Wilhelmina stood by the bed, hugging herself and shivering.
Daemon walked over to the bed, trying to understand the pain and hope in Wilhelmina's face. Witch blood supposedly grew only where a witch's blood had been spilled violently or where a witch who had met a violent death was buried.
Daemon stepped back, reeling.
Even with the fresh air and the other garden smells, the dark psychic scent was strong there. Sweet Darkness, it was strong there.
"My sister planted these," Wilhelmina said abruptly, her voice quivering. "One for each. As remembrance." She bit her lip, her blue eyes wide and frightened as she studied the flowers.
"It's all right," Daemon said soothingly, trying to calm the panic rising in her while fighting his own. "I know what witch blood is and what it stands for." He searched for words that might comfort them both. "This is a special place because of it."
"The gardeners won't come here. They say it's haunted. Do you think it's haunted? I hope it is."
Daemon considered his next words carefully. "Where's your sister?"
Wilhelmina began to cry. "Briarwood. They put her in Briarwood." The sobs became a brokenhearted keening.
Daemon held her gently while he stroked her hair, murmuring the "words of gentle sorrow" in the Old Tongue, the language of Witch.
After a minute, Wilhelmina pushed him away, sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief and, smiling, took it back when she stared at it, uncertain what to do with it after using it.
"She talks like that sometimes," Wilhelmina said. "We'd better get back." She left the alcove and hurried down the path.
Dazed, Daemon followed her back to the house.
Daemon stepped into the kitchen and gave Cook his best smile. "Any chance of a cup of coffee?"
Cook snapped a sharp, angry look in his direction. "If you like."
Confused by this sudden display of temper, Daemon shrugged out of his topcoat and sat at the kitchen table. As he puzzled over what he'd done to upset her, she thumped a mug of coffee on the table and said, "Miss Wilhelmina was crying when she came in from the garden."
Daemon ignored the coffee, more interested in Cook's reaction. "There was an alcove in the garden she wanted to visit."
The stern look in Cook's eyes instantly softened, saddened. "Ah, well." She cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, piled cold beef between them, and set it before him, an unspoken apology.
Daemon took a deep breath. "Cook, what is Briarwood?"
"A foul place, if you ask me, but no one here does," she snapped, then immediately gave him a small smile.
"What is it?"
With a sigh, Cook brought her own mug of coffee over to the table and sat down across from Daemon. "You're not eating," she said absently as she sipped her coffee.
Daemon obediently took a bite out of the sandwich and waited.
"It's a hospital for emotionally disturbed children," Cook said. "Seems a lot of young witches from good families become high-strung of a sudden when they start leaving childhood behind, if you understand me. But Miss Jaenelle's been in and out of that place since she was five years old for no better reason that I could ever see except that she used to make up fanciful stories about unicorns and dragons and such." She cocked her head toward the front of the house. "Theysay she's unbalanced because she's the only one in the family who doesn't wear the Jewels, that she tries to make up for not being able to do the Craft lessons by making up stories to get attention. If you ask me, the last thing Miss Jaenelle wants is attention. It's just that she's . . . different. It's a funny thing about her. Even when she says wild things, things you know can't be true, somehow . . . you start to wonder, you know?"
Daemon finished his sandwich and drained his mug. "How long has she been gone?"
"Since early spring. She put a flea inall their ears this last time. That's why they've left her there so long."
Daemon's lip curled in disgust. "What could a child possibly say that would make them want to lock her up like that?"
"She said . . ." Cook looked nervous and upset. "She said Lord Benedict wasn't her father. She said Prince Philip . . ."
Daemon let out an explosive sigh. Yes, from what he'd observed of the dynamics of this family, a statement like thatwould throw them all into a fury. Still . . .
Cook gave him a long, slow look and refilled the mugs. "Let me tell you about Miss Jaenelle."
"Two years ago, the Warlord my daughter was serving decided he wanted a prettier wench and turned my daughter out, along with the child she'd borne him. They came here to me, not having any other place to go, and Lady Alexandra let them stay. My girl, being poorly at the time, did some light parlor work and helped me in the kitchen. My granddaughter, Lucy—the cutest little button you ever saw—stayed in the kitchen with me mostly, although Miss Jaenelle always included her in the games whenever the girls were outside. Lucy didn't like being out on her own. She was afraid of Lord Benedict's hunting dogs, and the dog boys, knowing she was scared, teased her, getting the dogs all riled up and then slipping them off the leash so they'd chase her."
"One day it went too far. The dogs had been given short rations because they were going to be taken out and they were meaner than usual, and the boys got them too riled up. The pack leader slipped his leash, took off after Lucy, and chased her into the tack room. She tripped, and he was on her, tearing at her arm. When we heard the screams, my daughter and I came running from the kitchen, and Andrew, one of the stable lads, a real good boy, came running too."
"Lucy was on the floor, screaming and screaming with that dog tearing at her arm, and all of a sudden, there was Miss Jaenelle. She said some strange words to the dog, and he let go of Lucy right away and slunk out of the tack room, his tail between his legs."
"Lucy was a mess, her arm all torn up, the bone sticking up where the dog had snapped it. Miss Jaenelle told Andrew to get a bucket of water quick, and she knelt down beside Lucy and started talking to her, quiet-like, and Lucy stopped screaming. Andrew came back with the water, and Miss Jaenelle pulled out this big oval basin from somewhere, I never did notice where it came from. Andrew poured the water in the basin, and Miss Jaenelle held it for a minute, just held it, and the water started steaming like it was over a fire. Then she put Lucy's arm in the basin and took some leaves and powders out of her pocket and poured them in the water. She held Lucy's arm down, singing all the while, quiet. We just stood and watched. No point taking the girl to a Healer, even if we could have scraped up the coin to pay a good one. I knew that. That arm was too mangled. The best even a good Healer could have done was cut it off. So we watched, my daughter, Andrew, and me. Couldn't see much, the water all bloody like it was."