The Fey Quartet

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Widow Miller’s cottage lay a quarter of a mile beyond Dapple Bend village, on the far side of the village common, in a meadow where wildflowers bloomed and a little brook meandered.

The widow paused at the forest edge and gazed across the common. There was the meadow, and there her tiny cottage. She sighed with relief and weariness. “Home,” she told the babe.

The Faerie baby uttered no sound. It was fast asleep, black lashes laid upon its milk-white cheeks.

Widow Miller tucked her shawl more warmly around the infant, and peered across the village common. She saw no people abroad. Cautiously, she hobbled out from between the trees. Dusk tinted the sky pink.

The widow was halfway across the common when a man stepped from the forest, leading a donkey laden with firewood. The man was giant-like in his proportions, as broad-shouldered as an ox. His flaxen hair glinted in the low sun. Renfred Blacksmith.

Widow Miller halted, and wished she could hurry back to the forest, but it was too late for that, for Ren was already lifting one hand in greeting and calling a cheerful “Good day.”

The widow hastily covered the babe’s face with her shawl. “Keep sleeping,” she whispered, and she sent up a silent prayer: Please, gods, let the babe not wake.

Ren’s smile of greeting faded. He released the donkey’s rope. His stride lengthened until he was running. “By all the gods! What happened?”

One arm was about her, steadying her, and the widow was suddenly aware of just how much her legs were shaking. “What happened?” the blacksmith asked again.

Widow Miller leaned into him for a moment, taking comfort in his warmth and solidness. Ren Blacksmith, the kindest, brawniest man in all Dapple Vale. “I fell in a stream,” she said, and blushed for her lie, and for her love of the blacksmith.

“I’ll carry you home,” Ren said.

“Oh, no!” the widow said, drawing away from him. She clutched the basket to her chest. Keep sleeping, little one. “It’s only a few steps.”

“It’s halfway across the common, and you’re done in. Come, let me carry you.” Ren’s donkey ambled up and gazed at Widow Miller with dark, patient eyes.

The widow shrank back and shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said again.

“If you won’t let me carry you, then Githa shall,” Ren said, and he cast the bundled firewood from the donkey’s back.

“Oh, but—”

Ren took the basket from her and placed it on the ground. He lifted Widow Miller as if she weighed no more than thistledown and settled her on Githa’s back.

“My basket,” the widow said, a note of alarm in her voice. Keep sleeping, little one.

“I’ll carry it.”

And so, Widow Miller crossed the village common on the blacksmith’s donkey, with the blacksmith striding alongside, carrying her basket. Her chest was tight with anxiety. If Ren knew what was in the basket he carried, he’d want to help, and she could not allow that. The Fey were dangerous, deathly dangerous, and Ren’s wife was in her grave and he had a young son.

Don’t wake, little one, she prayed silently. Please don’t wake.

Widow Miller’s cottage was small, but the thatching was plump on the roof and a cheerful plume of smoke rose from the little chimney. Two large red-brown hounds lay one on either side of the doorstep.

Both hounds lifted their heads. One sat up and gave a single loud bark; the other surged to his feet and bounded towards them, tail wagging.

The cottage door swung open. The widow’s middle daughter burst from it and ran across the meadow to greet them. “Ren, what’s happened?”

“Your mother’s had a soaking.” Ren handed her the basket. “Take this, Hazel. I’ll carry her in.”

“Oh, no,” Widow Miller protested, but Ren gathered her in his arms and lifted her from the donkey.

“Mother!” the widow’s youngest daughter cried, spilling from the cottage and hurrying towards them, her pale hair bright in the low sunlight. “Are you all right?”

“She’s wet through,” Ren told her. “And exhausted.” He carried the widow as easily as if she were a child, and she felt ashamed of her feeble, crippled body and ashamed of her hopeless, hidden love for him.

They crossed the meadow, the blacksmith and the widow and her anxious daughters. One red-brown hound bounded around them like a puppy, rearing up on his hind legs to sniff the basket; the other stood at the doorstep, tail wagging, uttering yipping, anxious barks, not moving from her guard post.

“Keep that basket from Bartlemay!” the widow said. Merciful gods, please don’t let the babe wake now.

A shadow filled the doorway and her eldest daughter stood there, leaning on her crutch. “Ren? What’s wrong?”

“Your mother fell in the water.”

The widow’s eldest daughter stepped aside, and Ren Blacksmith ducked his head and entered the cottage and set Widow Miller carefully on her feet. Exhaustion almost made her legs crumple. He steadied her. “Larkspur, give her your arm.”

The widow’s youngest daughter hastened to do so, and the middle daughter placed the basket on the trestle table and drew up a stool for her mother.

Widow Miller gratefully sat.

“Thank you, Ren,” the eldest daughter said. “You may be certain we’ll look after her.”

The blacksmith nodded, and gazed down at the widow. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

Widow Miller glanced fearfully at the basket on the table. “No, thank you, Ren.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you do.”

“There’s no need—”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” Ren Blacksmith said. “You rest now.” He dipped his head to the widow’s three daughters. “Good day, Ivy. Hazel. Larkspur. Remember, if you need help, I’m only five minutes away.” His great bulk blocked the doorway, and then he was gone.

Widow Miller sat shivering under the stares of her daughters.

“She needs to get dry!” The youngest daughter reached for the shawl covering the basket. “We can use this―”

“Careful!” the widow cried.

Her daughters all froze, startled.

“Careful,” the widow said again, in a more moderate tone.

The youngest daughter cautiously drew the shawl aside. The sisters crowded close. They peered into the basket, and then their shocked gazes swung to their mother.

“What . . . ?” the middle daughter said, and “No questions now,” the eldest daughter declared firmly.