Chapter 3

THE WEATHER was cool when Hedda started toward the river, for which she was grateful. The summer thus far had been a blistering one, which even the thick stands of pine trees surrounding the manor house had been unable to ameliorate. No doubt the Lord and Lady of Valza had scores of servants working to cool them off right now—fanning them with feathers the length of a man’s arm, blotting the sweat from their noble brows with silken handkerchiefs, bringing them drinks mixed with ice shavings from the underground storehouse—but for everyone else, work just went on as usual.

She made her way along the twisting path slowly, carefully, not wanting to drop the basket that she carried. Not because her Ladyship would really care if her fine silken garments fell onto the loam—well, she would care if she knew about it, but Hedda wouldn’t tell her—but because a far more precious item was bundled on top of the pile, nested deep in the laundry like a rabbit in its burrow.

A baby.

Bands of white linen were wrapped tightly around the tiny body, so that only his head was visible, and the curious but unfocused eyes danced with patterns of light and shadow as he tried to make sense of what was going on around him. He was Hedda’s first child, and while the first few weeks after his birth had been difficult—especially with her Ladyship’s rule about new mothers not flagging in their duties—Hedda had now passed beyond the phase when every new morning brought on a fresh wave of panic, and into a euphoric sense of connectedness. It would have seemed unnatural for her to go anywhere without her child now, or to sleep at night without him nestled securely against her side. He was a part of her, as firmly connected as if the blood-filled cord that had once bound them together had not been severed. When he cried, she could feel the sound resonating in her flesh, his distress channeled straight into her heart as if the two of them shared a single body.

She had never known such intense love in all her life.

Humming a child’s tune to herself, she finally reached her destination, a place along the riverbank where a flat expanse of rock jutted out over a pool of calm, clear water. Her Ladyship must have her best garments washed in the river, of course. It wasn’t good enough that they should be scrubbed in a washbasin along with all the other household linens. No, that water might contain a fragment of dirt from some other garment, that had touched the flesh of another person. Perhaps even (perish the thought!) dirt from a common person. One could not allow that to mingle with the sweat of her Ladyship, even in the washwater! Only the pure, running water of the river, cascading down from the distant mountains, was good enough for her linens.

It was rumored that even his Lordship found his wife’s excesses a bit odd, but she’d brought him a generous dowry and was attractive enough to make him the envy of other men of his station, so he wasn’t about to complain.

Putting down the basket, Hedda worked a few garments out from under the baby, kissed him once on the forehead, and headed toward the water with her washboard. If her Ladyship knew that her fine garments were serving as blankets for a peasant child, she’d no doubt have a fit. Another thing not to tell her.

Hedda had been at work a few minutes and was starting on her second garment when she suddenly became aware that there was someone else present.

Turning back, she scanned the surrounding landscape with a wary eye. This was a safe area, to be sure—his Lordship tolerated no lawlessness in his domain—but you never knew when some local fool might decide to test the boundaries of that governance. Her hand went instinctively to the small knife she wore hanging from her leather belt as she moved closer to the laundry basket, ready to protect her son with all the fierceness of a mother wolf.

And then a child stepped out of the wood. No. She was not a child, though her slight build had caused Hedda to mistake her for such at first. Rather a young girl, somewhere in her early teens, dirty and hollow-eyed. Whoever she was, it appeared to have been some time since she’d had a good meal, for her face was thin and the joints in her bony limbs jutted out like burls. Her long black hair was matted into twisted ropes, in which small bits of forest detritus had become lodged. A wild child, perhaps, lost in the woods at a young age and left to fend for herself. That would explain much about her. It would even account for the one piece of clothing she wore, a relatively clean shift that had clearly been cut for a larger frame. Stolen from someone’s laundry basket, no doubt. She’d torn off the bottom of it at knee-length, leaving her dirty feet and legs bare.

But while the rest of her appearance was somewhat odd, it was her eyes that Hedda found most arresting. Almond-shaped, exotic, they stared out at her from under hooded lids with an intensity that was unnerving. Not young eyes, Hedda observed. There was power in that gaze, and also terrible emptiness. The combination was both fascinating and repellant, and she felt drawn to it as one might be drawn to the sight of a mysterious animal lying dead by the roadside, wondering whether it was dead or alive.

“Who are you?” she asked her, trying not to sound as uneasy as she felt.

The girl did not answer. She did not stir. Even the breeze seemed to pass by without touching her, and her flesh might have been carved from stone for all the vitality it possessed.

“Do you want some food?” Hedda offered. Wanting to make the girl speak, or move, or . . . do something. Her left hand remained on her knife as she indicated the small bundle of provisions she’d brought with her, tucked into the basket beside her son. Thank the gods, the little one was sleeping quietly right now, nestled so deeply into the layers of laundry that it was unlikely the strange girl could see him. “I have enough to share.”

The visitor did not appear to understand her words, but she watched intently as Hedda crouched down, unwrapping a square of worn linen cloth from the thick heel of bread and slab of hard cheese that it guarded. Breaking off a piece of each, she moved away from the basket and held them out to the girl.

Hunger flashed in her eyes—or so it seemed to Hedda—but still she did not move.

“It’s all right. I have enough. Please, take it.”

Again she held it out to her. Again the girl did not respond.

Slowly, warily, her hand still upon her knife, she walked a short distance toward the girl. She was close enough to detect her smell now, an odd mix of stale sweat and sweet musk. Like the rest of her, it was both fascinating and repellent. “Here.” She lowered herself carefully, never letting down her guard, and placed the bread and cheese on a flat rock nearby. “This is for you.”

She backed away.

For a moment she thought the girl was still not going to move. Then the thin limbs stirred, and she began to walk slowly toward the food, her eyes never leaving Hedda’s. Her movements were angular and ungraceful, but it seemed more a consequence of habit than of weakness; she picked her way over the rough terrain like a bird might, head jerking with each step. When she reached the food, she glanced down briefly, just long enough to pick it up, and then her eyes fixed on Hedda once more as she bit deeply into the piece of bread, tearing loose a chunk and swallowing it whole, as an animal might gulp down meat.

Heart pounding, Hedda watched her eat. That she was hungry was clear enough. That she was something other than a young girl lost in the woods—for however long—was becoming equally clear. What if this were some sort of supernatural visitation? Hedda had heard tales of spirits who took on human form to work mischief; might not one of them look just like this? Her hand closed instinctively about the hilt of her knife as she watched the girl finish off the last of the offering. Should she give her the rest of the food? Sometimes spirits would leave you alone if you were generous enough. At least that’s what her grandmother had told her. Hedda wished she’d paid more attention to the old woman when she was a child, so she might know what sort of spirit this was and how she could get it to go away.

Finally the girl was finished eating. She looked at Hedda for a moment, then started down the slope toward her.

Hedda drew in a sharp breath. There was nothing overtly threatening about her, but every instinct in her maternal heart was crying out for her to keep this strange girl away from the baby. But had the girl even seen him? If Hedda moved the basket away from her now, wouldn’t that just reveal how precious its contents were? Frozen with indecision, she settled for positioning herself over the basket, so that the stranger would have to go through her to get to her baby. Much as a mother wolf might position herself over her cub while the shadow of a hawk passed over them both.

The girl came close. Too close. Her sickly sweet smell filled Hedda’s nostrils as she picked her way down the hill, closing the distance between them.

Stay back, Hedda thought. Her hand tightened on her knife.

And then the girl was directly in front of her. Those strange hooded eyes locked on her own, transfixing her. Such darkness in those eyes! Such hunger! Their form and color was human, but their substance was something very different. An alien madness, nameless and terrible, seemed to shimmer in their depths.

“Stay back,” she whispered. Suddenly very afraid.

The world began to spin about her. She tried to draw her knife from its sheath, but it fell from her hand and clattered to the ground beside the basket. She heard the sound as if from a distance. Too late, it occurred to her that she must have been bewitched. She should have grabbed up the basket and run away while she’d still had the chance, she realized.

It was too late now.

She tried to scream, but her voice would not come. She tried to run, but her body would not obey her. She tried to pray, but the gods did not respond

Stay back!

The world began to fade around her. Colors seeped out of the landscape like dye bleeding out of a wet garment. A sudden wave of vertigo overcame her, and it took all her strength not to be sick. And then—

The sky overhead was clear and blue.

The girl was gone.

Blinking, Hedda swallowed back on the sour taste in the back of her throat, trying to get her bearings. A breeze gusted briefly across her face, chilling the film of sweat on her skin. Every muscle in her body ached, as though she had just run a long distance.

Weakly, she raised herself up on one elbow. She must have passed out and fallen. Some yards away, the pile of laundry she’d been working on was nearly dry now. Hours must have passed since she had lost consciousness.

The basket was a few feet away from her. Thank the gods she hadn’t landed on top of it and crushed the baby! Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she reached out and pulled it toward her. Her hands were shaking as she did so, and she muttered an apology to her poor child for leaving him alone for so long. How hungry he must be!

Then she looked into the basket, and her heart froze in her chest.

Her son was gone.

She could see the hollow place where he had last rested. If she lowered her face to that spot, she could still smell him there, his scent intermingled with that of her Ladyship’s sweat. But there was another smell there as well, foreign and foul, that made bile rise in the back of her throat.

She turned away just in time. Waves of sickness wracked her body, and she vomited beside the basket. Horror and loss were expelled in a gush of foul-tasting liquid, again and again, until finally her body—like her soul—was empty. Then she lay on her side on the hard, cold granite, wrapped her arms around her chest, and began to shiver violently, as if winter’s cold had descended upon her. She was so lost in spirit now that she no longer knew where she was, or even exactly what had happened . . . only that a part of her soul had been stolen away from her and she did not know how to go on without it.

Later, when her mind could function again, she would think about following the girl’s trail. Later her husband would remind her that a skilled woodsman would know what signs to look for, and if an ordinary man couldn’t find them, then a witch certainly could. They’d find the money to hire one, somehow. He would promise her that.

For now, she simply wept.