There was one still hidden in the pot. The last of what we had, kept back for emergencies. Thank the Holly for Silas, I reminded myself. I’d have to find him before the meeting. With luck he’d have another order for me and offer payment up front.
But the temporary relief was cut short at the sound of more banging. This time at the other door. The one that led to the bedroom.
When I opened the bedroom door, I narrowly missed being hit in the head by the object flung at me from the dark room. I ducked, but not quickly enough. The enamel chamber pot had hit me in the shoulder and urine had soaked the blanket still wrapped around me, seeping through it into my tunic. My mother was crouched on the bed, her teeth bared, her eyes feral, tinged with red as she poised to leap at me.
“Mama?” I said quietly.
I barely closed the door in time. The second the lock clicked, she slammed against it. I leant against the door as she started pounding it, then walked shakily into the kitchen.
Too close.
I waited until the sun was fully up before I returned to my mother. I found her wedged between the bed and the wall, curled up and staring silently out past me.
“Mama?” I said softly, moving slowly towards her, keeping a clear path to the door in case she was still mostly beast; I’ve been fooled by her before.
I lifted her gently until she was standing, trying not to wince at how insubstantial she felt in my arms. The rushes on the floor rustled softly as she dragged her feet through them, and I made a note to seek out the soiled ones and replace them. In truth they all needed replacing, but money is as thin on the ground as the rushes on our floor. I braced her against the battered rocking chair and collected fresh water and a cloth.
It doesn’t matter how many times I do it; it always feels strange to clean her. Her skin was papery, shifting as the cloth dragged over it, fragile as a moth’s wing. The scratches on her forearms are healed, leaving a map of silvery scars that gleam in the candlelight. Those I dabbed at with extra care, even as I tried not to look at them.
When I raised her arms to put a clean nightgown on her she held them up obediently, allowing me to move her as though she were a doll.
I prefer it when she’s violent.
Once upon a time there was a young apprentice apothecary who lived on a red-brick farm with a golden thatch roof, surrounded by green fields. She had a father who called her a “clever girl” and gave her a herb garden all of her own, and a mother who was whole and kind. She had a brother who knew how to smile and laugh.
But then one day her father had an accident and, despite her efforts to save him, he died. And so did all of her hopes and dreams. The farm – the family’s home for generations – was sold. Her mother’s brown hair greyed, her spirit dulled as she drifted towards Almwyk like a wraith, uncomplaining, unfeeling. And her brother, once impulsive and joyful, became cold and hard, his eyes turned east with malice.
If someone had told me six moons ago, before I watched my life slip through my hands like water, that my mother would be cursed, locked away, and drugged by my own hand, I would have laughed in their face. Then I would have kicked them for the insult and laughed again. I would have sooner believed in fairy tales coming true. Of course, we all believe in fairy tales now. The Scarlet Varulv has slunk out of the pages and lives with me in this cottage. The Sleeping Prince has woken and sacked Lormere, an army of alchemy-made golems behind him as he murders his way across the country. Stories are no longer stories; characters run rampant through the world these days. All I’m waiting for is Mully-No-Hands to knock on the window, begging to come in and warm himself, and my life will be complete.
Actually, no, that’s not what I’m waiting for.
The newly declared king, Merek of the House of Belmis, was killed before he had the chance to put the crown on his head, as were all those who refused to swear fealty to the Sleeping Prince, all those who tried