Chapter 2

C HAPTER 2

A week later, Cordelia's mother went into her large wardrobe and took out one of the dresses in rich, stunning fabrics, nothing at all like the faded gowns that Cordelia normally wore. Evangeline took a scarlet riding habit from among the dresses and it was as if she became another person as soon as the fabric touched her skin, a softer, sweeter one.

"Dear child," she said caressingly, stroking her hand over Cordelia's hair. "I'm off to see my benefactor."

Once or twice a month, she would mount Falada and ride away and be gone overnight, and return with money, or with jewelry that could be sold in the city for money, to pay for bacon and flour and the services of the laundress in the town.

Cordelia knew full well that her mother was visiting a man, and that such things were not considered respectable. But this was how they survived and lived so comfortably. And besides, it was so much easier to be in the house when her mother was gone, as if she could finally draw a breath all the way down to the bottom of her lungs.

She watched from the window as her mother rode away, the scarlet fabric lying across Falada's hide like a splash of blood on snow. Cordelia thought, as she sometimes did, about simply walking away, down the road. She wondered how far she could get, and if her mother would find her again. Not without Falada, though. I can't just leave him here.

Instead, she sat in the kitchen and peeled potatoes. There was something very centering about peeling potatoes. She looked forward to having the whole evening to sit and think whatever she wanted and not be interrogated about what she was thinking or why she had any particular expression on her face.

Which was why it was such a shock when, barely an hour after she'd left, Cordelia's mother slammed through the door, breathing hard, with her eyes like shards of broken ice.

Cordelia was so startled that the knife slipped and she gashed her thumb. She shoved it into her mouth, tasting copper and salt on her tongue.

The smell of wormwood swirled around her mother as she stalked into the kitchen. "Can you believe this?" she snarled.

Cordelia shook her head hurriedly, even though she had no idea what had happened. It was probably just as well that she had her thumb in her mouth, because otherwise she would have said something, and she was fairly certain that whatever she said would be wrong. As it was, her mother lifted her eyes and said, "Why are you sucking your thumb? You're too old for that."

"I cut it," said Cordelia, hastily yanking it out of her mouth and hiding it in her apron.

"Hmmph." Her mother stared at her broodingly for a moment, then looked away. Almost to herself, she said, "I should have killed him right then."

Cordelia froze. She'd never heard her mother say anything like that before.

"I could have. I could have made him obedient and had him chop his own legs off with an axe. But that woman was there and there were servants and they'd have noticed." Cordelia gulped. "Bah." Her mother stalked toward the stairs, still muttering to herself. "I should have made Falada kick the bastard's head in… no, they'd want him destroyed, and what a mess that would be…"

The image of Falada's white legs coated in gore turned Cordelia's stomach. She knew that she should feel much more strongly about the man who would have been killed, but he was a stranger and Falada was her friend. And if Mother made him kill someone… if she made him obedient like she makes me… then he'd be a dangerous horse and people would demand he be put down.

She slipped out to the stable, feeling ill. Falada stood in the dim stall, shining like a beacon in the dark.

"I didn't know she made you obedient too," Cordelia whispered. "I'm sorry. I should have thought."

He swung his head toward her and she wrapped her arms awkwardly around his neck, the way that she had ever since she was a child. "I'm sorry. I didn't know, and you couldn't tell me." She felt very small and selfish.

"I won't let her hurt you," she whispered, even though she knew that she had no power to stop it, and Falada pressed his nose against her shoulder and let out a long sigh.

At dinner that night, her mother was in a strangely merry mood. The best meat was waiting on the counter when Cordelia went down to cook, and her mother even offered to help.

Her mother's good moods had once been more difficult to live with than the bad ones. Cordelia had dared to hope that things would change, that all would be better, that there would be no more obedience, and the weight of her hope had crushed her beneath it. Now she no longer had such illusions. But the respite was welcome, however brief, and perhaps it meant that her earlier mood, and desire for violence, had passed.

As they sat down to dinner, her mother sighed. "There's no hope for it. He'll be useless now."

Cordelia often thought that when her mother talked to her like this, she was really talking to herself. Her job was only to nod at the appropriate places.

"Since I won't be wasting my time with my benefactor anymore, and there aren't many rich men here, we'll have to move soon."

"That'll be interesting," said Cordelia, which was a statement almost as neutral as silence.

When she turned back to the table, her mother was looking at her. Staring at her, not merely letting her eyes pass over her, the way she sometimes did. Cordelia felt herself growing still, as if her mother's gaze was a wasp that had landed on her skin and any motion might incite a sting.

"How old are you now?" her mother asked abruptly.

"Fourteen and a half."

"Fourteen and a half…" Her mother drummed long fingers on the table. "I had hoped to wait until you were a little older. Men don't like women to come to a marriage with a half-grown brat in tow. Still, it can't be helped. I'm not getting any younger, as my benefactor so kindly pointed out."

Cordelia knew better than to agree with a statement like that, and said nothing.

"I can probably still pull in a merchant, though. Not one of the great houses—they all want young blood. But one with money enough to keep us in comfort until you marry a rich man of your own one day…" She shook her head. "It's so frustrating, the money one needs to kit oneself out, to get into the right circles."

"Surely rich men would love to marry you, though," said Cordelia. It was a compliment, not a question, and that should be safe, and might prompt more information.

"Oh, certainly they would want to," her mother said carelessly. "But their families wouldn't stand for it. Selfish beasts. If I could use magic as I wished, I could have any man in the country. But wedding ceremonies break spells."

"I didn't know that."

"Oh yes." Her mother pursed her lips, clearly annoyed. "Water, salt, and wine, on holy ground. It is most inconvenient for sorcerers. That's why I never wasted my time trying to ensorcell a suitably rich husband."

Sorcerer.

Cordelia sat very still, the thought hanging inside her head like a bedsheet on a line. My mother is a sorcerer.

She had known that her mother was different from others, that she was capable of things that others were not, but the word sorcery had not crossed her mind. The sorcerers she learned about in school were considered low, feeble creatures, charlatans who worked in magical deceptions, and that did not seem to describe her mother at all. A sorcerer might try to pass dried leaves off as coins, say, or make a cow's milk go sour. There were no stories about them making someone obedient.

"It's much easier to get a benefactor," her mother was saying. "But of course if the spell goes awry, or the fool goes off to a wedding, well. They leave you much easier than husbands. Men are faithless." She tapped her finger against her lips. "Perhaps I should marry a country squire with a title and a bit of money… yes, I think that might be for the best. Enough money to put you out on the marriage mart as well, like we always planned. And you are seventeen and will soon be married and out of the house. Remember that."

"Yes, Mother," Cordelia said, bowing her head. She wondered if she dared ask Ellen about sorcerers, or if her mother would somehow know, and how terrible the punishment would be if she found out. She went upstairs to bandage her cut, but her mind was full of dead men and gore-caked hooves and she could not close the door against it.