Page 94 of The Changeling

I stood for a moment, not speaking. I could not bear it if Master McGregor, the man who had taught me how to cook, would recoil from me and call me a witch too. He had to be faced, though. I stiffened my spine and went in, saying nothing. He heard the click of Carlin’s toenails on the stone and looked around, then spread wide his arms.

I ran into them.

‘Hush, lass, no weeping now. It’s a terrible shame, what happened to your mam. Let me look at you. As I thought. Worn to the bone, you are. I’ve made you some pottage. Naught better than pottage when you’re cold and sad.’

‘I’m no’ crying,’ I said fiercely. ‘It’s just the smoke in my eyes. I’ve no time to sit and eat – I’ve too much to do.’

‘I ken,’ he said gently. ‘But if you canna care for your own body and soul, you canna care for others. Sit you down, have a bite of supper and tell me what you need.’

I sat, because my legs were trembling so much I feared they would give way, and he put the thick stew before me. As I ate, he broke a bannock for me and spread it with butter that melted fast, and put down a battered tin dish full of meaty scraps for Carlin and let her eat as if she was famished, which indeed she was.

‘I heard you were privy cook at the palace,’ he said.

I nodded, too busy spooning the pottage into my mouth to answer.

‘What was the queen’s favourite dish?’ he asked wistfully.

I smiled a little, remembering. ‘She had a sweet tooth. I made her your quince comfits. She loved them.’

A beatific smile spread over his face. He sat down with a great sigh, stretching out his tired feet. ‘And?’ he prompted.

I told him some of the queen’s favourite recipes, as he absentmindedly spread my bannock with honey and ate it. Carlin licked away the last of the gravy and came to sit beside me, laying her head in my lap. I fondled her soft ears, and said hesitantly, ‘Master McGregor, what do you ken of this sickness that has stricken Master Robbie?’

He looked troubled, shrugging his massive shoulders. ‘All I ken is I send up trays of food for him, and they come down empty, but the maids tell me he grows ever thinner and weaker.’

‘And his boots? Beatrix says the soles are worn to holes every morning, but no-one kens how, when he lies so still and unmoving.’

‘It’s strange, aye. No-one can make head or tail of it.’

‘Who sits with him at night?’

‘Malcolm.’

I frowned. I had never liked Malcolm, for all that he was always smiling.

‘May I make Master Robbie some broth, and take it to him?’

‘I have plenty of broth here.’

‘I need to make it with my own hands,’ I answered.

Master McGregor looked affronted. I said, ‘Please, it’s no’ that your broth is no’ good. I just need to make it for him myself.’

He bowed with a dramatic flourish. ‘Aught for you, hinny.’

‘Thank you.’ I hesitated, then said haltingly, ‘Will you no’ get yourself to bed? It is getting late, and I have much to do.’

With great dignity, he bid me good night and left me alone in the kitchen. I put a whole chicken carcass into my pot, including the giblets and feet, along with onion, leek, garlic, carrots, a dash of vinegar, a generous pinch of salt, and a bunch of rosemary and thyme. I chopped up the nettles I had harvested on my walk to the castle, added them to the pot, poured in just enough water to cover the ingredients, and swirled it about with my long-handled rowan spoon, whispering, ‘Stir and stir, left to right, bless this home with love and light, stir and stir, round and round, keep us all safe and sound.’

It was a child’s charm, one of the very first I had learned from Nan. I said it under my breath every time I cooked. Love was the best seasoning, Nan had always said.

I would have liked to let the broth simmer for hours, but there was no time for that. When all was cooked through, I strained the bones and vegetables, poured the broth in a ceramic jar to keep it warm, and put it in a basket, along with all else I would need that night.

First, I went to Sorcha, asleep in Mam’s old room. I woke her gently, promising I’d let her be if she would just swallow a couple of mouthfuls. She was so thin. Naught left of her except skin stretched tight over bones. She barely pretended to eat, turning her face away after only a few sips. I had set a jug of water to warm in the ashes, and I poured it into the silver bowl and dipped in a cloth to wash her face and hands. It was strange stroking her skin with the damp cloth and seeing the soft pale fuzz lay down slickly against her skin, then spring up in soft waves as it dried.

‘What happened to you, my lambkin?’ I whispered and turned again to dip in my cloth. The candlelight glinted on the water, steam wreathing above. Suddenly I recoiled with a cry. A sheep’s head bobbed in the silver bowl.

The very next instant the vision was gone. Frowning, I brushed and braided Sorcha’s long blonde hair, trying to understand what I had seen. Why was the Sight never clear? Why did it come and go, without rhyme or reason?