Broken Wish

by Julie C. Dao

  Oskar sniffed suspiciously at the stew. When Agnes frowned at him, he picked up his spoon and took a cautious taste, his eyes widening as he swallowed. Quickly, he took a second, bigger spoonful, and then a third. “Were you born in Hanau?” he asked Mathilda.

  “No, I wasn’t.” Mathilda carried over a heavy plate of sausages, cabbage dumplings, and potatoes and chives swimming in golden butter. “I’m sure you’ll find it a nice, quiet, little town.”

  Agnes speared a piece of buttery potato, which melted in her mouth like a cloud. “Do you have any family nearby?” she asked.

  Mathilda’s sad little laugh made her heart ache. “None still living. All I have is my cat and my cottage. Your house stood empty for years, and it’s so nice to see it lit up at night now.”

  “I’m glad we came, too,” Agnes said sympathetically. “Do you ever go into town? I’ve never seen you at market. People should see how sweet you are.”

  “No, never. It isn’t pleasant for me, and I can get everything I need from my garden or the forest or the market in Hainburg.”

  “Hainburg?” Oskar echoed, pausing for breath. He had now finished his entire bowl of stew and wolfed down at least half a dozen sausages, by Agnes’s count. “Going there and back by carriage is a whole morning and afternoon. Do you own a horse?”

  “No. But it’s a nice walk when the weather is fine.”

  Agnes understood. Hainburg was distant enough that no one there would know the gossip about Mathilda, so she could shop and walk about freely. The same reason we left Mannheim, Agnes thought, hoping Oskar would make the connection, too, and feel more charitable toward their neighbor. But clearly curiosity had gotten the better of her husband.

  “What happened between you and the town?” he asked bluntly.

  Agnes frowned at him again, but Mathilda answered at once. “They blame me for some odd incidents. Years ago, I had a run-in with the butcher’s daughter. Lina never liked me—there was a young man she fancied who preferred me instead—but she was especially cruel that day. She followed me into the hat shop and said rude things and laughed at me until I ran home without buying anything. I didn’t hear what happened to her until afterward.”

  “What happened?” Oskar and Agnes asked together.

  “As soon as Lina got home that day, she began choking. Her parents called the physician, who discovered a toad stuck in her throat, and for some reason, they accused me.” Mathilda’s pretty, heart-shaped face darkened. “The physician removed the toad safely, but for seven nights, Lina coughed up something else. A newt, a rat…even a baby snake once.”

  Agnes clutched her throat. “Goodness! But how could they blame you for such a thing?”

  “It’s easy to place blame where there is dislike, and Lina’s parents knew how she felt about me.” Mathilda folded her hands in her lap. “Another time, some of the boys in town thought it would be fun to tear down my hedges. They wanted to see what I was hiding, they said, and took their fathers’ axes and destroyed part of my wall. I had just come up the hill and I was so frightened at the sight of them waving the axes at me, I dropped my shopping and ran inside. They laughed at me and stole my bags and ate the candy I had bought.”

  Agnes shook her head in disbelief. The people they had met so far had been lovely and welcoming, and she could not imagine them being so cruel.

  “What happened next?” Oskar asked.

  “The following morning, the boys all came down with a terrible sickness,” Mathilda replied. “It turned out there had been enough rat poison in the candy to fell an ox. But no one blamed the confectioner from whom I had purchased it. All fingers pointed to me.”

  Agnes looked from Oskar’s grim expression to Mathilda’s downcast face. There was something odd about the line of the woman’s mouth that troubled Agnes, a faint upward tug at the corner that was not quite a smile. Perhaps Mathilda did not deserve to be blamed…but had she enjoyed these incidents? After all, they had happened to people who had been unkind to her.

  “After that, I started getting blamed for everything,” Mathilda went on. “Too much rain, too little rain. Broken carriage wheels, dead crops, bread gone bad, cracks in the bridge, and even children who went missing.” There was such sadness in her eyes when she looked up that Agnes felt guilty about what she had been thinking. “Now you know why I want nothing to do with Hanau. I have nowhere else to go and I prefer to keep to myself here.”

  “I understand, and I don’t blame you,” Agnes said.

  Mathilda patted her hand. “Enough serious talk now. I hope you both have a little room left for tea and honey cake. I baked enough for you to take home.”

  Oskar, who had been grave and silent throughout her speech, spoke at last. “I think we should get back. Thank you for the meal.” He got up abruptly and went to get their coats.

  “A little dessert won’t hurt, dear,” Agnes said, taken aback by his lack of manners. “And you know honey cake is my favorite. My mother used to serve it with cream.”

  Mathilda gave her a faint smile. “I always wanted a daughter to spoil with cake and cream, but that doesn’t seem likely to ever happen. I have the highest hopes for you, though.”

  Oskar spun around. “I beg your pardon?”

  Agnes got up and placed a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. “It’s all right. I told Mathilda about how we’ve hoped for a child in vain these ten years.”

  “We shouldn’t trouble our neighbor with these private matters, my love.” He wrapped Agnes’s coat around her, his face pleading. “Come, let’s just go home.”

  Mathilda’s voice rang out. “I wasn’t saying it to be kind. I meant it. You are my friend now, Agnes, and you will be a mother, too, if I have anything to say about it. I can help you.”

  Oskar clenched his jaw. “I don’t think you have anything to say on this subject.”

  “Please, Oskar, don’t.” Agnes’s heart raced as she turned back to Mathilda, whose face was bright with determination. “What do you mean you can help us? How?”

  “Surely you’ve heard plenty of gossip about me by now?” Mathilda asked bitterly, as she wrapped a small, crumbly brown cake in flannel. “Well, the rumor that I have a gift for herb lore and medicines happens to be true. Back when I wasn’t the town pariah, I helped cure everything from broken bones to broken hearts. I’ve been trained as a healer and I know about midwifery, and people were glad enough to benefit from my skills before they turned against me.” She came slowly toward Agnes, who felt Oskar’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “I know a tonic that might help you. That’s all,” she added, holding out the wrapped cake.

  Agnes took it, feeling its soothing heat between her hands. Mathilda must have been keeping it warm all through supper, and it was just like her to be so thoughtful and considerate. Agnes looked into her pretty face and desperately wanted to trust her. The air next to her skin tingled, as though destiny had arrived and wanted her to know it was there.

  But Oskar’s hands were still tight on her shoulders. “I don’t feel comfortable discussing this with you,” he told Mathilda flatly. “You can’t go around making these outrageous claims. I won’t have you raising my wife’s hopes. It’s no better than lying to her.”

  Mathilda’s gaze remained on Agnes, calm and gentle. “You’re the only person in years who has bothered to treat me like a human being. You’ve given me hope that not everyone is terrible, and that my loneliness won’t last forever. You deserve what you wish for,” she said. “All it would take is a simple tonic: three ingredients, taken by you in three sips on each of three separate nights.”

  Something in her voice made Agnes believe her, against all reason and what her rational mind knew to be true: that no drink could give her the child her heart hungered for. But the tingle in the air and the chill down her spine suggested there was more to Mathilda than what they saw. Whether it was good or bad—whether Hanau was right about her—she didn’t know. “We don’t have any money,” Agnes heard herself say. “We can’
t pay you.”

  Behind her, Oskar yanked open the door.

  “I don’t need money,” Mathilda said, with a small smile that broke Agnes’s heart. “The price would be for you to keep writing to me and have supper with me every month. I’ve felt less lonely with you around, and I know you feel the same. Don’t decide now. Just think about it.”

  Agnes hugged the warm cake as Oskar pulled her out the door. “I will,” she said, and the last thing she saw before the door closed was Mathilda’s light brown eyes wet with tears.

  And then she and Oskar were hurrying through the garden and back down the hill.

  Oskar cursed under his breath when they reached home, for standing at their door with a basket of pastries were the Braun sisters, the nosiest busybodies in town. Both women were in their sixties: Sophie was a widow with a grown son in Stuttgart, and Katharina, who had never married, was the town’s midwife. She had told Agnes once that she had chosen her profession because the juiciest bits of information often came from women in childbirth. “The poor dears are so racked with pain,” she cackled, “they don’t even know they’ve revealed the true father of their baby!”

  Agnes knew that of all the townspeople, Oskar would have least wanted the Brauns to see them coming from Mathilda’s house. She forced a smile. “Good evening, ladies.”

  “What were you doing up there?” Sophie demanded. Her bulging blue eyes cut from them to the hill. “You didn’t eat anything the witch gave you, did you?”

  Agnes felt Oskar biting back his irritation and patted his hand. “We paid her a quick call. Would you please excuse us? Oskar’s getting over a cold, and we shouldn’t stand out here long.”

  “What was her house like?” Katharina asked. She was all sharp angles from her chin to her elbows, in contrast to her soft, round sister. “Did she change her appearance in front of you? Frau Werner says she once saw the witch’s hair go from black to golden in minutes.”

  “Kat! Be quiet,” Sophie snapped, then turned back to Agnes and Oskar. “You mustn’t be seen with that woman. You’re new here, so you don’t know, but the Werners and the Bergmanns—the most important families in Hanau—hate her because she cursed young Frau Bergmann once! She made toads and snakes and I don’t know what else fall from Lina’s lips!”

  “Don’t forget Lina’s cousin nearly died eating that poisoned candy,” Katharina added. “The Werners were up in arms about that, but as soon as Georg Werner proposed a mob to roust the witch from her house, he fell deathly ill. A coincidence? I think not.”

  “You’re a nice young couple and we like you, so we won’t tell anyone. We wouldn’t want people to think you were in league with the witch, would we?”

  Agnes’s stomach twisted at the fear on Oskar’s face. He had worked so hard to buy them this cottage and move away from the old scandal, and now she had spoiled their fresh start. She had put them in this position, and now the gossips knew. “One of our goats escaped its pen last night,” she blurted out, and everyone looked at her in surprise. “It damaged the woman’s hedge, and we wanted to make amends with some milk and cheese. That’s why we went up there.”

  At once, the Brauns broke into relieved smiles.

  “Oh, you poor dears,” Katharina cried. “No wonder you looked so distressed just now! We almost thought you didn’t want to see us!”

  “So you’ve never associated with her before this?” Sophie asked.

  Agnes swallowed hard. “No,” she lied, pushing away the image of Mathilda’s notes and her light brown eyes, wet with tears. “This was the first time we had anything to do with her.”

  “Well, no harm done, then,” Sophie said, patting Agnes’s arm. “Tie your goats securely and don’t leave your house for a few days. It was wise to appease her with a gift, but you don’t want to keep reminding her of what happened. Lord knows that witch can hold a grudge!”

  “We’ll do that,” Agnes said weakly.

  “Well, since that’s been cleared up, we wish you a good night,” Oskar told them.

  “Good night,” Katharina said, handing Agnes the basket. “And next time you go to the tavern, Oskar, be sure to tell of your experience to Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re professors in Berlin, but they were born in Hanau,” Sophie explained. “They’re back all week to visit and collect stories about witches. Something about a volume of children’s tales they’re compiling. Frankly, it sounds like nonsense to me.”

  “But if these Grimms can make a living from it, I say good for them!” Katharina added, as the sisters disappeared down the path.

  Oskar went inside without another word and Agnes followed, glancing up the hill before she closed the door. The iron lanterns by the gate were still lit, illuminating a figure in a hooded cloak, which slowly turned and headed back toward the hedge wall. Agnes wondered if Mathilda had seen everything, if she could guess at what had passed between them and the Brauns. Her stomach clenched with guilt at the memory of Mathilda’s notes filled with care.

  “I can help you,” the young woman had said, so confident, so sure.

  It was silly to think a tonic could erase years of heartache and bring the child they wanted desperately. And yet it sounded so simple: just a few sips and a few suppers with a kind woman who longed to be friends. If it didn’t work, what was the worst that could happen?

  But if it did work…

  Agnes closed her eyes, imagining a head with sunny curls, eyes as blue as Oskar’s, and chubby hands touching her face. A little voice calling her Mama and squeals of delight blending with Oskar’s great shout of laughter as they played. She felt her husband’s arms wrap around her tightly, and only then did she realize that she had been sobbing.

  “Go see her again,” he said gruffly. “Go take that tonic and find out what happens.”

  Agnes looked up at the good husband she knew with all her soul would be a good father, and saw that his bright blue eyes were wet, too. “But the Brauns…”

  “Hang the Brauns.” He put a big, callused hand on either side of her face. “I know you. If you don’t do this, you will spend the rest of your life wondering. Witch or not, I think that woman does care about you. So let her help you, if you want her to. Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  Oskar touched the thin band of gold on her right hand. “Promise me on my mother’s wedding ring that when you’ve gone to her three more times and are done taking the tonic, you will never see her again.” The fear and worry had returned to his face. “Whether or not it works, give me your word you will end the friendship when she’s through. Please, Agnes.”

  She looked at the ring he had put on her finger ten years ago. “Mathilda’s price for helping me was my friendship,” she said slowly. “You’re asking me to use her. And lie to her.”

  “You know what my life was like back in Mannheim. My father committed the sin of not marrying my mother, but I got all the punishment.” He shook his head. “I can’t let that happen to the children we might have. I can’t see them suffer like I did. You heard the Brauns: We’ll be shunned if we associate with the witch, and I don’t want to risk our lives here.”

  Agnes stared at him, her chest tight with shock. “I don’t know if I can promise you that, Oskar. How can I live with knowing that I tricked a good woman—and I do believe she is good—into helping me? What kind of example would that be for our children, if we had any?”

  Oskar bowed his head.

  She exhaled. “Let me think about it some more. It’s late, and we should get to bed.”

  But after tossing and turning for hours, Agnes still didn’t know what to do. If she did what Oskar asked, she would break Mathilda’s heart. If she accepted Mathilda’s deal, she would risk turning Hanau against them. And if she did neither, it would be just as Oskar had said: She would spend the rest of her life wondering.

  After breakfast, Oskar went out to tend to the animals, and Agnes watched him from the wind
ow. She didn’t know anyone who had a better heart than her husband, and his suggestion that she betray Mathilda had truly shocked her. Yet it would accomplish everything they desired: They might get their baby and stay in good standing.

  Only Mathilda would suffer.

  Agnes’s eyes turned upward to the hill on which her neighbor might have been gardening, petting her cat, or sitting by the fire. If I lied to her, she thought, her situation wouldn’t be much different from what it is now. Mathilda would still have her cottage, with that garden and that cat and that fire. She would go on sewing and cooking and walking all the way to Hainburg to buy what she needed. She would just do it all without Agnes.

  “No, I can’t,” Agnes said aloud, as the temptation grew and grew. “I can’t do that to her.”

  But even as she dove into her daily tasks, trying to distract herself, a small voice insisted on lingering at the edges of her mind. It whispered, You can.

  The next evening, Agnes went back up the hill. There was no moon and no sound except the lonely cry of an owl and the crunch of her boots on the snow. Oskar had stayed home, afraid that other neighbors might come calling, and had sent her off with a hug and a kiss. They hadn’t said another word about his request, but it had hung in the air between them like a thick curtain. And now, panting slightly as she climbed the slope to Mathilda’s open gate, Agnes still hadn’t made a decision. I’ll know when I see her, she told herself.

  Whatever she decided, she would be open and honest and businesslike with Mathilda, not emotional. But her resolve faded the minute she came to the woman’s cottage, which shimmered in the cold with a kindly light. And when Mathilda appeared at the door, her face full of gratitude and relief that Agnes had come back, it was impossible not to feel emotional.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, hugging Agnes. “I’ve been cooking all day. Come in.”

  Inside, a fire blazed in the hearth and Mathilda’s ginger cat blinked in recognition as Agnes took a seat at the table. A floral smell tinged the air from a vase of snowdrops resting on a thick, leather-bound book on the mantel. The pure white flowers contrasted well with the purple velvet that protected the painting on the wall. One corner of the fabric had slipped, and Agnes noticed what looked like an ornate gold frame. The young woman must be even wealthier than she and Oskar had thought.