Nightshade Read online

  “No. I am sorry.” From where I stand, I see that the family of three shares a room that is scarcely bigger than mine. “I heard Maryam was ill. I came by to learn how she fares.”

  “Not well.” Her mother steps aside. When I see the girl, my heart sinks. Her cheeks look painted scarlet, and the whites of her eyes have taken on a yellow cast. She whimpers every time she swallows.

  I cannot stop my hands from doing what they know how to do. They fly to her forehead to check her fever, to her neck to seek a pulse. I bend over and press my ear to her chest to listen to her breathing. “Has she taken any liquids at all?” I ask the mother. “Broth? Tea?”

  “I try, but she cries in pain and lets it roll out of her mouth again. Are you a doctor?” Her mother’s voice is strangled with hope. “Do they have women doctors in England?”

  “No.” The situation is grave. The girl’s pulse is rapid and weak. Her lungs labour for air. Her skin is dry and scalding hot. With a fever this strong she may soon begin to convulse.

  Don’t be sad, my lovely. Soon her ordeal will be over. That is good news.

  But I could heal her.

  You could. You could kill her, too, and end her suffering this instant. Why not do that instead?

  Villain! Why would I?

  Cure, kill – what difference does it make? Either way, you decide whether she lives or dies. Why should you be the one to choose? Personally I prefer to let nature take its course. But then, of course, I would.

  Oleander’s rolling laughter rattles my brain. I close my eyes. Our fates are linked, Maryam’s and mine. To help her risks bringing harm upon me, for the word of the murder has spread this far. If I expose myself as a healer, it will not take long for someone to grow suspicious. And if I am caught now, I will never see Weed again. I will have sacrificed two lives and traded my soul for nothing.

  What shall I do?

  It is a fool’s question, of course. For the child is blameless, and I am a killer twice over. And in the battle between innocence and evil, which one always triumphs?

  Silly to even ask, my lovely. You know exactly who triumphs.

  Not this time, I think.

  “I can help Maryam, but you must listen to me carefully,” I tell her mother. “I am going to leave, but I will return shortly with some medicine that will help her. While I am gone, go down to the kitchen and fetch a kettle of boiling water and a small glass of gin. If anyone asks why, say you are going to make a toddy for yourself so that you might get some sleep. Tell no one that you spoke to me, or that I was here.”

  She nods but glances worriedly at Maryam. We both look down at the sick girl. Her eyelids flutter and twitch, but her limbs lie heavy, unmoving. “It is safe to leave her for a few minutes,” I say gently. “Right now she does not even know we are here.”

  After securing her assent, I fairly fly down the stairs to my room on the second floor. Once alone, with the door bolted behind me, I unpack my small bundle of possessions to reveal the precious herbs hidden at its core.

  With practised skill I prepare a remedy from the ingredients I have at hand. They are not ideal, but they will do: willow bark and chrysanthemum root to soothe the pain and temper the fever. Wild indigo and tree moss to give her young body the strength to fight the infection in her throat.

  I grind the herbs to a fine powder in the small mortar and pestle I carry with me. This will help release their powerful essences, since there is no time to let the tincture steep. Then I wrap the prepared herbs in a clean handkerchief and tie it shut. Into my apron pocket it goes.

  How very ill considered this is. I do not approve, lovely. In fact, I object rather strongly.

  I know.

  By now there are more people up and about the inn. I stroll to the stairs without rushing, keeping my head down, wrapping myself in anonymity like a shroud. My feet mount the stairs with a slow, deliberate rhythm, one after the other.

  I wait until the hall is empty, then veer toward the room in which Maryam lies. Her mother has followed my instructions to the letter. Quickly I prepare my potion, mixing the ground herbs with small amounts of gin and hot water. I stir and stir again, doing all I can to persuade the herbs to release their powers into this improvised remedy.

  Her mother moves forward to assist as I prop up Maryam on pillows. The girl is groggy and her head wants to loll to one side, but the pain in her throat makes it snap back. Her whimpers rise and fall in her delirium.

  Her mother holds the girl’s head steady as I spoon the first drops of the mixture into her mouth. The child grimaces and gags, but together we hold her fast so the liquid has no place to go but down her throat.

  Slow tears spill from her mother’s eyes, but the woman does not say a word. “It is bitter, because of the gin,” I explain. “She will not like the taste. But it will help her, I promise you.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Within a few hours you should see some change. Give her another spoonful, every fifteen minutes, until all the mixture is gone.”

  She looks at me, afraid yet indomitable. This woman would do anything to save her child. For her sake, as well as Maryam’s, I pray this medicine does not come too late.

  “You are a healer,” she says. “Why did you not say so?”

  I shake my head. “Tell no one what I have done.”

  “Why? Among my people the women healers are much respected. Is it not the same here?”

  “Not always, no.” I ease Maryam’s head down again, so that she can rest until the next dose, but her mother takes over, murmuring the prayers and endearments that will do as much as my medicines to call her daughter back to life.

  Silently I take my leave. I walk to the end of the hall and turn onto the landing to descend the stair.

  “Miss Rowan?” Agnes stands on the landing; a half dozen others crowd behind. The two women I spoke with at breakfast flank her, wearing smirks of grim satisfaction. Agnes seems preternaturally excited, and her arms hang stiffly in front of her, fingers interlaced around a dark handle. My eyes travel downward to see what she carries.

  It is my bag. The one that contains the few items I took with me when I fled Hulne Abbey. Including my collection of powerful, deadly herbs.

  “We told you to stay away from the rug seller’s room,” says one of the women from this morning. “Looks like you didn’t listen.”

  “I will go where I please; it is no business of yours. What are you doing with that bag?” My voice drips with venom. How maddening it is, to see my enemy holding my deadliest weapons in her hands without even knowing what they are!

  “We found it in your room, Miss Rowan,” Agnes says, looking smug. “You left the door open when you ran out awhile ago. Didn’t see us watching, did you? We thought it best to take the opportunity to go in and have a look around, given what we thought you were.”

  “I am a guest at this inn, just as you are. And you are a thief.”

  “We didn’t find the most common signs, that I’ll admit. No pentagrams. No bats’ wings. No broomsticks. But we did find this.” She gestures with the bag.

  “That bag is mine.” I reach for it, and find myself seized by each arm.

  “Is it, now?” Agnes replies. Over her shoulder she adds, “Did you hear that, everyone? She admits the bag is hers, and its devilish contents as well. Ingredients for potions and poisons! It seems we have a witch among us after all.”

  I offer no resistance, for I am no fool; I know any attempt to escape will simply confirm my guilt and guarantee a noose around my neck before sunset.

  No doubt I will now be tested in some senseless, dangerous way. The execution of witches is no longer permitted by law, but the hanging of those who pretend to be witches is perfectly acceptable. If I am not found to be one, surely I will be declared the other. Either way, the authorities are hardly going to leap to my defence. They believe in witches too, no matter what the law says.

  My captors surround me and keep their hands upon me. One man squeezes my arm so
tightly the flesh begins to go numb.

  “You need not hold on so fast,” I say. “Unless you fear I will fly away.”

  “Ha ha.” He snorts, but he looks worried nonetheless, and does not loosen his grip. Then, as if to console me, he adds, “The river Tyne is not far. It won’t be long now.”

  Small comfort. At least now I know they intend to throw me in the river.

  By the time this gruesome parade gets to the banks of the Tyne, the crowd has grown fourfold. How could it not? A giddy mob with a stone-faced young woman held prisoner in the centre, being marched toward the river. No explanation is required; the word practically speaks itself: witch, witch, witch. It is a form of entertainment not to be missed.

  They lead me to the bank, until I am close enough to see the river below. The water is fast and steely grey. The fine spray from where it hits the unforgiving rocks flies up and pricks my skin like needles of ice.

  Agnes, my self-appointed prosecutor, steps forward and addresses me. “Don’t stand there staring at us with daggers in your eyes, girl. Your fate is in your own hands, not ours. If your heart is pure, it will be shown to all. And if it is not – repent now, and prepare to meet your maker at the bottom of the Tyne.” She glances at the water, a hungry look in her eye. “Now, would you prefer to jump, or be thrown in?”

  Am I expected to answer? I could kill them all with the contents of the bag that Agnes swings so proudly by her side. Perhaps someday I will get the chance.

  “I would prefer that the lot of you burn in hell,” I say calmly.

  “Toss her in, then.” Agnes signals the command, and my captors seize me again. A man’s rough voice trumpets over the crowd.

  “You can’t throw the wench in like that.”

  It is Rye, breathless from running. He must have discovered what was happening and chased after us. He strides directly to me, and the other men step back. His expression is blank.

  “He’s one of the souls she bewitched,” I hear Agnes hiss to her followers. “Let’s see if the spell is broken now.”

  Help me, I long to whisper to him, but I can utter no sound. He reaches out as if to touch my face, as he did last night in my room. What an eternity ago that seems! Will he be my protector against this unthinking mob? But how could he be? If he defends me, they will take it as proof he is bewitched, and thus of my guilt.

  He takes me by the chin, an almost tender gesture. Slowly he tilts my head back, exposing my throat. Then he seizes the neck of my bodice and tears it in two, with one rough downward pull from neck to waist.

  I cry out. I am bare, exposed to the midriff. The crowd whoops in merriment.

  I wheel around to shield my nakedness from them and try to gather the shreds of fabric to cover myself. Rye picks me up and flings me over his shoulder so quickly all breath is knocked from me. I would scream, but his hard shoulder digs into my belly and I cannot take in air.

  He carries me ten paces upriver, my skin chafing against the coarse canvas of his shirt. “Be quiet and let me help you,” he growls in my ear as we walk. “In the water this dress would drown you faster than a millstone tied around your neck.” At river’s edge he drops me carelessly to the ground.

  “Stand up, witch!” He yells it for the benefit of the crowd. He lifts me to my feet and spins me to face my accusers. I try to cover myself with my arms, my hair. Then, with a raucous cry, Rye seizes the waist of my skirt from behind and tears it from me. Now I do scream. He steps close behind me and seizes me by the waist, speaking rapidly and quietly so that only I will hear.

  “I’m throwing you in where there’re no rocks. When I lift you up, take a deep breath and hold it in your lungs. I surely hope you can swim, lass –” His remaining words are lost in the catcalls of the crowd.

  Then, with his two strong, rough hands hot against the gooseflesh of my skin, he hoists me into the air, naked and helpless as a newborn filly, and throws me into the cold rushing water below.

  Even without the deadly weight of the dress, I sink.

  It is a shadowy world, beneath the river’s surface. The water is cold and clouded with silt. My hair swirls around me like a veil of seaweed, and my limbs are ghostly in the murk. A dying mermaid, I drift downward, ever further from the air. The dim light of the surface quickly fades from view.

  A swaying meadow of eelgrass covers the river’s bottom; the long, snaking green tendrils beckon invitingly. The air in my lungs presses outward. Now, as the remaining seconds of my life tick away like a clock, the sum of my days becomes visible to me. I see it all at once, like images painted on a globe that spins before my eyes.

  Fleeting, infant memories of my mother. Her soft shape, the feeling of being carried, the comforting smells of milk and bread and fresh-laundered linen.

  Me as a little girl, my lower lip trembling in shame, trying not to cry while being scolded by my father. Then me again, older, earnest, curious to know all about this mysterious work of his. I watch myself grow expert in the ways of the garden, while still remaining so ignorant of life.

  Then comes Weed, and I tumble into a dream of happiness. So brief and yet so sweet, it seems to erase all that has come before, and blinds me to all that might come after.

  And then: Oleander. He is a phantom, a nightmare. Yet it is through him I discover the truth of who I am.

  Now, about to die, I begin to understand how terrible this world can be. And I am part of it, not separate from the evil and hurt, but carrying it within me like a sickness –

  I warned you, lovely. I told you not to bother with that simpering, sickly child. Now look at you. Like a lotus fighting its way out of the mud. Alas, the mud seems to be winning.

  Will she live?

  The girl? For another fifty years or so, perhaps. Hardly worth all this trouble.

  My chest feels ready to burst. My vision fades to a pinprick of light.

  I am Jessamine Luxton, I tell myself. I have lived, and I have loved, and I have killed. I have taken all the vengeance I need to take. Why must I suffer any more?

  Alive, I am Oleander’s slave. Dead, I will burn in hell. I already know which is worse.

  Tell Weed I am sorry.

  I open my mouth. The stale air races out of me in an urgent stream of bubbles.

  Tell him I love him still.

  No.

  I let the slimy water rush in, filling me up, filling my lungs –

  I said no. I have plans for you, important plans, and you are no use to me dead. Rise up now.

  Tell him I said goodbye.

  Tell him yourself, lovely. When the time comes, the refuge of death will be waiting for you. And so will I – but the time is not now. Not yet.

  Like a thousand green ropes, the eelgrass binds itself around my wrists. I open my mouth wider so that the water can fill me, but the eelgrass gives a sharp pull and then releases me. My puppet arms beat downward, propelling me to the surface.

  Against my will, my head rises above the water. I gasp, choking, and sink again, but now my lungs know where the air is. Some animal instinct for survival awakens in my flesh; it takes control of my body and overrules my despair.

  Again I surface. This time I stay above long enough to let water run out of my eyes, long enough to see the riverbank. It is not far. Choking, I flail and kick like a dog until within reach of the muddy bank. I grasp at wet tree roots that seem to offer themselves to my hands and pull me from the river’s powerful current. With their aid I drag my body up the slope and over the slick, moss-covered rocks.

  At last I am over the crest of the bank, on level ground. On hands and knees I rest my forehead on the mud and retch, again and again, as the water rises from my stomach and lungs. Even now I sense the eyes of the crowd watching me, transfixed. No one moves to help.

  Finally the spasms cease. Still on all fours, I lift my mud-covered face to my tormentors. A few look disappointed that I am alive. Some seem relieved. Others are agape at the sight of me. My bare, battered form is streaked with muck and algae, l
ike the figurehead of a wrecked ship.

  But I refuse to feel shame. Refuse, even, to cover myself. Made strong by defiance, I find the will to climb to my feet. I stand there, swaying, and let the water stream down over my body to the ground.

  It is Rye who approaches first, slipping off his coat as he does. He extends it to me from an arm’s length.

  “She sank. Not a witch, it seems,” he announces gruffly, for the benefit of the crowd. “Here, cover yourself, girl. No need to drive the men mad. They’ll just end up beating the horses later.”

  He glances at me, a kind of agony in his eyes. I know he saved my life. I know now, too, that he would do anything for me. Poor fool. He knows nothing of what I truly am. If he is lucky, he will never find out.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I reach out to take the coat.

  “Wait! Don’t cover her, Rye.” It is the woman, Agnes. “What has she done to her skin?”

  I look down. My arms are still brown, but in uneven patches, as the tint has rubbed off in blotches during my struggles in the water. I know my face and neck must be the same. Wet hair hangs in ebony tendrils over my mottled countenance, but my torso and thighs are the color of ivory, and the sparse hair on my body is flaxen blond.

  Even now there is a clear line where the tint begins, above my elbow. There must be another below my collarbone. I cross my dark arms in front of my pale body. They look like they belong to someone else.

  “Not a witch, perhaps – but she’s not who she says she is, either.” Agnes’s voice rises with suspicion. “Who are you, girl? And why have you gone to such pains to masquerade as someone else?”

  The crowd rushes closer to inspect my disguise, like a pack of wolves that would tear me to pieces. Rye shields me with his body. He turns to face me, then reaches out and takes my wrist, pulling my arm forward.

  With one hand gripping my wrist firmly, he draws the index finger of his other hand down the skin of my dappled forearm, pressing hard. His fingertip leaves a pale path of cream-coloured skin in its wake.