Page 79 of Bane Bloom

I cursed my blundering tongue. Thomas had probably never been to a dance before. He might never have danced.

“Might I claim your first dance, then?” persisted Ham.

I held Thomas’s gaze a moment and then turned. “Of course.”

Without planning it, I shifted in my seat until I could feel Thomas’s leg against mine. He didn’t move away, and heat began to build in my body. Why had I forced him to come here, where there would be no opportunity for the kind of closeness we’d lately enjoyed? Where all these people would force distance between us?

There came a light tinkling noise as someone began tapping a glass with a fork. We all glanced toward the middle of the room, where Mr. Foss was standing. The chatter died down so he could be heard.

“Friends and neighbors, I thank you all for joining us here this evening as we prepare to launch into what I hope and pray will be a prosperous season for all.”

There was a chorus of “Hear, hear,” and glasses were raised.

“I also ask safety and blessings for each of you on this night of mischief among the spirits!”

More agreement, and the children present shared tittering and fearful looks.

“When we’ve all had enough to drink,” he continued, “we’ll have some music and dancing, but as many of you will know, it’s traditional for my mother to start us off with a story handed down from our forebears, of Saint Walpurga and the Witches’ Sabbath.”

Ham bent toward me and murmured in a tone of amused anticipation, “Courage now, Cricket.”

Thomas adjusted in his chair so that our bodies were no longer touching, and my heart slumped.

Mrs. Foss, whom I’d met at Sunday services, came in now from the kitchen, lifting her apron over her head and laying it on the bar before picking up a glass of cider. I glanced around for Annie and discovered her seated with a teacup near the hearth. Resting at last. Her cheeks were red from activity and the cheer of the place.

Her husband ceded the floor to his mother, and she began, “In the country of my fathers, this night was known as Hexennacht, or Witches’ Night. The witches would gather atop Brocken Mountain to conduct their devilish revels and rituals, and woe to any mortal folk who crossed paths with them. The Brocken witches might sour the season’s milk, blight the crops, or even bring plague and famine. People held feast days to give thanks and ask for blessings for their families, crops, and livestock. Also to pray to Saint Walpurga, who offered protection from witchcraft and whose feast day is the first of May.”

Mrs. Foss raised her glass and offered a fervent, “Saint Walpurga protect us!”

While the gathering was echoing her toast, I caught the quick flick of her gaze at Thomas, and my stomach wrenched. The eyes of a few others in the room followed hers.

The people of Buttermere were not wrong about Prudence Bane. She was a witch. At least if charms, wards, plant cures, and grimoires were what made one. But she was also a botanist and scholar. A researcher and writer. Even a kind of adventurer. And she was a woman with strong family ties. One who had loved her father enough to try and turn back death, and her son enough to linger after her own death until she saw him happy.

She was also a thing that our society seemed to instinctually despise and fear: a woman who kept to the edges so she wouldn’t be required to cede her independence.

Might there be a clue to my mother’s abandonment in this?

I saw that a woman at the table next to ours—one I’d served cider to—was glaring at Thomas, and I glared back as hard as I could. She noticed, eyes popping wide before she quickly looked away.

“Ignore it, my friend,” Ham said to Thomas as the murmur of conversation resumed. “Your mother cured colic in the same mare that birthed twins last night. She was a good woman and I don’t care what else.”

Thomas met his gaze with an earnest nod.

Our host called for quiet again, and Annie stood up from her chair near the hearth.

“We have picked every cowslip in the valley today,” she said, smiling on the room, “so we need not fear the spirits tonight. I have it on good authority that they don’t care for joyful dancing, either, so let us have as much of that as we can. If your mirth is waning, there’s still plenty of cider and ale at the bar.”

As she spoke, I noticed some rearranging of chairs going on in one of the corners by the hearth as a fiddler and a man with a pipe and tabor set up.

“Before we go on with our evening,” she continued, “I wish to thank Bill’s mother, who is almost entirely responsible for this delicious feast. We would have been forced to cancel this year without her.” There was a smattering of applause, and the lady smiled and bowed. “I also wish to thank Bill for spending his whole day cheerfully obeying the commands of the two bossy women in his life.” Everyone laughed at this, and she waited for them to quiet before adding, “Thank you, love, for everything, every day.” She beamed at him, and a blush spread over his face as the gathering let out appreciative murmurs.

Annie’s eyes found me then, and she continued, “A special thank-you to Miss Gray, who has joined us from London, and whom many of you have accepted a glass of cider from today. I invited her here as my new friend and then promptly put her to work. Thank you for communing with us rustics.”

This was followed by curious glances my way, some friendly laughter, and a murmured “Hear, hear” from Ham.

“Finally,” continued Annie, “Thomas Bane, whom you all have to thank for the beautiful trout. In my home on Windermere, it was never a feast day without fish. My mother believed that a May Eve feast with no fish portended meager oat and wool harvests. With so much at stake, there’s no other man in this valley I’d call on. I’ll wager Thomas has never in his life hauled in an empty net.”

“Hear, hear,” repeated Ham, raising his voice and his glass. “To a bountiful harvest.”