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DESTINY IS LIKE SMOKE on the wind; the harder you try to chase it, the less likely you are to enjoy it.
—unknown philosopher
* * *
BEFORE THE SPECKLED rooster crowed, Gwen rose from her bed and dressed in a fresh shift and apron. Her sleep-filled eyes strained to see the way to the hearth, but she managed the trek without stumbling over anything or making any noise. She started a fire and went outside to draw water from the well. After she’d set a kettle of water on the hook in the fireplace, she went back outside and gathered wood to replenish the kitchen stock. By the time the rooster sounded off and her father and grandmother came out of their tiny rooms at the back of the cottage, she’d set the table with sliced bread and goat cheese and fed the chickens.
“Good morning,” she said in a solemn tone and kissed the cheeks of both her father and grandmother. “I apologize for being disrespectful last night. I’ll try to be more mindful of my tongue and temper.”
Her father smiled at her. “I know you’re upset, Gwen. We just want what’s best for you.”
Gwen nodded but said nothing in response. She had a few more days before Mistress Bourgogne arrived in Vasterberg, and she hoped she’d be able to reason with her father and convince him to let her choose her own path before then. If not, perhaps Gilly’s mother could reason with him. He’d said he would be stopping in to see her, and Gwen had every intention of recruiting Mignon’s aid when she went to help Gilly with her chores. This was a battle for the rest of her life, her very happiness, and she was going to mount an attack on as many fronts as she could.
“Sit down and eat, Gwen. I’ll be in as soon as I feed the chickens.”
“I’ve already fed them, Father.”
Jacob gave an approving nod. “And I see you’ve brought in more firewood too.”
She turned to her grandmother. “Are there any chores you need me to take care of today, Grandmother? Please, let me make up for my outburst.”
“Chores won’t cure your willfulness.”
Sleep and an apology hadn’t softened her grandmother. Gwen gritted her teeth until she knew she could speak respectfully and calmly. “You’re right, Grandmother, but at least let me make your workload easier today. Let me make some amends. I truly regret speaking the way I did.” What she said was true. She did have regrets. Having been unkind to her mother’s mother, she’d made her cause more difficult in the process. She’d have to work harder than ever to win over her father to her way of thinking.
“Air out your bed and sweep the floors.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
She’d barely bitten into the sliced bread when her grandmother added, “And then you can slop the pigs.”
Gwen stopped chewing her bread. Though she remained silent, her mind screamed out in protest at the cruelty of her grandmother’s punishment. The old woman was well aware Gwen was deathly afraid of pigs and the way they rushed at her when they saw the slop bucket. This was beyond unfair. Gwen finished her meal in silence, kissed her father good-bye before he left the cottage, and started the chores she’d been assigned. Dread swelled in her when she swept the floors and opened the door to brush out the pile of dirt her broom had collected. It loomed over her as she opened the window to her room and stuffed half the lumpy feather bed through the opening, the pigpen in clear sight. Finally, she could delay the task no longer. She held her breath as she lifted the lid to the slop bucket. It was a wasted effort; the rancid smell of the previous night’s meal, along with scraps of spoiled vegetables her father traded for bones and fat trimmings, rushed into her nostrils. She gagged and quickly tossed in the remnants of their breakfast before slamming the lid back down, sending a gush of the putrid odor into the room with such force that the whole kitchen reeked.
Grabbing the bucket handle, she rushed outside before the scent overwhelmed her. Every step was a trudge, as if the worn path were knee-deep mud. It wasn’t, of course. There’d been no rain for a week, and the ground was still hard from winter’s last freeze. Though she tried not to draw the pigs’ attention, their snouts had caught the scent of the slop, and the entire passel raced for the gate.
“Get back!” she yelled as they stormed toward her. She threw the container’s lid at them, but the stampede kept coming. Tilting the bucket, which was swinging wildly by now, she ran along the feed trough, spilling slop into it. As it hit the wooden feeder, it splashed and splattered, and some of it landed on her apron. Gwen didn’t care. She just wanted out of the pigpen. With the swine distracted by crowding around the feeder and snarling at each other when one pushed its way into a space too narrow to fit into, Gwen ran out of the pen, picking up the tossed lid with a swoop on her way to the gate. Once safely outside, she secured the latch then turned around and leaned against the gatepost. She was out of breath, and her heart raced. A whiff of the slop on her clothing made her groan. She’d have to wash her apron before she left for Gilly’s. Yet another chore.
Just then, one of the hogs attacked, or so it seemed to Gwen, who let out a screech. She spun around to see a small pig on the other side of the gate, snorting and snuffling the dirt where some of the slop had splashed out of the bucket when she’d removed the lid. It blew out another snort and sent a cloud of dirt flying between the gate’s pickets and onto Gwen’s bare legs. And then the sound of a low laugh wafted past her. She looked up to see her grandmother at the cottage door with a snaggle-toothed grin.
Humiliation flushed Gwen’s cheeks as tears stung her eyes. She dropped the bucket and took off at a full run toward the road.
* * *
“YOU TRULY DO SMELL awful,” Gilly said as she helped Gwen remove the slop-stained apron. “We’ll dip it in the wash bucket and let it sit there for a while. Besides, you look like you could use a warm mug of one of Mother’s concoctions.”
Gwen ran the sleeve of her shift across her cheeks, dabbing at tears still escaping her reddened eyes even though she fought to hold them back. Sniffling, she recounted her horrid encounter. “She knows I’m afraid. Father always slops the pigs. It wasn’t a chore of hers.” She broke down into sobs again. “Why did she laugh at me? Does she hate me that much?”
It was Mignon Bastwick who interrupted Gwen’s rambling. “Make sure that apron is fully submerged, Gilly. Then come inside with us.” She placed an arm around Gwen’s shoulder and ushered her into the two-room cottage barely larger than her father’s storefront butcher shop.
Guiding the sniffling girl to a rickety wooden chair in front of the fireplace, Mignon set to work mixing herbs in the methodical way Gwen had always admired. In a stone bowl, she crushed a pinch of chamomile flowers and tossed in a sprinkling of dried lavender. Next, she added blue-green leaves, the pungent scent of which Gwen recognized as lemon balm. Mignon stirred the mixture together and sniffed it before reaching for a tin on the top shelf of her sideboard. Out of it, she pulled a clump of chopped leaves and stems and dropped them into the bowl. Picking up and dropping the mixture from her fingers, she rubbed the components of her concoction together, bending over it and wafting the smell up to her nose several times before she seemed satisfied. There was nothing happenstance about Mignon when she worked with plants and oils.
“What are the stems and leaves you took from the tin?” asked Gwen.
“Skullcap.”
“What are its properties?”
Gwen caught a partial smile in Mignon’s expression as she dumped the mixture onto a cheesecloth square, which she tied into a bundle with a short length of twine, and dropped it into an empty mug.
“It relaxes.”
“Like the chamomile, lemon balm, and lavender?” Gwen asked.
“Much stronger. It should never be mixed with valerian root, catnip, or kava.”
“Why?”
“Too strong. The drinker of such a tea could fall asleep and never awaken.”
Gwen nodded and made a mental note of the warning. She trusted the hedge witch’s judgment without question when it came to knowing exactly which recipe to use for any condition or illness. She wished she had thought to bring the leather-bound record she kept of what she learned about medicinal plants. Rarely had she come to Gilly’s house without bringing it. She’d have to remember to write this new knowledge down when she returned home.
As Mignon retrieved a kettle hanging over the edge of the fire, she spoke in a quiet and comforting tone. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s filled with fear and has been for a long while now.” Steam rolled upward, and the woman leaned away from it when she tilted the kettle and poured the boiling water into the mug.
Gwen stretched forward to see if the bundle floated, and she caught the corners of Mignon’s thin lips curling slightly upward.
“Let it sit a bit and infuse completely.”
“Where do you find the plant, and what does it look like?”
Mignon chuckled. “A bit like other mints, but with spear-shaped leaves and blue or bluish-purple, long-throated flowers that cluster near the tips of a stalk much like foxglove. You’ll find it on a sunny slope with moist soil but not too much sunlight. I’ll show you the next time we forage.”
The thought of gathering flowers and herbs and all manner of plants with Mignon made Gwen smile. She savored their time together.
Just then, Gilly came in. “I’m so glad we don’t have pigs,” she said, dunking her hands into the washbasin before drying them on a piece of what Gwen recognized as one of Gilly’s old skirts recycled into a rag.
“You’re fortunate you don’t!” said Gwen, taking the mug of herb tea Mignon offered her.
“And if you didn’t have pigs, then many of us wouldn’t have sausage, would we?” the woman said. “There are many unpleasant things in nature we must endure if we are to reap their rewards.”
“I could live without sausage,” Gwen insisted.
“Perhaps,” said Mignon, “but your father’s trade would be diminished were that so.”
Gwen thought about her father, and she felt pained at how he would react to her running away from her grandmother, but that feeling was squashed by another. “My father didn’t stop her.”
Mignon sighed and took a seat on the other hard wooden chair by the fire. She motioned for Gilly to sit on the stool near her, and when the girl had taken the spot, Mignon reached down and began to run her slender fingers through Gilly’s hair, upsweeping it and separating it into strands. As her fingers manipulated the segments of hair into braids, she kept her gaze on the task she was performing. “Your grandmother is fearful because you remind her of herself.”
“What do you mean? I am nothing like my grandmother.”
“Drink the tea, and I’ll tell you a story. Maybe it will help you to understand your grandmother.”
Gwen complied, never thinking for a second not to, though she doubted there was anything about her that resembled her grandmother. Nonetheless, she was curious to hear what Mignon had to say, so she listened as she sipped her tea.
“When your grandmother was about your age and her eyesight was still keen, she had already become quite a talented seamstress. Did you know that?”
Gwen shrugged. She’d seen the beautiful dress that her grandmother had made for her parents’ wedding celebration.
“At the beginning of the spring your grandmother was to reach the Age of Decision, she was offered an apprenticeship under the tutelage of a well-known and respected tailor in the east. It was quite the news in Vasterberg, according to my mother’s account of it,” she said.
“Why?”
“It was scandalous for womenfolk to fill the apprenticeships of menfolk, who would need the work to feed their families. Despite all her parents’ efforts, she was willful and determined to have her way. When they outright forbade her to accept the apprenticeship, she fled to the east before they knew she was even gone.”
Gwen wrinkled her brow. “I don’t remember ever hearing that my grandmother went to the east. She’s never mentioned it, and neither have my parents.”
“That’s because she didn’t stay, Gwen, and I doubt it’s something she’s proud of. The parents of a boy who had expected to be placed in the apprenticeship made an awful fuss about the whole situation. Your great grandparents were derided for raising an unruly and disrespectful girl who had stolen the livelihood of a boy. Customers stopped bringing their horses into her father’s blacksmith’s shop to be shod.
“The family almost starved that winter. In the end, they couldn’t bear being ostracized by the people of Vasterberg. They made an agreement with a farmer that he could marry your grandmother if he would pay someone to find her and bring her home. The farmer hired a bounty hunter who did find her, and the other boy was sent to take her place. The people of Vasterberg, satisfied the wrong had been righted, once again began to visit the blacksmith’s shop, but they punished your grandmother in the way that would sting the most. Despite her marvelous talent at stitchery, they would buy nothing made by her hand. Her skill as a seamstress fell to waste.”
Mignon tucked the end of Gilly’s braid into the weave of the other braids and looked over at Gwen. “When your grandfather died, she was left without a means of providing for herself. Even if the people of Vasterberg had forgiven her for the choice she’d made, her eyesight had faded too much by then to sew for others, and she’d not trained an apprentice who could help her. The farm was sold to pay your grandfather’s debts, and she moved into the cottage with your father and mother. She was left at the mercy of her daughter’s husband when Margaretta died. She wants you to be able to provide for your needs if you are left alone in this world.”
“But baking or living in cold silence as a pauper?” Gwen whispered as if she were asking for taboo knowledge.
“Can you say either is worse than being married off to someone not of your own choosing? And not having the chance to make your own way in the world with skills and talent?”
The compassion in Mignon’s voice further relaxed Gwen, whose previously tense muscles had slackened from the tea. She thought about the options. “I suppose not,” she finally conceded, but she fought for a shred of her own desires to be acknowledged as she added, “but what if neither makes me happy?”