Page 161 of The Knucker King

“Was there a crystal pendant? A key?” Trewoofe asked.

Olwilla tapped her chin with her clawed finger. “Yes, both of them, and a bag filled with herbs were near the Grim.”

Trewoofe continued after he watched the rise and fall of her chest. “Bring the pendant and the satchel to me. The key? Use it to enter the cottage.” He furrowed his brow as he thought of all the things at the cottage she might like to have in the Underneath. “In the wooden boxes beside the walls are Avice’s clothing and my own, there is a comb, and some small jars of scented fat; bring them here. There are furs and blankets on a slightly raised wooden structure, cups and bowls, bring them along too. All the things she will need to be comfortable here.”

The Wulver Queen dipped her head. “Yes, Lord.”

She turned away, but he called out after her. “Olwilla!” She looked back at him and cocked her head. “I want to hear regular updates on Bramble.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Trewoofe watched her exit his nesting cavern before turning his attention back to Avice. He checked her again. Though her breath was laboured and her skin pallid, he fancied that the pulse at her throat thrummed with more strength.

“You will live,” he asserted, before using his mouth to give her more water to drink.

59

Chapter 59

Avice

Avice was ice cold.

She could not open her eyes to see where she was. Her limbs were so frigid that she thought she would never feel warm again. But then, gentle heat spread to her fingers and toes. A soothing voice reached her ears. Suddenly, her face and neck were wet, and she thought she may have been crying.

Avice wept.

Deep wailing sobs wracked her body. She dropped to her knees in front of Agnes’s funeral pyre. It burnt in the cottage garden. Her Great Aunt had been a force of Nature. Then, she had sacrificed herself for Father Richard by pulling power from Bramble to heal the old priest’s heart. Dear, sweet Bramble sat beside Avice now as she wailed. He snuffed at her face and whimpered along with her as she mourned.

Forgive me, he begged. I could not say no to her.

Avice – being a Gardener woman – could always vaguely understand the Grim, but now his voice was clear as a bell in her mind. She should have been surprised by that, but there was only the drowning loneliness. That deep overwhelming isolation that plagued all women who were too wild, too different, and too witching for the order forced on them by the church.

She covered her face with her ash-stained hands. The soot and salty tears smeared across her pallid skin. Avice cried until there was not a drop left within her. Agnes was all she had left. She lived with and learned from the elderly woman all her adult life. They had shared meals, gathered plants, and pressed together in the pallet in the coldest nights.

Now, she was gone.

Avice… Bramble snuffed at her ear. Please forgive me.

She dropped her hands and sniffled. “You are a good boy,” she croaked. “I do not blame you.”

The Grim lapped away her tears, smearing more soot across her cheeks. I know you will miss her, but you will always have Ashling and me.

Avice rubbed her red eyes. “I will? How?”

Ashling chimed and rose from the pyre. He insisted on managing the fire that would send his witch through the Shimmering Veil. He cooled his flames and perched on Avice’s outstretched hand. He flickered from blue to purple and back again.

Avice pinched her face at him. “I am sorry, I still cannot—”

A drop of your blood, Bramble explained. We will be bound to you like we have been to the Gardener witches before you.

“It is that simple?” she asked.

We must be willing, the Grim said, and we are both willing.

Ashling chimed his agreement and warmed her with his light.

“So, we will not be alone?” she asked. “We will all have each other?”