Edith was an old woman, too old for this shit. That was her undisputed opinion when she awoke far too bright and early to yet another day, starting with the Priest Charming hollering and banging his big bell outside her window instead of a nice hot cup of tea.
Ding dong! This house is the house of the Devil’s whore!
Ding dong! The cold, heartless bitch is looking right at you and taking your measure!
Ding dong! With black eyes peeking through the curtains made of your neighbour’s flesh!
Ding dong! She wants to eat your soul for breakfast!
“I would prefer a nice orange biscuit. Eating souls unsettles my stomach this early in the day,” Edith mumbled. Her wax earplugs had fallen out during the night, again. Patting through the sea of duvets, she found them and shoved them back in. Blessed silence returned. With a series of tired sighs, she shuffled from bed to the kitchen, wrapping herself in a thick, fluffy purple robe.
Charming was right about one thing and one thing only: she was a cold-hearted bitch. An exceptionally cold one, freezing despite the warm morning and the several eternally burning fires in the stone house’s enormous fireplace. That fireplace, wide-mouthed, soot-streaked, and stretching the entire length of the wall, was the only reason she’d brought this peculiar house.
The single-room house smelled of herbs and ash, with a faint hint of death and metal. Edith’s bed sat under a round window and, even though, next to one of the perpetually crackling fires, was piled high with so many feather-stuffed duvets that the revenge of a mother goose was not only a distinct possibility, but vastly overdue.
Across from the bed area, the kitchen sulked in a cramped corner. The cast-iron stove radiated a well-welcomed warmth, and a battered wooden countertop bore the marks of decades of cutting and some minor burns. Above them, a rack sagged under the weight of drying herbs that tickled the tops of jars crammed with dried leaves, twisted roots, and pickled beets.
The healer’s trade claimed entirely the other side of the house. A large table dominated the space, clean enough to eat from, but most definitely not intended to. The shelves nearby were a riot of colour and clutter, lined with jars, pots, and corked vials containing everything from healing salves to deadly poisons. Underneath, several wheeled carts stood at the ready, each stacked with bandages, splints, surgical knives, sawing kits, and other helpful stuff. The unofficial waiting area, made of two cracked leather armchairs, softened with worn cushions and wool blankets, was near the fireplace.
Yawning, Edith made herself a calming pot of chamomile tea and sipped it while staring out the window at the stout, soundless priest. His face was strained from shouting, now matching the colour of his bright red robes embroidered with the insignia of the Charming Church. It was her biased opinion that he was an unlikable man. Well, maybe not entirely biased. Despite being in his early thirties, his hair seemed to agree with her, opting for a collective salto mortale rather than staying on the scalp of the righteous.
Vivienne whacked her on the leg and soundlessly meowed.
“Is someone at the door, vicious one?” Edith asked, plucking out an earplug.
Gentle, rhythmic knocking answered her instead. The orange tabby, with her black tail, ears, and socks, took it upon herself to lead Edith to the door anyway, because, clearly, the old woman was incapable of finding it on her own. It had been Viv’s self-appointed job for years to alert Edith when someone was at the door, ever since the silly woman had developed a deep-seated love for earplugs.
Obediently following the cat, Edith fished through her pocket for a small token of gratitude for Viv’s continuous support in these difficult times. She glanced at the clock and, through the haze of sleep, concluded it must be Emerald coming for her check-up.
Emy was a strikingly beautiful woman with the lousiest of fortunes. Edith had delivered her into the world and could see both her parents’ features in her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how such a wretched family had managed to produce such a lovely being. It had puzzled her for over a third of a century.
Emerald lay quietly on the exam table while Edith checked the state of her broken ribs and various cuts and bruises. They were all healing nicely.
“You have enough tear powder?” Edith asked.
“I’m good. The new management at Pippa’s Pleasure Parlour made a deal with the Bruisers’ Guild for regular guards. Apparently, dead harlots don’t bring in much income. Who knew?” She shrugged.
Ding dong! Beware of this harbinger of sin!
Ding dong! Beware of this heathen whore!
Ding dong! Beware, for this is the lair of the Devil’s bride!
Edith burst into laughter. Noticing Emy’s confused look, she explained, “I was the Devil’s whore earlier, seems Dev decided to make an honest woman out of me.”
Emy rolled her eyes, chuckling, before glancing toward the shouting priest with a smirk. “Doesn’t that man have anything better to do than howl at your house like a hyena in heat? There are plenty of those who could use his help in this town, even if it’s just a hot meal and a kind word.”
“Well,” Edith gestured between them, “not all of us can have respectable jobs like you and me.”
“True.”
Once dressed, Emy placed two gold coins on the table.
“You very well know that’s too much for a simple exam.”
“I’m paying it forward. It’s a new trend at the bakery. You buy your tart and pay for an extra, and when someone can’t afford one, Mrs Baker gives them the extra tart you paid for. It’s such a wonderful idea!”
Edith guffawed. “It is indeed. Maybe it’ll catch on in the brothel too. A healthy sex life is rather important, and after all, not everyone has access to one.” Then, with a gentler smile, she added, “Seriously, dear one, there’s no need for that here. I’ve never turned anyone away due to the lightness of their purse, and I never will.”
Emy blushed, “Of course not. I’d never think such a thing. But you have expenses like the rest of us, and I’d like to contribute in this small way.”
***
Ding dong! The fiend in this house is no saviour but a destroyer of men!
Ding dong! She will lure you with her body and stain your heavenly soul!
Ding dong! She corrupts innocent men with her feminine wiles!
“Oh, I certainly would if I could actually find them.” Edith turned to Vivienne. “Have you seen them, curious one? I seem to have misplaced my wicked wiles decades ago and, for the life of me, can’t remember where.”
Vivienne responded with an unhelpful meow.
With a sigh, Edith replaced her earplugs, shuffled toward the kitchen, and brewed another pot of chamomile tea, this one a bit stronger, and with some extra herbal oomph for moral support.
Finally, feeling slightly more invigorated, she dressed in her usual high-necked purple dress, worn thin at the elbows but immaculately clean. Her long grey hair, streaked with stubborn black, was twisted into a high chignon held together by two bone pins, one ornamental and one practical (for sudden stabbing emergencies). The healer’s deep-set, black as the darkest of hearts eyes regarded the world with melancholic enthusiasm and the beginnings of cataracts. With Vivienne perched proudly on her shoulder, fluffing herself up, Edith stepped outside, locking the single-room house behind her, and headed into town to check on her less agile and bedridden patients. And yes, they would be stopping at Mrs Baker’s for some lemon poppy seed tarts, because one must always support altruism in vogue.
Priest Charming was left to bang his big bell.
Hartwick, like any respected town that took note of its surroundings, opted for a defensive position and was thus settled on a hill. It was not a particularly steep hill, slim pickings and all, but it was a hill nonetheless, and there was a somewhat decent view from the top of it. As in any hill town, the standard hierarchy rules applied, the money was moving up, and the shit was going down.
Over time, seven town rings got built, the top two, now reserved for the elite. First, for the nine ruling families, and second, for those more or less patiently waiting in line to replace them. Each ring was easily identifiable, as the town had grown outward from its original fortress, now the first ring, with the once-outermost wall forming the second, and so on. The two uppermost rings had only one gate each: the first one was colloquially referred to as Upper Town Gate, and the second one, the top tier, as No Trespassing Under Penalty of Death. The five rings of Lower Town each had four gates, accompanied by high battlements. There was already talk of adding an eighth wall to accommodate the latest expansion.
As Edith made her way to check on elderly Mr Berry and his much-lamented gout, she meandered through streets that twisted like ancient vines, interrupted by ill-placed squares, dead ends, and unhelpful bridges.
Perhaps due to chronic lack of sleep, the healer found herself contemplating the sheer absurdity of the Lower Town gates. Instead of having some sense or logic to them, they were simply named after a colour and a number, which would not be a problem, per se, however, both got chosen by a ceremonial turkey, of all things. What greatly helped with gate identification was the fact that all the Lower Town gates had illegal artwork done. The gate art was a preferred philosophical conversation topic for years now, the speculations on culprits varying from closeted art mage to rebellious underground art movement, and speculations on the intended meaning and significance varying from vandalism to political statements.
After checking on Mr Berry and leaving him to vigorously discuss meal prep with his gout, Edith took the long way to see Tessa, because that way she would pass through her favourite gate, Blue 42, despite the challenges it presented. The artwork began some thirty paces from the gate. Little white dots speckled the pavement before gradually transforming into vast, swirling stars on a dark, clouded blue backdrop. The artwork was spectacular, covering the pavement, the front of the gate itself, the surrounding wall, and the fa?ades of the two houses flanking it, almost as if someone had thrown a fireball of highly imaginative, sentient paint. The art was also durable to a fault, neither the severe weather conditions nor the human endeavours to remove it made any difference.
To the right side of the gate stood a residential house. On the left, though, was Edith’s reason for the current exercise in character building. The building in question, painted with swirly stars and draped in lush wisteria, housed Sparkle’s Café of Wonders, her favourite place in Hartwick. Sparkle’s was widely known and drooled upon for their lunessants, a crescent-shaped buttery pastry optionally served with small cups of fruit jams and velvety creams. Sparkle’s ingenuity and creativity extended to the jams and creams themselves, for they doubled as sweeteners for tea and coffee, adding an exquisite extra layer of delightful deliciousness. Of course, Sparkle, being Sparkle, also had a stellar selection of sparkling fruit wines on tap. As she passed, Edith studiously admired the intricate mural on the house opposite the café, determinedly ignoring the memory of blackcurrant sparkling wine, reminding herself that today was a day for tarts.
***
Ding dong! Beware! Here lives the philandering fornicatrix!
Ding dong! Beware! Here lives the sacrilegious strumpet!
Ding dong! Beware! Here lives the hustling harlot!
Later that evening, Edith was knitting a blanket, or more accurately, napping with needles while Viv busied herself with shredding the yarn. The peaceful nap was abruptly interrupted when the cat launched onto Edith’s chest, slapping her silly while hysterically meowing on mute.
Edith startled awake, blinked at the cat, and groaned a tired, “Fuck,” as she scrambled for the door, earplugs flying.
Opening it, she was faced with Lady Beatrice Felis - Ursidae et alia, one of the ruling nines, or more accurately, five of the ruling nines; Lady of House Ursidae and, by the winding threads of her illustrious ancestry, matriarch of four additional noble houses. It was a responsibility she carried with unflinching grace.
Bea (an informal nickname strictly permitted only to her dearest and most thoroughly vetted friends, and only after a direct verbal or written dispensation) was in her early fifties, and wore her age with just the right amount of subtle defiance. She was a tall woman with raven-black hair, usually swept into an elegant twist, a sharp widow’s peak and streaks of silver that framed her blue eyes, which burned with joie de vivre.
Tonight, she was dressed in a sky-blue silk gown, hand-painted with enormous white peonies in soft, romantic flourishes. The delicate artistry of the gown was being steadily improved by the growing smears of red now soaking into the fine fabric, as she was, at the moment, half-carrying, half-supporting her daughter’s handmaid, Lara, who was bleeding freely onto both of them, and the peonies.
The two women hauled Lara inside and onto the exam table. Edith wasted no time and started the exam. “From the beginning, be accurate.”
Bea cleared her throat, nodding. “Less than half an hour ago, I went to check on Lara and found her bleeding in her chambers. I had noticed during breakfast that she was pale and moving stiffly. Upon my inquiries about her state of health, she admitted she suspected she had had a miscarriage during the night. Lara complained of abdominal and lower back pain, light but persistent bleeding, palpitations, and light-headedness. I called for our coach, placed her inside, and instructed the driver to bring her straight here. Gray is away, and I would have gone with her, but Magritte was having a rather arduous morning, and I dared not leave her unattended. Upon their return, I was told Lara was resting.”
As Lara began mumbling incoherently, Edith instructed Bea to fetch her special apple juice and made Lara drink a full glass to put her to sleep. “Perhaps you should have a sip or two as well,” Edith remarked, her focus still on Lara. “Calm yourself a bit.”
“No.” Bea’s reply was immediate and firm. “I would rather keep a clear mind in case the necessity of my assistance arises.” Despite her words, the lady made her way to the lounge area and sank into one of the well-worn leather armchairs. Sensing that further distraction would be unwelcome, Vivienne took it upon herself to hop onto Bea’s lap. The noblewoman absently ran her fingers through the tabby’s fur, her mind already elsewhere.
“Shit. I need a second pair of hands,” Edith muttered.
Bea didn’t hesitate. She rushed to the fireplace, scrubbing her hands and forearms first with hot water, then with vinegar, before positioning herself opposite Edith at the table, awaiting instructions. This was not the first time she had assisted Edith, and the two women quickly found their rhythm. They worked well together. Efficient as ever, Bea’s hands moved with practiced precision, however, her mind was on Lara.
Lara was the granddaughter of Bea’s former governess. Even after marrying Lord Ulysses Ursidae, Bea had maintained contact with the old woman. So, when she inquired if there was a possibility of employment for her grandchild, Bea had been more than happy to accommodate her, offering the girl a choice of any position she was capable of performing or willing to learn.
It had been a few years after Gitta’s misfortune, a time when her daughter still ailed greatly. To Bea’s immense relief, the arrival of the lively, loquacious Lara had an immediate and positive effect on Gitta.
All elbows and giggles, Lara hadn’t quite grown into herself yet. Her dark hair was always escaping its braid, and her apron bore the smudged history of fondness for desserts. She moved like a mouse who was best friends with the cat, carefully and at the same time, without a care in the world.
Lara had started as a maid but had quickly got close with Gitta, displaying prodigious kindness and patience for her, so naturally, Bea offered her a position as her daughter’s handmaid. Thanks to Lara’s companionship and perhaps her refusal (or obliviousness) to tiptoe around tragedy, after two years, eight months, and eleven days, Bea had heard Gitta laugh again.
Lara was also an immensely talented seamstress, and if Bea were a better woman, she would have already offered to help her open a boutique of her own. But she lacked the fortitude for that. Not that Lara seemed unhappy or lacking in anything. She had married Gray, the estate’s stable master, and he seemed like a good, decent man.
But then, so had Gitta’s husband.
Ding dong! Here lives the witchy bitch!
Ding dong! Here lives the bitchy witch!
Ding dong! Here lives a bitchy witchy bitch witch!
Noticing that Edith’s frantic treatment of the young woman slowed down, Bea frowned at Priest Charming’s hollering. “He is not particularly creative with his defamations this evening.”
“It’s nearing his bedtime.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Realising her assistance was no longer needed, Bea returned to her armchair with a thoughtful expression. “Verily, we should do something about that charmless priest. The town charter allows for free speech and self-expression, but he is most certainly not acting in the intended spirit of the law. I would be more than pleased to handle this on your behalf and attest to the proper interpretation of the charter. There are nuances to the letters of the laws.”
Edith finished with Lara, washed her hands, and sank into the armchair beside Bea, her gaze never straying from the sleeping girl. “I can handle him. What happened with Magritte?”
“Yes, until you cannot.” Bea exhaled, crossing her ankles with measured grace. “Your birthday is coming soon, and I was thinking of getting you a gift certificate for the Guild of Crows. Now, before you say anything, I am fully aware that efficient healers are also quite proficient with poisons, and you, my dear, are exceptionally efficient. However, sometimes, it is simply more prudent to outsource an assassin.”
Feeling more pissed off than necessary, given the generous offer, Edith lost it for a moment. “Hush! I can handle that cursed, cuntiest cunt of the countless cunts that ever cunted! He’s not worth a trip to the gallows! Now, what the fuck happened with Gitta?”
Bea, unbothered as ever, merely sipped her tea. “An apt and eloquent description of the man. But as you very well know, I chose my gallows gown a decade ago. Exquisite dress; high-necked, back-buttoned, black as a moonless night, finest silk, delicate fur trim. Reused fur, of course. Marvellous craftsmanship.”
Edith exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “It pleases me greatly that if you’re going to swing, you’ll swing in such style, my dearest duchess of deflection. Now, I’ll make us some nice, calming chamomile tea, and then you will tell me what happened with Gitta before my imagination takes a turn for the worse.”
The two ladies sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes before Bea finally spoke. “You know I’m quite fond of Uly, though his well-meaning intentions are, on occasion, sorely misplaced.”
Bea’s husband, Lord Ulysses Ursidae (aka Luly, to everyone except Bea), was, as his name suggested, a towering mountain of a man. Broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, he moved through the world with the slow, deliberate grace of a creature half-inclined to take a nap at any moment. His voice rumbled low, like distant thunder, and his laughter was not only utterly infectious but known to startle songbirds and toddlers out of trees.
The Lord, despite his effervescent disposition, and the fact that he spent most of his waking hours either in a state of light hibernation or slightly high on honey, was no nincompoop. In fact, he had an uncanny memory for details, an intuitive understanding of diplomacy, and an amazing talent for playing the dumb-dumb. Mostly, he let Bea do the talking and do whatever and whenever was required, a strategy that had served him remarkably well.
After another few minutes of tea sipping, Bea continued, “Lord Fedor Folivora (aka Folly) suggested to Uly that we marry our darling Magritte (aka Gitta) to his absent-minded youngest son Filippe (aka Fifi). You know, the tall, thin, and excessively hairy one who is always wandering off after rocks and pebbles and such. Because, and I quote, ‘those two wrongs might produce a right.’ Imagine! The atrocity! No wonder his house is in dire disorder with such an approach to... well...” Bea gave a vague wave at everything in general, and nothing in particular.
“I am fairly certain one of his lewd little laughs accompanied the suggestion, you know the one, though I highly doubt he dared make any intercourse innuendos. Uly would have nailed him to the nearest tree. But, long story short, Uly mindlessly mentioned, you know how he gets, the offer to Gitta over breakfast. Not that we ever considered it, of course. And... well, she... she did not take it well. One moment she was eating her honeyed porridge. Next, she was shaking and crying, curled up in the corner... Imagine.”
Edith placed a hand over Bea’s, offering silent comfort. The healer always had a hard time finding the right words when it came to Gitta.
Luckily for the priest, he had already left for the night, for in her current state of distress, Edith’s biased opinion was that he was a ding-dong short of being a dead-dong.
Lara came to about two teapots later, still pale and weak but alive. Her first question was whether she would ever be able to bear children. Edith gave a discreet shake of her head, which Bea smoothly translated into, “Don’t worry about that now. You must heal first, and then, who knows? For now, we’ll get you home and tucked into bed, where you’ll stay until Edith says otherwise. And before you start worrying, I assure you, you have a home with us for as long as you want it.”
“But what will Gray say?” Lara’s voice trembled. “He might leave me i-”
Bea cut in sharply. “You must think of yourself now. If Gray truly loves you, he will not care about this. And if he does? I say… behead the brainless muppet. You are so much more than your womb. It will be all right. We will get through this.”
Tears streamed down Lara’s face as she whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t do what you told me to… and I made a mess of things. I came here, and I was about to knock, and then that red priest started yelling at me, and I got scared and I told the driver to take me to Dr Leech instead. He said there was nothing wrong with me, that I was just overreacting and panicking over a simple period and being difficult.” She hiccupped, “I’m so sorry for being difficult.”
Bea pulled the wailing girl into a hug, holding her tight. When she looked up at Edith, her eyes burned with ferocious fury, though her voice remained eerily calm. “There is nothing to apologise for. You are not difficult, not even a little. You are a precious one, a loved one, a cherished one.”
***
Armed with cleansing teas, pain tinctures, and a few bottles of Edith’s special apple juice, Bea took Lara home, tucked her in, ensured a reliable maid was stationed at her side, and issued strict instructions to fetch her if anything even slightly alarming happened.
Gitta was already in bed, snoring the night away, thunderously and oddly comforting. From the day she was born, no matter her respectable size, Gitta had snored like a massive man, or more accurately, like her father. Of course, Bea had asked Edith to check if it was a health concern. Somehow, it wasn’t. Her darling girl was perfectly healthy, physically at least.
Feeling the weight of the world, on this particular night more severely than usual, Bea gathered her pipe and a pouch of relaxing herbs and stepped onto her bedroom’s balcony. Her husband’s snores rolled through the room behind her, the sound so familiar it barely registered. A perfect backdrop for overthinking.
The ruling houses crowned the top of the hill, arranged in a perfect circle that looked down upon Hartwick. Each of the nine prime estates bore the unique mark of its lineage (or current occupants): the historically significant (and insignificant) cats of the House Felis, immortalised in marble, hung and sunbathed all over the Felis mansion; the House Ursidae had wrought-iron grates with giant bears as a recurring motif; the House Sylvilagus house had bunny ears on everything (including but not limited to books and staff); Strigidae estate, opting for a more nature-friendly approach, acted as a bird sanctuary; House Lupus, ever the clever ones, made everything that made a sound sound like a howling wolf. The others, well, they decorated as they saw fit, from timeless elegance to tacky extravagance. The thing was, the nine houses might have varied in style, size, and obviously taste, but the symmetry of their arrangement suggested nothing short of unity.
Behind their ornate fa?ades and private halls, the houses shared a set of walled inner courtyards that melted into a single, sweeping expanse of parkland. This shared space was neither entirely neutral nor entirely private. It was a highly manicured demilitarised zone where alliances were quietly forged, grudges elegantly tended, and white and black peacocks (imported at great expense) roamed the paths with bored expressions. There, the air always smelled of clipped roses, mossy stone, and freshly cut grass. It was a paradise for anyone with allergies.
At the heart of the park rose the Peacock’s Pavilion, a striking structure of white stone and obsidian glass, equal parts elegance and austerity. The Pavilion, filled with palms and citrus trees, was a court pretending to be a teahouse, cross-dressing as a winter garden. This was where the Niners met their business associates and played their endless games, or more accurately, held their proverbial court.
Bea stood at the railing, the ember-red glow from the pipe flickering against her pale fingers. She inhaled deeply, the sharp herbal smoke curling in her lungs. Below, the gardens stretched in quiet perfection, moonlight casting long shadows over empty paths.
Looking down at the dried blood smeared across the peonies on her dress, she exhaled a slow plume of smoke, and her thoughts, ever the wanderers, wandered down a familiar path, a memory lane lined with bloodied dresses.
It was in the Pavilion, about eleven years ago, during afternoon tea, that Lady Prudence Serpentes (aka Pupu) and her husband, Lord Sterling Serpentes (aka Sling Sr.), proposed the joining of their two houses through the marriage of Gitta and their eldest son, Sterling (aka Sling Jr.).
Bea had been overjoyed. Not because it granted her more power; she had more than enough on her own. Even without her husband’s house, Ursidae, her lineage alone ensured her influence. As the sole surviving offspring of her esteemed and still-ruling family lines, she had inherited the headship of Houses Felis, Lupus, Strigidae, and Sylvilagus. The title had originally belonged to her older sister, Francesca, who had died young from a fever. Fate had passed the mantle to Bea, and though she appointed and supervised regents to handle the affairs, her word was final. No, she had not wanted more power, she wanted happiness for her daughter in an echelon that didn’t care about such trivial matters.
The young twenty-three-year-old Sterling was everything a mother could have ever wanted for her child; educated, well spoken, polite, handsome… Being two years Gitta’s senior, they practically grew up together and were quite fond of each other. Her daughter had approved of the match, and as Bea was close friends with Prudence, in her joy, she had failed to do her due diligence on the young man. Which was something she had no plans of ever forgiving herself.
The morning after the wedding, Bea was supposed to meet Gitta in the Pavilion for breakfast. When her daughter failed to appear, she had gone to the Serpentes’ mansion to check on her and was told that Gitta was sleeping in. Too trusting. Too unwilling to intrude. Two whole days passed before she forced her way inside.
She found her daughter barely conscious, covered in blood, bruises, and semen, with several broken bones.
To this day, Bea has no idea how she managed to get Gitta to Edith. Only that she did. Edith had done what she always did, and the two women had spent the night in the armchairs by the hearth, drinking chamomile tea in silence. Viv curled up in Bea’s lap, while Edith clutched her small gargoyle, Nettle. They sat waiting, listening to every strained, laboured breath Gitta took.
Waiting to see if she would keep breathing at all.
On the morning after the incident, familiar with the inner workings of the Nine, Bea slipped Uly some of Edith’s apple juice and received the Serpentes for morning tea. All the servants were promptly dismissed, given that it was a sensitive matter. Bea served the tea herself, which in itself was an indicator of the severity of her trespasses. She humbly apologised for the intrusion into their private space, nodding along as they spoke of the disgrace she and her daughter had caused and offered them generous restitution. Bea valiantly ignored Prudence’s smirk and never acknowledged the bruised knuckles of both Sterling Sr. and Jr.
Once the matter was officially settled, she had decided on her gallows gown. Waking Uly, she explained everything that had been done and what still needed to be done. That day was the only time her husband raised his voice. But ultimately, and with continuous sipping of apple juice, they reached their accord, agreed one needed to stay alive and take care of Gitta, and prepared their stratagem.
As luck would have it, they did not need to.
Later that day, the magistrate arrived with the devastating news of the unexpected passing of Lord and Lady Serpentes and their eldest son. The news had already spread through town like wildfire.
As expected of a young widow, Magritte was confined to her chambers, overcome with heart-wrenching grief, not to be disturbed. The venerable magistrate, ever the picture of integrity, assured them that, despite being well aware of and personally affected by the father and son’s proclivities, he would remain nothing less than impartial. He vowed to pursue the investigation with unwavering dedication, precisely as he had already promised, prompted by the ferocious demands of several Serpentes kin and their allies.
Two days later, the magistrate concluded his inquiries and solemnly proclaimed that the cause of death had been a severe draft. He promptly issued a public warning about a sinister serial draft being on the loose. That summer, the malevolent draft claimed several other members of the upper echelon, concentrating on individuals with close ties to House Serpentes. One by one, they succumbed, their ends as abrupt as they were mysterious. By the time autumn arrived, the once-powerful house lay in ruins, unable to fulfil its duties as one of the Nine. The draft, wrapping up his murder streak, suddenly disappeared without a trace, leaving in his wake only the rumours about the notorious Summer of Draft.
A couple of months later, Gitta finally spoke her first word since the nightmarish ordeal. It was a barely audible “No,” in response to Edith’s question of whether she wished to keep the babe.
As Bea smoked, revising the list of her numerous unforgivable mistakes, she got interrupted by a whispered shout, “Milady?”
At her nod, the maid dramatically tiptoed closer. “Something slightly alarming has happened. There’s a fire in town.”
Bea closed her eyes for a brief moment, rubbing her temples, mentally bracing against the next inevitable disaster. Then, without another word, she strode out of her chambers and up to the highest balcony overlooking the town, squinting through tired eyes at the flickering orange glow. The moment she pinpointed its location, she cursed under her breath and spun on her heel, flying down the stairs and out of the mansion. “Wake Uly! Now!” she bellowed before making a dead run toward the fire.
Just as she passed through the Upper Town gate, an unexpected sound made her skid to a halt.
“Arrggghhhh!”
The unholy roar sent a jolt of terror through her, turning she found herself staring at a majestic stone gargoyle, sprawled across its perch, clutching an enormous lace doily in its talons, twitching in the throes of some monstrous nightmare. Bea blinked. Once. Twice. Then, rubbing a hand down her face, she muttered, “I cannot handle this shit right now,” pivoted, and continued her sprint toward Edith’s house.
The official firefighters and an unofficial bucket brigade were already managing the spread of the fire when Bea arrived. Searching around the chaos, her heart hammered in panic. Realising that Edith was still in the house, without hesitation, she sprinted toward the flames. A firefighter grabbed for her to stop, but after a swift and convincing argument between Bea’s elbow and his nose, she got her way.
The smoke thickened as she navigated the burning wreckage, threading her way toward the bedroom area, where Edith was most likely to have been when the fire started. She didn’t so much find Edith as she tripped over her. Crouching and blindly tapping, her hands met something soft and furry, which was, hopefully, Viv, clutched tightly in Edith’s arms. Feeling her way further, she found Edith’s armpits and began dragging them both toward safety. Each of her breaths burned, her vision blurred, the world tilted, she stumbled, landing hard on her noble derrière, and two strong hands grabbed her.
“Go! Go! Get out! I got her!” Uly’s voice roared in her ear.
Dazed, confused, and more than a little deaf on her right side, Bea barely managed to yell, “The cat! Do not forget the scorching cat! She’s-”
Smoke stole the rest of her instructions, forcing her into a violent coughing fit as she crawled toward the exit. She trusted that Uly would handle it. The slightly smoking Lord’s exit from the raging inferno with Edith and Viv cradled in his arms was followed by a roar of a swiftly forming thunderstorm. Soon, heavy rain started to fall, overtaking the fire containment efforts.
Uly laid Edith and Viv on the street, far from the smouldering wreckage. Gitta grabbed the cat as Bea crawled to Edith’s side, pressing shaking fingers to her neck, then to her wrist. No pulse. Leaning her ear to the healer’s mouth, she watched to see the rise and fall of Edith’s lungs. No breath. Remembering Edith’s drills in revival, she started the rhythmic pushes on her chest, followed by evenly distributed smoke-infused breaths.
In the corner of her eye, she caught Gitta gently but resolutely copycatting her moves on the nonresponsive cat. She was having better luck, for after some time, what felt like an eternity, the cat sputtered back to life in a fit of hisses. Emy pushed her way through the crowd still gathered despite the downpour, carrying a handful of ointments and salves, and joined Gitta in attending to the cat’s burn marks, all the time glancing at Bea, waiting for her to wave her over.
Bea kept pushing on Edith’s chest. At first, because she owed the old woman. Then, because the town needed a capable healer. When she felt that she did not have any strength left, she promptly dismissed the notion and kept pushing because she was quite fond of the wicked woman. She kept pushing because she would miss her dearly. And finally, when she was on the verge of collapsing, she kept pushing because Edith was her loved one, and you simply do not give up on your loved ones. Ever.
When the rain slowed and the first rays of sun shone on Edith’s burnt face, Bea finally stilled. A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. Uly. His voice was quiet, resigned. “I’ll make arrangements.” With his help, she got up, and as she turned, her eyes drifted behind him to the crowd. About a hundred completely drenched people stood in silence. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Emy’s emerald eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and when Bea slowly shook her head, the harlot let out a broken breath, and her tears fell. As did many others.
Mrs Baker approached, cradling the most vibrant piece of fabric Bea had ever seen: alternating stripes of blue and red, embroidered with yellow and purple flowers. The chubby, short woman with an abundance of blond curls, damp from rain, held out the cloth with hands that trembled ever so slightly. “Um...’tis the best duvet I have. To shield her...” With the rest of the thought getting lost in immense sadness, she extended the cloth to Bea.
Covering Edith’s body with the outrageous cloth, Bea gently smiled at the baker, “It is perfect, thank you, Edith would have loved it.”
***
Two days later, Bea stood in what remained of Edith’s house, now a blackened ruin. The scent of charred wood clung to the air. Gitta stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her mother. “What do we do now?”
Gitta bore a striking resemblance to her mother, like a painting of Bea in softer, more tentative brushstrokes. She had the same raven-dark hair and glacial blue eyes, though where Bea stood with regal poise and grace, Gitta lingered with the fragility of a butterfly.
Bea pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair. “We live, we fight, and we prevail. Whatever the odds.”
The funeral procession was about to begin. Bea took one last look at the ruins before gathering herself, smoothing the folds of her blood-red silk dress, and stepping out into the world waiting beyond.
Gitta unconsciously mimicked her mother’s movements. As her eyes drifted over the wreckage, something caught the light, a faint shimmer in the ashes where Edith’s exam table had once stood. Kneeling, she brushed away the soot and uncovered Edith’s small gargoyle. Fennel, was it? The little creature was battered, one wing broken, its stone body marred with scratches and missing fragments. Gitta wrapped him in a handkerchief, tucking him gently into the basket where Viv lay curled, and turned to join the river of mourners.
Nearing the graveyard, Bea looked back at the twisting procession; there were several thousand people, a river of red slowly making their way up the hill, and as the day and night went by, many more would pass by Edith’s grave to pay their respect and share their tales.
Hartland’s funeral traditions, as it was, tended to celebrate one’s life rather than mourn their death, favouring laughter over lament. Around the grave, friends and family would gather to share fond memories and humorous stories, having one last meal and a cup of tea with the departed.
In Edith’s case, the cemetery catering was curated with meticulous affection. Steaming pots of chamomile and other calming herbal teas lined the long oak table, their scent lingering in the crisp air. Sparkle’s sparkling wines served in mismatched glasses provided a touch of bubbly to lighten the mood, and possibly to loosen the tongues of more reluctant eulogists. The spread of sweets and baked goods came from every bakery, stall, and café the healer had ever visited, from the spiced beetroot buns from the Lusty Loaf to the lavender and moth shortbread from Holly’s Hidden Hearth. It was, all things considered, a farewell feast Edith would have thoroughly enjoyed.
Faithfully following Bea’s instructions, Uly had commissioned a masterpiece for the healer’s final resting place: a statue of a winged woman with Edith’s resolute face, portrayed as defying a particularly harsh gust of wind, stubbornly standing in her exquisitely carved high-necked dress flowing behind her.
At some point between the statue’s placement and the arrival of the funeral procession, Hartwick’s elusive street artist(s) had painted the lower part of the sculpture and the surrounding area in a depiction of the loveliest, lush herb garden anyone has ever seen. Various kinds of multicoloured flowers and bushes surrounded the grave, looking alive as they glistened, opening and closing, lightly swaying in a non-existent gentle breeze.
Gitta placed the basket with Viv and the damaged gargoyle next to the grave and got her mother the largest cup of chamomile tea she could find.
The stories of Edith started.
Many women and men stayed for a time to listen and share their recollections. Intertwined with hilarious and ludicrous stories were painfully honest and descriptive tales of their various ailments. Some were talking freely about personal tragedies and expressing gratitude for all she did for them, especially for snatching their loved ones from sure death, or at least easing their passing.
When Gitta decided to share her tale and not to skip any of the gory details, Bea and Uly were both proud and petrified. After Gitta finished, Lara and Emy gave her a humongous hug and held her until they were sure that all the shaking and tears had stopped.
The moment Emy took her turn, a jarring Ding dong! sounded.
“No one wants to hear what a tacky, tawdry tart has to say about that heinous, heartless healer. Be gone, you wicked whore!” Priest Charming’s raspy voice bellowed as he pushed his way through the crowd of about fifty people currently gathered around the grave.
Ding dong!
He looked around at them, rage brewing, disgusted with them all. “You talk and talk and talk, like she was a saviour! She was not! She was a devil’s apprentice stealing your souls under the guise of healing.”
Ding dong!
“She was a destroyer of all that is pious and just! She was a vile killer! An unrepentant murderer! A sinuous serial sinner!”
Despite the shock exhibited on their faces, his performance resulted in a meek reception and, in his biased opinion, completely lacked the intended praise for his continued efforts, he so clearly deserved. The philandering fools obviously didn’t understand what he had been doing! The oblivious idiots still didn’t understand the lengths he went to... to save them! Them! The undeserving! The stupid sinners for whom he made such sacrifices! The deprived denizens for whom he has stained his celestial soul with the foul blood of the wicked! They still didn’t understand!
Ding dong!
They need to understand. “She was a heretic harlot! A menace of Hartwick! Her deeds offended the Charming God and the Charming Church!”
Ding dong!
Still, the desired praise eluded. They are truly, utterly stupid fools! “I did what needed to be done! You were led astray! The defence of all that is good and just in this town depended on me! I alone dared to do something about it! To stand for all of you! To rid you of her sins!”
Ding dong!
At this point, Priest Charming found it painfully obvious that these idiotic idiots didn’t understand the finer points of rhetoric. “Fine,” he rolled his eyes, and proudly declared, “I took her life to cleanse this town!”
After that statement, the world stilled.
Mrs Baker got through the shock first, fuming and ominously waving her red parasol. Stepping towards him, she shouted, “You fucking twat!” and further imprinted her thoughts on the matter with a loud whack across his face with the said parasol.
The impact sent the Priest stumbling a few steps to where Emy stood, and she welcomed him with a delightfully precise right hook, sending a couple of charming teeth soaring into the heavens.
The Priest, after taking a moment to say a charming prayer for the departed denticles, lunged at Emy. Gitta rushed in to save her and smashed a piping hot teapot of calming chamomile tea on his head. The Priest screamed as Uly jumped into the fray and grabbed the dropping big bell, shoved it on the Priest Charming’s head, and gallantly extended the bell’s mallet to his magnificently murderous-looking wife.
Ding dong!
***
A couple of months later, the theories of an unexpected and unexplained disappearance of Priest Charming were slowly diminishing. The most believable one was that he found a nice, pious woman (or a man, depending on the source) and they ran off preaching into the sunset. There was even a ridiculously implausible rumour that he got bludgeoned to death by a mob at Edith’s funeral and then tossed into a pigpen. Imagine!
***
A couple of towns over, Gitta knocked on the blue door of a quaint house nestled within a lush, overgrown herb garden that looked like it had been charmed into blooming year-round. She took a steadying breath and smoothed down the front of her black silk dress, letting her fingers linger on the fabric.
The dress was a gift from Lara, given not long after she’d opened her boutique with help from Gitta’s parents. It was scandalously short by traditional standards, the hem daring to bare her ankles and landing around mid-calf. But that wasn’t the shocking part, at least not to Gitta.
It had pockets.
Not just the discreet, stitched-in kind you could maybe hide a peppermint or a handkerchief in, but an outrageous number of them. Deep, cunningly concealed pockets. Gitta had discovered a new one just yesterday in the lining near her hip. Pockets! What devilry had Lara conjured to come up with that? Ingenious! Revolutionary!
She smiled to herself, adjusted the delicate black veiled top hat, and knocked again, a little more confidently this time.
As Gitta patiently waited, Viv (aka Weevil) was purring, perched on her shoulder. She was a bit worse for wear; missing half an ear, one of her yellow eyes was now milky white, and she sported a few balding spots, but otherwise was just purrfect. Well, if you don’t count the attitude upgrade, or a downgrade, as some referred to it. As it happened, while in Gitta’s care, the now sporadically fluffy one, decided to adopt the silly girl and developed a habit of welcoming anyone into Gitta’s personal space with vicious hissing, or if in striking distance, razor-sharp claws.
Nettle (aka Netty), not Fennel as it was, decided to stay with her parents. Uly commissioned the town’s best clockmaker to make him a mechanical wing instead of the one he lost in the fire. Netty pleasantly surprised everyone when taking a flight and then thanking them for their hospitality and the appendage. Apparently, the small ones could talk if they wanted to. Who knew! Bea and Netty developed a compassionate companionship consisting of continuously chatting while consuming copious amounts of calming chamomile tea.
The blue door creaked open. “How can I help you, dear one?”
Gitta hesitated. The woman standing before her was kind-looking, with a wise, patient face.
“Are you the healer of Hartford?”
At the woman’s nod, she continued with a bit more courage. “I wrote to you about an apprenticeship,” she said, even firmer this time. “You told me to come when I was ready.”
Gitta took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
The older woman smiled kindly, though her eyes lingered a moment too long. “Yes, right, right. Magritte of Hartwick, no?”
“Actually…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I was thinking of going by Edith.”
The woman’s smile widened, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well then, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Edith,” she said, stepping aside with a graceful nod. “Come in. Let’s get you settled.”
Gitta crossed the threshold. “What should I call you?”
The woman’s smile faltered, folding into something softer, sadder. “I’m also an Edith,” she said quietly. “We all are now.”
