The Fey Quartet

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The widow’s daughters fussed around her and soon she was dressed in warm, dry clothes and seated on a stool beside the fire, sipping meat broth, a blanket around her shoulders and the two large red-brown hounds at her feet. “Mother,” Hazel said urgently. “What happened?” But Ivy shook her head and said, “Let her drink.”

The widow drank her broth, and Hazel fidgeted and paced, and no one looked directly at the basket on the trestle table. Finally, the widow lowered her mug. Hazel stopped pacing. All three daughters looked at her.

“Mother,” Ivy said quietly. “Mother . . . what happened in the forest today?”

Widow Miller sighed, and glanced at the basket on the table and the sleeping infant, and sighed again and told her tale. When she had finished, none of her daughters spoke.

“I’ll take it back tomorrow and try to find its mother,” the widow said.

“You won’t cross the border!” Larkspur cried, at the same moment that Hazel said resolutely, “I shall go with you.”

“I won’t cross the border, my love—and you will not come with me, Hazel.”

“But, Mother—”

“No, Hazel.”

“Take Ren, then! He’d go with you―”

“No,” Widow Miller said firmly. “Ren must not know about this. Would you have him risk his life? Think of his son!”

There was a moment of silence.

“No one goes but me,” the widow said, and this time, Hazel raised no protest.

“According to the tales, Faerie women bear only one child,” Ivy said quietly. “Its mother must be frantic.”

They all looked at the babe.

“What if you can’t find its mother?” Larkspur asked.

“Then I shall go to the Lord Warder.”

As if their gazes had disturbed it, the sleeping infant woke. The widow flinched slightly from the impact of those ink-black eyes, and the babe blinked once, twice, and opened its mouth and wailed.

Larkspur flinched, and Hazel clapped her hands over her ears, and the larger of the two red-brown hounds, Bartlemay, fled through the door, his tail between his legs.

“It needs dry clothes and food,” Ivy said, reaching for her crutch and struggling to her feet. “Just as you did, Mother.”

But changing the Faerie infant’s clothing proved no easy task. It flailed its fists and kicked its feet and was as loud and fierce as a baby could possibly be. The second red-brown hound slunk from the cottage, her ears back.

Larkspur fetched a length of cloth. “We can wrap it in this.” And then she peered down at the screaming child and said hesitantly, “Its teeth are very sharp.”

“No sharper than Bartlemay’s and Bess’s were, when they were pups,” Hazel said, and she set about the task of changing the baby’s clothing.

The baby bit her three times, drawing blood, but Hazel didn’t balk. She stripped off the tiny clothes—made of cloth as soft and fine as gossamer—and briskly dried each flailing limb. “It’s a girl, Mother,” she said, and “Stop that!” as the babe bit her for a fourth time.

Once the infant was warm and dry, its wailing didn’t cease. “She’s hungry,” Ivy said. “Here. Goat’s milk. I’ve warmed it.” But the baby spat out the goat’s milk, and screamed still more loudly.

“I’ll sweeten it with honey,” Larkspur said, but the baby spat that out, too.

The widow’s daughters looked at each other helplessly. “Maybe meat broth?” Ivy said.

The Faerie infant drank the broth, but once fed, she screwed up her face and wailed again. “Larkspur, you hold her,” Hazel said grimly. “Before I throw her out into the meadow.”

Larkspur glanced at the baby’s sharp teeth, and gulped a breath, and nervously took the child from her sister.

“Walk with her,” Ivy said, leaning on her crutch. “Rock her.”

Larkspur walked up and down the tiny room, gingerly rocking the Faerie child. After a few moments, she began to sing. Her voice was sweet and low and gentle. The wailing died to a whimper, and the whimper to a few hiccuping sobs, and then the baby fell quiet.

Larkspur stopped singing. “She’s asleep,” she whispered, but at that moment the baby’s black eyes snapped open, and she drew a breath and opened her sharp-toothed mouth―

“Don’t stop singing!” Hazel said, and then she said, equally firmly, “To bed with you, Mother,” and she helped the widow into the next room, with its straw-filled pallets on the floor. “Sleep,” she said. “We’ll look after the babe.”

The widow’s three daughters cared for the Faerie baby all that long night. Twice, Widow Miller woke. Through the open doorway she saw flickering rushlight and the shadows of her daughters as they walked to and fro. She heard voices singing—once Larkspur, once Hazel—and the sound of someone putting more wood on the fire. The rich, meaty smell of broth mingled with the scent of woodsmoke. She huddled on her straw pallet, under coarse woolen blankets, and thought about the Faerie babe, and about her crippled body and Ivy’s lame leg. Tales of the Fey drifted through her mind, tales of munificent gifts and cruel punishments.

The third time the widow woke, it was dawn. She struggled awkwardly from her bed—her hip was always stiffest in the morning—and hobbled to the doorway. Two of her daughters were in the next room, Larkspur stirring a pot on the fire, and Ivy at the trestle table, the babe in her arms, singing softly. The widow gazed at her eldest daughter, at her ruined leg stretched stiffly out and the crutch propped alongside her.

It was beyond human powers to mend Ivy’s leg, but the Fey could heal it if they chose to. If someone dared to ask them.

Widow Miller kneaded her hip, trying to ease the ache. She imagined being able to walk freely again, to have the use of both hands, both eyes, imagined seeing Ivy run and dance again.

Dare I?

Hazel came in through the door with an armful of firewood and both hounds at her heels, and said, “Mother, you’re awake,” and Bartlemay bounded forward and tried to lick the widow’s face, and the Faerie babe woke and opened her mouth in a wail.

Widow Miller prepared carefully for her excursion into the woods. Her daughters helped her to dress in her best clothes, and to comb out her long, graying hair and plait it in a coronet around her head. The widow was outwardly calm, but her stomach churned with a mixture of terror and hope. Hazel fed the babe one last time, wrapped her warmly in a shawl, and tucked her back into her little basket. Then she said, firmly, “I’m coming with you, Mother.”

The widow looked at her middle daughter, at the bright brown eyes and stubborn jaw. “No.”

Hazel’s jaw became even more stubborn. “If you think I’m going to let you go alone, then―”

“Hazel . . .” The widow touched her daughter’s cheek lightly, silencing her. “If anything should happen to me in the woods today . . . you must look after your sisters.”

Hazel opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. After a moment, she nodded.

Larkspur burst into the cottage, a pail of fresh water slopping in her hand. “Ren’s coming,” she said breathlessly. “With Gavain.”

“Take the baby!” Hazel said, thrusting her towards the bedchamber, and Ivy said, “Sing to her.”

Larkspur disappeared into the bedchamber with the Faerie babe.

Outside, Bess barked. Not a loud, warning bark, but a friendly, yipping one.

Widow Miller smoothed her kirtle nervously, and limped to the door.

Ren Blacksmith was coming across the meadow, his six-year-old son riding on his shoulders. Bartlemay pranced around them, wagging his tail joyfully, and at the doorstep, Bess waved her tail, too.

The widow stepped outside. “I give you good day, Ren Blacksmith. Good day, young Gavain.”

“Good day.” Ren swung his son down from his shoulders. “How are you?”

“As well as I ever was. Thank you for your kindness yesterday.”

Widow Miller knew the sunshine was cruel to her ruined face, knew it showed her crooked nose and caved-in cheek, so she looked away from the blacksmith’s clear gaze and smiled down at his son. “How are you, Gavain?”

Gavain grinned at her, his mouth as gap-toothed as her own, and held out a handful of wildflowers. “I picked these for you.”

The widow exclaimed over the flowers and felt tears prick her eyes, for the motherless little boy was as dear to her as her own daughters. When she looked back at the blacksmith, he was patting Bess. “Thank you,” she said again.

Ren Blacksmith nodded. He took his son’s hand. “If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

“Thank you,” Widow Miller said a third time, and she stood on the doorstep clutching Gavain’s flowers and watched father and son walk back across the meadow.

When they reached the village common, she inhaled a sharp breath and turned indoors.

Widow Miller wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and took leave of her three beloved daughters, wondering if she would ever see them again. She embraced them each, resolutely picked up the Faerie basket, and hobbled to the door.

“I’ll carry it for you, Mother,” Hazel said, taking the basket from her. “As far as the forest.”

The widow looked at the determined set of her daughter’s jaw, and decided not to argue.

Together, they crossed the meadow, Hazel shortening her stride to match her mother’s. At the forest edge, they halted. “Mother . . . from what I’ve heard, the Fey dislike being indebted to humans. And this babe’s mother will be very much in your debt. You have saved her child. Her only child—if the tales speak truly.”

“I know,” the widow said. “I intend to ask for a wish.” She glanced back at the little cottage and the two figures standing in the doorway, one leaning on a crutch.

“Be careful, Mother. The Fey are said to despise meekness. If you behave too humbly . . .”

“I shall be as bold as you, boldest of my daughters.” Widow Miller laid a kiss upon her middle daughter’s smooth, young cheek. “Look after your sisters if I fail to return.” And then she inhaled a deep breath, took the Faerie basket, and entered the cool green shadows of Glade Forest.