Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,66
And they still do, though now their gazes are layered with . . . I don’t know what. Expectation? But what more can they possibly want from me? I curl my hands into fists.
The brewing shed is a ramshackle wooden hut with a scrap of rawhide where the door ought to be. A strong wind could topple this place, and there would be no funds to restore it. I can’t see Da and Catherine, but I hear them talking, as there’s nothing to block the sound in such a rickety outbuilding. I’m sure they don’t expect me to bother them, as I never have. Before, I looked after the girls without hesitation or complaint, but things have changed since I left.
As I approach, Catherine says in a low voice, “It’s for the best. Just give her the medicine, and when she wakes up, she’ll belong to Bascom. It’s a miracle he wants—”
“What are you talking about?” I shove past the door flap and storm into the brew shed, folding my arms with barely restrained fury. “What medicine?” They can’t possibly mean what I think they do. Bascom is the baker, and he’s older than my father.
Catherine has the grace to look ashamed, her eyes cutting away from mine. She won’t explain, so it falls to Da.
“It won’t hurt you,” he says gruffly. “Just a little something to make you sleep. It’s past time you started living like a normal woman, and Bascom asked for you.”
“Promised us twenty pounds of flour for your hand,” Catherine adds, like that makes it better, not worse.
“I’m not yours to sell!” I snarl. The power comes, tingling in my fingertips. “I never was, but especially not now.”
“It’s nothing other women don’t do,” Catherine snaps. “You just need to lay back and think of something else.”
“Bascom is three times my age and he’s already got a wife!” That’s not even the worst part of this. I can’t get my head around it; that’s how awful and looming it is.
“She’s dying,” Da says in a toneless voice. “And he needs a helpmeet in his twilight years, someone to help with the bakery and warm his bed. You’ll do. I married your mother when she was younger than you! It’s time for you to contribute—”
“I’ve done nothing but contribute since I was small! And the fact that you married my mother when she was practically a child is nothing to brag about, you deviant.”
“How dare you. I loved that woman with my whole heart and—”
Slamming a palm against the wall, Catherine cuts off Da’s declaration, glaring at both of us. “You loved her, aye, her and her witchy ways. She ensorcelled you, she did, or you’d have been mine to start with.”
“Go inside,” Da tells Catherine firmly.
And she listens, albeit not without directing another hard look at me. Once she’s gone, I close my eyes, willing myself to be patient. But my resolve snaps when Da says, “I fed you. Clothed you. You owe—”
“Nothing,” I cut in. “I cooked. I cleaned. I assisted in the brewing shed and looked after my sisters. There shouldn’t be debt between parents and children, but if there is, then mine is paid in full. We will not discuss this again. I won’t eat anything you give me while I’m here, so don’t even try. I’m sorry Bascom’s wife is dying, but I won’t replace her.”
I take a step, planning to exit on that line, but then I realize I’ve been diverted from my purpose. I meant to ask about my mother, the one Catherine called “witchy.”
“Before I go, answer one thing.”
“What?” he snaps.
“Why did Catherine say my mother had witchy ways?” Did I inherit this from her?
He shrugs, eyes going distant. “She always claimed she was descended from the old baron, from an unofficial line. And your ma was beautiful, but . . . strange. Other-like. You remember how birds would come to her when she sang? Voice of an angel . . . squirrels would eat out of her hand. Nonsense like that had people talking, and it got bad before she died. They were talking about calling the witch finders because somebody’s milk went off. But why’re you suddenly asking about your ma? You know it’s hard for me.”
I sigh. Everything is always about him. He’s never once cared what might be best for me. I refuse to apologize. Not after what they planned to do to me. I say nothing, but he’s not done complaining.