Page 44 of The Phoenix Bride
I laugh. “They are different men, I think.”
“I know that. But it is amusing to consider, isn’t it? Even from death, we can be restored.”
Impossible things.
I think of David and myself by the Thames; Will and me in the church; the well whose edge I sat upon years ago, as I stared into the hungry dark. I could have fallen, I could have pushed myself down—but I didn’t. I walked away.
David walked away, also, from Portugal and his past. Hechose this city, chose life, and perhaps I can, too. He has lit within me an ember of something indefinable. It is stubborn and small, but it is present. I don’t yet know what it is. Hope, desire, affection; it doesn’t matter. Perhaps I should douse it, before I catch fire.
But I would rather burn than start drowning again.
—
That night, Margaret comes to my room far earlier than normal. She shuts the curtains and tells me to prepare for bed.
I do so sullenly, and then am left alone without so much as a candle to facilitate distraction. I am supposed to meet David in a half hour, but I can hardly lie here staring at the ceiling for all that time. So I prepare to leave, redressing, putting my sturdiest boots on, pinning up my hair. At the threshold of my bedroom I pause, recalling Margaret’s fury the last time I ran away. But I am committed now. I can only pray that David keeps his word, and we remain undiscovered.
The window to my bedroom is locked, but my door is not. I sneak downstairs; I am not brave enough to attempt the front door, so I go toward the kitchens, thinking to leave through the back, as I did last time. I have my hand on the doorknob before I realize I can hear voices inside.
“—came back up,” a woman says. It is Margaret. “Isn’t there something a little…gentler?”
“If I dilute it, my lady, it will be less effective,” comes the reply—another woman, whose voice I don’t recognize.
“Very well, then.”
There is a long pause. Through the door, I can hear water bubbling in a pot, the slow swish of the liquid being stirred.
“What’s that?” Margaret asks.
“The poppy extract. It’s nearly finished, my lady—one moment. I must speak the charms.”
The unknown woman begins murmuring to herself, in a language I can’t recognize, and my eyebrows raise. Margaret, consorting with pagans? Poppy extract? What on earth are they making?
“There,” says the woman, and I can hear something being poured. “Finished. Now, as always, there may be nausea, confusion, a desperation to sleep. But it should do what you require. It has a bitter flavor, so mask it with food—something rich, ideally.”
Margaret replies, “I always do.”
My breath catches in my throat. My fingers curl against the door.
She wouldn’t—shewouldn’t—
I remember us as girls, her bringing me milk and honey, smoothing my hair down. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes any sense.
I don’t have time to consider it. There are footsteps coming toward the door, and I don’t have anywhere to hide. I could rush back down the hallway, but it is too long, I don’t have time; instead I look quickly at the door, the hinges, and I step sideways and press myself against the wall, praying.
The door opens. Heavy as it is, the women leaving the kitchen do not bother to open it fully. It swings toward the wall, stops ahair’s breadth from the tips of my shoes as I huddle behind it. I see nothing of my sister or her wise woman leaving, my vision blocked by the door, but I hear the rustle of their skirts. As the door swings shut, I catch a glimpse of them disappearing into the foyer.
I release a breath and try to slow my thrumming heart.
Once I have composed myself, I enter the kitchen. The keys to the back gate are on a hook on the wall. Now is not the time to agonize over what I have heard; freedom is in reach.
I leave the townhouse for the second time in two days. It feels just as illicit as it did before, even though I am leaving via a door this time, rather than a window. The back gate brings me to an alley behind the house, which stinks of urine and seethes with shadows. I cover my face with my sleeve and scuttle like a spider into the main road, which is still busy, despite the lateness of the hour.
There are a good number of people here, more than I had expected, all milling around the pavement as if waiting for something. Lanterns line the street, dotting the area with warm pinpricks of light. The flower seller—Katherine—is packing up her stall; I wave to her, and she waves back.
Once I am near, she gives me a small, hesitant curtsy. “Good evening, mistress.”
“Good evening, Katherine,” I reply. “It’s quite busy tonight, isn’t it?”
