My mother always taught me that cleanliness commands respect, and that respect was worth more than all the king’s gold – to us, especially, seeing as we often had little of either. We had washed every week. No smell of curdled sweat hung around the Weyward women, not even in high summer. Instead, we smelled of lavender, for protection. I wished I had some lavender now. But all I had were my wits, dulled as they were by lack of proper food and sleep.
The man shackled me for the short walk from the dungeon to the courtroom. I stopped myself from flinching at the shock of the cold metal on my skin, and held my head high as we walked up the stairs and into the courtroom.
The prosecutor rose from his seat and walked towards the bench, where the judges sat. His footsteps on the boards drove fear into my heart, and I shook in the awful silence before his speech.
Still, I was unprepared for the horror of his words. His pale eyes burned as he denounced me as a dangerous, malicious witch, in thrall to Satan himself. I had, he said, engaged in the most hellish practice of witchcraft and sorcery, to take the life of Master John Milburn, him being an innocent and God-fearing yeoman. His voice grew louder as he spoke, until it rang like a death knell in my skull.
He turned and spat the closing words at me. ‘I have confidence’， he said, ‘that the gentlemen of this jury of life and death shall find you as you are. Guilty.’
And then, to the court:
‘I call the first examinate to give evidence against the accused.’
The blood rushed in my ears when I saw who the guards escorted to the box.
Grace Milburn.
8
VIOLET
Violet was on her best behaviour.
All week, she had been focused and diligent in her lessons. Miss Poole was thrilled that she had finally grasped the French pluperfect tense and said that her drawing of a vase of irises was exquisite. Violet thought that the blue flowers looked like corpses, with their wilting heads and drooping leaves. Miss Poole had picked them. Violet didn’t believe in picking flowers, in snapping their stems for no reason other than to look at them. But she kept her mouth shut and drew their likeness as best she could.
She even made some crooked progress on the silk slip that Miss Poole insisted she sew for her ‘trousseau’。 （She couldn’t for the life of her think why such a thing was necessary. Nanny Metcalfe was the only person who had ever seen her in her ‘combinations’ – as the nursemaid rather archaically called them – and Violet intended for matters to stay that way.）
Determined to avoid the purgatory of finishing school, she had stayed inside for two weeks now. Two weeks since she had felt the kiss of an insect’s wings against her skin. Two weeks since she’d climbed her beloved beech, since she’d removed her treasures – the snail’s shell, the butterfly cocoon, the beech nut with its spiky fronds – from the windowsill and hidden them under her bed. She’d taken to asking Miss Poole to shut the windows, even though it was getting so warm that sweat shone on their upper lips, because she couldn’t bear the sounds of the valley. The drone of a bee was a torment; a chattering squirrel pierced her heart.
But gradually, the sounds faded away. She was glad of it.
Even Goldie seemed to lose interest in her. Normally, she could hear the faint click of his legs as he climbed out of the hatbox and scuttled about the room at night – sometimes she even woke to find him nestled safe in her hair – but now there was just silence. She worried that he’d died but couldn’t bring herself to look.
Most days, when she wasn’t attending to what Miss Poole dubbed her ‘improvements’， Violet lay on her bed with the curtains drawn, sweating in the dark heat. Mrs Kirkby began bringing trays to her room: first, elaborate fruit pies and cakes, towering with cream, and when those went untouched, bowls of bland nursery food. Nanny Metcalfe even came in one afternoon and asked if she wouldn’t like her to read aloud, something she hadn’t done since Violet was small.
‘There was that book of tales you loved,’ she said. ‘Brothers Slim, or summat—’
‘Grimm. The Brothers Grimm,’ Violet said. She had loved them, it was true, even if Nanny Metcalfe had pronounced half the words wrong. ‘I’m much too old for that now, Nanny.’ She turned to face the wall. She could see a chink of golden light on the floral wallpaper.
She heard the rustle of Nanny Metcalfe’s dress as she bent over Violet’s bed.
‘Do you need—’
‘Can you draw the curtains more closely together, please, Nanny?’ she asked, cutting the nurse’s questions off.
‘All right, Miss Violet,’ she said. ‘If you’re sure.’
Violet bit her lip. She just had to get through this visit from Father’s relative. She had to show him that he didn’t need to send her away to some stuffy old school. Then she could go outside again. Until then, all she needed was to be left alone.
That evening, as Violet drifted between sleep and wakefulness, she heard Nanny Metcalfe and Mrs Kirkby muttering outside her door. Mrs Kirkby had come to collect another tray of uneaten food.
‘I’ve never seen a person take to their bed like this, without being ill,’ Nanny Metcalfe said. ‘But there’s nowt wrong with her that I can find. No fever, no rash …’
‘I have,’ said Mrs Kirkby. ‘The late mistress took to her bed, not long before the end.’
‘Why? Nerves?’
‘That’s what Doctor Radcliffe said. The master had him come out, the first time, on condition of secrecy.’
‘Could he say what triggered it?’
‘He didn’t need to. We all knew the reason. Especially after what happened next.’
Perhaps they can stop you from turning out like her.
The next afternoon, while Violet sat limp in the schoolroom, embroidering with Miss Poole, Nanny Metcalfe burst through the door.
‘The Master wants Miss Violet to take the air,’ she said.
Miss Poole looked at the clock, a frown accentuating her reptilian features.
‘But we’ve only just started our needlepoint lesson,’ she said.
‘Master’s orders,’ said Nanny Metcalfe.
‘I’d rather stay inside,’ said Violet, looking down at her fingers on the canvas. Her hands, like the rest of her, had grown pale from lack of sun. Her fingernails were speckled and thin, as if they might peel away. Could you die, Violet wondered, from longing?
‘Well, Violet, if your father wants you to, perhaps you should,’ said Miss Poole. ‘But you can continue with your needlepoint after dinner. I’m so very pleased with your enthusiasm. Where has this Violet been hiding?’
Nanny Metcalfe offered Violet her arm as they made their way around the grounds. The gardens were bright with flowers – blue spikes of hyacinth, fleshy whorls of rhododendrons – so bright that she averted her eyes and looked down at her feet in their leather brogues.
‘Isn’t it lovely to be outside, listening to the birds?’ Nanny Metcalfe said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Lovely.’
But she couldn’t hear the birds. In fact, she could barely hear anything at all, other than Nanny Metcalfe’s voice. It was as if her ears were wrapped in wool.
A butterfly passed them. Out of habit, Violet lifted her hand, but instead of coming to rest on her palm, it flew on, like she wasn’t even there.