The boy, still lying on the floor, shook his head.
Elena stared again at the long open cuts on his arms. She had been clawed by her mother's tabby cat a few times when playing with it as a child and recognized the parallel marks, though nothing as frightful as the marks on the boy. The boy's flesh had been ripped open, yet deep though the cuts were, surely a beast of that size would have ripped his arm off, not merely torn the skin. And his face was unmarked.
She reached out again and stroked the little head once more. 'Finch, please tell me what he did. You say he didn't let the cat off the chain, then how did it hurt you?'
He raised his head and stared at her, his face was blotched from crying and his nose was running. His breath came in thick, hiccupping sobs.
'The man, he was the cat. . . he pulled off his shirt and tied a pelt around his waist. He was muttering. You will feel the strength, over and over. His eyes went strange . . . like he was staring at something that wasn't there. Then . . . then he started changing, turning into a beast, 'cept it wasn't a beast like those ones.' He gestured to the paintings on the walls. 'He was ... he was a werecat. He could stand like a man, but he wasn't a man, he was a huge cat with great long claws. And he wasn't chained, he leapt at me. He had hair on his hands, thick hair, and his eyes were deep and mad like demons'. He ... caught me and I couldn't get away. I couldn't get away . . .' Finch broke off in a shuddering moan of fear.
Elena, shaking as much as the boy, drew the child to her and folded him in her arms, burying his face in her shoulder. He didn't resist, but clung to her, sobbing and trembling. They sat together like that for a long time, before the boy's breathing finally calmed. At last he let her wash him, wincing in pain as the cloth touched the cuts, but making no sound. She rubbed almond oil and honey in the cuts to soothe them and help them heal, then coaxed him to drink the poppy- laced wine.
She pulled the pallet off the bed and dragged it into the far corner. Then they both lay down on it, she with her body curled protectively round the boy's, he holding tight to her arm wrapped across his small chest.
She could feel him relaxing as the wine and poppy syrup took hold.
Just as she thought he was asleep, he murmured, 'The werecat was asking about you.'
Elena's body recoiled as if she had been struck. 'What. . . what did he ask?' she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.
'Your name,' Finch murmured drowsily. 'I told him it were Holly. I had to tell him, he made me.' He started to shake again and Elena stroked his head. 'Of course you had to, it doesn't matter. But did he say anything else? Did he say anything about me?'
She could feel the child drooping in her arms, but she needed him to stay awake and answer her.
'Think, Finch, I know it's hard, but please, it's important, what else did he say about me?'
There was such a long silence that Elena was sure Finch was sleeping, then he muttered. 'Said next time ... he was going to take you.'
3rd Day after the New Moon,
September 1211
Marigold — called also the Jackanapes-on-horseback, Summer's bride or Husbandman's dyall for the flowers follow the sun faithfully. For this reason maids weave it into their bridal garlands to keep their husbands constant. And if any maid would make a lover faithful, she should dig up the earth from his footprint and put it in a pot and therein plant her marigold seeds.
The flowers are eaten in possets and puddings. The flower- head rubbed on a sting will soothe the pain. The seeds crushed into white wine will cure or ward off agues and all manner of fevers. Mixed with hog's grease and turpentine, and rubbed upon the breast, it succours the heart in a fever.
If a mortal gazes into the flower at dawn it shall preserve him from contagion all day, and if he smells the flower, it shall banish the evil humours from him. Eaten before all other food is taken, it will cure