Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [19]
“A little gold, enough to pay what we owe. The rest was cloth and spices, all spoiled by the sea.”
“But your family—”
“Cast me off when I married James against their wishes, ten years ago. And my brother, now head of the family, will help me only grudgingly and meanly. He belongs to the old queen. Now do you understand what devastation your uncle created? And why I cannot stand the sight of you?”
A long silence. Finally I whispered, “Yes.”
She came closer to me, then. As her features came clear, I saw the sad bewilderment on them, and something else as well, the same thing I had seen about her in the inn. This woman, whatever her personal sorrows, was incapable of unfairness. In the flickering light she studied me carefully.
Finally she said, “Can you really cross over to the land of the Dead?”
“Yes.”
“You could be burned for that, as a witch.”
“Yes.” My heart began to pound.
“Burning is a terrible death. Much worse than drowning.”
“Yes.”
Another long pause. Then, “I’ll tell you what I will do. A courier leaves from here tomorrow for court, because all shipwrecks must be reported to the royal advisors and recorded with the Office of Maritime Records. I will send you with him, with a letter of introduction to an old servant of mine. She is neither important nor influential, but perhaps she can find something for you to do at court. If you are wise, you will tell no one of your ‘ability,’ nor attempt to use it there. That is all I can do.”
“Thank you, mistress!” I was overwhelmed. No one had ever shown me this much kindness. Clumsily—I had never done it before—I fell to one knee in an attempt at a courtly bow.
“Oh, get up,” she said tiredly. “You make as bad a courtier as you do a prisoner. I’m going to write the letter now, so that I never have to lay eyes on you again. Ask Alice to send downstairs for pen and ink.”
I opened the massive door. Alice waited patiently on the other side. As she scurried down the stairs, I wondered what would become of her if Mistress Conyers had really lost all she claimed. How poor was a person who could still send a servant running for pen and ink? Mistress Conyers’s poor was not my poor.
Seated at the table, Alice again sent from the room, Mistress Conyers abruptly stopped scratching her pen across the paper and looked up at me. “Can you read?”
“No, mistress.”
“Can you cipher?”
“Only a little, in my head.”
“Can you do anything of practical use?”
If I said no, she might withdraw her offer of help. Wildly I sought for something plausible, unskilled but needing muscle. “I . . . I can do laundry, my lady.”
“Laundry? A boy?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” She finished her letter and, having no seal, folded it tight. “My old servant is named Emma Cartwright. She’s serving woman to one of Queen Caroline’s ladies.” Her lips curved into a sad half smile at some sweet, lost memory. “I have not told her anything about you except that you are willing, biddable, and strong.” She gazed at me doubtfully.
“I am strong, even though I don’t look it!”
“Yes. Well. At court, you would do well to stay clear of the royal family, in the unlikely chance that your paths should ever cross. There are many strange things at court these days. Many there would consider you a witch. Say nothing to anyone, including the courier who will take you there. His name is Kit Beale.”
“How will I find him?”
“Sleep in the stable. He will find you.”
“I thank you, mistress, for all you’re doing for—”
“I don’t want your thanks. What I want is to never see you again. Now go.”
“Yes, mistress. Where . . . where will you go?”
She turned away, gazing into the fire. “I don’t yet know. And at any rate, it’s none of your concern.”
“No, mistress. It’s just that . . . that I wish you well.”
“Go!”
This time there was no mistaking her tone. I went, clutching the paper I could not read, the paper that would keep me from aimless begging on dangerous roads, the paper that would save my life.
Or so I thought then.
8
I SLEPT IN the stables, as instructed, along with a dozen Conyers servants. We lay in