A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [300]
Take with thee the butterbur
And the foxglove.
“A small quantity of embers
In the skirt of thy kirtle,
A special handful of seaweed
In a wooden shovel.
“Three bones of an old man,
Newly torn from the grave,
Nine stalks of royal fern,
Newly trimmed with an ax.
“Burn them on a fire of faggots
And make them all into ashes;
Sprinkle in the fleshy breast of thy lover,
Against the venom of the north wind.
“Go round the rath of procreation,
The circuit of the five turns,
And I will vow and warrant thee
That man shall never leave thee.”
Mrs. Bug unfolded her hands and took another turnip, quartering it with neat, quick chops and tossing the pieces into the pot. “Ye’re not wanting such a thing yourself, I hope?”
“No,” Brianna murmured, feeling the small cold feeling continue down her back. “Do you think—would the fisher-folk use a charm like that?”
“Well, as to that, I canna say what they’d do—but surely a few would ken that charm; it’s weel enough known, though I havena kent anyone myself has done it. There are easier ways to make a lad fall in love wi’ ye, lass,” she added, pointing a stubby finger at Brianna in admonition. “Cook him up a nice plate o’ neeps boiled in milk and served wi’ butter, for one.”
“I’ll remember,” Brianna promised, smiling, and excused herself.
She had meant to go home; there were dozens of things needing to be done, from spinning yarn and weaving cloth, to plucking and drawing the half dozen dead geese she had shot and hung in the lean-to. But instead she found her footsteps turning up the hill, along the overgrown trail that led to the graveyard.
Surely it wasn’t Amy McCallum who’d made that charm, she thought. It would have taken her hours to walk down the mountain from her cabin, and her with a small baby to tend. But babies could be carried. And no one would know whether she had left her cabin, save perhaps Aidan—and Aidan didn’t talk to anyone but Roger, whom he worshipped.
The sun was nearly down, and the tiny cemetery had a melancholy look to it, long shadows from its sheltering trees slanting cold and dark across the needle-strewn ground and the small collection of crude markers, cairns, and wooden crosses. The pines and hemlocks murmured uneasily overhead in the rising breeze of evening.
The sense of cold had spread from her backbone, making a wide patch between her shoulder blades. Seeing the earth grubbed up beneath the wooden marker with Ephraim on it didn’t help.
50
SHARP EDGES
HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN better. Did know better. But what could he have done? Much more important, what was he to do now?
Roger made his way slowly up the mountainside, nearly oblivious to its beauty. Nearly, but not quite. Desolate in the bleakness of winter, the secluded notch where Amy McCallum’s ramshackle cabin perched among the laurels was a blaze of color and life in spring and summer—so vivid that even his worry couldn’t stop his noticing the blaze of pinks and reds, interrupted by soft patches of creamy dogwood and carpets of bluets, their tiny blue flowers nodding on slender stems above the torrent of the stream that bounded down beside the rocky trail.
They must have chosen the site in summer, he reflected cynically. It would have seemed charming then. He hadn’t known Orem McCallum, but plainly the man hadn’t been any more practical than his wife, or they would have realized the dangers of their remoteness.
The present situation wasn’t Amy’s fault, though; he shouldn’t blame her for his own lack of judgment.
He didn’t precisely blame himself, either—but he should have noticed sooner what was going on; what was being said.
“Everybody kens ye spend more time up at the notch wi’ the widow McCallum than ye do with your own wife.”
That’s what Malva Christie had said, her little pointed chin raised in defiance. “Tell my father, and I’ll tell everyone I’ve seen you kiss Amy McCallum. They’ll all believe me.”
He felt an echo of the astonishment he’d felt at her words—an astonishment succeeded by anger. At the