Page 7 of Anathema

Igave one more backward glance toward the forest behind me.

“Come,” Lolla said, locking her arm in mine and urging me across the stony road that divided the woods from the two-story cottage covered in moss and vine. Aside from The Crone Witch’s hovel, the nearest dwelling was over two thousand paces away–steps I’d counted a number of times on the way to town—because no one else gambled to live so close to The Eating Woods. It just so happened to host the perfect soil for morumberries, which had made it impossible for grandfather to resist, in spite of the rumors of what lived amongst the trees. Our cottage sat on the outskirts of Foxglove, in the rural parts, far enough from town to feel completely isolated, but still close enough to feed gossip.

A weathered sign sticking up from the perpetually mist-covered lawn stood half-cocked in front, the paint for Black Sparrow Vineyards chipped and broken. My grandfather had built a legacy on morumberry wine, one that had quickly declined when Agatha had been granted ownership after his death. Debts had piled with her extravagant spending, and she was forced to sell off nearly all of grandfather’s possessions, save for the cottage, which had since stood in disrepair. The care Grandfather Bronwick had put into the vineyard had withered with neglect and the berries eventually failed to produce. With what little money Agatha had left, she’d invested in a mortuary, deciding the dead would never leave her penniless. Grandfather’s beloved wine cellar had become a morgue, and ten acres of the vineyard housed the dead in an unkempt cemetery. The remaining acreage of viable morumberry plants served as the primary ingredient for the oils and poisons Aleysia and I were tasked to make for Agatha. Yes, poisons. While many used them as an effective means to control rodents and pests, others found more ominous purposes for the little black vials. And what better way to ensure business than to forge a path toward death.

Once inside the home, Lolla hustled me past what had become the showing parlor, to the washroom. As I stood beside the water basin, dabbing my cut with a warm cloth, she scoured the cupboard for some healing cream. Nothing but snake oil, really. The stench of the toilet behind me, as if something had died in it, mingled with my rattled nerves over the impending banishment. The unsettling depth of my wound certainly didn’t offer any calm, either, and I swallowed back the urge to lose my breakfast, as I watched the edges come apart with her cleaning.

“You don’t think it needs stitching, do you?” I frowned at the fact that I could see enough pink flesh to knot my stomach. For as many dead bodies as I’d watched come and go, some of which I’d had to wheel into the morgue myself, I still couldn’t handle the sight of blood.

“It’s deep, but perhaps it can heal on its own. You’re absolutely certain it was a cut and not a bite from one of those ghastly birds?” she asked and, to my relief, stopped prodding the damned thing with the cloth.

If it had been a bird’s bite, the governor would’ve probably ordered my limb chopped off, as well.

“I’m absolutely certain.” I lifted my arm to show her the nauseating groove there. “A bird would have to have quite a beak to accomplish that.”

“Or teeth. Some harbor demons, you know.”

“That’s a new one.” I snorted, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at yet another bit of superstition.

After a quick examination, she gave a nod. “Wrap it up as quickly as you can. It’s nearly noon.” She shuffled out of the washroom, and groaning, I swiped up the cloth she’d left and wound it around the cut. Using my teeth, I one-handedly secured it with a knot and yanked my black sleeve over top of it. With it properly hidden, I made my way up the staircase to the second floor.

While there were plenty of bedrooms on the upper level, Aleysia and I shared a room in the cold attic, up another enclosed staircase. The two of us would’ve been perfectly fine living on our own, but Vonkovyan law dictated that unmarried women were not permitted to own property.

When I entered the bedroom, Aleysia stood staring out the window, her deep burgundy dress a splash of color against the dull, gray walls. From the ceiling over her head hung small white sachets that were decorated in dried flowers and filled with herbs. Weavers. Aleysia and I made them to keep bad dreams away—an affliction from which both of us suffered. Wild, blonde curls fell about her shoulders–a contrast to my black witch locks, as Agatha called them. While my features may have been a bit darker to those of my older sister, her personality was far more reckless. A trait that rankled Agatha more than my cursed reputation. Having been father’s natural-born daughter certainly didn’t earn my sister favor in Agatha’s eyes.

I ambled up beside her, taking notice of what had undoubtedly captured her attention. Beyond the window, two lines of clergy dressed in red and black robes—the Sacred Men—led what I presumed to be the prisoner, though he was hard to spot in all that lush and embellished fabric. Behind them followed two militant Vonkovyans, who resided in Foxglove to keep the peace. Garbed in peaked black hats, pauldrons and bracers, their black gambesons loomed like a shadow behind the red surcoats they wore.

A long succession of parishioners who had no choice but to attend followed after them. But it was the Red Veils I spotted in the crowd who held my attention, and the sight of them roused a fresh swell of anxiety. “Are we going to talk about father?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Aleysia answered coldly. “I find it difficult to care for a man who was absent for most of my life.”

“I understand, but you know what this means, Aleysia. I suspect you’ll wed fairly quickly. But I’ll become one of them.” I nodded toward the women with their high red veils that served as a prophetic omen to what little freedom I’d enjoyed up until that letter had arrived. “Agatha would see to it.”

“Have I not vowed to protect you, Sister?”

I recalled the days of hiding in Grandfather’s cellar and the pinky promises whispered in the dark. “Since we were children. But how would you accomplish that now? My future only diverges one of two ways, and there isn’t a soul in Foxglove Parish who would chance a marriage with the lorn. Even if there was, that fate is only fractionally better than the other, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I will marry and I will claim you as my ward.”

“Only if your husband allows such a claim,” I argued.

“Oh, he will.” She smiled, as if she were already aware of her unnamed suitor’s intentions. “But let’s not talk about that now. I’m exhausted by the worries of father’s death.”

A mutual sentiment. I’d traversed all the emotions the moment I’d read that letter—sadness, fear, resentment, and downright anger. But unlike my incautious older sister, I couldn’t turn off my thoughts so easily. Not even with the distraction of the congregation slowly making their way toward the edge of the forest.

“Do you think the Sacred Men wear anything under those robes?” Aleysia asked, her unseemly question breaking the silence between us. “Or do you think their nether regions just sway back and forth as they walk? Like the snout of a pendulynx.”

As much as I fought my amusement, I couldn’t help but smile. “What had to die in your soul to imagine such a horrific visual? And what in seven hells makes you think it’s as long as a pendulynx snout?”

She sighed, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth. “A girl can dream.”

Biting back a laugh, I shook my head. “Disgusting. Truly.”

“You’re lying, if you say you’ve never once thought about it. The way Sacton Crain leans against you …” She took hold of my dress, leg wrapped around mine, and circled her hips against me. “And how are you my dearest Penitent?”

Sacton Crain had always avoided me like the plague, which suited me just fine, but I’d heard he’d gotten a bit too playful with some of the young girls in bible study. The thought of what he might’ve done behind closed doors roused fresh anger, but before I could dwell on it, Aleysia needled my ribs with her fingers, snapping me out of thoughts with her tickling.

Wrestling her grip, I let out a laugh, and she clutched me harder, humping my leg like a damned dog.

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