Seventh Bride

by T. Kingfisher

  Rhea felt the clock-wife behind her, hot as a bonfire, and it occurred to her that perhaps now would be a good time to get out of the way.

  “I believe, my lord, that you already have a wife,” she said. “I’ll leave you to her.”

  She took three steps forward, grabbed the priest’s arm, and tugged him aside.

  “What…?” he said. “Who is this…?”

  “Lord Crevan’s wife,” said Rhea. “One of them, anyway.”

  “But…”

  “Hush.”

  “I now do not love you,” said the clock-wife, towering over Crevan. “I now say that we are no longer wed.”

  Crevan’s eyes darted around her, seeking out the Viscount. “I don’t know this woman,” he said. “Or—whatever she is—a demon—I don’t know her—”

  The crowd moved backward as a group. The murmuring was louder now, filled with alarm. Rhea could see her mother trying to move through the knot of people and hoped that she would have the sense to stay back.

  “You took my death from me,” said the clock-wife.

  She reached for him with both hands. Heat shimmered off her skin, distorting the air around it. Through the haze, Crevan’s face was twisted.

  He put up his arms to ward her off and she grabbed his wrist.

  Crevan screamed.

  The sleeve of his coat burned to ash. He jerked away, clutching his arm to his chest, and brought one hand down across the air as if it held a whip.

  The air crackled. Some sort of magic, Rhea thought, whatever he can muster. He can’t very well choke her.

  Whatever he had done, it knocked the clock-wife back a pace. A line opened across her face, the grey skin parting to reveal flesh as white and bloodless as a fish.

  A sound came from her throat that no human had ever made, that no human had the power to make. Rhea’s ears rang with it, and the priest slapped his hands to the sides of his head.

  The clock-wife’s fist caught Crevan across the side of the head and drove him to his knees. Dust rose up in a cloud when he struck the ground.

  She towered over him, her breath hissing like molten metal being quenched. Her head nearly brushed the top of the iron archway as she stepped through it. If the golem birds had still been there, they would probably have burst into flame.

  “End it,” whispered Rhea. “End it. Please.”

  Someone brushed past her. Rhea flinched back, startled—amazing that I can still be startled, after all this!—and watched as a slender figure hurried toward the combatants.

  It was Ingeth.

  She could not speak, but she clapped her hands together. The clock-wife turned her head.

  “Another wife?” she asked. “He then was busy. But my quarrel is not with you.”

  Ingeth held up her arms, crossing them, shaking her head. As Rhea watched in astonishment, the silent woman made shooing motions, as if she were driving chickens out of the garden.

  Oh god. Oh god, if Ingeth chases off the clock-wife with that, I’m going to…I’m going to…

  Going to die, probably. Crevan’s not going to forgive this.

  Indeed, the crowd had knotted up around the Viscount, whose face had gone slack with shock. Whatever he had been expecting from a sorcerer’s wedding, it wasn’t this.

  The dust moved around Crevan, leaving white streaks on his wedding finery.

  The clock-wife laughed.

  “We may relive this differently,” she told Ingeth. “You someday may find a way to drive me off. But not from this place.” And she turned away from Ingeth and back to Crevan.

  He was trying to crawl away, awkwardly, his burnt arm dangling useless. When she moved toward him, he made another whipping gesture, and cried out as she slapped his hand aside.

  “Go back,” he cried. “Go back! I command you!”

  “You bought my death,” said the clock-wife, “but not my obedience.”

  She raised her hands over her head.

  Crevan lunged.

  Not for the clock-wife, but sideways, grabbing Ingeth and pulling her before him like a shield. The silent woman struggled, her eyes widening, but Crevan held her fast.

  The clock-wife paused.

  Rhea could just see Crevan’s face from where she stood. His lips were moving, his eyes closed.

  He’s doing something—calling on some magic—he’s using Ingeth to buy him time—

  Behind Crevan, the road began to boil.

  Is he doing that? Calling up one of his monsters from the white road?

  Crevan moved backward, on his knees, dragging Ingeth with him. The clock-wife stayed where she was, looking over his head.

  “Oh saints,” whispered the priest. “What are those things? The giant demon-woman was bad enough, but those…”

  The things that inhabited the white road were coming.

  They came as a dust storm, as they had once before, their faces billowing like gauze. The road heaved, and at last, Crevan seemed to notice. He took his eyes off the clock-wife and turned his head.

  Their hands reached out, catching at Crevan’s clothes, stroking their claws over his hair, and Crevan screamed.

  I guess he wasn’t calling them up…

  The clock-wife tilted her head. “They then have a prior claim,” she said. “I now will relinquish mine.”

  Crevan staggered to his feet and tried to run.

  Ingeth stood in his way.

  “Ingeth—” he cried.

  She shook her head, reached out, and wrapped her arms around him.

  He was still fighting her embrace when the dust storm swept in and engulfed them both.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cleaning up everything afterward turned out easier than Rhea expected, thanks entirely to Maria.

  She came out of the house, stomped up to the Viscount, and introduced herself as a witch. “Pardon me, milord,” she said, “I don’t mean to be forward, but there’s a great deal of work to be done here, and it’s no fit place for non-magicky folk to be.”

  “Ah,” said the Viscount. “Yes. This is—ah—”

  “Magic,” said Maria. “Up to witch-folk to clean-up, not fit for lords. But milord, this is very important, if you’ll take a witch’s advice…”

  The Viscount spread his hands.

  “The road, there. It should be safe and settled now, but I daresay most of your people will be afraid to follow it. You’d be doing a great service, if you don’t mind me saying, if you’ll take these people back home. They’ll be looking to you for leadership, milord.”

  The Viscount looked over at the white road, lying silent in the sunlight, and coughed. “Safe and settled, you say?”

  Maria nodded. “There were demons on it, but they’ve taken their master and gone back to Hell, begging your pardon for saying so about my betters, milord.”

  (Rhea rolled her eyes at this obsequiousness, but was too busy holding her mother, who was sobbing quietly, to object.)

  “But people less discerning than yourself, milord, might still be afraid of it. I’m afraid it’s up to you to lead them and show them that there’s naught to fear, sir.”

  “Ah,” said the Viscount. “Um. Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s…ah.” He glanced around. “And Crevan…?”

  “Not my place to say, milord, but I’d not be looking for him to come back.”

  Perhaps there was still a little magic left in Maria, or perhaps the Viscount was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the notion that his friend and political ally had been trafficking with demons. It helped that the clock-wife had vanished again. At any rate, the Viscount shook himself and ordered his lackeys to get their horses in order, and in a very short time, they were riding—very cautiously—down the white road and away. The priest rode last, and looked like a man who was very seriously considering another vocation.

  Rhea took the opportunity to introduce her mother and father to the hedgehog. “This is my hedgehog. Um. Not like a pet. It’s more like a friend.”

  “It’s a fami
liar,” said Maria, bustling up. And when Rhea turned and stared at her, she added, “What? You think normal hedgehogs do that sort of business?”

  “But I’m not a witch!” said Rhea.

  The hedgehog rolled its eyes.

  “Not at the moment,” said Maria. “Maybe not ever. But you might surprise yourself. Now, then…”

  They went inside the manor. Maria sat them all down in the kitchen and made tea. Rhea glanced at her mother and got a reassuring smile. Despite the fact that her mother could not possibly know what was going on, the smile warmed her.

  “Where did the clock-wife go?” asked Rhea. It occurred to her that she should probably be frightened, but she seemed to have used up all of her fear, probably for the next fifty years. “I promised her—”

  “A death,” said Maria. “It’s been taken care of.”

  “You mean Crevan?”

  Maria snorted. “No. She relinquished her claim to him—you heard her. No, I gave her mine.”

  Rhea stared at her, her fingers locked around the mug. Her mother quietly fed raisins to the hedgehog.

  “It was a perfectly good death,” said Maria defensively. “I hadn’t used it. She took it and went somewhere else. Some other time, maybe. It’s hard to tell with creatures like her.”

  “Does this mean you’re not going to die?” asked Rhea.

  “It might,” said Maria. She dolloped honey into her own mug. “But I wasn’t planning on dying any time soon, so it works out for now. The nice thing about immortality is that you have plenty of time to figure out how to get rid of it. Don’t worry about me.”

  She cleared her throat and glanced at Rhea’s parents, who were politely pretending that a terrifying conversation about magic was not going on at the same table. “You’ll be going home with them, of course.”

  “Yes,” said Rhea’s mother. “She’s coming home with us. Back to the mill.”

  “Is the Viscount going to take it away from us?” asked Rhea. “I didn’t want that—I know I embarrassed him—”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Maria. “If you have any trouble, I’ll be here.” She smiled faintly. “At least for the foreseeable future.”

  And then there was only one thing left to do.

  Rhea convinced her mother, with difficulty, to stay behind. “It’s nothing dangerous,” she said. “It’s just—I’ll explain it all later. I promise I’ll be back soon, and we’ll all go home.”

  “If you’re sure…” said her mother, and the hedgehog rubbed its snout against her mother’s hand and made her smile.

  And so the three of them went down the forest path together, Maria, Rhea, and Sylvie, the last of Crevan’s wives.

  Sylvie’s step was surer. Her sight had not returned—apparently Crevan’s death had not cured that—but a part of her that had gone missing had come back.

  “There’s no amount of apologies that’ll make it up to you,” said Maria bluntly as they walked. “I had no idea some of you was still in that clock.”

  “It’s all right,” said Sylvie, smiling. “I’m back now.”

  “You know you’ll never need to worry about a home,” said Maria. “As long as you can stand me, that is.”

  Sylvie laughed.

  When they reached the golem-wife’s pool, they stopped. Maria led Sylvie to a seat on one of the stones, and Rhea took out her knife.

  The two of them waded into the pool, to where the golem-wife hung.

  “Is she—” Rhea began.

  “Not yet.” Maria shook her head. “I think she’s hanging on out of habit.”

  Rhea took a deep breath.

  “Her name was Hester.”

  “Hester,” said Rhea quietly. “Hester, can you hear me?”

  Slowly, so slowly, the dried leather eyelids slid open. The golem-wife’s fingers twitched.

  “Crevan’s dead,” said Rhea. “You don’t have to stay alive any more, if you don’t want to.”

  She glanced at Maria, and the witch nodded once.

  The golem-wife’s lips cracked open.

  “….ahhh…” she whispered, and then she did not move again.

  Rhea bowed her head.

  A little time passed, and then Maria sighed. “All right. Let’s cut her down.”

  Rhea cut the leather thongs with the knife, and Maria clasped the dried husk to her chest, and they lowered Hester’s body into the pool.

  “Should we bury her?” asked Rhea.

  Maria shook her head. “She was thirsty for a long time,” she said. “I think she might like to lie in the pool for now.”

  “All right.”

  They waded back to shore and left the golem-wife lying in the water, her sunken face turned toward the sky.

  “That’s the last of us, then,” said Rhea. “Isn’t it?”

  Maria nodded. “The clock-wife’s…well, happy where she is, I suppose. If creatures like her are ever happy. And I’ll take care of Sylvie.”

  “And I’ll take care of you,” said Sylvie.

  Rhea laughed, then sobered. “And Ingeth…?”

  “Gone,” said Maria shortly. “Gone beyond our ability to help.”

  Rhea scuffled at the moss with her foot.

  Maria sighed. “At the end, she did the right thing,” she said. “And I didn’t love her, but I’ll let the last act pay for all.”

  “Do you think she’s suffering?” asked Rhea.

  Maria shook her head. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  “Crevan, though…” Rhea tried to remember the faces of the things on the white road, and could not pin them down in memory. “They got him, didn’t they?”

  “Oh, aye,” said Maria. “You make bargains with dark powers, and they always come for you in the end. His were just waiting for an opening. If he comes back, it’ll be as one of those things himself.”

  Rhea glanced at the witch. It occurred to her, that if one were being uncharitable, Maria herself might count as a dark power that had come for Crevan in the end.

  Maria cleared her throat. “You might want to keep it in mind. I meant it when I said that you should come back when you’re a bit older. If you’re witch enough to have a familiar, you’re witch enough to get yourself into trouble. Might be I could help you with that.”

  “I want to go home,” said Rhea. The hedgehog shifted in her pocket. “I want to go home and think about milling grain and not think at all about magic or marriage or any of this.”

  “Fair enough. But don’t leave it too long.”

  “You’ll come back to visit us, won’t you?” asked Sylvie. “Not right away, maybe, but eventually?”

  Rhea glanced over at the blind woman’s earnest face, and then at Maria.

  Maria spread her hands.

  “Well,” said Rhea. “Eventually. I suppose.”

  “That’ll be all right then,” said Sylvie.

  The hedgehog sighed and curled up in a ball, and the three of them began the long walk home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I started Seventh Bride eight years ago, and that thought would horrify me a lot more if I hadn’t written a bunch of books in between now and then.

  As often happens with my books, I’d pick at it for a bit then leave it, pick at it and leave it, over and over until finally the book hits a certain tipping point—around thirty thousand words—and then I knuckle down and write it clear to the end. This one sat for a long time, and then finally, somewhere early in 2014, it hit that point and I set about finishing it in earnest.

  I am glad Rhea, Maria, Sylvie, and the hedgehog all stayed with me for as long as they did.

  Thanks on this one go all over, mostly to my editor Brooke (who endured more of the stones and arrows of outrageous fortune than any one person should) and my agent and my children’s book editor, who said “Yeah, the voice may be a little young but there is no world where this is a children’s book, so go self-publish that thing and send us a copy.”

  (Readers may, as an exercise, attempt to pin
point the exact moment where I stopped believing it was for kids. Hint: It’s probably much later than you think!)

  To my proofreaders, who will see this before anyone else—thank you.

  To my faithful blog readers who are awesome and who were enthusiastic about this when I wrote the first few lines eight years ago and who continued to be enthusiastic when, in fits and starts, I came back and poked it again and again.

  To the staff of the now-defunct Pittsboro General Store restaurant where I would go in every day and order coffee and a chicken salad sandwich. The first half was written there.

  And to the staff of Cafe Diem, formerly Davenport, the coffee shop where I would go in every day and order coffee and more coffee and then slightly more coffee. The rest was written there.

  And finally, my thanks and all my love to my husband Kevin. My panic that I was writing an absolute wretch of a story hit early on this one. He had to read up until the bit where Rhea enters the clock, assure me that it was fine and I would not be shunned in the streets, and then had to wait for months while I hammered out the rest.

  He takes his role as the first reader very seriously, but this one was particularly unkind.

  Thank you all. You are all the best sort of people and I am flattered that you let me hang around with you.

  OTHER WORKS

  As T. Kingfisher

  Nine Goblins (Goblinhome Book 1)

  Toad Words & Other Stories

  As Ursula Vernon

  From Sofawolf Press:

  Black Dogs Duology

  House of Diamond

  Mountain of Iron

  Digger Series

  Digger Omnibus Edition

  It Made Sense At The Time

  For kids: