The Wretched of Muirwood

“What else was I to say? Pasqua suspects everything.”

“She suspects you because you always try to trick her.”

“You could at least compliment me that my plan is working.”

“Yes, Lia, you have done a perfect job making me seem a glutton. I cannot thank you enough.”

“If you can do better, by all means try. I have to do your work and mine today. You get to sleep up here all day.”

“I cannot sleep.”

“What?”

“I cannot sleep,” she said, even more softly, cringing.

“Why not?”

Sowe pitched her voice even lower. “Because he is up here.”

Lia rubbed her eyes. “That is ridiculous. You cannot even see him behind the sacks.”

“I hear him breathing.”

“You do not.”

“I can!”

“You are such a child. And since when has my breathing ever kept you awake? He is not going to do anything to you. He will hold still until Pasqua leaves for the night. He cannot make a sound.”

“He is noisy when he breathes!”

Lia rolled her eyes. “If you get a chance, tell him I will clean his shirt at the same time I clean my dress. I will need your dress too.”

“I am not changing dresses up here!” Sowe whispered indignantly.

“Then I will clean your clean one,” Lia said, exasperated. “I need to clean two dresses. I think it best while the morning meal is delivered to the learners. There will not be as many people washing then. Besides, it is still raining. If I wait longer, I will not be able to do it until later, and it may not dry by tonight. Tell him to be ready when Pasqua leaves to use the garderobe.”

“I do not want to talk to him.”

Lia gave her a hard look – one that said, you are acting like you are six!

“I am afraid!”

Pasqua’s voice thundered from across the kitchen. “Lia! The pottage is boiling! Stop pinching her and climb down. Leave the bowl up there with her, silly girl! There is enough to do to fill the entire season before Whitsunday. Come down, girl. Let her alone.”

Sowe grabbed Lia’s hands, her eyes helpless. “Do not leave me here alone. You could be sick too.”

Lia snatched her hands away. “If I am sick too, then other help will be sent here. Now moan.”

“Moan?”

“Moan!”

Sowe let our a half-gurgling whimper.

“That was pathetic,” Lia grumbled as she hurried down the ladder.

* * *

“Those who cannot read the tomes of the ancients are typically confused by the meaning of ‘Medium’ because of its multiple definitions. With their lack of education, this is understandable. In the simplest terms, I seek to teach them thus – that the term ‘Medium’ was chosen precisely because it conveys multiple meanings. It is the means that connects two opposite sides, allowing a maston, for example, to bring fire from the core of the earth to the surface. It is the intervening substance through which any power, or the potentiality of power, is transmitted. It is also a means of communication. Engravings in stone or precious ore are a manifestation of the Medium for those who can read them, for its power can be conducted through the chisels and etchings and interpreted through the eyes of the reader. The Medium has power over all things, both living and dead, and can be the means of communicating between them. It is also the means by which the dead are revived. Even if their bones are dust and blown by the wind, the Medium could find the specks and restore them to life. It happened at the oldest abbey in the realm, Muirwood they say, though only a few ever knew of it.”

- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE:

Reome Lavender

Lia usually had a small bit of time for washing just after the morning meal was finished and the dough punched and set for rising for the dinner bread. The learners of Muirwood would be at their studies in the cloisters, and with the storm still menacing the grounds, very few would be outdoors. Pasqua slipped out to use the garderobe at the manor – something she did about ten times a day, since there were only chamber pots in the kitchen and she loathed using them. Lia had waited for the moment, and after the door shut, she scurried up the ladder.

Sowe was asleep, despite her complaints, but there was no shirt. She searched for a moment, then stepped over the sleeping girl and climbed on a barrel. “I am going to the laundry. Let me have your shirt.”

“No.”

It was bright now, and sunlight streamed in from the window in the nook of the loft. Motes speckled the air. His face had color again, his skin was tanned and dark, his chin stubbly instead of smooth. The bandage at his eyebrow was seeped with blood – she would need to change it later.