Page 5 of House of Furies
Chapter Three
The old woman built a serviceable fire in the gravel-and-mud clearing on the other side of the ditch. She worked quickly, efficiently, the crookedness of her hands no hindrance as she unrolled a bundle of kindling from the back of the wagon and stacked the sticks into a tidy pyramid.
“Are you just going to stand there gawping?” the woman barked.
“I am likely to freeze unless you employ me,” I replied, pacing to demonstrate as much, trying to stamp feeling back into my icy feet and ankles. The blankets she supplied did little to banish the cold, even though the crone forwent them all herself and piled them on my shoulders.
“In the back,” she said in that same short way. “Gather the crockery and oats. There should be a can of grease and a pair of wooden spoons.”
A part of me chafed at the idea of taking orders from this stranger. She had offered me an escape from the crowd at Malton, but what power did that give her? To respect and obey one’s elders, they taught at Pitney School, was the responsibility of every educated young woman. The idea seemed as laughable then as it did now. What did the teachers at Pitney School know, for all their advanced years? How to slap and scold, how to make a child stand in the freezing cold as punishment fordirty fingernails, how to deny bread, water, and sleep when it pleased them?
Naughty children please no one but the Devil.
I had heard it a hundred times or more from Miss Jane Henslow at Pitney, and recalling the phrase sent a shiver down my spine. Miss Henslow, cold, mousy, and fragile, gave a beating like nobody else at the school. I could feel the ghost of her rod smacking my shoulders as I hurried to the back of the wagon. The crone’s eyes followed me. I didn’t need to look at her to feel it; they were as real as a pinch.
“You travel this road often,” I observed, eager for some distraction.
“I said as much. What of it?”
“You stoked that fire handily enough. It’s damp as a duck’s backside and yet it gave you not an ounce of trouble. Are you accustomed to cooking in the rain?”
The wagon covering, drenched with icy rain, stung my fingertips. As she’d said, a handful of baskets heaped with necessities were crammed into the back. They seemed almost an afterthought, the numerous birdcages the clear priority. Those cages were quiet now, soft blankets masking the din of the birds within, but not their pungent smell. The boards of the cart glowed, slick and white with droppings.
“I might have known you would be a nosy one,” the crone said with a sigh. “Did that serve you in the past? That sharp eye of yours?”
“Sometimes, yes,” I said honestly, gathering the ingredients for supper. “And oftentimes no.”
Naturally, my teachers at Pitney grew weary of my vigilance. And so did my grandparents. They were the ones who sent me off to school, happy to pay for it as long as I was none of their concern. From mother to grandparents to school, they all fancied a hard, stinging lesson when I happened to do or say the wrong thing. It was better to take a beating and forget the pain and humiliation at once. But I never forgot such indignities, and the compounding misery made me constantly shy, like the horse that knows only the whip and never the faintest touch of affection.
“I cannot change your nature, girl,” the old woman said. She huddled by the fire while I returned with laden arms. “But I can recommend you keep what those sharp eyes see in that sharp mind, and not let it out with a sharp tongue. The master at Coldthistle House has no time for busybodies and gossips. Hard work is all he asks, and your opinions are not required.”
Again I felt a pang of doubt. An actual roof and regular meals sounded attractive, but now I wondered at the cost.
“I have never much enjoyed obedience.”
“And so it is a miracle you yet live,” the woman said with a harsh laugh. “Now, quick, set the grease in the pot. I think another wagon approaches, and I do not intend to share much.”
I turned away from the fire and squinted into the distanceboth ways—darkness and clouds and the very edges of far-off trees but no sign of travelers. “I hear it not.”
“As you said, I travel this road frequently and I’ve learned to bend my ear a certain way.”
It seemed unlikely that a woman of her advanced age would have keener senses than I, but I crouched and arranged my skirts politely, then dropped a knob of grease into the pot. When it was hot and nearly spitting, I added the dry oats and a bit of what looked like sheep’s milk. The crone produced a small packet of brown powder from the many folds of her cloak and tipped it into the food. At once, the glorious scent of cinnamon swirled around us, and my stomach roared with approval.
No sooner had the crone slopped a portion of cooked oats into my bowl than a low, rumbling sound came from the road behind us. I stood and chewed, slowly, watching a wagon far finer than the old woman’s crest the hill. The horses slowed, and the carriage—for in truth it was such, and not a mere wagon, with a team of two matching chestnut beasts—descended safely. A driver in all black shrank inside his coat, the collar flapping around his face as the wind and rain picked up.
“Eat what you want now. If they stop, I will have no choice but to share,” the crone muttered. Her portion was already gone. “A carriage that fine, their man will have what’s needed to fix our wagon.” As she predicted, the driver caught sight of our meager little camp and pulled over, hefting a rain-spattered lantern and shining it toward us.
“Greetings now on this mild, seasonable night,” the crone said with a friendliness of tone I’d not heard from her before. She seemed less formidable suddenly, meek, hobbling toward the road with her head bent and shoulders hunched.
“What’s the fuss up there?” I heard someone call from inside the carriage. It was the voice of an older man, not a rich accent but certainly not a poor one either. A Midlands accent with the roughness polished down.
“Two women, sir,” the driver called back. He was of medium height and stocky, and even his heavy coat could not hide his muscled frame. The crone was right—we could use such a man’s help righting the wagon. He looked the old woman up and down and then glanced at me. “An old woman and a girl, sir.”
“A broken wheel has left us stranded,” she explained. “We could be persuaded to share our humble meal with you all if you aid us.”
The door of the carriage swung open. It was dark inside. I could not see the eyes of whoever studied us from within.
“I do so hate to beg,” the crone continued, her voice trembling. Even I was briefly convinced of her desperation. “You would not leave two defenseless womenfolk on a cold and rainy road, would you?”
