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“I know,” he cuts in.
He knows...I clear my throat. “Gram will be so pleased, Jordy. How can I ever thank you?”
He clasps my arms before I lower them and captures my eyes with his. “You just did. I hope you enjoy it, Milla. Now go. You need to be home before dark. I’ll see you on the morrow, yes?”
“Yes,” I say. “Until the morrow.”
Jordy goes back inside the bakery, whistling as he once again slides the broom across the floor. I secure the cheese and bread in my large pouch and wrap the unsold scarf tighter on my neck, thankful for my good fortune after such a slow day. But there is no time for idleness. Jordy’s right. I need to be inside with Gram before darkness falls and the bell rings for curfew. I head for home and the prospect of food in my belly.
My belly. I place a cold hand over it, but not to settle the hunger deeply nestled there, but to ease the flutters spreading across my middle when I remember Jordy’s touch. He is a beautifully delicious man, the most eligible bachelor in Timberness. I know I’m not the only lass with impure thoughts when it comes to Jordy. I hear the stifled giggles and see the cupped hands around ready ears of the lasses when he is near them on the street. But whether it be God’s grace or good fortune, I am the only maiden he seems to take a shine to. I’m not sure if I feel my cheeks pinking at the tingles now teasing my most delicate parts, or if I’m embarrassed at the knowledge that I have nothing real to offer a man like Jordy. My breath catches when the word pity enters my exhausted brain. For I hope ‘tis not pity sweet Jordy feels for me. I dream of his belly filling with dragonflies with dizzying wings when I am with him too.
I manage to free my mind of Jordy when a chilled wind catches my skirts and reminds me that curfew is nearing. I focus instead on the thatched rooflines in the distance. Our home is in the center of those houses, just beyond the last store in town. Not much farther now. I cross to the side of the street nearer my home as shrill, mocking female voices draw my attention. I look toward the guard post and pillory where a foreigner in our town is being kept in the stocks. I notice her straight away.Treena.
It would be like Treena to assault a man who is already set to receive twenty lashes come sunup. His neck and wrists are trapped by the heavy wooden arm of the stocks. He’s unable to lift his face upward to see who is tormenting him. Treena and two other nasty maidens are using his plight as their folly, kicking dirt in his face and pulling his hair, all the while laughing hysterically.
“Go ahead, mage,” Treena teases the man. “Use your magic on me. Make me stop. Oh, that’s right. You can’t. Your magic probably isn’t real anyway, and now you’re going to be flogged for your jest. Pity.”
The other maidens laugh as Treena kicks more dust in his downward face. I use the unsold scarf to hide my own face before I pass them, disgusted by their cruel display. The man may be a wretched soul, a self-proclaimed mage who most likely didn’t know that magic is outlawed in Timberness. He may even be insane at this point. Those who practice magic are prone to madness, which is why King Urich outlawed it in our kingdom in the first place. But is this man not still human? He’s lost enough of his dignity already. Next morrow will see his dignity laid bare for all to witness. Treena is a worse wretch than he for tormenting him.
I ensure my face is completely covered as I pass Treena. The last thing I need is for her to recognize me. Then, most certainly, her cruelty will have a new victim. If I am out past curfew, I will be fined three bits and escorted home in shackles by an angry guard as my punishment. If Treena breaks curfew, she will be given a mild tongue-lashing and then escorted home with her hand cupped in the elbow of a doting guard as herpunishment. Treena’s family is well-to-do, and she flaunts her finery at every opportunity. She is a spoiled, crooked-nosed knave who looks down on everyone who isn’t of her station. I’m the match girl, and one of her regular targets. But, I have not the time nor the energy for her games this evening. I sigh relief when I make it past her unnoticed and feel sorry for the man who is still being tortured by the chuckling little twits. I hope he truly is a mage and causes Treena to grow a huge wart on the end of her nose. I quicken my pace and head for my door, pondering if a flogging is worse than being subjected to Treena.
CHAPTER 3
I open the front door of our humble cottage and latch it behind me. I see Gram’s back and hear her humming as she leans over the table in her apothecary, busily mixing herbs with her mortar and pestle. Gram is a healer for the villagers who can’t afford to pay the doctor. They pay her instead with anything they have—extra food, scarves, gloves, a worn pair of boots. She’ll take whatever they have to offer, and never turns anyone away. We keep any items that we need, and I peddle the rest. Her patients keep us supplied with items to sell, and Master Burgess keeps me supplied with matches. We are rather fortunate that Gram has quite the knowledge of medicines and healing procedures, and that Master Burgess is the most generous soul I’ve ever known.
“How are you this evening, Gram?” I shake my bonnet out and hang it on a peg on the wall. “Are you hungry?”
She acknowledges me with a smile and a nod. She must be in the middle of mixing a poultice. It’s delicate work when it’s done correctly, so I need to let her finish. She pushes a few strands of salt-and-pepper hair from her brow that have managed to escape the tight bun the rest of her hair is trapped in. The deep lines in her forehead crease in concentration, and I admire her skill as she retrieves three jars from the shelf above her without looking up from her work. She knows the apothecary better than her own face. Her mastery is enchanting.
I go to the kitchen table and dump the contents of my pouch in the center of it. I arrange the olive loaf, butter, and cheese so Gram will see them when she joins me. I place the kettle over the flame. Gram keeps water in the kettle for me. Hot barley tea is always the first thing I desire on cold nights when we have the ingredients to make it. I toss the barley in to steep when Gram joins me.
“Oh, child, an olive loaf? And butter and that fine blue cheese you love so much… Your day was quite prosperous, I see. And, you know what? So was mine.” Gram reaches into a wooden crate near the fire pit and pulls out a linen sack.
“What do you have there, Gram?”
She drops the sack in my hands. “See for yourself.”
I reach in the bag. “It’s jerky! Praise the gods.” I lift a piece of the manna from heaven to my nose. “It’s…,” I take another whiff. “Is it deer?”
Gram retrieves the eating utensils and takes a seat at the table. “It is. Master Stephen left it when I tended his ankle today. It’s been so long since we’ve had deer jerky. And he left us a jug of ale as well.”
“That’s marvelous.” I pour some barley tea and honey into a tin cup and join Gram at the table. “You can enjoy the ale for now, Gram. I’ve been waiting all day for my tea.”
We are quiet at first, enjoying the food and the comfort afforded us both after a long day. I watch Gram savor each bite of the olive loaf, her wrinkled, yet nimble hands tearing small pieces and dipping them into the butter.
“I have a few baubles and a waist purse for you to sell next morrow,” Gram announces after her second sip of ale. “The purse is quite fetching. It should sell rather—” She begins coughing but relieves it with the ale. It takes her a few moments to catch her breath before continuing, “It should sell rather quickly.”
“Gram, are you truly all right?” I place a hand on top of hers when the coughing spell is through. “I’m fitfully worried about that cough.”
“Don’t fret over me, child. I’m fine—better than fine, actually. Are we not feasting here? Let’s enjoy our meal, aye?”
Gram doesn’t want me to worry about the cough she’s come down with since the warm season ended, but I can’t help it. She is everything I have in this world and losing her would be like losing the very air I breathe. She’s always been a little thick in the middle, although her shoulders are narrow and her breastbone prominent. I’ve noticed that the cough has weakened her appetite. Her stomach is flatter, her cheeks a tad shallow. But I know better than to mention my observations during our meal. I don’t want to ruin our supper, and she is eating heartily this night.
“Milla, this food is divine.” Gram leans back in her chair, savoring a bite of bread she’s still chewing. “I fear I cannot eat another morsel, though. I am more than satisfied.”
I smile and grasp her forearm, giving it a soft squeeze. “I’m so glad, Gram.”
And I truly am. It warms my very soul, knowing that I can provide nourishment for her. Throughout my life, she has given me everything—a roof over my head, a warm bed to sleep in, a knowledge of herbs and healing, and she alone taught me to read and write. She has taught me everything about life, except who I really am. I let out a long breath when the question of my lineage fills my tired brain yet again. But I will not ask it of her this night. This night will see Gram only full and satisfied.
