Bloodleaf (Bloodleaf #1)(66)

Her voice began to shake. “You’re trying to manipulate me.” Her lips curled down in rage. “How dare you? How dare you use the memory of my son in such a way?”

I steeled myself. “I am not lying.”

All my life I’d been terrified of their touches, to see their horrific tales play out in front of my eyes. But I knelt down and held my hand to him. He stepped out from behind her skirts and looked from my outstretched hand to my face, as if asking for permission. I gave a slight nod, and he placed his small, pale fingers in mine.

It was like plunging my arm into an ice-ridden river. I gulped at the shock of his cold touch, but I didn’t let go.

Flashes of words and pictures and memories flew around my head like snow in a flurry. I told her, “He was named after your favorite bird. A . . . a kestrel. He’d always find a stick to carry when you’d walk from town to town, looking for work as a maid. Sometimes you had to take other work to buy him food. You’d make him wait outside in the street so he couldn’t hear what was happening to you, but he could hear. You hardly ate much; you gave what you could to him and put a little money aside—?to take him on a boat ride, you said. He loved boats. You’d walk past the docks with him every day and compare the ships in the harbor—?the colors and sizes—?and talk about which one you’d take him on when you had enough money saved up.”

Tears were shining in her eyes. Her hands were twisted up in her apron, which she knotted and pressed against her mouth, dampening her shrill wail of grief.

My entire arm was becoming a block of ice, but I held on. “Your husband was often gone for months, but he always found you when his funds ran dry. The last time, he stole the money for your boat ride and wasted it on bad bets. When Kestrel found out, he cried. But the crying just upset him. He tried to make Kestrel quit crying.” Breathless horror was suffocating me; I didn’t want to see this. “And he . . . and he—?”

“Stop,” Sahlma begged. “Please stop.”

Tears were running down my face as Kestrel’s story flew past my eyes. “Stars. Oh, merciful Empyrea. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” I closed my eyes. “You buried him in the forest,” I said shakily. “You planted a sapling on the spot. And then you went back to the man who took your little boy from you and you hit him on the back of the head with a rock while he was sleeping. You were about to hit him again when you saw the patch of bloodleaf under the bridge . . . and then you dragged him to it, dumped him on it, and then you slit his throat and pushed his body into the river below. Then you went back with the petals . . . you dug up the tree . . . you tried . . .” I looked up at her through bleary eyes, unable to finish.

Sahlma pressed both hands to her face and sobbed.

Kestrel waited calmly while I collected myself. “Your son . . . he wants you to know that he doesn’t blame you, even though you blame yourself. He loves you. He doesn’t want you to be sad anymore.”

The boy nodded and withdrew his hand. My arm fell to my side. I couldn’t move it. I clutched it with my other hand and staggered to my feet.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll go.”

“Wait,” she said. “I did collect bloodleaf petals that day. Two of them. One I used . . . you saw how. The second, I sold to buy my education as a healer. I wanted to help people like me . . . but time and circumstance has a way of beating the idealism out of a person.” She wiped at her puffy face with the back of her age-spotted hand. “I’ll help you, if I can. Show me the way.”



* * *



It was dark when Sahlma and I rushed across the cottage threshold. We could hear Kate’s wrenching cries before we even reached the walk. We found her kneeling at the side of her bed, bent over in excruciating pain.

Sahlma got right to work, rolling up her sleeves. “Water. Now.”

I hastily filled a basin and rushed in with it, water slopping over the sides as I set it next to the bed. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Kate asked.

“You’re going to be fine,” I said reassuringly before shooting a worried look at Sahlma, who said nothing.

Kate was racked with another hard contraction, tendons standing out against her skin as she struggled through it. The bloodstain on the gauze pressed against the cut on her neck began to spread further across the white plane. The wound still had not clotted.

“It won’t be long now,” Sahlma said, furrows deepening above her brows.

Kate labored through the waning hours of the night, growing ever weaker.

Near morning Kate gave one final, shuddering push, and the child was born. A little girl.

“Look, Kate!” I said. “You were right. A girl.”

“She’s alive,” Sahlma said, looking wan and sad. “But she’s small, and not breathing well.”

Tears shone in Kate’s eyes. “Can I hold her?”

Sahlma wrapped the baby up and passed her to me. I paused to pull the fabric away from her face. It was round and perfect, with sweet, tawny cheeks and a little bit of dark, curly hair crowning her head. Her eyelids flickered open and she began mewling weakly. Her eyes, I could tell, would be deep brown. Just like her father’s.

Kate took her in shaking arms. “We did it, my girl. We did it.”

I stumbled, numb, into the kitchen, while Sahlma did her best to stanch Kate’s bleeding. I made myself as busy as possible, straightening what was already straightened, cleaning what was already clean. Kate’s half-finished work was everywhere: a pie, ready to be baked. A bundle of fresh firewood in the hearth, ready to be set alight. A basket full of half-made baby clothes next to the chair. I lifted the first dress and stared at it, dazed, wishing I could finish it for her but knowing I’d never do it justice. When I went to lay it back in the basket, I felt a sharp sting on the tip of my forefinger.