Fearsome Dreamer (3 page)

‘I'm afraid we don't have the clothes you came in. Regulations. Silly, really. But I hope those will do. They're not very exciting, I'm afraid.' She gave a fluting laugh.

It took him a moment, and quite a lot of effort, but his reply was worth the energy. ‘Why do you think I would give a
fuck
about some clothes?'

He put everything he had into the
fuck.
His voice was raspy. Another time he might have been pleased about that. He had always wanted an interesting voice.

Her face had dropped, and turned uneasy. She would know what it meant. It was a hot topic on Life news at the moment; the degradation of today's youth by the awful, aggressive language of the past.

He felt first a flash of guilt, then a tidal wave of fury that overrode everything else. So what if she was kind? So what if she went home to her three children at night and read them stories, and tucked them in, and always volunteered for extra civic duty shifts, and was the loveliest woman in her block? She worked here.
Here
. That made her either deeply stupid or plainly evil, neither of which he could forgive. She deserved it, and more. She deserved everything he could throw at her, which was only one hurtful word, after all. He would have done more if he could.

‘Well,' she said brightly, as if he hadn't spoken at all. ‘Everything is in order. You didn't have much on you when you came in, so nothing to give back. If you'd like to step through that door to your right, Jacob. Thank you so much.'

He considered saying no, and seeing how far that got him, but his legs were trembling, and he felt tired. He hadn't walked around this much in quite a while. He considered telling her that his name, as far as he was concerned, was not Jacob, which was a weak, normal kind of name; but White, a purer simpler name, a name that suited him much better, even if it wasn't the one his parents had given him. But the fight had gone out of him in the face of her bland cheeriness. It was an effective weapon.

So he went to the door and it opened up automatically for him, and beyond it was bright light, painful and fierce.

He stood, tears leaking from his eyes.

‘Jacob.'

There was a vague shape beyond, but the light was still too bright.

‘Jacob,' the voice said again, with a tremble. ‘It's me, Cho. It's your sister. I've come to pick you up. They're letting us take you home.'

He heard the door behind him click shut.

The knocking was furtive enough to make Rue hesitate to answer it. If she wasn't alone she'd have no thoughts on it whatsoever. But the hour was late and Fernie was out, back with Dam Woolmaker and her troublesome baby.

Rue leaned against the lintel, fighting a compulsion to peer at the visitor through the window to the right of the doorway; not that she'd see much in the darkness. Fernie didn't like that, anyway, curtain twitching. Said it put the wind up people who'd already used all their courage to come to her house in the first place. People rarely visited, and even more rarely at night. Night usually meant the visitor didn't want anyone to know that they had gone to a witch.

‘Yes?' she said, striving to sound authoritative.

‘That Fernie?' came a male voice.

Rue pushed a sudden shot of nerves impatiently away. ‘Fernie's out tending,' she said. ‘This is Rue, her prentice.'

There was a long silence. Rue grew irritated.

‘Well?' she demanded. ‘Something I can help you with?'

‘Don't know,' came the voice on the other side of the door. ‘Don't know if anyone can.'

‘Is it urgent? Someone need body help?'

‘No, not like that. It's me that needs the help, but it's not body work I'm after.'

Rue felt easier. She was still unsure in emergencies, and blood, as last night proved, made her heave. She didn't want to embarrass herself again.

‘Okay,' she said, unlocking the heavy door and tugging it open.

In truth, she'd been expecting a boy by the sound of that soft and hesitant voice. So it flummoxed her to see a full-grown man standing there, his hat in his hands, looking grave. It flummoxed her even more that she knew his form very well; had seen it on many an occasion striding through crowds with, it seemed, every pair of female eyes following him covetously. Til the quiet baker was well known around the village, even if she herself had never been acquainted with him beyond exchanging monosyllabic conversations on the bread she would be buying from his bakery that day.

She'd had plenty of interesting thoughts about Til when she was alone in bed, though, and now she felt, in sudden horror, as if each one were on display for him to see. She flushed, shifting on her feet. But he wasn't even looking at her. His eyes were on the ground, as if ashamed.

Say something, cretin, Rue told herself. He's waiting to be invited in!

‘Come in,' she managed eventually, mortified by the simpering tone in her voice. She turned and walked further into the kitchen without waiting for him to move. Gods, the door, she thought, but was relieved to hear it close firmly. She moved to lean against the nearest countertop, taking a breath and forcing herself around to face him. At least there was something solid at her back.

‘What's … how can I help you?' she said.

Til stood in the doorway, looking around the kitchen. His hair fell over his eyes constantly and he shook it back in an unconscious gesture that made girls sigh.

Oh Threya, you're beautiful, thought Rue, her heart fluttering like a dying bird.

Til looked at her, for just a moment. Then his gaze swept away and back to the floor, and she felt a sudden release, as if he had pinned her with his eyes.

‘I need … something,' he said at last.

Rue waited.

She'd seen Fernie in similar situations. Patience was the key. They had to trust that whatever passed in this room would never be breathed to another living being. It was the relationship all witches offered to those in need of their services, and the first time they entered into it was tough. They had to open themselves to her, to divulge bits of their secret souls in order to get what they required, and that was hard on anyone, to trust. Rue understood that. She also started to understand the power of it. To get a piece of Til's soul? That would mean a connection between them, some control over him. She suppressed a thrill.

She watched Til struggle. ‘Why don't you sit down?' she said, pitching her voice to a level she thought sounded soft and kind. ‘I'll put some tea on, and you tell me what you need. You can take your time.'

She turned her back on him, busying herself. She thought he watched her and tried to make her movements graceful. She arched her back a little more than usual, swept her hair back over her shoulders with a practised careless gesture. She heard the scrape of wood over stone as he sat down. When he started to talk she let him, concentrating fiercely on preparing the tea.

‘I heard that Fernie deals with other problems than bein' sick. Soul problems,' said Til. His lovely voice was hesitant. ‘I didn't … I didn't think of coming here. But someone told me she could fix it for me.'

She turned, pot in hand. ‘Whatever Fernie can do, I can do,' she said firmly. ‘I may be her prentice but I'm taught everything she knows.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Til. ‘I didn't mean to say nothing of you.' His huge hands came up and held his head. He looked bereft and broken. Rue felt her heart melt.

‘Go on,' she said. Her hand shook as she set the pot on the stove. She glared at it.

‘I wouldn't come here if I weren't desperate,' he murmured. ‘Meaning no disrespect. It's just not … it's not done to talk out your problems with others. Women do that. They find comfort in it. Men don't, they fix it themselves. And they find comfort in that.'

Rue looked at him in frank astonishment. She had never assumed that he could be so perceptive, but chastised herself for that now. Things weren't always what they seemed. She set the tea on the table before him, wanting to see if he watched her hands as they crossed his line of vision. She took her time sitting, afraid of stumbling or looking clumsy.

‘Please don't tell no one,' he said softly, startling her. This close, she could see tiny flaws in his skin, the grime built up on his nose. But it was his downcast eyes that she watched; how she wished and feared they would raise up to her face. He was perfect.

‘I won't,' she said. ‘I won't. Promise. There's the rules.'

He sighed gently. She imagined the sigh landing on her neck, like a little moth.

‘I'm sick,' he said. ‘Sick with love.'

Rue watched his hand creep around the tea glass, but he didn't drink. He still would not look at her.

Her heart was bursting with hope.

‘There's this woman. I can't have her, see. She belongs to someone else. And that would be that, except I've loved her for ever, since we was children. And she … she's been giving me hope. She looks at me, in a way I thought might be. You know. The same.'

Til paused. It was Rue's turn to stare at the tabletop. She felt a flash of dreaded disappointment, then a slow blush creeping up her cheeks. And of course, she saw so clearly now. How could he ever be interested in her? She was just a girl. He was a full-grown man, red-blooded prime. She'd be barely more than a child to him. A p'tite. He'd want a woman, wouldn't he, with curves and knowing eyes and legs that went on for ever.

Stupid men. Always want most what they can't have; get it and then grow bored of it! Rue had seen enough of Fernie's late-night visitors to know this truth. She felt anger and contempt and welcomed it. Better than the embarrassment. Easier. She struggled to keep silent.

Til had transferred his gaze to the wall. ‘I've watched her with other men,' he murmured. ‘Years and years I've watched her go through them. Hoping she'd see me better than before. But she never did. She got married and never gave me a second thought, until now. I'm not a bad man. I'm not. I've waited my time. I've done it, years I've done it. But I know she's changed her mind now. It's my time now.' He turned to look at her then, so suddenly that he caught her gaze before she could drop it. His face had transformed; his dark, sad eyes burned. How lucky the woman who caused Til's face to change like that. His desire, like a blast of heat from a furnace. Rue could imagine just how it would be with him.

‘So what do you need from a hedgewitch?' she said in a low voice. ‘Don't you need to be talking to this woman to see what she wants, see whether she'll leave her man for you?'

Til was silent. She watched his arm across the table. It was close enough to hers to touch, if she reached out just a little. His nearness and maleness was overpowering; she could smell him, his essence.

‘Maybe there's something you could do,' said Til. Rue thought she could hear an edge to his voice. Her anger flashed.

‘If you're thinking what I think you are, the answer's no,' she snapped. ‘And you should know better than to ask.'

Til looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?' he said. He knew and he didn't know. He was testing her.

‘There'll be no getting rid of husbands,' said Rue. ‘In any fashion.'

Til gazed at her strangely. She lost her fire. ‘What?' she said, less boldly.

‘You look so young on the out. But you're a bit older inside, aren't you?' said Til.

Rue felt a thrill in the pit of her belly. ‘I've seen some things,' she said.

They both fell silent. Rue thought about the picture they made, close together at the table, bathed in velvet shadow and lamplight stripes, a secret sat heavy between them. She wondered if they looked like lovers. She wished they did. She looked at Til then, and he at her, and there was a moment, she thought. But she saw it run from his mind just as quickly as it had come and felt younger and sillier than ever.

‘I feel like an idiot coming here,' said Til.

‘Why?'

‘I don't know what to do. Tell me what I should do. Is there something … maybe you could give me something to forget her. Maybe there's something for me to make it go.'

Rue hesitated. There was always oublie. A rare little plant that, handled by someone who knew what they were doing, took memories from you. But Fernie thought it more dangerous than not. Who knew what would happen? Maybe you'd forget the wrong thing. Or you'd forget everything except the one thing you wanted to, and it would grow in the space you'd created, consuming you completely.

The alternatives were also bad. Give the woman something to make her reckless, maybe reckless enough to leave her husband … or reckless enough to run away. Kill herself. Do wild and silly things. Who knew? It depended on the person in the end. Didn't it always? Or give the husband something that would make him sick every time he touched his wife. But that way lay bad power. Bad power always came back to you.

‘Who is it?' she said at last.

Til sighed and shifted. ‘Why do you need to know?'

‘I can't help you without knowing everything.'

He looked at her for a long moment. Her belly rolled again. She allowed a small hope to bloom. It was stupid, she knew it.

He said a name, and her hope was squashed. Her reaction must have been too strong, because he sat back from her, looking wary.

‘That …' She forced the explosion down, away. Took a breath. ‘She's got men on a string. She knows how to play 'em. I've heard some wild stories. You must know this about her. All the girls know this about her!'

Til looked away, his expression dark. She knew she wouldn't change his mind. The lines across his face told her that.

The silence grew heavier. Rue fumbled with the right words. She wanted to help him. Helping him would forge the connection she craved. But she wanted to help him forget the woman who had a grip on his heart. No good lay that way. No good at all. Rue wanted Til for herself, but she also wanted to be unselfish, the way she should be, and with this battle raging she plunged ahead.

‘Is there really no one else for you?' she said. ‘Perhaps this'll pass.'

‘Not these twenty years,' he replied, far away. ‘And so I don't expect t'will ever leave me be.'

Rue felt smaller at his words. In comparison, her desire for Til was a passing moment, a flicker at best. How could she compete with this strength of passion? She had not even been alive for as long as Til had loved this woman.

‘I can suggest nothing that ain't … uncertain,' she said at last. ‘The best thing would be to speak to her.'

‘No,' said Til. ‘No. It won't do. I can't even look at her without her man giving me an eye. He won't let her from her leash long enough to speak to her alone. And if I stopped her in the street … people would talk.'

Rue understood that. He had been very careful so far – she'd never heard of a gossipful concerning him and the lady in question. Being careful was getting him nowhere.

He turned and shone his gaze on her like a lamp in her eyes.

‘I've an idea,' she said, to break the stare. ‘There's something you could give her. It's unpredictable, but in small bits it might help. And with the right timing and all.'

The bruised look left his face and it filled with hope. Rue gazed at her glass.

‘It's most powerful as a tea,' she said. ‘But wild. If you had it in a powder, and found a way for her to use the powder just a bit, every day. Then maybe that would work better.'

His brow wrinkled. ‘Like how?'

‘Put it in something only she would wear. Her creams, or make-up. Something.'

He was already shaking his head. ‘How would I even get close enough?'

‘Give her a present,' said Rue impatiently. Did men have no cunning at all? ‘Give it through one of her woman friends who can be trusted. Or give it anonymously. It don't have to be obviously from you, though t'would be better if at least she knew it were.'

‘Why?'

‘Cos if she uses it, you know she likes you,' said Rue.

She watched him contemplate this.

‘What will it do?' he said, finally. His voice was lowered to a shameful whisper.

‘Give her a push,' said Rue. She made a point of speaking normally. Whispering spoke of secret shame. This was business. ‘If you time it right. Whenever she sees you, it'll … fan the flames a bit.'