Diary of a Witch

fate.

I

Mother danced me on her knee in a playful rhythm, and her voice tickled my ear, "Ah! You were born with the caul—you have the gift, my child." I wasn’t at all certain what the gift was, but knew only that I shared it with my mother—a secret world all our own. One thing was clear to me, however: other people were afraid of those of us who could see, and therefore it was best that I mind myself in silence in the company of others.

Early on I understood this. When I was about seven years old, I remember rushing to the river where my mother was cleaning the linens of the Manor House with the other washerwomen. Gleefully I ran towards her, the autumn wind blowing me like a bird. Mother, I saw Mrs. McFarland on the heath. She is well, Mother! She had on a bonny new shawl and was wreathed in the most beautiful light.

That is impossible, Elspeth—Mrs. McFarland has been dead for over a fortnight! Mrs. McFarland’s bloodless face flashed through my mind—oh, aye, I had been with mother by her bedside. I had rubbed cedar oil into her yellow skin.

Suddenly my mother began tossing her head of thick black curls in mirth. Ah, she does have the imagination, Elspeth—always on the lark, that one! She drew me close to her and hissed, Shhhhhh in my ear, all the while laughing heartily before the other women. They stared suspiciously at me, especially Griselda Drummond. Her daughter, Fiona, had died of the fever, and since then she emanated a dreadful gloom. Fiona and I had been friends, and I think Griselda begrudged the fact that I had lived and Fiona hadn’t. I wanted to tell her that Fiona had come to me in a dream and told me that she was free of fever and felt as light as snow falling from a soft purple sky, but the fear in Griselda’s upbraiding eyes always silenced me.

My father took care of the horses at Burnish Manor near the parish of Dalmeny and Linlithgow palace. Linlithgow had been the birthplace of Queen Mary, the true queen of Scotland, my father used to say. As servants, we had our living quarters, millhouse, slaughterhouse and all workaday dwellings far from the eyes of the gentry. This pleased my mother, as she had planted her garden past the tall row of cedars that marked the beginning of the servants’ world and lodgings. Often she had her apron full of herbs and leaves and would make infusions, salves, and oils for the sick and infirm that dwelled near and by.

I felt that my mother and I were somehow a burden to my father. He much preferred to be with his horses. It seemed he too had a secret language—one he spoke not only to his beloved horses but to all animals. Father was broad and tall—a true Scotsman. Mother said his clan had been warriors, great fighters, and as wild as the Highland forests.

My father had injured his leg as a youth; he was thrown by a bucking stallion during a winter storm. He dragged around his leg like a broken dream, and try as I might to console him with play and good cheer, he preferred the company of his animals to any humans. Sometimes, however, in his rich, deep Highland brogue he would recount tales of his chieftain, while my mother rubbed oil of camphor on his tired muscles. Since the death of my wee brother, Jimmy, this ritual of comfort passed less and less frequently between them. Try as my mother might, with all her medicines, potions, and prayers, still wee Jimmy slipped away on a warm summer night, a boyish, gentle angel by his side. My mother wept for months, and rarely did we speak of Jimmy again.

Girl bairns past the age of ten were rarely educated in Scotland, but fate having its own laws found a way for me to study. One deep winter day in my 15th year, when the earth slumbered peacefully under the frozen green, the Laird of the Manor came riding to our mud and thatch cottage to fetch my father. Laird Fergus’s eyes fixed on the sea-coal fire sputtering in our hearth:

There’s talk of an allegiance with our papist allies in Spain. I’ll need all the horses shod. I’m to England and don’t know when I will return. It would please me to have your family move into Burnish Manor. Talk in Dalmeny is that you are a skilled midwife, Madame, and my wife is with child.

My mother raised her eyes from the ground; but did not look directly at Laird Fergus. As it please you, sir, she said, bowing slightly. It did not please me to see my strong, raven-haired mother shrink so piteously before another. Besides, something about Laird Fergus alarmed me. He wore a mask of civility and courage, and yet another face shone from behind his disguise—his mouth was turned down, his nostrils pinched with fear. He was terrified of the duties his station required of him. Laird Fergus was in dire need of comfort; if he had not been robbed of all his spontaneity, he would have surely flung himself in front of the chimney and sobbed a great howl into my mother’s skirt.

After he bid us farewell, the Laird said: God save the Queen. Then, with a slight nod in my direction and a clipped turn of his horse, he and my father rode to the livery stables, leaving my mother and me to prepare for our move.

Juliette Fergus possessed a haughtiness that was somehow exaggerated by her French accent. Arrogance and superiority informed all her words and gestures. Her corpus was ripe with life, and she passed the day stretched out supinely on the rich, cushioned divan in her private rooms overlooking the frozen loch. My mother catered to Juliette’s every need. Ensuring her comfort became my mother’s foremost task.

Munro and Laurent were slightly younger in years than me and tutored daily by their French governess, Marie Toureau. Marie was pleasant and polite and truly inspired by her vocation to teach, though I think she loathed Scotland. I was allowed to take part in the daily lessons mostly because Munro liked my company and was constantly at odds with his older brother. I was studying both in English and Latin, and every night in my damp, cold room I went over my lessons repeatedly. My intellectual vigor, however, met not with Marie’s approval. She pulled me aside and told me that I must not show my superiority in front of the boys: Do not make it known that you are quick of mind. It is a privilege reserved not for our kind. Despite this admonishment, Marie continued to support my learning, although I answered not so frequently nor with the selfsame pride.

The lessons were the easiest part of my day, as I was required to spin wool and flax, and Lucy, the cook, was teaching me the fine art of embroidery. She had a deep, raspy voice and loved to recite bawdy rhymes. Our residence had been firmly established by the time the buds of spring began to awaken on the trees.

One night while firmly asleep in the underworld, Lucy jostled mother and me awake, candle in hand. ’Tis time, Morag! she cried. Bring the lass. She may be of help.

Juliette’s high-pitched screams echoed throughout the great house; mayhem filled the bedchamber. Our candles cast eerie shadows on the walls and needing more light, my mother lit the torches in the iron wall brackets near the bed. Bring me fresh water, Lucy, she said, rolling up her sleeves.

Suddenly an intense excitement shook me to my bones. There was a shimmer of moonlight hovering at the bedside—‘twas as if midnight itself was awake and watchful. Juliette’s legs were wide open and my mother was reaching inside her womanhood. Push, said my mother, as hard as you can, lass.

Marie Toureau entered the bedchamber in her nightdress and shawl, a look of terror frozen on her face. Mother instructed her to help support Juliette’s posture. I pushed with my own breath, somehow thinking it would advance Juliette’s efforts. She should squat, I heard my mother whisper to Lucy.

Morag, Lucy gasped, you know that there are those that think squatting calls forth the Devil. At the mention of the Devil, Marie Toureau’s face turned white as snow, and she began to whimper.

It’s alright, Marie, I said. There’s naught but goodwill in the room. This seemed only to frighten her more. Suddenly Juliette bit down hard on Marie’s hand and she ran shrieking from the bedchamber. Mind the boys! Lucy yelled after her down the hall.

Oh, mon Die, je ne peut pas, s’il vous plait, Madame! Juliette pleaded.

Push harder, just a wee bit harder, lass. Vomit spewed from Juliette’s mouth, and I wiped her face with a damp rag. Fiercely now, lass, with all your might! my mother instructed, climbing on top of the bed. Her shiny black hair swept across Juliette’s belly like a great raven’s wing, and I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the emerging bounty. Juliette let out a long shrill scream and then something slithered and slid into my mother’s hands—it was purple and bloody.

Something’s wrong! Lucy screamed. My mother reached her fingers into the babe’s mouth and pulled out white phlegmy mucus from its throat. The tiny, wiggling life began sputtering and yowling like a wolf pup.

Une fille, ou un garcon? Juliette snapped crossly. Despite her exhaustion, her demeanor still bore all her grievances.

It’s a girl, Juliette—a wee girl! my mother exclaimed. Juliette’s face flooded with relief, and tears sprang from her eyes. My mother had told me that after birthing two lads, Juliette’s wish was to have a girl bairn. We need to sever the cord now, my mother said, cupping the head of the mewling babe.

My mother glanced at me: Fetch me some mugwort from the pantry, Elspeth.

I pulled my shawl round my shoulders. Dawn was breaking through the windows, and I felt a chill run through my heart. Somehow I knew that Lady Juliette’s baby would not live a long life.

Mother ground up the mugwort with charcoal and burnt it in a clay bowl. She made a powder of the ashes, and wrapped it in mull cloth, and tucked it inside Juliette’s hollowed cauldron of life. Lucy had cleaned up the bed, and the cord was severed, although I could still see a ribbon of pale orange joining mother and child in corpus.

Night passed. And in the morn, my mother told Lucy and me to go about our duties. I will stay with the missus, she declared. She smiled down at the sleeping babe in her arms. Shoo now, she whispered to me.

A messenger was dispatched to the Borders to send news to Laird Fergus whose company my own father kept. Juliette gained her strength back quickly and was more convivial. Along with the birth of her baby, she had birthed a new kindness for my mother. A jealousy rose up in me, for Juliette now seemed my mother’s daughter and I a mere servant to both their needs. Baby Clarissa became the focus of the entire household. Every day she grew plumper, and was a sweet, joyful babe—except when she cried monstrously loud.

I amused myself with the boys and continued my lessons. Marie was reading from the condemned, papist Bible when I felt the earth tremble, and I heard it—the pounding of horses hooves. Father! I yelped running toward the window. Dirt twirled in the air as a small army of men galloped to the Manor House.

After a celebratory supper, my father drew the thick curtain that divided our sleeping chambers. In the candlelight, my parents looked like shadow puppets on the thick veil of muslin cloth. My mother’s hair was bound and my father helped her loosen it. I listened to the low hum of their whispering:

What news of the conspirators, Finton?

Please Morag, my father protested, let’s not talk of that now. Don’t you hear me—I’ve missed you. My mother laughed and I saw the two shadows on the curtain merge into one. Then my father blew out the candle.

I rolled over and turned my head towards the window. Outside, the brooding sky was heavy with moon and the ripeness of spring. I knew the cycles of the body and the moon; my mother had taught me when my own belly, ripe with blood, had first bled its secrets.

I had been working in the fields when a sudden cramping pain caused me to buckle over. I felt moisture on my thighs, and reached under my dress with my hand. It came back sticky and red with blood. I ran to the cottage, but my mother was not there. I lay on my bed and waited for her; afraid and trembling, I rubbed my belly and prayed I would not die. She came upon me but one hour later and asked me what was wrong. My cupping-door hast blood, I whimpered. Since I was a little girl, I had referred to the gateway between my legs as a cupping-door, because it was both the wet-cup for my urine and the entrance to my innards.

Let me see, Elspeth.

I obeyed and showed my mother the crimson stain. She handed me a fresh undergarment in which she had wound a clean, thick rag. This will catch your woman’s blood, she said softly. Do you remember what I taught you about the moontime?

Not really, Mother, I said, shaking my head.

My mother smiled and sat beside me on the bed. She braided satin ribbon into my long, nutbrown hair as she spoke: This sacred blood of your womb is part of the mysterious magic of creation, Elspeth. You bleed in harmony with the Great Mother Moon. The royal red of your blood will overflow once every lunar month. Something in your body is changing. Thou art woman, my little fairy! Mother finished braiding my hair and gave me a vial of lavender oil and purple lilac.

I sniffed the fragrance. Oh, Mother, it’s beautiful, I exclaimed. She held me at arm’s length and stared most fixedly into my eyes:

Your moontime blood contains the promise of children.

I laughed heartily. But, Mother, I am but a child myself.

Yes, Elspeth, but your body bespeaks the form of a woman. Mind yourself. There are those who are jealous of the cauldron of life and seek to dishonor the chalice which pours forth your blood. There are those who will say you are unclean and insist you despise your own body.

Mother, please, you are scaring me! I tried to shake myself from her arms, but her grip on me grew tighter.

Dangerous superstitions are afoot, Elspeth. Heed not any words that belie the joyous bounty of your body. With that my mother finally let me go, and we supped as usual, although everything was different.

My mother told me that when the priest dipped Clarissa’s head in baptismal water, her father wept with joy. The Catholic ceremony was considered heresy by the new reformed religion and therefore was performed in secret by Juliette’s confidant, Père Pillar. I was not invited, but my mother explained to me the ritual of the wine and wafer and the pouring of the sacred water. She had been the only outsider present at the christening, as Juliette now trusted her to interpret all of Clarissa’s needs.

A Protestant mass was held publicly at the church in Dalmeny, and the villagers were invited to join in the celebrations. The minister was solemn and spoke of serpents and sin. I knew not what his words had to do with the plump, bonny Clarissa, and she, too, protested from the top of her lungs.

Later, with our stomachs full and content, Mother and I waded barefoot in the creek that spilled into the loch behind the palace. She told me that most religions spoke of transcending the sinful body and living in rapture with the spirit: God’s true wish is that we find spirit in physical substance—our bodies and the earth. That is what makes us human and of this world, Elspeth.

I dug my toes into the muddy creek bottom. Is jealousy a sin, Mother?

What is in your heart is not wicked, Elspeth—

I interrupted her with a flurry of words: But it is, Mother! Sometimes I hate Clarissa, and Juliette! I just can’t stand the way you devote yourself to them and treat me as a slave!

My mother stood silent in the water.

Suddenly a brisk spring breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. I feared a devil or black angel would plunge me underwater and hold me there.

My mother pulled me close to her soft bosom. Elspeth, she murmured, I love you more than my own life. Something melted in my insides, and I felt the ache in my stomach soften.

Juliette and Clarissa need me now, my mother insisted. There is illness about. It is my duty to keep them well.

Will I be punished for my jealousy?

Only by your own mind, dear little one—the Great Mother does not frown upon our human faults. She swept up her skirts, clutched my hand, and we sat down on the ground next to the creek.

We were both silent for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully, Know you are loved, Elspeth. Not just by me, but by the Earth—She is very much alive.

Laird Fergus did not stay long at home nor did my father. They were rallying an army to defend the old religion and set free the true queen of Scotland. Many men went with them and we were left to do the work of land and house. Months of labor bore heavy on my mother and she grew weary and less prone to laughter. Although the sun shone golden, I sensed danger afoot. I concentrated heavily on my studies, sensing their importance for some future need. Between my lessons and travails, I helped my mother tend her medicine garden. She taught me that plants have souls that hold sacred knowledge.

Listen, earn their trust, and the plants will reveal their wondrous secrets. My mother spoke their names with great reverence and love: tansy, St. John’s girdle, parsley, blewbottle, lavender, cudweed….

II

I must stop my writing now as my weary eyes beg for rest. I must lay my body down on this cool earth and gain succor before I continue with the tale that is my life.

∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼

I do not know how long I have rested, but it is not yet dark; therefore, I can still put words to paper. There is little time and I am weak with hunger. Oh, to remember my beloved mother gives me strength and courage to trust in all that is unseen around me. Her fate was cruel and malicious and delivered by man, not God.

I hear her voice in my heart: ‘Hasten, Elspeth! It shall not be long before they come for you.’

III

In late summer, the servants were in repose, enjoying a brilliant orange and copper sunset, when Munro came barreling over the green, shouting for my mother. She jumped up quickly and ran to him.

It’s Clarissa! he screamed. Something is wrong with Clarissa!

Mother and I ran after Munro towards the Manor and Juliette’s keening wails. We found her standing over the babe’s manger, pale with shock. Laurent cowered in the corner.

Il faut faire quelque chose! Juliette pleaded with my mother. Please, Morag, she is not breathing!

Mother lifted the bairn into her arms and covered its tiny mouth and nose with her breath. But it was useless; the babe was already gray with death.

Baby Clarissa was gone.

Juliette tugged at my mother’s skirts, begging, pleading with her to bring her child back to life. Marie Toureau came rushing into the room with Lucy, but no efforts on their part could calm Juliette’s anguish.

You did this! Munro suddenly screamed, throwing his fists at my mother. She put her hands in front of her face, and I jumped onto Munro’s back and then wrestled him to the ground. Your mother’s a witch! he cried. All the people in the village say so!

With this declaration, Juliette stopped bawling, and fixed her eyes on my mother. You—toi! she shrieked. "You caused this! Elle était bien! What did you do to her?"

My mother stared at her, her eyes wide with shock. She started to stay something, but Juliette rushed towards her and started yelling and crying: Witch! You killed my baby!

Mother untangled me from Munro, grabbed my hand and hurried me out of the Manor House. We very nearly flew across the field to our cottage. When we got home, in a frantic haste, my mother stuffed a deer hide satchel with clothes, food and medicine.

She glanced anxiously towards the door. We must leave now, Elspeth, and go into the woods.

I nodded, choking back tears. Then I said: Surely Lady Juliette will calm down and realize this is not your fault—‘tis but her grief that speaks. Maybe we should tarry until she is right in mind and speech.

No, my mother said decisively. I know her. She will not bear this grief; she will resolve to seize upon my punishment as its cure.

We walked until my toes were bloody and unbearably pained. My mother was no better, but she reassured me that if we walked the entire day and rested only in the deep pitch of night, we would reach the city by early morning of the next day. Few words passed between us as we climbed through the rambling brush of the forest. Berries, fruit and oatcakes fortified our bodies. We stayed off the main road. Like an animal tracking its prey, my mother used her cunning and skill to move us safely towards our destination—Edinburgh.

That night deep in the darkness of the wood, I sensed for the first time the fear that quacked within her. Luckily it was the end of summer and the bosom of the earth was warm. My mother fetched a stick, and drawing a large circle around a mossy green patch of lichen, she commanded the wood to lend its protection in all directions. Satisfied, she lay a thin wool shawl in the center of the circle and pulled me to the ground.

Night is very precious, she whispered. Look deeply into the darkness, and you will begin to see.

I saw naught but darkness and heard naught but the chirping of crickets. Sullen, I stared up at the starry sky.

Elspeth, my mother said, touching my arm, I know not what the morrow brings, and therefore I must speak to you of my mother.

Many years had passed since my mother had spoken of my grandmother, and although my picture of her face was vague, my mind still held a memory of her bounteous ways. She had taught my mother the Augustinian medicine she had learned while working for the monks at Soutra hospital. My grandfather had been a soldier treated for battle injuries at the hospital. He died when my mother was four.

Your grandmother and many of her neighbors celebrated Samhain—Hallowmass, the day of the dead. Both man and beast that had died in the past year were mourned, and the coming of winter was blessed. Such was the way of our people. They sang and jumped the fire to mark the dark time of year. Alas, that winter, a severe cold ravaged the land and left disease and famine in its path. My mother reached through the darkness and held my hand tightly, then went on: Your grandmother and those that practiced the old ways were punished for celebrating the Sabbat—for it was believed that ‘twas they that bewitched the winter’s slumber.

My mother’s voice sounded strange and hollow. I had heard whispers of bewitching; but knew not well its meaning. Though my skin burned with a feverish heat, inside I felt a cold chill rush to my bones. I wanted to feign sleep; I wanted my mother’s story to stop. Oh, how I wanted to flee the woods and seek refuge in my soft, straw bed!

The truth is most painful to hear, Elspeth, but it could save your life.

I sat up in a flash and roughly retrieved my hand. No, Mother, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know! Quiet sobs jerked my body. I feared the knowledge of my grandmother’s death would render me bereft of my childhood.

I do not want to betray your innocence—I want to protect its luminosity. You are naught but a loving chalice, my child, and you need to learn to yield a sword.

For what? Protection? Against whom? My chain of questions met their first reply in the plaintive cry of a distant wolf.

Against evil. Your grandmother was accused of being a witch. Burned at the stake. Her death delivered a whole town into absolution, a relief and reason for the harsh winter.

But surely she was not blamed for that which was clearly nature’s quarrel?

Nature is never accused. For accusing nature is too mysterious a thing. Cruelty alone satisfies those seeking a scapegoat for all they do not comprehend. With these words my mother nestled me safe in the curves of her body. Finally, I surrendered into the darkness of a deep, narcotic sleep until a light rain woke me.

My wool dress itched my skin, and my feet were so swollen I walked barefoot. Edinburgh rose up to meet us in the gloomy, wet morning light. We heard the haunting sound of bagpipes a short distance away. Instantly, I remembered my father calling the pipes the bones of death.

Father had taken me to Edinburgh many times for various sundries needed by the master. And once again, as the city neared, I felt as if I were entering into the center of a storm.

The High Street stretched between rows of tall fieldstone and wood houses up to the Castle Rock. We clung to the alleys and passages that led into a labyrinth of closes and wynds. Despite the misty gloom of the morning rain, I felt exhilarated as I watched goldsmiths and silversmiths, weavers and clockmakers, cabinetmakers, joiners and glassmakers all about their early morning business. Mother seemed to have some idea of the whereabouts of our destination, and with our hands gripped tightly together she wove me through the streets.

Suddenly my mother stopped, agitated and panicked. It was here! I remember it was here! she cried. She stopped a washerwoman in the street and with downcast eyes asked for information. The washerwoman barely had two teeth in her mouth, but she smiled nonetheless and pulled my mother close to her:

The apothecary is moved, just up the street, but mind there is no sign—the timber house with the low brass knocker. Rain began to pour from the skies, and the little, toothless woman said, Mind yourself now. You don’t want to catch the death in these here streets.

She scurried down the hill.

There didn’t appear to be anyone inside the thin house with the brass knocker, but just as our patience waned, the door opened a crack, and a stern voice called out, Who goes there, then?

Morag MacGregor, my mother answered back. I am in need of medicine. The door opened a sliver more, just enough to reveal the tip of the nose that belonged to the voice. I am a midwife, my mother continued, it has been many years, but perchance you remember me.

A shock of gray hair moved from behind the door, and the face attached to the voice sent a shudder through my soul. Come in, the woman said, and my mother and I entered the house.

The woman’s name was Flora MacLeod, and she did remember my mother. Aye, she said excitedly, you knew the subtlety of a woman’s body—you had a refined intuition. I remember you indeed. The wrinkles on her nose crinkled, and she pursed her lips. Flora MacLeod looked ancient—her face was crisscrossed with lines and shadows. There was a certain power that emanated from her eyes, and I found myself unable to meet her gaze. We sat in a small sitting room and Flora prepared us a mintleaf tea with water that was boiled on the hearth. The hot liquid dressed my bones in comforting warmth. Her house was pleasant and comfortable and filled with an intoxicating, exotic aroma. We must make a poultice for the child’s feet, Flora said propping my feet on a small wooden stool with a cushion.

My mother explained our plight, and Flora sighed gravely: They’re hanging witches everywhere. My old age makes me very suspect. The elders are thought to be wards of the Devil. Her face flushed with anger. Hah! she exclaimed, ’tis a lie to pillage and thief our property and money. I rarely go outdoors, for there are those that would likely drag me by the hair and steal the very shoes off my feet."

I drank in Flora Macleod’s face as she spoke. She looked like a wise old cat, both tame and feral. Suddenly I felt with a shudder that my mother and I must hasten on. We must leave Edinburgh at once, I said impatiently. It is not safe here.

Flora’s eyes fixed unmoving on me, and it seemed that the features of her face shifted into ageless form—instead of her gray hair I saw a shock of blue-black hair. My heart pounded.

What do you see, child? she asked.

"I don’t see anything, I cried. I just know."

Flora MacLeod stood up, and it seemed somehow she towered over us, though it was impossible, as she was an old and wizened woman.

Do not marry thinking to what you feel, she said. Think only on safety and certainty and in all that is good. Despite your conditions, raise up your spirits—‘tis the transport of destiny.

But how can I avoid a hard fate? my mother asked, almost in tears.

There is a difference, my dear, between destiny and fate, the old woman answered.

Confusion fogged my brain—but hadn’t I seen the fate of baby Clarissa at her birth? Hadn’t I known then that her life would be brief? I put this to the old woman, and she shook her head in consternation. Then she said:

Yes, child, the hour of our birth and the hour of our death is oft governed by the intelligence of the stars, but our destiny is determined by whether or not we choose to let the experiences of our lives murder our spirits or feed our souls. Do not give in to what has happened to you. Flora MacLeod placed her blue-veined fingers on my mother’s hand. With a pronounced gravitas in her tone, she added, All the sorrows and miseries of this earthbound world cannot injure your soul.

After we ate a hearty fare of haggis, neeps and tatties, Flora MacLeod set four stones on the table. These represent the four directions, she explained. We must determine your journey.

Flora mumbled something over the stones, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

Mother and I stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Flora opened her eyes and looked at my mother. There are malevolent forces, she said very gravely, in all directions. This hatred is on a rapid, severe, and malignant course. Trust neither man nor woman. Listen only to the authority of your own heart.

Well, you can’t get much grimmer than that, I thought and turned my face away from my mother and Flora MacLeod. Fear rumbled inside my stomach. I felt helpless and began to cry. My mother pulled me onto her lap and stroked my hair.

Flora leaned forward in her chair. I shall find the child suitable clothes, she said genially. With her demeanor she may pass for gentry. I have but a small amount of money, but what I have is yours. Do not postpone your departure. You must gain strength here and leave tomorrow at dawn.

My new dress was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. The whalebone bodice was draped in pale thin wool as soft as fleece and brocaded with shiny silk trimmings of green and gold. I had on my feet for the first time the most proper of shoes made of dyed red silk. They were slightly big, but rather splendid nonetheless. Mother too was the beneficiary of Flora’s generosity. With her hair brushed high up and then descending yet again in a tumble of curls over her black bodice, she looked like a great Scottish gypsy queen.

I slept badly. The small room was pleasant enough, but I kept hearing strange noises coming from the street—I was wholly unaccustomed to sleeping in a city. I awoke tired and said nothing over breakfast.

If anyone should ask why you travel alone, say you are in mourning, Flora instructed as she handed us a small bag and set us outside. "Be mindful and use your