55. Yarrow Goes Home

55. Yarrow Goes Home

Grey Tower still stood, but its parapet had collapsed and the turrets were ruined. The statues from the storeroom had poured out of the door like crumbs from a mouth. The trees in the courtyard had been crushed and burned. The fountain lay broken, and water gurgled slowly into the basin from the remains of its spigot. Clawmarks scored the pavement. Melting snow dripped and steamed. And yet—among the shattered trees there were green shoots. Yarrow had ended winter, it seemed.

But for whom? Grey House was a tumbled wreck. The Sixth Sister had crashed through its western walls, laying it open. Sacred things were scattered all over. Ancient furniture, miracles, and books dotted the pavement, scorched or trampled or muddied beyond repair. The privy, she noticed, was smashed, and would need to be rebuilt almost first thing.

The kitchen and the women's quarters were on the east, though, on the other side of several more or less complete walls and rooms. Perhaps—perhaps—

Yarrow left Tertius and went around that side. Unexpectedly, she came upon Monkshood, picking up wreckage and putting it in his wheelbarrow. He moved as stiffly as ever. She picked up a shard of glass and dropped it in the barrow, startling him.

"Mother!" he said. "We thought you dead!"

"Me too, occasionally," said Yarrow. Instantly she became conscious that she had no wimple, that she had lost her apron, that her robes were torn and dirty. Her pack, with the slate mask, lay under the roots of the great tree. She was not a very proper Mother of Grey House. Maybe never would be. The name Yarrow felt like an itchy headscarf now.

"It's been bad," said the old man.

"How bad?"

"Many left for Blue. Madrona and Oak and all them. It's me who stayed though." His chest swelled with pride.

"And the girls?" said Yarrow. "And Servant?"

"They're still here." Monkshood looked at the ruins of the house. "It's where they were, anyway, till now, maybe."

"Here," said Yarrow. She broke the angelica in half and gave him some.

"It's better candied," he said, biting into the crisp, sweet stalk.

"I agree," said Yarrow, eating hers.

"But thank you, Mother," he said. He went back to clearing up. His back was straighter, and he whistled a cheery tune.

Yarrow left him and went on. The kitchen door was open. One wall was blown out, and beyond it the treetops of Green Tower were golden in the sun. Everything was damp and smelled of smoke. Ban was shifting fallen bricks out of the way. Servant, on her aged hands and knees, was scrubbing soot from the floor. Beside the fallen wall, covered with a mildewed sheet, was a small form.

Bursting into tears, Yarrow ran to them. She embraced them, tall Ban, then short Grith, never to grow any more. Her girls. Her friends.

"Mother," said Ban uncertainly. "Your hair—"

Yarrow rose from Grith's side. In the burnished bottom of a copper pot, she saw that the twigs atop her head had grown glossy leaves, and some had burst their bonds. A halo of soft green stood out at the back of her skull now. No wimple for her again, even if she had chosen. But there was time to think about that later. Time to mourn Grith and give her a woman's burial. Time for so much. But first.

She turned to Servant, who had straightened painfully. The new tower framed the old woman's head; birds seemed to come and go from her grey hair.

Yarrow took her dirty, shaking hands.

"What is your name?" she said.