brought nettles here wanting to make the very tincture you have in your jar for Tom.”
Aisling wiped her mouth. “Where are the nettles?”
“I threw them out,” I confessed.
“A waste,” Aisling said sternly. She looked fondly at her helper. “Tess is right. You have a gift. And your hands are steady with wounds. Any eye can see it.”
Garth asked, “Tell us where you learned this, Poppy.”
“Sir, I can’t say as I know. It… comes to me.” She batted her eyes. The two would be wed within the month if she continued looking at him thus. I cleared the table and went outside for air.
That night I made a tasty stew from the dried peas and meat bone I found in the cupboard and turnips from the garden. There was food aplenty here compared to our kitchen back home, where Mother and I were always scraping meals from nothing. Each day we were anxious, fearing we’d not enough to satisfy Father, who’d pound us for the meager meals. It mattered little that Father drank most of our market money, that we took in sewing and scribed letters for pay so we could afford to buy more food.
Stirring the savory stew, I thought of Mother and wondered how she was doing back home without me. Steam wet my face, and tears. I said a little prayer for her safety.
When all was ready, I was glad to serve the hot dish. For the feast day of Saint Placid, who was saved from drowning and invoked against chills, hot stew was a proper meal.
“Mm,” Aisling said. “You’re a fine cook, Tess.”
Garth ate, but did not say a word. Aisling, Meg, and Poppy put their heads together, talking over Tom’s condition. Meg took him a steaming bowl of stew. I could not offer medicine, but I hoped the meal would strengthen him. Later, when I’d finished scouring the pot, I headed down the hall with a gift for Horace. Garth was in the library with his hound. I paused at the doorway, suddenly uncertain.
“Come in, Tess. What is it you want?” It was not a warm greeting.
Horace met me with wagging tail and snuffed the back of my hand. I produced the soup bone and his tail wacked the table legs.
“He’ll be your champion forever now,” Garth said. I smiled to hear a softer tone from him at last, and at the idea of the old bloodhound as my champion. By the fire Horace gnawed the bone. I edged to the desk and touched the feathered quill.
“Do you wish to write something?”
“Sir? No, I—”
“You don’t know how,” he said matter-of-factly.
Many people, even lords and ladies, did not know how to read or write, so I shouldn’t have taken offense; still, I barked, “Of course I know how! I can read and write and do mathematical sums. I used to keep my father’s accounts; the clodpole couldn’t do his own.”
“Pardon me, mistress.”
I blinked down at the floor. Leave now before you embarrass yourself further.
“You’re welcome to take a few pages.” Garth met me at the desk. “You might like this.” He pulled a small ink block from the drawer with an elegant dragon carved along the top. “Just take a little black powder from the edge like this…” He demonstrated for me, using a penknife to scrape powder into a small dish. “Add water and you have ink.”
Give me a man who buys her ink that she might draw or write, books that she might read …
“It’s wonderful,” I whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A traveling man’s ink, no worries over spilling the ink bottle. What will you write?”
I looked up at him. He was tall and lean, though muscled in the right places and his shoulders were broad. His dark hair curled about his ears. My skin tingled strangely. A feeling I’d not had before and one I couldn’t name. I wanted to say I had no plan to write a letter, but to draw. “M-may I mix the ink now?” I stammered.
“You have a lover you wish to send a note to telling him you’re safe now?” Garth asked, arms crossed. My hand slipped, I spilled the ink dust from the dish onto the
Aisling wiped her mouth. “Where are the nettles?”
“I threw them out,” I confessed.
“A waste,” Aisling said sternly. She looked fondly at her helper. “Tess is right. You have a gift. And your hands are steady with wounds. Any eye can see it.”
Garth asked, “Tell us where you learned this, Poppy.”
“Sir, I can’t say as I know. It… comes to me.” She batted her eyes. The two would be wed within the month if she continued looking at him thus. I cleared the table and went outside for air.
That night I made a tasty stew from the dried peas and meat bone I found in the cupboard and turnips from the garden. There was food aplenty here compared to our kitchen back home, where Mother and I were always scraping meals from nothing. Each day we were anxious, fearing we’d not enough to satisfy Father, who’d pound us for the meager meals. It mattered little that Father drank most of our market money, that we took in sewing and scribed letters for pay so we could afford to buy more food.
Stirring the savory stew, I thought of Mother and wondered how she was doing back home without me. Steam wet my face, and tears. I said a little prayer for her safety.
When all was ready, I was glad to serve the hot dish. For the feast day of Saint Placid, who was saved from drowning and invoked against chills, hot stew was a proper meal.
“Mm,” Aisling said. “You’re a fine cook, Tess.”
Garth ate, but did not say a word. Aisling, Meg, and Poppy put their heads together, talking over Tom’s condition. Meg took him a steaming bowl of stew. I could not offer medicine, but I hoped the meal would strengthen him. Later, when I’d finished scouring the pot, I headed down the hall with a gift for Horace. Garth was in the library with his hound. I paused at the doorway, suddenly uncertain.
“Come in, Tess. What is it you want?” It was not a warm greeting.
Horace met me with wagging tail and snuffed the back of my hand. I produced the soup bone and his tail wacked the table legs.
“He’ll be your champion forever now,” Garth said. I smiled to hear a softer tone from him at last, and at the idea of the old bloodhound as my champion. By the fire Horace gnawed the bone. I edged to the desk and touched the feathered quill.
“Do you wish to write something?”
“Sir? No, I—”
“You don’t know how,” he said matter-of-factly.
Many people, even lords and ladies, did not know how to read or write, so I shouldn’t have taken offense; still, I barked, “Of course I know how! I can read and write and do mathematical sums. I used to keep my father’s accounts; the clodpole couldn’t do his own.”
“Pardon me, mistress.”
I blinked down at the floor. Leave now before you embarrass yourself further.
“You’re welcome to take a few pages.” Garth met me at the desk. “You might like this.” He pulled a small ink block from the drawer with an elegant dragon carved along the top. “Just take a little black powder from the edge like this…” He demonstrated for me, using a penknife to scrape powder into a small dish. “Add water and you have ink.”
Give me a man who buys her ink that she might draw or write, books that she might read …
“It’s wonderful,” I whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A traveling man’s ink, no worries over spilling the ink bottle. What will you write?”
I looked up at him. He was tall and lean, though muscled in the right places and his shoulders were broad. His dark hair curled about his ears. My skin tingled strangely. A feeling I’d not had before and one I couldn’t name. I wanted to say I had no plan to write a letter, but to draw. “M-may I mix the ink now?” I stammered.
“You have a lover you wish to send a note to telling him you’re safe now?” Garth asked, arms crossed. My hand slipped, I spilled the ink dust from the dish onto the
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