Page 106 of Devil's Deal

He touches the rim of his hat. “I hoped you would. Sara is a curious child, eager to learn. We were thinking with Jana that maybe you’d like to take her on as an apprentice.”

I thought it might be about that, and I’m still so pleased and flattered Darobor and his wife want to effectively give me their child. It’s a gesture of great trust, one I never thought I would experience. It feels too good to be true.

“I’m only just starting out,” I say, watching him intently. “Why haven’t you sent her to train with Czeslawa? Sara’s old enough.”

He scratches his nape, blue eyes cast down under his bushy eyebrows. “Well, we weren’t able to afford Czeslawa’s fee,” he answers finally. “But now I’m glad because I’d rather Sara trained with you. You proved yourself, Jaga. With Swietko.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You saw me cut off his arm and that convinced you I would be a good teacher for your daughter?”

He looks me straight in the eyes, his face serious, as he shakes his head. “No. I saw you save an enemy’s life even though you had an excuse not to. You have integrity and courage that’s truly rare. That is why I want Sara to train with you. If we can afford it, that is.”

I scoff, warmth spreading in my belly from his praise. Darobor’s respect means so much more than anyone else’s. And even though I have a sick, nagging feeling in my chest that I don’t deserve it—because I ultimately enjoyed butchering Swietko—I still take his compliment.

“Whisperers don’t take payment for training apprentices,” I say with an emphatic nod. “She’ll work for her keep. That’s how it’s done. But Darobor, you must know I will not shelter her. She will see a lot of pain, and when she’s older, she will learn shameful, intimate secrets about her neighbors and even family. It’s not easy, being a whisperer. Think it through, and if you’re still interested in the fall, come see me.”

He nods. We unload the cart, all my possessions deposited in neat piles on the table for patients in the first, most spacious room of the cottage. Once everything is here, Darobor touches the rim of his hat and leaves, and I simply stand and look around, my hands pressed to my chest.

I haven’t been here in five years, ever since Wiosna died. The room hasn’t changed much, probably because Czeslawa rarely used it for patients. There are the same two windows, making this the best lit room in the cottage.

A small metal stove sits by the wall, an uneven pipe for letting out the smoke stuck into a hole in the wall. The large table dominates the center of the room, and by the walls stand tall cupboards and a bench for preparing ingredients.

The floorboards creak in greeting as I slowly walk up to a cupboard, opening it. Wiosna’s old tools are still here, and many jars and pots, baskets, and clean linen for tying up wounds. I look into every drawer and space, compiling a list of everything that’s at my disposal. It’s not shabby at all. It looks like Czeslawa left behind some of her herbs, though not any tinctures and potions.

Two side-by-side doorways on the wall opposite the door leading outside connect this room with the other two. The door on the right leads into the bedroom with a large bed and a few shelves for clothes. The doorway on the left has no door, and I glimpse the kitchen with a big hearth built into the wall it shares with the bedroom, meaning the fire in the kitchen keeps it warm, too.

The cottage is built of good stone, the roof beams are healthy, and the thatch must have been freshly laid this spring. If I’m lucky, I can live to old age here. I can die in the same bed Wiosna died in.

Only two months ago, this would have been a dream come true. Then why can’t I enjoy it?

I sigh and wipe my face, and then I get down to work.

When night falls, the cottage and the entire lot surrounding it are smudged with tansy and sage, the well is blessed and cleansed with a few sandthorn berries, and the pile of wood dust that’s left of the shed is buried in a hole in the ground, a new hawthorn sapling planted on top.

I’m not taking any chances.

Only once the space is thoroughly cleared do I sit down for supper. I choke down a salad of chopped nettle that I always have after my menses to replenish the blood, and wash it down with thick sour milk. Then I go to bed, biding my zmora to watch over me while I sleep. Even though the cottage is foreign to me now, too big and strange, I fall asleep at once.

Over the next few days, everyone who can looks in to leave a small gift and welcome me to my official post as a whisperer. Those who championed me in the recent weeks are the first to visit, and then come the others. Those who scoffed at me, called me a witch, or bullied me as a child.

Lubka, who spat on my doorstep before Kupala celebrations, comes over with her three daughters. They are all smiles as they offer me a dozen eggs as my welcome gift. I accept, my smile a mere pinching of my lips to let them know they aren’t forgiven. Yet when I notice a rash on the youngest girl’s face, I offer them a poultice, and later that day, Lubka sends over another dozen eggs.

Thus, bridges are rebuilt, relationships mended.

It’s a time of triumph for me, something I dreamed about for years. To be in power. To have those who scorned me crawl back on their knees, begging for forgiveness.

None of it brings me joy.

All pregnant women visit. Ida’s sister, a few other women, and almost all the Kupala maidens come in so I can take over after Czeslawa. My beauty potions sell out in a day, and I only leave one behind, hopelessly waiting for Ida, but she never shows.

All of it is far less exciting than I expected, until one day, a bit past noon, a commotion breaks out down the road. I come out, wiping my wet hands on my apron, and watch as three men carry a fourth, shouting for people to make way, to help them, to tell the whisperer.

I rush to open the gate and show them in, but even before they lay him down on my table, I already know he’s dead. His face is pale and clammy, mouth blue and dry, eyes sunken. When I ask what happened, one of his companions takes out a simple wooden protection charm he wears on a string around his neck. He kisses it with trembling lips and whispers the name of the bies.

“Poludnica.”

Chapter thirty-five

Poludnica

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