That done, I dress quickly. There is one possible antidote I know of: a bezoar stone. I am not certain if it will work on poison passed through the skin, but it is worth a try. And there is only one person I can think of who might possess one.
It is nearly a half a day’s ride to the herbwitch’s cottage and even though I have never come this particular way, I have no trouble finding it. I have feared the old woman for most of my life. when I was younger and Mama had first sent me to her for tansy to treat my sister’s fever, I had hidden nearby, crying for hours. I was certain the woman would take one look at me, know that her poison had failed, and finish the job then and there.
Of course, she had not. She had merely beckoned me from the shadows, coaxing me with a bit of honeycomb dripping with golden honey — a rare treat I could not resist. when at last I believed she would not harm me, I had managed to stutter out what I had come for, which she gave to me and then sent me on my way. I had believed that she did not recognize me, and so my fear had left me.
But clearly I had been wrong, for it was she who came for me years later and whisked me away to my new life.
When I reach the small, squat cottage surrounded by a riotous garden, I dismount, tie the horse to the fence post, then open the gate. A merry little bell sounds, making me jump. I weave my way through the hawthorn hedge and the waist-high bushes of lavender until I reach the front door. It opens before I can knock and the herbwitch herself peers up at me through her rheumy eyes. “Still hovering, after all these years?” she asks. “Come in before you let all the warm air out.”
The cottage hasn’t changed much, nor has she. Her hair is still white, flyaway strands of thistledown; her eyes perhaps a bit more faded, her skin more wrinkled. Herbs hang from the ceiling, their sharp, peppery, sweet scents assailing my senses. Three small cauldrons bubble on the hearth, and all manner of clay beakers, pots, and copper dishes cover her tables. It is surprisingly similar to Sister Serafina’s workshop.
"What brings Death’s handmaiden to my humble door?” she asks, not looking the least bit humble. Mayhap she even gloats somewhat.
I open my mouth, then hesitate. It was she who sent me to the convent three years ago. will she know that by seeking an antidote, I am going against their wishes? will she care?
Ignoring my gaping silence, she begins to speak. “I always expected to see you again someday, wanting to know about your mother, no doubt.”
My mother. It is not until she says the word that I realize I am hungry for such knowledge. what had caused my mother to lie down with Death in the first place? Had she been forced? Or had He taken her by the hand and led her away from her harsh life for a few stolen moments of . . . what? Pleasure? Love? Respite? what could Death offer someone such as my mother? And if it had been love, why had my mother sought to expel me from her womb?
The old woman takes a seat near the fireplace and waves her gnarled hand for me to follow. “The first time I saw your mother was when your father — no, not your real father, but that lout she married — brought her to me. He marched her up to my doorstep, holding her arm so tight she had bruises for two weeks after. Gave her arnica root for that, by the bye.”
“And?”
She settles back into her chair, savoring her hungry audience. I do not imagine she gets one all that often. “And he demanded I do something to expel the babe in her womb.”
My mother hadn’t wanted to get rid of me, then. It had not been her choice. Some great, dark weight lifts from me.
The herbwitch shrugs. “I thought about faking something, but he stood there and watched me mix the brew himself, asking after each thing I put in. I soon realized that if I gave him a false potion, he’d be back again, like as not. Best for everyone to get it over with as soon as possible.
“But in spite of my best efforts, it didn’t work. That’s when I knew you were god sired. Two weeks later, he was back pounding at my door, demanding another dose. But Matrona’s curse is harsh and had already sickened your mother almost to the point of death. I told him I would not have the killing of her laid at my feet and that considering who her lover had been, he should think twice about inviting Him back.” She turns her watery eyes from me to the fire, and I can see the flames reflected in them. “Your mother did all she could to protect you from that man’s wrath. Reminded him often of who your true sire was. But even with that, you did not have a smooth time of it.”
We are both quiet and stare into the flames, but we see very different things, no doubt. I struggle to adjust to the world reformed. The knowledge that my mother had not hated me shifts everything. It is as if all my life I have been looking at the world through a pane of thick, distorted glass, and now that glass has shattered, and I can see clearly. “How did you come to find me the day” — I cannot bring myself to say the day of my wedding— “the day my father sold me to Guillo?”
“I had promised your mother I would try to keep an eye on you. Although it was unfair of her to ask, me being the only herbwitch for miles around and too busy besides. But I did what I could.”
“It was you who had me sent to the convent.”
“Aye.”
"What is the convent to you?”
She turns her head sharply to me. “You think those nuns are the only ones who know Death? what do you think I do all day besides dance with Him, bartering for a life here, a few extra months there? Chasing Him from this old man’s lungs or that young boy’s fevered brain? No, the convent is not the only one to partner with Death.”
That the dance goes two ways is not something I have ever considered. “So you are Death’s handmaiden too,” I murmur.
She looks surprised, then cackles in delight. “Aye,” she says, sitting up somewhat straighter. “I guess I am at that.” “But you do not serve the convent?” I ask, just to be certain. “No, but it was the only place I thought you’d be safe.” I weigh the risk carefully, but I do not have any choice. wanting to avoid her sharp gaze, I study the back of my hands. “Do you have a bezoar stone?”
The herbwitch gives me a sly look. “Surely the convent has antidotes for their poisons.”
"We spent our energies creating poisons, not antidotes, and while we did have bezoar stones in case any of the girls ingested some, I do not have one with me now.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown. “So now you step outside the circle of the convent and begin your own dance with Death,” she says, and I curse her old eyes that see too much. She rocks back in her chair. “Alas, I have no such stone. Never seen one of them, truth be told.”