before I went to work. And whether thanks to the cowslips, the wards, or the fact that my thoughts were more lucid today, I experienced no more unwelcome visitors.

Thomas returned in the late afternoon, so sweaty and blood smeared he wouldn’t come into the house, but he bore tidings of the long and difficult yet successful birth of twin foals at Graham Farm. I was girlishly glad to see him, but after tearing a hunk of bread from a loaf he’d brought back with him (along with a basket of eggs), he said he had “nets to set for Mrs. Foss’s fete.” Which I supposed meant he had promised fish for her feast.

I went to the sitting room window and watched as he hauled his boat to the beach. He loaded his net and the oars and then stood and gazed out at the lake, running a hand through his hair. He bent and took off one boot, then the other. I leaned closer to the window as he peeled his braces over his shoulders and began unbuttoning his shirt.

I swallowed as he shrugged it off, and as he waded in to his waist, soaking his trousers, I all but pressed my nose to the glass. Scooping up water, he scrubbed blood, sweat, and other fluids from his arms and chest, and when he’d finished, he ducked under the water.

I held my breath until he erupted from the surface, water sluicing down his torso, shaking droplets from his hair. I didn’t turn from the window until he’d dressed again and climbed into his boat.

It was the last I saw of him that day. Just before sunset I returned to the glasshouse to sketch, and when I went back inside, I saw from a window that the boat rested on the beach, bathed in moonlight. No sign of Thomas, and his hut was dark.

I waited awhile to see if he’d come in for supper, but he didn’t.

I began to think he was avoiding me.

Not having much appetite, nor feeling motivated to cook for only myself, I cut some bread and cheese, took a novel from the bookshelf, and went upstairs. I ate the meager meal in front of the fire, and as I was climbing into bed with my book, I discovered a small bundle of fragrant herbs on my pillow—valerian, dried lavender, and thyme.

Left by Thomas, presumably. But no substitute for him.

I woke to sounds downstairs—Thomas lighting the stove, grinding coffee beans. I didn’t know what time he’d come in last night, and I might have worried, had his herbs not done their job so well. I was pretty sure I’d fallen asleep before ten, and I woke not once in the night. Though the nightmare hadn’t returned, the dreams that had come in its place brought heat to my cheeks.

I tried to convince myself that his absence the previous day had not been about me. That he’d simply been going about his life in the same way he had before I came along. But a part of me knew better. He had made it clear he was uneasy about the new intimacy between us. He was still watching over me, but he was keeping his distance.

Acknowledging this was bruising. And while I wasn’t sure what I expected or wanted from him, I wouldn’t be able to figure that out if he was avoiding me.

I fought a strong impulse to go down to the kitchen before he could slip out again. I missed his squinty smiles and the deep rumble of his voice. But today was Tuesday, and we’d be going to The Mill together later. Unless he’s changed his mind.

Instead, I spent a few minutes going through my things, trying to decide which dress was the most suitable for the evening’s festivities. Sadly, nothing I owned was particularly festive, and most of it needed washing. But more to the point, I wished for Thomas to see me in something different. I wished for Thomas to see me differently.

One of the two dinner dresses I’d brought was less formal and might work well for a fete at a country inn. It had a lower neckline than my day dresses, and it was clean. Though it was black like the others, I could wear the blue shawl for color and for modesty. No point in trying to make apples from oysters.

With that decided, I went to the desk for my sketchbook, neck prickling as I noticed something in the chair—a square of folded cloth that I hadn’t put there. Picking it up, I discovered it was actually a stunningly embroidered chiffon shawl with a lacework border. I let the folds fall and held it in front of the window. Though the chiffon was black, the embroidery was done in vivid color—twisting vines, shapely blossoms, and the occasional butterfly or bee.

My first thought was that Thomas must have left it. Perhaps something of his mother’s. Yet it was hard to imagine him making such a gesture. An heirloom shawl was something a man would give his fiancée or wife.

As I was hanging the garment on the chairback, I saw that a folded sheet of paper also rested on the seat where it had lain. And on the side of the paper that faced up, someone had written “Thomas.”

A chill ran all the way through me as I picked it up. It was a letter, dated October 2, 1846.

Dearest Thomas,

What I pray most for, my bairn—though you are hardly a bairn anymore—is that you will not spend your life alone. Know that though I chose to do so, it was not because I prefer solitude. It was only that once I became my own mistress, I had no desire to relinquish that title to another person. I turned to the Elfbloom so that I might end my loneliness without ending my autonomy.

The fact that you would be the one to pay the price for it did not occur to me at the time. Like your grandfather, in my desperation I fell under the spell of the poison garden.