Page 8 of Anathema

“No, one moment. I’m almost … just another … I promise–”

“You are positively repulsive!” I let out a howling laugh, pressing my palm against her shoulders to dislodge her from my body.

“Oh, Red God … oh, merciful lord of lust … I’m gonna … I’m gonna …”

“Girls!” The boisterous voice stiffened my muscles, and with a lingering chuckle, Aleysia slowly released me. “The day of Banishing is not a laughing affair.”

Clearing my throat, I rolled my shoulders back and turned to face the wretched woman who stood at the top of the attic staircase, wearing an ecru smock under a juniper green kirtle and leaning on a tired old cane. If my features were said to be intense, Agatha’s were severe. She often wore her silvery hair pulled back into a harsh knot at the back of her head, drawing attention to her dark, sunken eyes that appeared black in some lights, and her thin gray skin stretched over sharp bones. Like one of the many skulls her eldest son, Uncle Felix, liked to collect.

“Sorry, Agatha,” I said.

Aleysia curtsied, a show of mocking. “Yes, terribly sorry. Banishing is a day of misery, particularly for the accused.”

“Watch your tongue, girl.” Agatha held out a pointed finger with a long yellowing nail she often used to stir her tea. “If not for your grandfather’s merciful heart, both of you would be living in squalor.”

“We’d certainly be happier,” Aleysia muttered under her breath, and I elbowed her side.

“Fix your chemise.” Agatha’s order was directed at Aleysia, who often wore her underdress off the shoulders.

Aleysia seemed to grind on her words, and her jaw shifted as she yanked the fabric back up onto her shoulders.

“What of the oil supply?” the old woman grumbled, plucking a piece of lint from her skirt. “I’m expecting great demand after today’s ceremony.” In her tireless efforts to regain her squandered wealth, Agatha had Aleysia and I convert the fruitless morumberry leaves into oil, which was said to ward off evil spirits. A claim Agatha herself had made when she’d lied and told everyone that I’d suffered a possession last winter.

I’d come down with a high fever and had fallen into tremors as a result, but leave it to Agatha to associate my illness with the occult. At the very least, morumberry leaf oil was wonderful for the skin when bathing, and it smelled as delicious as the berries.

“We have a full crate. I suspect it’ll be plenty,” I said, having been the one to bottle them myself the day before, after Aleysia had run off somewhere.

She tapped her finger against the top of her cane. “And what of the Snake’s Tooth?”

The oil was a ruse, mostly. Agatha’s more lucrative endeavor was poison. A deadly byproduct of the morumberry flower that, when crushed into a fine powder and consumed over time, created clots in the blood. Grandfather had long used it for rat poisoning, but it so happened to have the same effect on humans, as well. Sometimes, it caused heart attack. Other times, it caused stroke, or an embolism in the lung. Because the outcome was never the same, no one suspected anything sinister, and Agatha never went out of her way to make her poison known. Still, she managed to generate business, both in and outside of Foxglove.

“Plenty.” Though my part was indirect, as I never sold the goods, the guilt weighed heavily on me. I tried to tell myself those who purchased the powder were ridding themselves of rats, in one form, or another. Still, I’d learned, over time, to add crushed nasturtiums in order to reduce the potency, which helped ease my conscience.

“You better hope it’s plenty. Now hurry yourselves along. If you’re late, consider yourself excluded from supper.” Lifting her gaze, she waved toward the weavers dangling about the room. “And get rid of those damned things!” With that, she hobbled off out of view, and Aleysia let out a groan.

“I swear, if she were to get a good fucking, just once, she’d be a whole new person.”

I snorted a laugh and crossed the room for my hooded cloak, which made me feel less naked in the crowd.

Once dressed, the two of us descended from the upper attic to the second floor.

At the sound of a whistle, both of us turned toward where Uncle Riftyn strode up from behind, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. “Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes.”

His lips curved into a lopsided grin, springing forth the dimple in his cheek. Agatha’s most beloved, if the woman were capable of such a thing. With his sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes that he must’ve inherited from his birth father, he was a startling contrast to his brother, Uncle Felix, the resident mortician who spent most of his time in the cellar with corpses. Tall and gaunt, Uncle Felix looked every bit the undertaker, and his slow, dark eyes and perpetually sullen face often sent a chill down my neck.

“Why, thank you, Uncle.” The flirtatious edge of Aleysia’s voice drew my attention to the bottom lip she practically chewed away.

“Step-uncle,” Riftyn corrected.

“Yes, step. You look very handsome, as well.”

Staring back at Aleysia with a wily grin, he gave a courteous nod and strode off.

I sailed a disapproving frown at my sister, goaded by the lingering smile on her face. “Strange. He makes the distinction as if step implies he isn’t a relation, at all.”

She shrugged, fluffing the curls that fell into lazy ringlets over her shoulder. “No blood relation.”

“That matters?” While it was true that Uncle Riftyn and his brother, Felix, weren't related to her father by blood, having been born to different parents, they were still family. Bound by marriage. A relation the church recognized as no different than blood.

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