On the Subject of Griffons

by Lindsey Byrd

  “’S’all right,” Aurora soothed. “’S’all right.” Faith didn’t seem to believe that.

  Kera wanted to ask how long Faith had been suffering from the plague, but considering how her and Aurora’s last conversation had gone, she doubted it would be acceptable to pose the question. She’d allowed her personal grievances to blind her earlier, and now it wasn’t the time. All she could do was watch Aurora tend to her daughter and hope that Aiden didn’t join Faith in her agony.

  With strong hands, Aurora propped Faith up on the headboard. She then left to fetch water from a pitcher by the window. Faith curled forward, but remained upright. Though her limbs continued to jerk, and one hand still clawed at her throat, Faith didn’t appear to worsen. Instead, she seemed determined to lift her head and get a better look at Kera. “You—you’re—you’re—”

  “The Widow Montgomery,” Kera supplied. She reached for the cloth Aurora had given her for Aiden earlier. She held it for Aurora to take as the woman passed by with the water.

  “Call her Kera,” Aurora corrected, laying the fabric on her lap. She braced the back of Faith’s head with a firm grip, then lifted the cup to her lips. “Her son . . .” Aurora hesitated, looking at Aiden, then Kera in quick succession.

  “Aiden,” Kera drawled out as slowly as she could, relishing perversely at how Aurora stumbled over the information.

  “Her son, um, Aiden is also ill. So, ah, we’ll be traveling to the griffons together.” Kera had never seen incredulity on the face of a dying woman before. Faith managed it, somehow, with startling skill. Kera needed to hide a smile behind her hand at the expression. She would never have dared give such a look to her mother when she was Faith’s age. But Aurora didn’t seem put out by her daughter’s cheek. She just shrugged one shoulder and stroked the sweat from Faith’s brow. It was a gesture that made Kera’s heart ache. She busied herself with checking on her own son.

  Watching felt far too voyeuristic.

  “It’s for safety,” Kera said. Both women failed to react in any way. Kera grimaced. She felt even more like a fool than she had before. “It’s mutually beneficial.”

  Aurora helped Faith finish drinking, then held the cloth beneath her nose. The girl jerked her head back. She whined, complaining without words as she snatched the cloth from her mother. Spasms traveled down her arm, but she affected another glare of disobedience that Aurora ignored once more. Faith was holding the cloth to her face.

  She’s good at this, Kera thought as she watched Aurora pitter-patter about the room. She anticipated her daughter’s needs. No second-guessing for Aurora Sinclair. When she decided to do something, she did it. She fetched a bucket for Faith to relieve herself in and stood over her daughter until Faith scooched to the edge of the bed.

  Kera averted her eyes. If when she was seventeen, Kera’s mother had to help her with her bodily functions, Kera was almost certain she would have died from embarrassment, plague be damned. At least Aiden was small enough that some assistance could be accepted and anticipated. But Faith was well on her way toward being considered an adult. Kera could hear the echoes of her own mother’s disparaging remarks now. Painted in oil and made permanent in her mind. Hurry up, can’t you go faster? This is entirely indecent.

  Faith plunked her unmentionables, as Kera’s mother liked to call it, into the bucket without so much as a complaint from her parent.

  “Do you need it?” Aurora asked Kera when she finished getting Faith back on the bed.

  “No . . . thank you.”

  Kera took stock of her energy. Her exhaustion seemed to have slipped away in the night, and she felt little out of place. Consciousness beat its drum against Kera’s skull. Up, up, up, up, up! She wasn’t going to fall back to sleep. Sighing, Kera stepped away from her son. She glanced about for a tinderbox and found one by Aurora’s abandoned pitcher.

  Her match lit on the first strike. Shadows climbed like demons up the walls. Lowering the flame to a lanterned candle, she watched as warm light waged war against the demons. It slashed at the monsters with phoenix talons. Fire held no fear of the dark. Lantern held aloft, Kera fumbled through her bags until she found Mori’s books. She pulled them out one by one, resting them on her knees until she could slither an arm beneath them. Then she stood and brought them both to her bed.

  It seemed as though they survived the journey so far. A cursory glance over the covers revealed no foxing around the edges. Of course, it had only been a single day. Less than that, if she were being honest with herself. Still, it made her feel good to know that they remained in proper order. Settling back down next to Aiden, Kera opened the book on herbalism and started to read.

  Herbalism is the study of plant life for use in medicinal purposes. In Absalon, there is no shortage of such flora, and much of these flora are the essential ingredients to many of the most basic treatments of today’s ailments. A mixture of—

  “Is that Mori’s?” Aurora asked. Kera flinched. She glared at the woman, her previous revulsion returning full force. She had no desire whatsoever to speak about Morpheus with her. No desire to share his books with her. These were her last tie to him, and she would not ruin them by sharing them with Aurora. “He taught me my letters,” Aurora revealed, ignorant of Kera’s feelings. Kera’s fingers tightened around her book. “I knew them before, mind you . . . but I couldn’t really spell, couldn’t really write.”

  Kera knew that. She’d seen the letters Aurora sent Mori, filled with scrawling words that were no better than chicken scratch. Each of the sentences had terrible diction and awkward attempts at fluidity that splattered on the page. Until one day the wording began to improve and the lines stopped wiggling like they’d been written while lost at sea. It hurt more, knowing that Mori had spent time with her outside of their carnal pleasures. He had talked to her. He had educated her. He had tried to make her a lady. His lady.

  Except, he already had one.

  And even if he came back to her, even if he was faithful from that moment onward. Even if. He had still strayed. For two years, he had strayed. And Kera didn’t understand why.

  “I do not want to hear you speak of him,” she told Aurora. The other woman bit her lip and returned her attention to her daughter. She didn’t look back.

  Struggling to keep herself from growing more agitated, Kera opened her book once more. This late at night (early in the morning?), she found that her eyes strained when making out the letters. They blurred and she needed to blink hard in order to draw them into focus. Still, she scanned the introduction and flipped through the next couple of pages until she came to the first plant.

  As with most of Mori’s books, he had penned notes into the margins. Kera traced a finger over the small drawing he’d made beside the header. It was a five-pointed leaf with a spiral stem, tucked in and around where the author had typed Angelica in bold font. Beneath the drawing was a shorthand message that Kera didn’t understand, some combination of letters and punctuation she assumed made sense to her husband, and then instructions. Ground into a powder. Good for the heart and rheumatism.

  She turned the pages, glanced along the notes more than anything else. Anise - diuretic. On the next page, the words anti-vascular-constrictor were circled. Grapefruit seed extract had Anti-fungal written in bold letters, with a humorous aside beneath it: Worked quite effectively on John’s feet. That made her smile. The note was too old to have been about their son or her brother-by-law, worn and faded as it was. He must have been referring to John Sarren, then, his best friend during the first war.

  A few pages later and she found one for a laxative. Amit was satisfied. This time, she did laugh. Considering their circumstances, it was an inappropriate thing to do, but Kera couldn’t help it. She was embarrassed to note that she had drawn both Aurora’s and Faith’s attention back her way. She flushed, not sure what to say or how to explain. Faith was sick and unwell, Aurora had just received a scolding, and Kera was laughing.

  She laughed again, nervous ants s
kittering beneath her skin. She struggled to silence it as soon as she could. “It’s . . . I’m sorry,” she apologized once she managed to swallow the noise that kept trying to rise up within her.

  “Laughter’s good for the soul,” Faith muttered, leaning her head back against the wall.

  Perhaps that was true, but Kera had already proved that she was not ready to heal her soul. She held the book to her chest and looked out the window, watching as the flickering lights of the guarding fires burned, and listened to the creatures of the night.

  Just before the sun rose, Kera woke her boy while Aurora and Faith prepared for the day. The room was still dark as she pressed her hand to Aiden’s brow, feeling the fever that had taken hold on his body. But his dark eyes blinked up at her with groggy curiosity, and he asked, “Where . . .?” as he turned his head this way and that.

  “You’re very ill, Aiden. I’m taking you south to get you better.”

  “Why?” he rasped around the word, coughing up into her face. Turning her head, Kera pressed her nose tight against her shoulder, shivering as her hands tightened around Aiden’s shoulders. She took a deep breath, then looked back.

  “We’re going to see the griffons, would you like that, dear? They’re very good at helping little boys and girls who are sick.”

  “Who’s the griffstons?”

  “Griffons, and . . . they’re . . . well they’re beasts. They’re magic. Like stories Junior tells you before bed. They’re like . . . well, they look like birds and cats put together I suppose. It has the head of a bird, I think, and the body of a cat.”

  Aiden coughed again, long and hard. He twitched badly enough that Kera let up on his arms, letting him roll to his side and curl up into a miserable ball. He rubbed at his face, fat tears sliding across his cheeks as he tried to steady his breathing. “Ducks?” he asked.

  “Ducks?” She tried to imagine it. A great duck monster with cat paws. She grinned as she gently swept her thumb along Aiden’s cheek. “No dear, I don’t think they’re ducks.”

  That settled that. Aiden frowned and tugged his arms over his head, decreeing, “Not goin’,” in his most authoritative voice, as though no amount of poking, prodding, or cajoling would pull him out of his despair.

  “Aiden? Aiden, that’s enough. Aiden, we need to eat and then leave. We have to go. Aiden. Aiden.” His shoulders hitched, and he coughed and wheezed around his tears. Glancing over her shoulder, Kera wasn’t the least bit surprised to see both Faith and Aurora staring at her. Shame burned through her as she lifted Aiden up and carried him to her pack. He squirmed and sobbed harder, hacking against her neck. “That’s enough,” she ordered him as she sat down and retrieved the food Ciara had prepared for them. “You need to eat, and then we’re leaving.”

  She pressed some bread into his hand and he sniffled loudly, shaking his head. He shoved it at her. She pushed it back in turn. “Don’t wanna,” he said.

  “You need to eat so we can leave.”

  “No.”

  “Aiden—”

  He pushed the bread at her, then coughed loud and long. His tears stopped. He coughed harder and harder, breath straining on each inhale. Thrusting the bread to the side, Kera rolled him onto his stomach over her left arm, letting him dangle downward as she struck his back hard. Dark phlegm spat up from between his lip, staining the floor in a goop that grew bigger with each swat. It took five strikes before his choking ceased. He sagged against her body, tantrum and fit subsiding in unison.

  “Not hungry,” he whispered.

  “I’ll set it aside for later.”

  “Okay.”

  She stroked her son’s spine for a few moments, then kissed his hair. Standing, she carried him back to the bed and dedicated herself to cleaning. No trace of illness could remain. Even if it meant she needed to clean the rancid unmentionables bucket herself, she would. No one else would get sick from them. No one.

  Aurora watched her without saying a word. Kera supposed she was grateful Aurora hadn’t intervened prior, but now the younger woman was pulling her daughter to her feet and showing no inclinations toward helping Kera in the least. With an arm around her daughter’s back, she was able to carry her things with her other hand without any assistance. “I’ll meet you outside,” she said, marching out before Kera could even blink.

  Frustration crashed against the rocks of Kera’s complacency at high tide. Faith at least had the excuse of being frail and infirm, but there was no reason why her mother couldn’t have helped Kera with their bedding, bucket, and remains. Trying to contain the illness so no one else would be affected took time. Aurora had made the choice to lodge in a tavern, same as her, the least she could do was try to keep others from getting sick. By the time Kera finished, that furious tide was full on preparing to flood the town and everyone in it. Sweat slipped down her nose. Her muscles ached. Her teeth felt like murderous things eager to tear into flesh and leave nothing remaining. Still, she was very polite when she asked the stable boy to return to assist her with her bag. It wasn’t his fault that Aurora was a lazy lout.

  The boy was just as helpful as he had been the day before, carrying her things downstairs as she balanced a far-more-subdued-Aiden on her hip. Her son’s arms wrapped around her neck and he buried his head against her shoulder, quiet and still like the grave. Holly’s bridle and saddle were already in place by the time Kera arrived. It caught her by surprise, and she went to thank the stable boy, but he told her it was Aurora’s doing.

  “Thank you,” she muttered in her new traveling companions’ direction. The tide balked. Was it supposed to thank the evil townspeople it wanted to drown? She didn’t get a response. Yes, it was.

  Aurora was focused on helping her daughter up onto a dapple-gray gelding, steadying her when she swayed. “I can hold him when you get up too,” she told Kera when the stable boy finished attaching the saddlebags to Holly.

  The tide said No. The tide said I’d rather die. The tide said every foul word that Kera’s mother made her kneel on rice for even thinking, and Kera’s knees still hurt at the thought years later.

  But Aiden wasn’t the tide, and he reached toward Aurora with the sleepy innocence of a child who just wanted to be done moving about, thank you very much. He didn’t notice or care about the tension between his mother and Aurora. With as much dignity as she could muster, Kera placed her son in Aurora’s care. She held him as long as she could. The transfer was smoother than she would have liked. Easy and without conflict. Aurora didn’t struggle at the transition nor the weight, and Kera wondered if she was used to wrangling children on her own.

  “Is Faith your only . . .?”

  “I cared for the Travers children, and others,” Aurora replied. A nanny, then. She had been a nanny to wealthy families. The tide wanted to ask Aurora if the wives of her employers found it difficult to trust a known adulteress near their husbands. The tide must be ignored at all costs.

  The stable boy folded his hands and let her step onto the cup he made. With a little hop and a quick boost, Kera swung her leg over Holly’s rump. A rather successful mounting all things considered. “Thank you, sir,” she said as she handed him another coin. He smiled and blushed, thanking her right back.

  Aurora passed Aiden to Kera without comment. The stable boy prepared to hoist her up too, but she required no assistance. One foot slid into the stirrup and she was settled on her gelding in moments. Faith’s hands were clasped over her mother’s, serving as a balancing point to make sure her grip didn’t fail. Aurora was not much taller than her daughter, and the inconvenience meant that once she was in position, Faith had to slouch so Aurora could see. Faith tucked herself low and out of the way, and Aurora’s chin rested over her daughter’s shoulder.

  The pale morning light grew more yellow with each passing second. If they wanted to make good time before nightfall, they should leave now. Meeting Aurora’s eyes, Kera waited until she saw her nod slowly. Then she clicked her tongue and urged Holly forward. Aurora and he
r gelding followed without a single word passed between them.

  In previous years, whenever Kera traveled with company, she spent her journeys talking to them. Or, more accurately, she spent her journeys listening to them. Her sisters and children enjoyed gossiping endlessly with one another. Mori loved telling tales. None of them ever struggled to find the words they wanted, and their eloquence had always been the cause of great envy in Kera.

  Riding beside Aurora, Kera wished she had Mori’s wit, her children’s innocence, her older sister’s poise, or her younger sister’s gumption. As it was, she had no idea what she was meant to say to Aurora, nor any notion on how to start a conversation that wouldn’t develop into another conflict between them.

  They rode from town side by side, and good manners compelled Kera to make conversation; however, all the good manners in the world couldn’t compel her brain to think. She didn’t need to talk, of course. There was no rule or regulation requiring them to speak, and she hadn’t anticipated having a riding partner during this journey. Considering the fact she had resigned herself to solitude when she left the city, what needed to be said?

  Aiden wriggled a bit in front of her. He was awake for now, though he seemed hazy and uncertain. It defied any logic in illness she had ever known and every sickness she had ever seen. There had been no slow buildup, nor occasional coughing in the night, nor sores on his skin. There had been nothing to suggest that he had been unwell, until all of a sudden his body failed and the shaking started with no sense behind its existence.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered against her son’s head.

  Aurora’s head swiveled to look back at them. Lips pressed in a thin line. “The . . . plague?”

  Kera needed to bite back her first thought. Her words had not been for Aurora. They had not been Aurora’s to warp or shift about. Kera had spoken to Aiden, and yet her words were stolen from them and redirected anyway.