Of Sorrow and Such Read Free Page A

me.
    Selke and I, heavy-eyed and sluggish, are at the kitchen table halfheartedly eating the scones Gilly made, which have the consistency of rocks on the outside, and sludge inside. My adopted daughter is determined, stubborn, and hates being told how to do something. I tolerate it because I believe our mistakes are the most powerful lessons we can have, and because I am very aware that she shares many of my best and worst characteristics. At her age I was not much different, excepting that I had magic to both help and hinder me. One day she will do what I did, and pull her head out of her own backside and learn to take advice rather than dismissing it from sheer perverse habit. Until then, I remain patient, and wary of all her first cooking efforts.
    Gilly’s nervous when she comes to tell me of this new visitor. I pat her on the arm. “My dear, will you go up and sit with Flora? Selke, best you keep out of sight.”
    In the formal parlour, with its thick rugs, stiff armchairs, wall hangings, and paintings, I find Miss Brautigan in her prim navy dress with its white lace collar. The unmarried sister of Flora’s husband, she lives in a cottage on her brother’s estate. She’s tall and thin, the opposite of her corpulent sibling, nervous and sallow; with black hair pulled into a severe bun and her beaky nose she looks something like a crow, strangely pretty. While she still thinks herself alone I watch: her hands fidget and her head darts to and fro as she examines the contents of three shelves of harmless books I keep on show. The dangerous ones—the useful ones—are elsewhere. I clear my throat and she startles.
    Stepping into the room, I smile, aware that though my tresses are tidy and my burgundy dress neatly pressed, my eyes are shadowed from lack of sleep. Will she intuit that something is not quite right? Or does she already know?
    “Good morrow, Miss Brautigan,” I say. The sisters-in-law are close, I believe, but how close? What confidences might they have entrusted to each other? Or are there lines drawn between them that truth cannot cross? I clasp her hand briefly. The fingers are long and slender; they might easily snap. They are cold, too. Her eyes are large, the iris so dark it cannot be distinguished from the pupil so it seems I’m gazing into an abyss. “What brings me the honour of your visit?”
    None of the Brautigans come to me for professional consultations, preferring instead the more conventional attentions of Doctor Herbeau. Close up I can smell a heavy perfume, roses and lilies, over the top of something else. Something less pleasant, but familiar. If I could but place it . . .
    “Good morrow, Mistress Gideon. I come to ask . . . that is to say, I wondered . . .” she hesitates.
    I gesture towards one of the chairs, but she ignores me. A tear creeps down one cheek, then the other. “My sister, that is to say sister-in-law, Flora?”
    “Yes?”
    “Did she? I mean, is she? Here? Is she here? Did she make it this far last night?”
    So they do share their secrets.
    “Yes, she did. Miss Brautigan—Ina, what happened?”
    “Is she well? Is she alive? I sent her to you.”
    “She’s alive. But what happened? I will take you to her but tell me first.”
    She sinks into one of the armchairs, is too distracted to realise how uncomfortable it is—I do not bring friends in here, only strangers. Friends go to the kitchen, the heart of my home, where there is warmth and good food and drink, and cushioned wooden seats that accommodate one’s shape. Ina opens her mouth and a strangled sound comes out, a mix of relief and distress. She pulls a snow-coloured handkerchief from the purse hanging at her wrist and bawls into it. Trying to stuff her sobs back down, she only succeeds in making a terrible racket that brings Gilly and Selke to hang in the doorway like curious spirits, clearly not doing what I’ve asked. I shoo them. Ina does not see them.
    I kneel in front of her. “Ina, if you sent