Weyward(89)

Doctor Smythson.

I spent the last days of December rising before the sun, when the valley was thick with darkness and silence. As the sky greyed around the edges, I made my way to Milburn Farm, where I climbed the oak and sat high in its branches. I might have been another of the crows, who welcomed me silently with their glittering eyes. One of them settled next to me, its feathers brushing my cloak. Together we watched the farmhouse.

I watched candlelight flicker orange through the shutters. I watched the back door open as John left the farmhouse and walked to the byre to milk the cows. I heard their low protest as his rough fingers pinched at their udders, and the fear grew in me. Milking had been Grace’s job. John took the cows to the fields, which were dark and swollen with melted snow. Some days, the Kirkby lad came. I did not see Grace. The winter sky grew light, and then pink became icy blue. Still she did not leave the farmhouse: not to wash the clothes, not to fetch water from the well or make her way to the market.

Five days passed thus. Then, as the sixth day dawned, I watched as the back door opened and Grace emerged in John’s stead. I saw her make her way to the byre for the milking, moving slowly, her body curved over itself with pain. I saw her stagger, and then sink to her knees and retch. I pressed my hand to my mouth as I saw the door open again. John came out, walking quickly towards his wife, who knelt in the frozen mud.

In spite of all I knew of the man, some innocent part of me expected him to offer his wife some kindness, to take her hand in his and tenderly raise her to her feet. Instead, I saw him tear off her cap and twist his fingers into her hair. In the dull light, her curls were the colour of old blood. John pulled her to her feet by her hair, and her sharp cry of pain sent a shiver through the morning. Around me, the crows shifted uneasily on the branches.

Tears froze on my cheeks as I watched him haul her into the byre, as if she were no better than a piece of waste. It had been one thing to hear her speak of his rough treatment of her. It was quite another to see it. Fury flowed through my blood like fire.

The next morning, New Year’s Eve, Adam Bainbridge delivered me a gift for the new year. He had wrapped a small piece of gammon in a cloth.

‘There’s something else,’ he said, after I thanked him. ‘I stopped by the Milburn farm first this morning, to deliver my gift. John Milburn has long kept us in veal, you see, and my father bid me to take a token of our gratitude this new year.’ He paused, as though the act had made him uncomfortable. He knows, I thought. He knows how John treats her.

‘John was in the field, so it was Mistress Milburn who answered the door. Grace. She asked if I planned to give any other gifts that day. I said I was taking a gift to you, next, for the care you showed my grandfather when he passed this year. She bid me give you this.’

He pressed a bundle of cloth into my hands. I didn’t dare open it in front of Adam, and pretended the gift was a surprise – as far as the villagers knew, Grace had not uttered a kind word to me in public for seven years.

He looked at me for a moment, as if he had wanted to ask me a question but thought better of it.

‘Well, happy New Year, Altha,’ he said. ‘Blessings be upon you.’

He touched his cap and left.

I watched him disappear down the path, then went inside. Once I had shut the door behind me, I unwrapped the bundle. It was a fragrant, golden orb – an orange, I realised. I had only ever heard them spoken of, the fruit is so rare and precious. An expensive gift. The smell of it was sharp in my nostrils, mingled with another, woodier scent. Clove. I pulled at the clove; it was rough against my fingers. I saw that it had not been secured with a simple piece of twig, but a figure fashioned from twigs and twine. It was crude and looked hastily made, but I could see what she had intended it to be. The figure of a woman, with a curl of twine around her waist. A baby.

Grace was pregnant again. And she was asking for my help.

That night, I dreamed again of my mother, as she had been on her deathbed. Her features were waxen, and the pale lips barely moved as she spoke.

‘Altha,’ she said. ‘Remember your promise … you cannot break your promise … it is not safe. You must keep your gift hidden …’

I woke with a jolt and the dream fell away. I pushed my mother’s face from my mind. A sound had woken me, I realised. I heard it again. A cry that throbbed in the quiet. A crow. I looked outside. Night was only just beginning to lift from the valley. It was time.

I dressed quickly. In the looking glass, my hair shone bright as feathers. With my black cloak fastened around my shoulders, I looked as dark and powerful as if I were a crow myself.





49


VIOLET


The key turned in the lock. Violet pulled her nightdress on hurriedly, dizzy from the effort. She sat back down. The darkness was there still, at the edges of her vision. Perhaps it would be easiest to give into it, she thought. To let it take her away, before Father and Doctor Radcliffe did.

The creak of the front door, and then the wind roared into the cottage. She heard Father’s voice, raised above the storm.

‘Graham? What are you doing here?’

‘Father – I can explain—’

‘Where is the girl?’ She recognised Doctor Radcliffe’s voice, cold and clinical.

They were in the room, the rain glittering on their overcoats. Violet looked down at the floor, stained pink with her blood.