Arien crouches beside me. He’s uncertain, like he wants to touch me but he’s afraid. The dark has faded from his eyes now. They’re the same silver gray as my own. “Leta, I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “I should have stopped her. I should—”
I fold back the hem of my nightdress. “Can you get me a cloth?”
While he’s gone, I bend forward to see the cuts. I take a breath and begin to pick out the splinters embedded in my skin. I put the shards one by one onto the floor. Through the blood, the glass shines, a grim mirror to my collection of polished stones.
Arien brings me some scraps of linen. He takes the kettle from the back of the stove and fills a bowl with warm water and salt. He dampens a cloth and presses it to my knee. It quickly turns crimson and his forehead creases with a worried frown. He rinses the cloth, folds it over to cover the stain, and presses it down again.
I sit very still as he wipes away the blood. Outside the kitchen window, the leaves of the apple tree shift and shiver like splotches of paint against the gloomy night sky, black over black. I feel so cold, even though it’s hot beside the stove, with warmth radiating from the banked embers.
A thought tugs, unwelcome. I wish for something stronger than me, strong enough to take away all my fear and my hurt. Something immovable, like an enormous tree that will scratch my cheek with rough bark as I lean against its trunk.
I want my mother. I want my father.
I remember my father’s large hand, warm around mine. His fingers, careful, as they swept my hair back from my forehead. My mother humming to Arien as he slept in his cradle.
I miss them with a terrible ache.
But now there is only me, numb and sad and scoured clear, like the windswept mud after a storm. And if I’m not strong enough to protect Arien, then nobody will.
Arien starts to wrap two longer strips of cloth around my knees, bandaging the cuts.
“Don’t fight her again.” His voice is small in the quiet of the room. “It only makes things worse.”
I take his hand and gently inspect his fingers. They’re blistered with raised, pale welts. I blow a soft breath over his skin and he manages a faint smile. “I’ll not let her hurt you, Arien. Not like this. Not at all. It doesn’t matter what she does to me.”
“Please, Leta.”
I put my arms around him. “I’ll try.”
He rests his cheek against my shoulder and sighs, despondent. Until tonight, I knew how to protect him from Mother’s anger. Now the nights ahead are full of dreams and shadows and flames. I try to think of a way out, somewhere we could go to escape this. But there’s our cottage and Mother, and there’s the world—vast and unknown, and no safer than here. Here, at least, I can learn the new shape of our lives.
I close my eyes and try to map how things will be from this point onward, picturing a hallway full of locked doors, the walls lined with endless altars where candles burn and burn and burn. Me at the center, my arms outspread, as Arien stands behind me.
I will take everything—Mother’s fear, her anger, the fire, and the blood. Let it all come down on me. No matter what I have to do, I’ll never let Arien be hurt like this again.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” I tell him. “I promise.”
Chapter Two
Greymere on tithe day hums like a hive. The air is pollen bright. The townspeople’s voices are as loud as a chanted litany. Arien and I walk through the crowd toward the village square. Everyone waits, their arms laden heavily with sacks of grain, baskets of fruit, bolts of neat-hemmed linen cloth.
We take our place at the end of the line, and I bend to set our basket onto the ground beside my feet. When I straighten, my knees give a sharp, fierce ache. I hiss between my teeth, and Arien looks at me, concerned.
“It’s fine.” I stare down into the basket at the jars of preserves. “I’m fine.”
The cuts still seeped fresh blood this morning. There were so many pieces of glass, and they went so deep that I don’t know if I’ve picked out all the splinters. I rewrapped my knees, then put on my thickest wool stockings to hide the bandages.
I notice Mother on the opposite side of the square. She and the village keeper are beside the altar. A canvas cloth is spread on the ground with all her paints and brushes set out neatly. She runs her hands over the icon, her touch reverent, as she checks for wear. She’ll work the whole day to repair it, a chore she does every season. Add more color, then smooth and varnish the wooden frame.
Later, when the sun is lower, we’ll all gather in a circle at the altar with our hands pressed to the earth to make observance to the Lady.