Of Sorrow and Such Read Free

wandering witches who come seeking refuge. They recognise the carving above the doorway of oak and rowan and birch leaves, know it’s a safe place. Much better than the forest huts my mother and I used to hide in when I was young. None of them stay more than a few days, but they pay their way with knowledge, swapping remedies and spells. Selke is more secretive than others, she keeps her own counsel for the most part. She’s admitted only to this ability and some herbcraft, but I’ve seen a lot of women on the run—been one myself—and my instincts tell me her powers are even greater than this one. They tell me, too, that whomever or whatever she is fleeing has much influence and a far reach. She’s a good bit younger than me, but there are streaks of white through her auburn locks.
    “What’s that powder?” I ask, nodding towards the vial that shimmers white.
    “Gravedust and silver shavings amongst other things, it adds a lifelike appearance. I’ll write the recipe down for you later if you think it useful.” She lifts her work from the table, proud and triumphant. “Now look.”
    It is a hand of clay, deathly grey, though with a sheen now, and barely distinguishable from the model after she pressed it to the still living one so the lines and whorls would be transferred; no one will notice the miniscule differences. The thing quivers.
    “You can’t just reattach
that
?” I ask and she shakes her head.
    “Once it’s off, it’s dead. It won’t regrow. I don’t know why, something about the separation sunders the connection between body and extremity; the limb dies. But
this
does grow, perhaps because its life is independent of the corpus.” She shrugs. “Remove the binding and hold her steady, this must be done quickly.”
    I nod and move closer to Flora. I grasp the arm just above the stump and say “Solvo” as Selke taught me. The magic dissolves with a sigh and a puff of barely perceptible smoke. Immediately blood pushes forward in a crimson tide, and Selke swiftly places the new hand against the welling, whispering a spell as she does so. I cannot make out all the words, but I think it’s a chant spoken over and over for a full five minutes, which seems to me far too short a time. Flora struggles briefly in her drugged sleep, but cannot wake and she soon subsides.
    When Selke steps away, a smile lights her face.
    The hand, now attached, lies on the pile of pillows. As we watch it grows pink as the circulation flows, enriching it, making it part of the whole. The fingers twitch and tap against the fabric as if to a tune we cannot hear. At the spot where the new flesh meets the old there is no mark, no join to show anything untoward happened.
    “Beautiful,” I breathe, slightly envious of my guest’s gift.
    “I was fortunate to have the original to copy.” We both glance at the desk where the severed item lies, unmoving, bloodless.
    “You’re fortunate Flora uses her hands for nothing more taxing than choosing a dress and jewellery,” I say, and Selke snorts.
    “Burn that,” she says. “Get rid of any trace.”
    I nod. “I’ll do whatever I can. But we still don’t know what happened to her or who witnessed it. I may yet have to arrange an escape from Edda’s Meadow for her. Might she travel with you?”
    “Aye,” she says. “I’ll take her for a few days, then she’s on her own. Moon-dark tomorrow—oh, today. That would be best.”
    We both know what a burden she has taken on—indeed, the pair of us, for to save someone is to be responsible for their actions thereafter. If you help keep a person in the world, the good and ill they do is always partially yours. Selke says, “Do you think she’s one of us?”
    I shrug. “It’s hard to believe she’d turn up here if not. It’s even harder to believe this would happen to her if not. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Chapter Four
    Ina Brautigan, Flora’s sister-in-law, arrives shortly after morning tea and asks to see