There’s little we can actually do for Mama at this point. Most of my time I spend sitting beside her bed, reading to her from one of Sophie’s books. I start with the Argonautica, the book Sophie gave to me for my thirteenth birthday. I feel just as powerless as back then as I read the story to Mama while she continues to sleep, shiver, and sweat.
Aggie spends her time with Mama by sewing. One day before I go in for my shift, I pause at the door to watch as Aggie works on a black dress of Mama’s—no doubt altering it for the funeral. Aggie doesn’t have to even look at her hands as she works; they’re experienced enough to know what to do already.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” Aggie says as she works. “Everyone says it’s not my fault, that there’s nothing I could do, but there has to be something.” She stops in her work, shaking her head. “I’m no good to anyone. I can’t help you. Sophie and Sylvia don’t need me. Glenda and the others don’t need me either, not really.”
I take a step back, pressing myself against the wall when Aggie stands up and hurls the dress to the floor. “What good am I? Can’t you tell me that much? All I can do is sew and make potions. What use is any of that?”
“Agnes?” Mama’s voice comes out in a hiss.
“Mama?”
I peek through the doorway to watch Aggie bend down. Mama whispers something into her ear that I can’t hear. When she’s finished, Mama sags back onto the mattress. My heart stops for a moment as I wait to see if this is it, if she’s dead now. But she must not be, as Aggie picks up the dress from the floor and continues sewing.
I finally knock on the door frame, Aggie’s head snapping towards me in surprise. “Oh, hello,” she says. “Is it time already?”
“Close enough,” I say.
“I suppose I’ll take this down to the living room then.” She tucks the dress under her arm and then bends down to kiss Mama on the forehead like a child.
Once Aggie is gone, I pick up my book and turn to where I left off. As I read, I wait for Mama to wake up and impart some hidden wisdom to me, but she doesn’t. She remains asleep the entire time. Maybe she doesn’t have anything she needs to say to me.
My shift with Mama lasts until dinner. Aggie and I eat in silence, having nothing to say to each other. We’re both worried about Mama and about Sophie, who’s roaming the wilds of America in search of a cure. At least that’s what Sophie wants Aggie and the others to think; I know what she really hopes to find there. Whether that will help or not, I don’t know.
In the evenings I go walking in the forest, on the paths Henri and I used to share. To expend some energy—and to help stay in shape—I bring a scythe with me to help knock down some of the brush that has grown up over the trails. I work slowly, clearing a bit at a time. Within a few weeks, the paths look almost as they did when Henri and I were young.
My mornings I spend roaming the rest of the estate. The latest head of the Devereaux clan is named William. He and his wife have seven children who do the bulk of the work on the estate, except during harvest time when more workers are brought in. William has learned enough from his father—and countless generations of the family before him—that he knows far more about how to manage the vineyard than I do. I leave most of the decisions up to him, preferring to watch he and his sons work.
I take a shine to his youngest son, David. For one thing, David’s hair is nearly the same shade of red as mine. For another, he’s about the same age as Henri when I first met him in the stables. David also works in the stables and has Henri’s energy. I get up at dawn, but already David is out there, feeding and grooming the horses.
The first time we meet, he hardly looks up from his brushing as he says, “You’re one of the ladies, aren’t you?”
“Yes. My name is Sylvia Joubert. What’s yours?”
“David Devereaux.”
“That’s a nice name.” I’ve never spent much time around children in my work as a monster hunter and arms merchant. I never much liked children; they were usually a nuisance, getting in the line of fire. But David’s similarities to Henri make me instantly like him. “Do you want any help?”
“I don’t need any help. Especially not from a girl.”
If a man had said that I’d have kicked him in the crotch to show him just what a girl could do. With David I only smile. “No, I guess not. Can I help you anyway?”
He shrugs and then points to a second brush lying on a shelf. “If you want.”
I take a few practice brushes, remembering what Henri taught me so long ago. David grudgingly says, “You’re pretty good—for a girl.”
“Thank you.” He lets me help him with the others. We clean out the stalls, where I let out a scream at seeing a mouse like when I was seven.
David laughs at this, making no attempt to disguise his amusement. “It’s just a tiny little mouse,” he says. “Nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m not scared. He just startled me,” I say with a seven-year-old’s whine.
After we’ve finished, I take a gray mare out of the stables and strap a saddle on it. Mama would say that it’s not proper for a lady to ride a horse, but taking the horse around the estate is a lot faster than walking. David stares at me as I work, his eyes filled with longing. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Hop up.”
“I don’t think I should. Papa will be mad.”
“I doubt that. You’ve done your chores, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem. Unless you’re scared of a tiny little horse.”
“I’m not scared!” he shouts. He takes my hand, letting me pull him up onto the horse, where he sits in front of me.
“It’s not so bad, is it?”
“What do we do now?”
I take the reins, pressing these into his hands. “Give those a nice firm shake. That will tell the horse to get moving.”
David is a quick learner. It doesn’t take long before he has the horse moving at a gallop across the meadow, towards the vineyards. I see the tree where Henri and I talked—and kissed—and remember him saying that he loved me. That was nearly two hundred years ago and yet the pain remains as sharp as it was back then.
“Are you hurt?” David asks.
“What? No. I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I just got some dust in my eye.” I wipe at my eyes and then force a smile to my face. “All better now.”
After a week, David is a better rider than I am. He seems to have naturally good balance and quick instincts that let him anticipate what the horse is going to do before it does it. He impresses me by jumping the horse over a fallen log as smoothly as if the log weren’t there. “You’re a natural at this,” I tell him.
He nods, but his face turns glum. I know what he’s thinking: as a poor farm boy, he can’t afford a horse of his own, at least not a thoroughbred like this. Probably the only horse he’ll ever own will be a broken down nag to plow a field.
When we get back to the stable, I help him down and then we begin brushing the mare down. As we work, I ask, “Does this horse have a name?”
“No. The missus doesn’t bother giving them names.”
“Well, I think every horse needs a good name, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
I run one hand along the horse’s nose and stare into its eyes. “What would be a good name for you? Let’s see: Matilda?”
“Matilda?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Then you think of a better one.”
He stares at the horse for a moment and then says confidently, “Smokey.”
“Why that?”
“Because she’s gray—like smoke.” The way he says this indicates that it should be obvious to me.
“Smokey it is then,” I say and pat the horse on the nose. “Why don’t you put her away now?”
; David nods, leading the horse into the stall. Smokey follows obediently, putting up no fuss as she trots into the stall. I reach into a pocket to produce a few sugar cubes I took from the kitchen before I left. I hand these to David to feed the horse. Smokey snaps these up, going so far as to lick David’s hand clean.
“I think she likes you,” I say.
“She likes sugar.”
“No, I think she really does like you. She’s not this nice for me.”
“That’s because girls aren’t supposed to ride horses.”
I ignore this sexist comment and put an arm around his shoulder. “I think Smokey would like to spend a lot more time with you.”
“You do?”
“In fact, I think she would really like it if you were her owner from now on.”
“Me? But I can’t—”
“Don’t worry, it’s a gift.”
David looks down glumly at the ground. “Papa won’t let me keep her.”
“We don’t have to tell him. It can be our secret. You can keep her here and ride her whenever you want—so long as your chores are finished. Deal?”
“Deal.” We shake hands and then he goes back home to his family while I have to go back to the house to look after my dying mother. As I read to Mama, I can’t help but wish Henri and I could have gotten married and had children like David.
But those days are long gone; I continue reading while Mama sleeps.
***
If not for those mornings with David and evenings in the woods, I would have gone insane. I nearly do go mad when a blizzard snows us in that January. For a full week Aggie and I are alone with Mama. If we wanted we could use our magic to clear a path for the servants, but that would be too obvious. Instead, we fend for ourselves.
What bothers me more than having to do all of the household chores is to be stuck inside the house. I vanish myself to Edinburgh after the first day so I can go outside and get some air. This also gives me a chance to check in with Uncle Bob. From what he tells me—after I write him a note—the deal with the Dutch went smoothly the second time around. Without any prompting, they gave us an extra ten percent. As for the dead bodies, they weren’t going to make any noise about that.
I return to the house the next morning to find my sister replaced by a withered crone. Aggie’s hair has turned silver, the lines on her face have deepened, and her midsection has thickened. She even walks with a stoop as she crosses the living room to place a withered hand on my shoulder.
“Not you too,” I say, fearing that Glenda has cast the same spell on Aggie.
“No, dear. It’s nothing like that.” Her voice sounds uncannily like Mama’s now—at least like Mama’s before this illness.
“Then what is it?”
“Mother said I should act my age. If I want to feel mature then I have to look mature.”
“Couldn’t you have made yourself a little younger than this?”
“Of course I could. What’s wrong with this?” She gives my shoulder a squeeze, her hand still as strong as ever. “I know it’s an adjustment, dear—”
“Don’t say that!”
“I’m sorry. It just feels right.”
I pull away from her hand. “Are you trying to replace her? Is that what you’re trying to do?”
Aggie looks down at the floor and shrugs. “To some extent, yes. If Mother dies, someone will have to take care of the estate. I can’t do that looking like some flighty girl.”
“Mama isn’t going to die. Not yet.”
“Sylvia—”
I stomp away from her, up to Mama’s bedroom. She’s looking even worse than when I left. For the last month she’s been losing weight she can’t afford to lose. Her bones are visible now against her skin. Before long, will they start to turn to dust?
She stirs as I sit down beside her. “Thylvia?” she asks. Her teeth have fallen out and her eyes have completely failed.
I reach over to brush thin strands of white hair away from her face as I lean close to her, her hearing about the same as Uncle Bob’s now. “It’s me, Mama. I’m here.”
“Your thithters?”
“Agnes is downstairs. Sophie is running an errand.”
“Tho beautiful,” she whispers, touching my cheek. “But tho afraid.”
“Mama?”
“Don’t be thcared, dear. I’m going to a better place.”
This is the first time Mama has mentioned any such place to me; as witches we didn’t believe in Heaven or nirvana or any of that nonsense. I assumed that meant when we died we rotted in the ground like everyone else. I figure Mama is getting senile now, her mind finally going out on her. “That’s right,” I say. “You’re going to Heaven.”
“No, not Heaven.”
“Then where?”
“The afterlife.”
“What’s it like?”
“Tho bright. Tho beautiful.”
The way she stares up at the ceiling, I worry she’s seeing that light right now, that she’s about to die. “Don’t go, Mama. We still need you.”
“No. You’re too old to need me. You’re women now.”
“Mama, please, don’t talk like that. We’ll always need you.”
“You never needed me.”
I think of Mama hugging me when it came time to become a novice and her saying how proud she was of me. “That’s not true. I couldn’t have become a witch without you,” I tell her, but she’s fallen asleep again.
Aggie and I put aside our differences over her transformation. We continue taking turns watching Mama throughout the week after the blizzard, but neither of us strays very far, not wanting to miss the moment when Mama finally passes on.
As the end nears, she begins mumbling in her sleep. The topic of this varies; sometimes she’s complaining at the gardener for pruning the roses too much and others she’s talking to Glenda. I’m alone in the room when Mama says, “We can’t let them know. They’ve thuffered too much already. The poor dearth.”
“Who?” She doesn’t answer me right away so I repeat the question.
Mama turns to me, her rheumy eyes looking right at me. “Agneth, Thophie, and Thylvia. They can’t know about before.”
I realize that in her delusions, Mama thinks I’m Glenda—and that Sophie was right. “It’s all right. You can trust me. I won’t tell them.”
“I hate doing thith to them. They detherve better.”
“Yes, they do.”
“But it’th what they wanted.”
“Are you sure about that? Maybe we made a mistake.”
“No. They’re tired. Like we are. It’th too hard for them.”
“It certainly is.”
Mama shakes her head sadly. “Poor Thylvia.” I startle at this, thinking Mama realizes that I’m here. Then she says, “I with we didn’t have to make her tho young. But the ith tho thtubborn. Tho thtrong.”
“She’s not that strong.”
Mama laughs, the sound like that of old parchment rustling. “The tho headthtrong even ath a baby. Alwayth wanth it her own way.”
I smile slightly at this and wipe tears from my eyes. “Yes, I guess she does.”
“But thuch a good heart. Her and Agneth.”
“Don’t forget about Sophie.”
Mama’s expression turns sour. “Rotten to the core, that one. Alwayth tho thpoiled and pampered. We thouldn’t try to thave her.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“You wait and thee. The ith trouble.” These are Mama’s last words before she falls asleep again. I let her hand drop to the mattress and then hurry out of the room.
I almost plow into Aggie on my way out. “What’s wrong? Has she passed?”
“No. We were just talking.”
Aggie tries to put a hand on my shoulder, but I shake it away. I go to my bedroom and collapse on the mattress. It’s all a lie, just like Sophie said. Our entire “family” is a lie. Aggie, Sophie, and I aren’t really sisters, at least not by blood. But Sophie was wrong about Glen
da. She hadn’t done this to punish us. We were just three old witches who instead of dying or even retiring submitted to becoming children again and given a new life, here, with our “mother.”
I don’t tell Aggie anything about this. She has enough to deal with at the moment. She’s trying so hard to seem like a wise, mature adult. I still hear her crying to herself in her room. I know better than to try to comfort her.
The snow is cleared away after a week and the Devereauxes get back to work. I go out to the stable to find David pressed into a corner, crying. I don’t need to ask why, as I can see the answer for myself: Smokey is dead. Not just her, but all of our horses have died, frozen and starved from a week of being trapped in here.
“I’m sorry,” I say to David. The horses are too far gone for me or Aggie to revive even with all of our magic. We should have thought of the animals and come out here to take care of them, but we were too busy caring for Mother—and wallowing in self-pity.
“It’s not fair,” he says.
“No, it’s not.” I kneel down beside him. “We’ll get some new horses in the spring.”
“But she was my horse. I let her die.”
“There was nothing you could do.” Nothing a little mortal boy like David could have done, but plenty a witch like me could have done, if I hadn’t been so selfish to think only of myself for the past week. I put my hand on his shoulder, glad he doesn’t try to shake it away. “I promise when we go to the farm to buy new ones, I’ll let you pick out any horse you want.”
“I don’t want another horse. I want Smokey.”
“I know, but she’s gone.” I think of what Mama said and add, “She’s going to the afterlife. It’s a bright, beautiful place where she’ll be really happy.”
David shakes his head. “Father Romeau said that horses don’t go to Heaven.”
“Don’t believe everything he tells you.”
David considers this and then looks over my shoulder, at Smokey’s stall. “You really think she’s in Heaven?”
“I know she is.”
The ground is too hard for a burial, so we have to clear a spot of ground and burn the corpses of the horses and other animals. This would be much easier for me, but I can’t use my magic in front of David, his father, or his brothers. So we do it the old-fashioned way, piling up as much spare dry wood as we can find to make the fire hot enough. David cries into my apron while Smokey burns. I pat his head, unable to think of anything to say.
Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Call Page 99