“She’s hungry,” Ivy said. “Here. Goat’s milk. I’ve warmed it.” But the baby spat out the goat’s milk, and screamed still more loudly.
“I’ll sweeten it with honey,” Larkspur said, but the baby spat that out, too.
The widow’s daughters looked at each other helplessly. “Maybe meat broth?” Ivy said.
The Faerie infant drank the broth, but once fed, she screwed up her face and wailed again. “Larkspur, you hold her,” Hazel said grimly. “Before I throw her out into the meadow.”
Larkspur glanced at the baby’s sharp teeth, and gulped a breath, and nervously took the child from her sister.
“Walk with her,” Ivy said, leaning on her crutch. “Rock her.”
Larkspur walked up and down the tiny room, gingerly rocking the Faerie child. After a few moments, she began to sing. Her voice was sweet and low and gentle. The wailing died to a whimper, and the whimper to a few hiccuping sobs, and then the baby fell quiet.
Larkspur stopped singing. “She’s asleep,” she whispered, but at that moment the baby’s black eyes snapped open, and she drew a breath and opened her sharp-toothed mout h—
“Don’t stop singing!” Hazel said, and then she said, equally firmly, “To bed with you, Mother,” and she helped the widow into the next room, with its straw-filled pallets on the floor. “Sleep,” she said. “We’ll look after the babe.”
----
THE WIDOW’S THREE daughters cared for the Faerie baby all that long night. Twice, Widow Miller woke. Through the open doorway she saw flickering rushlight and the shadows of her daughters as they walked to and fro. She heard voices singing—once Larkspur, once Hazel—and the sound of someone putting more wood on the fire. The rich, meaty smell of broth mingled with the scent of woodsmoke. She huddled on her straw pallet, under coarse woolen blankets, and thought about the Faerie babe, and about her crippled body and Ivy’s lame leg. Tales of the Fey drifted through her mind, tales of munificent gifts and cruel punishments.
The third time the widow woke, it was dawn. She struggled awkwardly from her bed—her hip was always stiffest in the morning—and hobbled to the doorway. Two of her daughters were in the next room, Larkspur stirring a pot on the fire, and Ivy at the trestle table, the babe in her arms, singing softly. The widow gazed at her eldest daughter, at her ruined leg stretched stiffly out and the crutch propped alongside her.
It was beyond human powers to mend Ivy’s leg, but the Fey could heal it if they chose to. If someone dared to ask them.
Widow Miller kneaded her hip, trying to ease the ache. She imagined being able to walk freely again, to have the use of both hands, both eyes, imagined seeing Ivy run and dance again.
Dare I?
Hazel came in through the door with an armful of firewood and both hounds at her heels, and said, “Mother, you’re awake,” and Bartlemay bounded forward and tried to lick the widow’s face, and the Faerie babe woke and opened her mouth in a wail.
----
WIDOW MILLER PREPARED carefully for her excursion into the woods. Her daughters helped her to dress in her best clothes, and to comb out her long, graying hair and plait it in a coronet around her head. The widow was outwardly calm, but her stomach churned with a mixture of terror and hope. Hazel fed the babe one last time, wrapped her warmly in a shawl, and tucked her back into her little basket. Then she said, firmly, “I’m coming with you, Mother.”
The widow looked at her middle daughter, at the bright brown eyes and stubborn jaw. “No.”
Hazel’s jaw became even more stubborn. “If you think I’m going to let you go alone, the n— ”
“Hazel . . .” The widow touched her daughter’s cheek lightly, silencing her. “If anything should happen to me in the woods today . . . you must look after your sisters.”
Hazel opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. After a moment, she
“I’ll sweeten it with honey,” Larkspur said, but the baby spat that out, too.
The widow’s daughters looked at each other helplessly. “Maybe meat broth?” Ivy said.
The Faerie infant drank the broth, but once fed, she screwed up her face and wailed again. “Larkspur, you hold her,” Hazel said grimly. “Before I throw her out into the meadow.”
Larkspur glanced at the baby’s sharp teeth, and gulped a breath, and nervously took the child from her sister.
“Walk with her,” Ivy said, leaning on her crutch. “Rock her.”
Larkspur walked up and down the tiny room, gingerly rocking the Faerie child. After a few moments, she began to sing. Her voice was sweet and low and gentle. The wailing died to a whimper, and the whimper to a few hiccuping sobs, and then the baby fell quiet.
Larkspur stopped singing. “She’s asleep,” she whispered, but at that moment the baby’s black eyes snapped open, and she drew a breath and opened her sharp-toothed mout h—
“Don’t stop singing!” Hazel said, and then she said, equally firmly, “To bed with you, Mother,” and she helped the widow into the next room, with its straw-filled pallets on the floor. “Sleep,” she said. “We’ll look after the babe.”
----
THE WIDOW’S THREE daughters cared for the Faerie baby all that long night. Twice, Widow Miller woke. Through the open doorway she saw flickering rushlight and the shadows of her daughters as they walked to and fro. She heard voices singing—once Larkspur, once Hazel—and the sound of someone putting more wood on the fire. The rich, meaty smell of broth mingled with the scent of woodsmoke. She huddled on her straw pallet, under coarse woolen blankets, and thought about the Faerie babe, and about her crippled body and Ivy’s lame leg. Tales of the Fey drifted through her mind, tales of munificent gifts and cruel punishments.
The third time the widow woke, it was dawn. She struggled awkwardly from her bed—her hip was always stiffest in the morning—and hobbled to the doorway. Two of her daughters were in the next room, Larkspur stirring a pot on the fire, and Ivy at the trestle table, the babe in her arms, singing softly. The widow gazed at her eldest daughter, at her ruined leg stretched stiffly out and the crutch propped alongside her.
It was beyond human powers to mend Ivy’s leg, but the Fey could heal it if they chose to. If someone dared to ask them.
Widow Miller kneaded her hip, trying to ease the ache. She imagined being able to walk freely again, to have the use of both hands, both eyes, imagined seeing Ivy run and dance again.
Dare I?
Hazel came in through the door with an armful of firewood and both hounds at her heels, and said, “Mother, you’re awake,” and Bartlemay bounded forward and tried to lick the widow’s face, and the Faerie babe woke and opened her mouth in a wail.
----
WIDOW MILLER PREPARED carefully for her excursion into the woods. Her daughters helped her to dress in her best clothes, and to comb out her long, graying hair and plait it in a coronet around her head. The widow was outwardly calm, but her stomach churned with a mixture of terror and hope. Hazel fed the babe one last time, wrapped her warmly in a shawl, and tucked her back into her little basket. Then she said, firmly, “I’m coming with you, Mother.”
The widow looked at her middle daughter, at the bright brown eyes and stubborn jaw. “No.”
Hazel’s jaw became even more stubborn. “If you think I’m going to let you go alone, the n— ”
“Hazel . . .” The widow touched her daughter’s cheek lightly, silencing her. “If anything should happen to me in the woods today . . . you must look after your sisters.”
Hazel opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. After a moment, she
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