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I slide a hand under her pillow and a sob rips through me when I recognize the object from its feel. “Oh, Gram, I can’t—”
“You can and you must. You’ll need it soon, Milla, and now you know where it is.”
The death bell and clangor are under her pillow. The bell serves one purpose—to alert the other villagers that someone has died in our house. She must have stuck it under her pillow while I was at market today. She knew this was going to happen, knew she was going to die this evening.
She’s quiet for several moments. I’m looking at her face, committing every line to memory. So many thoughts are running through my head. Our lives together fill my mind in flashing images—her teaching me to read and write, teaching me about plants and herbs, how to wrap a wound, and how to cook. I recall her braiding my hair as a child, wiping my tears when I stumbled, singing me to sleep at night.
“Milla,” she says, her voice weak and strained. “I’m sorry I never told you about our lineage. It was wrong of me to keep it from you.”
My chest is suddenly tight, my heart beating like it will leap clean through it.
“But I need you to understand. I never kept it from you as a cruelty. I did it for your own good, to protect you.”
I release the breath I’ve been holding. Master Burgess was right. My gram has been protecting me…my entire life.
Gram coughs again and I panic. I see the blood trickling from the sides of her mouth, but she seems unaffected.
“I need to get you a wet rag—”
“Milla,” Gram says. “No, dear. There is…no time. Listen to me. Your mother…my daughter… She loved you very much. She made me promise…to protect you. I’ve kept that promise.” Her breaths are shallow, her eyes hollow. She reaches her hand out. “Milla, I can almost touch the sun.”
“Gram!” I cry out. “Gram, please don’t leave me! You can’t leave me here alone.”
Her ragged breaths are slowing.
“Gram, please,” I beg, “take me with you. I can’t be worlds apart from you. I’ll never make it alone.”
She touches my face. “No matter the distance, child…I will always be with you. Your mother…she was a powerful mage, yet unaffected by madness. And her name…was Willow.”
Willow.
“Is she truly dead, like you told me before?” I ask. “Or were you protecting me?”
“Yes, child. I told…no falsehood. Your mother, my daughter, is dead. But I see her…in you. She…she… I see her still, right before my eyes.”
Gram’s hand leaves my face and falls back to the bed. She is spent. Her life is forfeit. I lay across her chest. Sobs tear through me that rip my guts and shred my heart. It’s hard to breathe, hard to move. How can I go through this life without Gram? She is gone, and all I want is her back. I will myself to rise after several minutes, my legs betraying me as I stand. I glance at the floor and notice the raven feather. It must’ve fell from Malek’s chest plate when he entered her room earlier. I retrieve it with shaky hands. He took her poultice, my only possible way to make her well just a little longer. I place the feather on the bedside table.
“This feather will grace your dead body, Sir Malek. I swear it.”
I reach under her pillow and retrieve the death bell and clangor. I stumble, the room now spinning. I hang on to the wall as I leave the bedroom. I need to make it to the front door. I pull the latch when I reach the door, an icy blast of air assaulting my arms and face, but I ignore it. I hold the bell out and strike it with the clangor.
“Please, help me!” I scream. “It’s my gram. Please, help! Help me!”
I ring the death bell more violently as our neighbors’ doors begin to open. They are running towards me now.
And I just keep screaming.
CHAPTER 14
Gram’s body is on a wooden raft that’s strewn with flowers and resting beside the riverbank. I refused to allow the women to prepare her body. I wanted to ready her, the last act I could do as her granddaughter. I chose the red dress she wore to the harvest dance, remembering how beautiful her smile complimented the dress and the way she seemed so happy in it. I left her hair loose, and fashioned a braid to create a crown, lining it with the little pink flowers she loved so much. I dabbed some color on her lips. She is at peace. No coughing to haunt her. And wherever she is now, I hope she’s with her daughter, Willow. My mother…
I turn and look at the crowd behind me. Candles. Everywhere. As far as the eye can see. And flowers. So many flowers. The villagers are lining the river, lit candles and flowers in their hands. All eyes are on me, the lone girl with posies in her hair and a torch in her grasp. I feel their pity. It is smothering me. They whisper their words of woe, but I hear them just the same. Pity is hard to silence, no matter how low the voice.
The priest has said his words, all the kind things he could muster about Gram. He spoke of her healing and the countless lives she made better. He spoke of the lives she helped bring into the world, becoming a midwife when no other was available, never saying no to assist anyone in any way. He spoke of her knowledge and patience, of all the things the audience in attendance knows of her. But it all sounds cold to me.
The priest touches my shoulder. “Do you have some words, Milla?”
I nod and face the crowd of black dresses and trousers and overcoats. The flowers look out of place in the bitter cold of winter. The village greenhouses are probably bare, but it is no matter. The flowers are for Gram. All of this is for Gram. I spy Jordy and his parents. His mother is crying. Jordy is staring at me, the hurt in his face as plain as the gray clouds fluffing the sky. I give him a small nod and take a breath.
