Fear the Drowning Deep(11)

I looked from my mug to the witch. “How lovely. But—”

“Tell me, were you born under a full moon?”

“I have no idea.”

“I’d wager you were. It’s the only explanation for hair as light as yours. Someone must have told you how unusual it is. I’ve seen it just once before, on your …” Morag blinked as though she’d surprised herself. “Well, never mind.”

I pressed my lips together and tugged on a strand of hair tickling my cheek. No one commented on my white-blonde hair anymore. To me, it was dull and unremarkable unless the light struck it just the right way, and then my hair would glow with a tender pink sheen, like the inside of a seashell.

“What will I be doing here?” I asked. “Weeding your garden? Dusting your—er—everything? Scrubbing your cauldron?”

Morag smiled. “Scrubbing what?”

“Your cauldron. Witches have cauldrons, don’t they?”

“Oh, I don’t need a cauldron to work my magic.” Her thin lips twitched. “However, all spells require quality ingredients to work. That’s why I need you.”

“Pardon?” Looking into her vivid eyes made my head spin.

“Your mam told me you know the woods well. That’ll prove useful, but I’ll also need you to go to the beach on occasion. There’s treasure to be plucked from the flotsam.”

My hands clenched around my mug. Mam hadn’t mentioned anything about the beach when she’d described the apprenticeship. “I won’t go to the beach. I’ll do everything else you ask—I’ll even scrub your outhouse, if you ask it of me—but I can’t go near the sea.”

“You’re my apprentice,” Morag snapped. “You’ll go whether you like it or not.”

I lifted my gaze from the table to glare at her. “What do you mean, whether I like it or not?”

“It means exactly what you think it does, lass. Ye ken?” Her accent thickened as anger warmed her voice, and she matched my glare with a scowl that made the lines on her face deepen. “There’re things I need down there. Important things.”

I gripped the table’s edge, silently cursing Mam for apprenticing me to a witch. “Why not go yourself, then?”

Morag thrust her weak leg out from under the table. “I’d fall down the cliffs, never to be seen again.” Perhaps she sensed that I didn’t think this would be such a great tragedy. She narrowed her eyes. “Besides, I don’t like being near the water if I can help it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the sea. I respect it, mind, but I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” I repeated, watching anger and frustration at war on Morag’s face. And for a moment, as she mutely shook her head, I thought I saw a tremor rush through her.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I won’t go to the beach. I don’t like it, either.” I crossed my arms. “I can clean or garden or fetch your bread and milk. I’ll find you herbs in the woods. I know at least fifty different kinds of flowers, and I can learn more. But it’s not safe to be near the water right now. A girl drowned just this week, and another’s disappeared.”

A shadow crossed Morag’s face, reminding me of Mrs. Gill’s expression after seeing the dead girl.

I leaned across the table, hoping she wouldn’t put a curse on me over a simple question. “Do you know how that girl drowned?”

Morag gave me a look. “She must’ve gotten too much water in her lungs, mustn’t she? Now, if you want to see any of my coin, you’ll do as I ask. No trips to the beach, no pay.”

I gritted my teeth and nodded, resigning myself to my fate. I imagined being found face-down in the sand like that stranger, and cold broke over me.

“I won’t send you there without protection,” Morag added curtly, her gaze still sharp. “Now drink your tea.”

I lifted the mug and feigned a sip. “Please tell me what you need me to do today, so I might begin.” I’d already wasted half the morning pretending to drink tea, when I could’ve been visiting Cat at the bakery or playing puppets with Grayse.

Morag slid off her chair and moved toward a tall, narrow cupboard. “You know, it might not be so bad for you here, if you’ve an open mind.” She paused, turning to me. “Your mam liked working for me well enough.”

I slammed my mug down. “Mam worked here? And she—liked it?”

“Indeed. She used to help me, back when she was about your age. Still does, on occasion.” Morag returned to the table, holding a pole with straw sloppily fixed to one end.

“What’s that?”

“A broom. I trust you’ve seen one before. And somewhere in this death trap, there’s a dustpan to accompany it. Since you’re so eager to get to work …” She snapped her fingers, looking pleased with herself. “Hop to it!”

I jumped off my chair and grabbed the broom. If Mam had done this, so could I. Liss worked. I just needed to decide where to start. The layer of crumbs around the table seemed as good a place as any.

While I swept, Morag wandered off again, presumably in search of the elusive dustpan.

“Shoh slaynt,” I said to the witch’s back in a mock salute. To your health.