The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell Page A

the humans.
    Perrotte stared. “The bird came to life,” she whispered. “After you put it to rights, this falcon came to life. Just like me.”
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œIt’s true, isn’t it?” Her gaze landed on an iron pot on the table. She seized it and turned it over in her hands. “Look at this. This was broken too, wasn’t it? But it’s perfect now.”
    â€œThat’s just some wrought iron, it was easy enough to—”
    â€œFine, fine—you’re a blacksmith. But you’re not a cooper!” She pointed to his mended bucket. “Or any sort of carpenter! And certainly not a tailor. But everything you’ve mended is as good as new!”
    â€œThat’s not exactly true.”
    Her eyes wandered over the things he’d mended in the room: the shiny copper kettles, the window latches and hearth crane, the bucket. Her mind went back over the repairs he’d made to the mattresses. Yes, some things were obviously kludged together—the tables in the kitchen were prime examples of things he hadn’t repaired with any attempt at artistry. But when he tried  . . .
    â€œIt’s like . . .”
    â€œDon’t say it out loud,” he said, a pained frown creasing his face.
    â€œMagic,” she said quietly.
    His lips were a thin line. He didn’t respond. He simply turned on his heel and walked away.
    Perrotte let out a huge sigh. She should let Sand spend some time alone; obviously, he didn’t want to talk about the magic.
    She wandered about the castle, investigating the extent of the sundering. After staring at the enormous rift in the keep and the ground of the courtyard for some time, Perrotte went to the herbary, determined to find something she could turn into a hot drink.
    Luck was with her. She mentally scolded Sand for not having looked harder in the herbary. Certainly, the herbs she found were practically dust, but most of the dust retained enough scent to identify. Chamomile, mint, linden blossom, calendula—a bounty of herbs, and though Perrotte didn’t recognize everything, the few herbs she salvaged made her feel useful and smart.
    Triumphant, she carried her spoils back to the kitchen. Loyse, who had been her nurse and then later her maid, had brewed a nightly tisane for them to share. Apparently, Perrotte had absorbed more about the herbs than she had realized. Not that she remembered what each of these herbs did, besides promoting general well-being. Except chamomile—Loyse was always giving her chamomile in hopes that it would help her sleep.
    Had given . Not was always giving . Perrotte felt a pang. Was Loyse still alive? What had happened to her after Perrotte died, after the castle was sundered? As with her unknown sister, Perrotte felt a dark knot of guilt in her chest, thinking that she had left Loyse behind to suffer unprotected under Jannet’s rule.
    Perrotte heated water and set a bowl of mint tisane to steep. She settled down on the hearthstone and tucked her feet beneath her, leaning against the chimneypiece and absorbing the heat from the hearth. She had gotten chilled, wandering around in the reluctant spring weather. Since her awakening, it seemed Perrotte only noticed she was cold long after she should.
    Another effect of death or resurrection?
    â€œAre you cold, Merlin?” she asked, then startled herself with a big yawn. She picked up the mint tisane and sipped. The drink warmed and cooled at the same time. When it was gone, she held the bowl in her lap—the same bowl that Sand had filled with porridge the day before.
    Her eyelids felt weighted with lead. She leaned her head against the chimney stones and let her eyes close.
    When Perrotte opened her eyes again, dark night showed in the high windows, and the room was lit only by the low fire. Perrotte jumped up. Her forgotten bowl fell to the stones of the floor and shattered.
    Her wordless