This is a birthday story for a friend... She loves music and finished Clockwork Princess a week or so ago, so I figured "let's smash the two together and write something obscure for her!" Happy birthday! And as for the rest of you: enjoy the story!
Disclaimer: I don't own the following characters, stories or lyrics (though I did write all of the prophecies). There's a half-assed bibliography with a list of songs at the end of this fic. Also keep in mind that the original interpretation of the songs may have been changed, and that they may be too recent or too outdated for Bridget's time but OH WELL.
Dedication: My amiga!
The Secret Prophet
Bridget lied.
She was raised in a household of ten children, so sometimes that practical little skill did her favours- but in her day to day life she was an honest woman. She didn't lie to police. She didn't lie at church. Above all, she didn't lie to the Shadowhunters who lent their kitchen to her and paid her daily bread. Well, except about her name.
Her name was Cassandra Daly.
An unusual name, but her family was unusual. Sighted mundanes, working for the Clave generation after generation. Her father's employer, the head of the Dublin Institute at the time, had been the one to suggest her name after he'd heard that his cook had been planning on naming his firstborn "Abiageal", with that horrid spelling (he was, bless him anyways, English). Her parents had liked it. The rest was like a fairy tale.
Once upon a time, the Dublin Institute refused to assist the local Fair Folk in taking action against mundanes on their lands and the Fair Folk got bitter. Of course, the Dublin Institute being the only official Shadowhunter establishment in Ireland, it was fairly strong and therefore untouchable in terms of violence and revenge. It shouldn't have been a surprise to anybody that they jumped at their first opportunity to hurt the Clave.
That opportunity came in the form of one of the employee's –the cook's- newborn daughter. The Institute was curious about this new addition and had asked his wife Siobhan, whose scarlet curls and kind brown eyes ran in the family and would continue to do so, to bring the baby over one day so they could properly meet this new child. Without properly knowing what connection the baby had to the Institute or to the work of Shadowhunters period, the Faeries cursed the child. Her name and a princess and an old story were their inspiration, meaning that maybe Cassandra had been cursed from birth after all. The Faeries, in their usual, Machiavellian ways, veiled the curse with gift- or layered a gift with a curse. It was difficult to know assuredly.
The child grew up with the gift of clairvoyance and prophecy, however nobody would believe any of her visions –none of the tidbits her mind would bring back from the future, none of her hunches, none of her doubts…. Of course Cassandra's loved ones and Shadowhunter contacts knew about this curse, but they couldn't bring themselves to believe her despite this knowledge, despite her precedents, despite it all.
There was no happy ending yet.
Once upon a time, Cassandra gave a prophecy.
Under the cover of light the darkness will come
With a scar across his face, his eye from.
When midnight and rain fall at once
The demon within will take his chance and pounce.
Clairvoyance was a tedious gifts when shouldered by mortals, and Cassandra was feverish and raked with chills for days of bedridden agony. Her prophecy was taken as a delusion.
Once upon a time, a man came to the Dublin Institute.
Still fragile from her recent prophecy, Cassandra was granted leave from her apprenticeship in the Institute's kitchen alongside Kelly Daly, her father. One of the Shadowhuntresses her own age, Caitriona, sat in the parlour with her and Cassandra helped her study her Codex.
That was how Cassandra saw the man come in. The walls of the Institute were paper thin and she and Caitriona pressed their ears to the parlour wall to listen to the audience in the Institute Head's office.
He was seeking asylum on his way from Derry, saying that he'd been pursued by werewolves since then and needed to rest.
His request was granted –he was a MacAuliffe, a good Shadownhunter family in Ireland.
On his way out, Cassandra saw him again and she noticed the scar cutting across his face as if someone had tried to bar it out. It split his face in two, coming from the corner of his left eye.
Cassandra was terrified of the stranger with the scar matching her prophecy, and she spent the evening glued to her father. She found the strength to help him serve supper alongside her father because that was far better than staying alone in the building he was in.
"Can I get more of that cake, love?" He asked Cassandra as she whisked by him after pouring more water in a glass.
"Certainly," Cassandra said looking at the floor.
"Thanks, love," he said. "I have quite the sweet tooth."
Cassandra nodded and ran off to the kitchen. She was so upset for the rest of the night that her father saved her a slice of his chocolate potato cake instead of packaging it up for the pastor, but even that didn't cheer her spirits.
Once upon a time, Cassandra tried to fight her curse. She told her closest sister Blake about the man, about her words, about his sweet tooth, about how suspicious it was that he went to bed early in the evening, immediately after supper, and only resurfaced for breakfast- never reading or smoking or playing Bridge and cards with the other Shadowhunters…
"You were feverish, Cassie," Blake said as she rocked the baby of the family, Nora, to sleep. "How do we know you meant any of what you said?"
"I was feverish because of the prophecy," Cassandra insisted.
Her sister was skeptical.
"It described a scar exactly like his," she persisted. "Across the face, starting from an eye…"
"Cassandra!" Blake said surprised. One of Cassandra's teeth had fallen out as soon as she'd spoken about her prophecy and blood poured from the wound.
Cassandra didn't bring up her prophecy again and let the issue slide.
Her body, mind and gift, however, did her no such favours.
Cassandra could barely sleep and when she did, someone woke her up because she spoke in her slumber and thrashed in her covers, as if every night was a nightmare. Usually it was her prophecy that she repeated over and over. Her lips would be cracked and her mouth would be bleeding and she could barely talk for the rest of the day, much less speak her prophecy and renew the flow of blood.
She took to pacing in the night. She took to pretending the migraines were nothing but growing pains and that the fear overtaking her when she helped her father in the Dublin Institute's kitchen was nothing but shyness.
Once upon a time, Cassandra danced with a boy at a cousin's wedding.
He was a poor dancer, and that gave her mind time to wander.
She noticed that her prophecies were structured with rhymes and rhythm like songs.
Cassandra found a way to speak her prophecies painlessly.
Her father had put Cassandra in charge of peeling potatoes, saying that the big feast was in honour of the slaying of a pack of werewolves- meaning that tonight would possibly be Master MacAuliffe's last night at the Institute.
Cassandra sang her stress and sorrows.
"My man is six foot tall, six foot tall, six foot tall,
My man is six foot tall, he likes his sugar candy.
Goes to bed at six o'clock, goes to bed at six o'clock, goes to bed at six
o'clock.
He's lazy, fat and dandy.
///
Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead,
Some say the devil is dead and buried in Killarney.
More say he rose again, more say he rose again, more say he rose
again, and joined the British army."
"I'm happy to see you in a good mood," Father said touching her shoulder. "It pains me to see you bloody and sleep deprived.
Cassandra smiled and started singing again when he went back to his stew.
Once upon a time the peaceful Dublin Institute made national Shadowhunter news.
A traitor to the Clave had made his way within their ranks and had killed the Institute Head, Eoin Gardenhost. He'd also disposed of a cook, Kelly Daly, during his escape. The cook had been staying late, using the Institute's kitchen to bake his famous apple cake for his children (more precisely Finian and Fallon, twins celebrating their birthday), and he'd tried to stop the murderer.
M. MacAuliffe had escaped into Dublin at midnight. Most of the Institute had been asleep, and the rain falling in sheets covered his escape.
The new Institute Head was Art Sundance and he offered her father's old job to Cassandra, who continued to work in the Institute and brought her salary home. It was a long year of mourning, topped off by the family's youngest son, Regan, dying of a childhood disease.
Cassandra spent her time in the Institute and she bartered some extra hours of cleaning for some training in the ways of Shadowhunters, in self-defence.
Faeries had disrupted her family's order and peacefulness –more precisely her own- and Shadowhunter politics had killed her father. Someone had to be in measure to defend the Daly family. That someone would be her.
Once upon a time a princess fell in love with a pauper. Except she wore black leather gear instead of silk gowns, and the pauper wasn't poor at all. As a matter of fact, he was from a rather rich family- he was only below the princess because his blood was mortal.
The ceremony to make him whole was arranged, and the wedding was planned for a week after the Ascension.
All this was months away. The prince moved into the princess' palace and charmed every single Shadowhunter living there. Except for the cook, but who cared what a cook had to say? Especially in this case, when the cook couldn't form an opinion about the prince besides:
Thieves wear masks into the night
For them, churches are too bright.
Beware the boy named Murray.
Beware the thief, he'll never stay.
Cassandra needed to work in the Institute, and she needed the job and she needed the training. And above all, he was her best friend's fiancé. Caitriona Mayrose had always been sweet with Cassandra despite her being the cook's daughter. They'd always taken care of each other, helped each other study and train and learn and heard each other out. Caitriona, who had been orphaned and practically raised by Art Sundance, had always been able to negotiate Kelly Daly's Christmas vacation for Cassandra, and Cassandra had always snuck extra dessert into her friend's bedroom in return.
She was therefore civil with Quinn Murray, but she had no faith or hope in him. In fact, she avoided him- even at church! She felt horrible for it, but she couldn't trust him- especially not with Caitriona's heart. Her sister Colleen worked at a pub and admitted that she often saw him throwing coins around and whistling at bar maidens.
Caitriona twirled in her wedding dress.
"I love it," she said with a smile slowly taking over her face. The ruffles flowed down from her waist and sleeves of satiny flowers slipped down her shoulders. A flower had been put in her hair and she looked beautiful. Radiant. She'd look too pretty in the modest church she'd marry in, with its simple arches and big windows…
Thieves wear masks into the night,
For them, churches are too bright.
There was a reason Cassandra never told Caitriona about Quinn's gambling, his drinking… It was too in link with her prophecy. Caitriona would never believe her, it would just push her friend away from her. And Cassandra knew that Caitriona would have her heart broken so badly, she'd need everybody she could close to her heart.
"You look lovely," Cassandra said.
Caitriona beamed at her.
"You'll come to the wedding, right?" Caitriona said. "I mean, I know that Art asked you to cook but after that you'll come, right?"
"I already borrowed a dress from Blake," Cassandra lied.
Caitriona beamed.
Cassandra may have been a little more violent than usual as she chopped vegetables that afternoon, singing her secret prophecy away in a song.
"When on the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo Hurroo
When on the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo Hurroo
When on the road to sweet Athy
A stick in the hand, A drop in the eye
A doleful damsel I heard cry
Johnny I hardly knew ya
///
Where are the eyes that looked so mild,
Hurroo Hurroo
Where are the eyes that looked so mild,
Hurroo Hurroo
Where are the eyes that looked so mild
When my poor heart you first beguiled
Why did ya run from me and the child
Johnny I hardly knew ya"
"I think you've put those carrots in their place," someone behind her joked. It was Quinn, coming in through the servant's entrance. It irked Cassandra that he did that. He'd been told multiple times to come in through the main door, but he insisted on coming in through the back to remind the Shadowhunters that he was beneath them, as if he was making himself seem humble and pure and good. Cassandra didn't take his coat when he did that.
"Miss Catriona is upstairs," she said before returning to her vegetables.
"You sing well," he said hanging his coat on a hook next to Cassandra's.
"Thank you," she said. She turned around to look at him and she opened her mouth. Nothing came out. No don't hurt my best friend, don't break her after all these years of bad luck and bad life that she's stayed strong for.
Her prophecies were final. They were unavoidable. Cassandra was powerless, and she had to let them slide. She could only sing, but if nobody took her songs seriously, if they just thought of her as a talented songbird…
She turned back to her vegetables.
She was powerless.
Once upon a time, a boy drank from the mortal cup to marry a girl who'd been born with the angel's blood already in her veins. He took the Nephilim name 'Eldersky' and was welcomed to the Institute like a hero. Until he vanished to Idris, leaving Ireland as a thief a week before his wedding- and above all, a heartbreaker.
What Quinn Eldersky didn't know was that he'd already sired the twins Braden and Sloane Mayrose who would one day go to Idris and murder him, claiming their innocence under the Honour Killing Laws.
But that would be many years later after months and years of heartbreak, pain, hard work, sorrow and the following argument:
"You knew it," Caitriona whispered to her feet as she sat curled up in a chair in her room.
"I'm sorry," Cassandra said.
"You didn't tell me," Caitriona said.
"Nobody believes my prophecies," Cassandra said. "It would have been useless, and painful to me."
"You didn't even try," Caitriona said.
"My father died and nobody believed me," Cassandra said. "I think if I could have made anybody listen, it would have been then."
"I'm your best friend," Caitriona said, looking up in tears. "Didn't you think that would have counted for something?"
"Not against Faerie Curses!" Cassandra said.
"You're only as cursed as you think!" Caitriona said leaping to her feet.
Blood poured out of Cassandra's lips. Caitriona didn't notice, she curled back into herself.
"I'm pregnant." She said quietly.
"Cait…" Cassandra said softly.
"If he'd have known, maybe he'd have stayed," Caitriona said.
How could Cassandra tell her no? He'd only wanted to use Caitriona to get to the mortal cup. She was nothing to him, and so would her children have been.
"You could have given me a chance," Caitriona said.
"You'll have your chance," Cassandra said. "With a man who deserves you."
"Oh, have you seen that in the future as well?"
"That's not fair," Cassandra said. A sob came out alongside the word 'fair'. Very little was, in fact, fair for her.
"Get out," Caitriona said. "Get out, I don't want to see you again."
"Yes, Miss," Cassandra said, excusing herself, covering her mouth with her hand as she left the room.
Around that time, Art Sundance noticed how unhappy Cassandra was in the Institute. He came into the kitchen and interrupted her ballad:
'O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!'
'O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'
///
'What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?'
'Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'
///
'What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?'
'My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.'
///
'What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?'
'My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'
///
'What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?'
'I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'
"Are you tired of the work, Cassandra?" He asked her one day, after coming to find her in the kitchen.
"No, Mr Sundance."
"Do you need a raise? Is there trouble at home?"
"No, Mr Sundance," Cassandra repeated.
"Because you've been acting strangely," he said. "So strangely, as a matter of fact, that..."
He lost his words.
"That what?" Cassandra asked.
"Caitriona said that you were a traitor to Nephilim," he said.
Her stomach sunk.
"Sir, you know I'm not…"
"Of course," Art said. "And Caitriona knows too. She's just heartbroken is all. But she brought up something that may prove to be problematic: your gift."
Cassandra shifted on her seat in the kitchen.
"Why?" Cassandra asked. "You've known me since I was cursed, sir. You know me."
"I do," Art said. "But…"
He chewed his lip.
"You can't tell any of the Shadowhunters or staff- especially not Caitriona."
Cassandra nodded. "Cross my heart, sir."
"I'm being promoted," Art said. "The Clave wants me to move from Dublin to Belfast. They want to build an Institute there and have entrusted me to found it."
"Congratulations on the honour," Cassandra said.
"Thank you," Art said. "I can't bring Caitriona with me if she's expecting, she's already under so much stress…"
"Naturally," Cassandra said.
"And I don't want to leave you here either," Art said. "Your gift of prophecy- those who were here when you were cursed have come to understand and accept its particularities, but… it remains an oddity- a unique curse that the Fair Folk have no history of casting."
"It's because of my name, sir," Cassandra fumbled to explain. Her head spun as soon as he started mentioning her gift of prophecy.
"I know, I know. And I would vouch for you any day- as Kelly Daly's daughter, and as your own person too," Art said. "But do you see how easy it could be that your inability to share the future could be seen as… well… treason? Or an active choice?"
Cassandra bit her lip.
"I know the man who's taking over the Institute," Art said. "He despises magic. He's never said it out loud, but he thinks it soils those on which it is cast. I don't think I can promise your safety here, Cassandra."
She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach.
"Sir, I've been good," she said.
"You have," Art said. "Exceptional even. Which is why I want to send you to London instead. Their cook has been killed recently and the Clave is looking to transfer a sighted staff member. I know you still help your mother so much, but I know the Head of the London Institute- she's a brilliant, openhearted woman who'll be able to do for you what I can't."
Cassandra swallowed.
She thought it through.
Bryan had been taken in by the blacksmith for an apprenticeship and soon enough he'd be able to help Mum. Aidan was in school and that cost a pretty penny, but she was sure that she could make it work. Blake was engaged and would be out of the house shortly and until then her work as a barmaid could help mum- maybe Colleen could even take over for her afterwards. Finnian and Fallon were only twelve, but they were old enough to watch Cassidy and maybe even Nora- so Mum may be able to start tailoring again… Besides, she'd still get paid in England…
"Can you help me with the paperwork?" Cassandra asked.
He nodded.
"But can you change my name for me?" Cassandra said. "I don't want to be found if this new Head hears word of my curse. Tell the Shadowhunters I'm leaving because I married and call me… Bridget. Bridget or something Irish they'll believe. Please."
Bridget had only been in London for a few days but she'd already noticed bonds and friendships and anachronisms in the cast of Shadowhunters. For one, she noticed the love between the two younger boys –the parabatai- and their love for the girl, Miss Teresa, and the love that the Head of the Institute, Miss Charlotte, had for them all. It felt pure and strong and good, but the pit of Bridget's stomach found itself insisting that things would end poorly. She found herself singing as she settled into her new kitchen.
"There were three ravens sat on a tree
Down-a-down, Hey! Down-a-down,
And they were black as they might be, with a down
The one of them said to his mate:
"What shall we for our breakfast take?"
With a down, derry derry derry down, down
Down in yonder green field,
Down-a-down, Hey! Down-a-down,
There lies a knight slain under his shield, with a down
Down there comes a fallow doe,
As great with young as she might go
With a down, derry derry derry, down, down
She lifted up his bloody head,
Down-a-down, Hey! Down-a-down,
And kissed his wounds that were so red, with a down
She got him up across her back
And carried him to the earthen lake
With a down derry derry derry down, down"
"You enjoy singing," Miss Teresa said coming into the kitchen, her knuckles on the door as if she'd knocked without Bridget hearing her.
"Yes, Miss," Bridget said. She felt that if anybody would understand her strange, strange plight it would be Teresa Grey, who had some strangeness to sort out for herself.
But no. In London, she was to be normal. The only clue to her curse would be her songs, and maybe a letter or two to Blake who would read them without understanding, would read them while ignoring the bloodstains on the creamy stationary that Master James had given Bridget as a welcoming gift, in case she wanted to write letters home.
"I just wanted to bother you for a cup of tea," Miss Teresa said. "I know it's not the time yet, but I've hardly slept and need to stay up until supper."
"Of course," Bridget said. She fixed Miss Teresa her cup of tea and finished her song.
"She buried him before his prime
Down-a-down, Hey! Down-a-down,
She was dead herself, ere evening time, with a down
God send every gentlemen
Fine hawks, fine hounds and such a loved one
With a down derry derry derry down, Hmmm."
She took her cup and left hurriedly once Bridget handed it to her, which seemed out of character for such a polite and nice young woman. Judging by her agitated and uncomfortable behaviour, Bridget wondered hurriedly if maybe her prophecies were skipping the poetry segment and starting to come out directly as ballads.
She checked her reflection in the back of a spoon. Her mouth and tongue wasn't bleeding.
Bridget would take it.
Cyril took an awful long time fetching the carrots for his horses that morning.
Truth be told, Bridget knew that recently those horses got more than their due in carrots with all of Cyril's coming and staying and talking and asking about song lyrics so that he could memorise them… Truth be told, Bridget couldn't care less. Any excuse to get Cyril in the kitchen was fair game, as far as she was concerned. There was a certain calmness about him that relaxed her. And he had a deep, soothing voice.
They sang The Maid and the Palmer- but only the first few verses; the ones where the Maid and the Palmer could be in love and teasing each other, Cyril rejected the rest of the song. He insisted on happy ballads and drinking songs, insisting that life was sombre enough. He sang the Palmer's verses and she sang the Maid's; their voices alternating in the kitchen.
"Oh, the maid went down to the well for to wash,
And the dew fell down from her snow-white flesh,
The dew fell down from her snow-white flesh
As the sun shone down so early.
///
And as she washed, as she wrang,
She hung them out on a hazel wand,
She hung them out on a hazel wand
When by there come a palmer man.
///
Oh, God speed you, Old Man, she cries,
God speed you, you fair pretty maid,
God speed you, my pretty fair maid
As the sun shines down so early.
///
Have you got a cup? Have you got a can?
Can you give a drink to a palmer man?
Can you give a drink to a palmer man
As the sun shines down so early?
///
Oh, I've no cup and I've no can
And I cannot give a drink to a palmer man,
I cannot give a drink to a palmer man
As the sun shines down so early.
///
You lie, you lie, you are forsworn,
For if your true love came from Rome,
Then a cup, a can you'd find for him,
As the sun shines down so early.
///
Now she swore by God and the good St. John,
A true lover she'd had never the one,
A true love she'd had never the one,
As the sun shines down so early."
"Have you never had a lover?" Cyril asked. "I mean: pardon my indiscretion. It just surprises me how much…"
"No, no!" Bridget said. Her cheeks quite possibly matched her hair by this point. "It's… it's alright. The truth is I've always been more of a workhorse."
"That's something to admire," Cyril said. Bridget blushed some more.
"My opportunities have been slim," she said awkwardly.
"A shame," Cyril asked. "One day someone will repair that injustice."
Bridget blushed even more.
She understood why he was so good with horses- he was steady, consistent, soft… The opposite of Bridget's erratic soothsaying and visions and prophecy… which had been acting up recently. Acting up to the rhythm of Bridget's heartbeat. Nothing that she knew was good. He would die young, but horribly. Of an illness, of a war, of an injury- of something long and painful and drawn out.
She couldn't tell Cyril how she was going to die. She couldn't tell Cyril about the letters from Blake telling Bridget of how badly Mum was deteriorating as her children left the house and Father stayed dead. She couldn't tell Cyril that she couldn't love a man who was about to die, and she had to tell him soon before he made her an offer that she couldn't refuse- a proposal, for example.
One day she deliberately sang a sad song while he was in the kitchen.
"I reached my finger into some soft bush
Thinking the fairest flower to find
I pricked my finger to the bone
And left the fairest flower behind
///
Oh love be handsome and love be kind
Gay as a jewel when first it is new
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like the morning dew
///
Must I go bound while you go free
Must I love a man who doesn't love me
Must I be born with so little art
As to love a man who'll break my heart."
He still approached her and put a hand on her elbow.
"Feeling glum are we?"
Prophecies raced across her mind.
Treasure every breath
For you only have so many
Before the sharp knife of destiny
Turns your path towards death
Her nod was small and his comforting kiss was enough to make the voices shut up.
Cyril was kind enough to pretend not to taste the blood on her lips.
Bridget and Sophie got along rather well. Bridget hated Sophie's small talk and Bridget hated Sophie's small talk. Other than that, they were good friends and they covered for each other more than once. Sophie sent Bridget's letters to Ireland along with the rest of the Institute's correspondence and sometimes Bridget cleaned the dining room to save Sophie the trouble, on nights Master Gideon was in. Especially on nights that Master Gideon was in. He was kind and knowledgeable and soft and alright with silence and independence. Everything Sophie needed, just as she was everything he wanted.
But sometimes, Sophie was so goddamned stubborn about their differences.
Sometimes Sophie was resigned about the unreachability of Gideon Lightwood when Bridget had seen just how far Shadowhunters would and could go for the people they loved- in London especially. Sometimes Sophie was content with her life when Bridget swore that she could do so much better.
It was good to keep her angry about her destiny with well-placed ballads on unrequited love.
"Earl Richard had a daughter;
A comely maid was she.
And she laid her love on Sweet William,
Though not of his degree."
Angry people made changes. Bridget had been angry when she'd discovered music as an outlet to flush out her prophecies- including prophecies she'd received the first time she'd met Sophie, and again the first time she'd met Master Gideon.
Look up or down and see
Just what the world could be.
Look up or down and you will find,
The only love made for your kind.
And after all, there was nothing stopping Bridget from using her prophecies to make people angry and ready to change and pounce and take action and say I love you and will you marry me and the social classes and the clave and everything in between doesn't matter to how much I love you.
Since Bridget had danced with that boy so long ago and realised that she could disguise her prophecies as songs and relieve her mind and body of that particular burden, she'd forgotten something very important.
Music could be simply for the sake of music.
She sat on a rickety stool in the stables and Cyril sang as he rubbed down his horse before walking her across town on errands. Bridget sang, and she sang not to tell him what she couldn't tell him, but to tell him something beautifully:
"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
///
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
///
And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
///
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.
///
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me."
Bridget had always been separated from the Institute's main action and drama as a housekeeper and sometimes, that had been a good thing. There were messes no servant should have to clean up.
However she saw Master James dying in front of everyone he loved and who loved him back. Master James, who had given her stationary "just in case you want to let your family know you're alright" when she'd arrived and who constantly complimented her on how good a meal smelled before he even tasted it, who apologised when he was too weak to eat her food.
She saw how everyone was dying with him, and she was surprised to see him well enough to come marching down to breakfast. However, she knew that he was to die anyways, and knew that Master James wouldn't want his friends to fool themselves with delusions of health or fresh hope:
"Cold blows the wind tonight, sweetheart,
Cold are the drops of rain;
The very first love that ever I had
In greenwood he was slain.
/////
I'll do much for my sweetheart
As any young woman may;
I'll sit and mourn at his graveside
A twelve-month and a day."
Bridget sang softly as she did the dishes after a supper that nobody had touched. She didn't blame them: anything tasted pasty and horrid and heavy like rocks in the mood that they were all in. Mourn could made a king's food taste like scraps.
"Low lie the Fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing we had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry.
///
By a lonely harbor wall
She watched the last star falling
As that prison ship sailed out against the sky
Sure she'll wait and hope and pray
For her love in Botany Bay
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry.
///
Low lie the Fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing we had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry."
"You sound discouraged," Cyril said as he ate a slice of honey-glazed corned beef at the rickety servant's table in the kitchen. Sophie had left hurriedly, most probably to spend time with Master Gideon. The poor Lightwood boys had, after all, just lost their father.
"Bad things are happening with this Mortmain business," Bridget said. "Times are hard."
"For the Shadowhunters," Cyril said.
"Don't take this lightly!"
"I'm sorry," Cyril said. "No need to snap at me."
"Shame on you," Bridget said trembling. "I'd expect you to know better! Your brother, an innocent, was lost because of a Shadowhunter's dark times! My father was a collateral damage of Nephilim politics and so was I!"
And I'm afraid that maybe you will be too.
The simple thought made Bridget's mouth feel tingly and sore, as if her teeth were being rearranged and her tongue wrung. The words of Cyril's prophecy rang in her head: Treasure every breath, For you only have so many…
Master Jem was dead. Dead before the real fight with Mortmain had even begun. How could Bridget expect Cyril to survive? How could she expect him to emerge whole? How could she expect not to lose him as cruelly as she'd lost her father and her old life- how could she expect to keep him dear?
"Don't tell me how my brother died as if I don't know!" Cyril said. "Don't act as if I misunderstand the gravity of the situation."
You're going to die and I'm going to lose you. Treasure every breath, treasure every breath, treasure every breath…
Bridget's mouth began to bleed. The coppery taste of blood took over her mouth.
"Some of us choose not to be as depressing as humanely possible," Cyril said. "Some of us chose to be happy, Bridget."
"Get out," she told him.
It was mostly for her mouth, but partially for her heart.
"Get out," she said.
He stormed out and left his supper.
Bridget cleaned that too.
Once upon a time a cursed seer was happy.
Then her old life and reality caught up to her.
Bridget was naturally sensitive to the emotions of others, and considering all the crazed emotions and energy of the Institute now –for a plethora of reasons- she was singing more than ever.
For example: tonight she felt like Will Herondale was far too alone for a boy bearing such emotion. He needed someone by him. Not his best friend, for he'd hide his true emotions from him. Not Miss Teresa, for his pained emotions were centered on her. Someone reliable and dependent who would love you without understanding you and support you without questioning you.
Someone like Blake. Someone like a sister.
Oh, how should could send Will Herondale back to his childhood of families staying together and sisters holding hands and riddle songs sang by his mother.
"Oh, what is brighter than the light?
What is darker than the night?
What is keener than an axe?
What is softer than melting wax?
////////////
Truth is brighter than the light,
Falsehood darker than the night.
Revenge is keener than an axe,
And love is softer than melting wax."
Maybe the lyrics weren't an answer to the real issues of truth, falsehood, revenge and love that Master William had to tackle, but what else could she do, spare telling Bridget that her visions and clairvoyance and friendship with the future made her want to reach out to him, tell him that everything was going to be alright?
The problem with knowing the future was that those trapped in the present became unimaginably annoying with their frustration and confusion and desperation and longing.
For example, William Herondale, James Carstair and Teresa Grey or Stark or whatever it was that she called herself at this time? She was getting awfully jittery with their scenario, wanting to shake all three of them by the shoulders and say you will all be happy, you will all be safe. The future holds something for all of us, and you've been blessed with the good things.
She couldn't tell them, of course.
But she could tell Master William to go downstairs and check on Miss Teresa if he wanted to access this happily ever after.
So she sang it.
"Oh, Mother, Mother make by bed
Make it soft and narrow.
My William died for love of me,
And I shall die of sorrow.
////////
They buried her in the old churchyard.
Sweet William's grave was nigh hers
And from his grave grew a red, red rose
And from her grave a briar
///////
They grew and grew up the old church spire
Until they could grow no higher
And there twined, in a true love knot,
The red, red rose and the briar."
She heard Master William rush Miss Cecily down. Of course, Miss Teresa would already have been taken –a shame that made Bridget's skin crawl and her old friend Catriona's words and accusations come back to her. You didn't even try.
No, but now she was sending them clues and help to get them out of the ditches she couldn't steer her new family away from.
And wasn't that progress?
"They hadn't sailed a day and a day
And a day but barely three,
She cast herself down on the deck
And she wept and wailed most bitterly.
"Oh hold your tongue, my dearest dear,
Let all your sorrows be.
I'll take you where the white lilies grow
All on the bottom of the sea."
"Bridget? I'm sorry to interrupt."
"I have an apple cake coming straight out of the oven, Miss Charlotte," Bridget said as soon as she recognised who had walked into the kitchen. Apple cake was Miss Charlotte's favourite since she'd become pregnant. She craved it so often that Bridget made it for dessert thrice a week without anybody asking her to.
"Thank you, Bridget, but I'm alright," Miss Charlotte said. "I wanted to ask you for a favour instead."
Bridget frowned, but listened.
"I'm a friend of Art Sundance," Miss Charlotte said. "I believe you know him."
Bridget nodded. Canker sores inside her mouth started to tingle, ready to open once more and bleed again.
"He spoke highly of you and wrote me a letter once he found out you were being transferred to my Institute," Miss Charlotte said. "You came to us highly recommended as a cook, and he even spoke to us of your musical talent- urging me to be discreet about it."
Hairs on the back of Bridget's neck rose like soldiers on guard.
"I've done what he asked," Miss Charlotte promised. "I'm the only one who's heard you sing."
She knew. She really knew.
Bridget ran her tongue over her gums, but so far so good.
"I think you have a beautiful voice," Miss said. "I'd like to relieve you of your duties for the Christmas Party so that you could sing."
"Miss?" Bridget asked.
"Sing whatever you like," Miss Charlotte said, "but we have musicians coming and I'd like for you to use your talents painlessly for a night."
Bridget didn't know what to say, so Miss Charlotte nodded as if a bargain had been made and marched out of the kitchen.
Bridget made her father's apple cake every day that week.
Bridget had never felt prettier. She wore a burgundy dress that had been fished from Miss Jessamine's untouched closet by a very daring (and curious) Cecily. After it had been agreed that Jessamine would rather see Bridget looking her best than her things being left to rot and mould, Miss Charlotte had given her the gown.
She also loved singing. She stood near a generous table of food and cakes, slicing and pouring and distributing as the guests came. Some weren't hungry and came to tell Bridget that she had a beautiful voice. She told them it was practise more than anything.
The only thing she hadn't thought of was that Cyril would be there.
She and Cyril had perfected the art of ignoring each other so finely that Sophie herself had begun to wonder what was wrong in between her training for the Ascension and regular duties. He ate in a hurry while she served the Shadowhunters and ran back to his horses and his errands as soon as he was back in the kitchen. If she needed something while he was out and about running errands, she left a note on the kitchen door for him.
But even with their games of cat-and-mouse and the way they'd taken to looking at the ground shamefully instead of winking at each other playfully if their paths crossed, seeing him was a breath of fresh air for Bridget. He was alive. Yes he was going to die, yes it would be devastating and heartbreaking and truly painful to watch- but it wasn't today, and it hadn't been tomorrow, and Bridget had the courage to hope that it wouldn't be tomorrow.
Maybe that was love. The courage to hope for tomorrow.
Bridget's thoughts wandered as a new prophecy came to her. Bridget's defence mechanisms kicked in and the prophecy translated itself to song lyrics instantly.
"Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.
/////////////////////////////
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves."
Cyril's eyes met hers when he heard her lyrics, but a moment later he had to run off to help an elderly Shadowhunter hang his coat. Her song had changed when he came back.
"Young Hind Horn to the King is gone,
Hey lililo and a ho la la
And he's fell in love with his daughter Jean,
Hey down and a hey diddle downy.
She gave to him a golden ring
With three bright diamonds set therein.
'When this ring grows pale and wan
It's then that you'll know my love is gone.'"
"It never did," Cyril said.
Her mind blanked on the next verse and Bridget turned to Cyril.
"Pardon me, sir?"
"It never did," Cyril said. "I never did stop loving you."
He played with the brass buttons on his coat. It wasn't his, Bridget knew for a fact. He didn't buy himself such luxuries and had most likely borrowed this from Master Will or Master Henry.
"I don't understand you completely," Cyril said, "but I can love you without understanding just as I can support you without questioning you or the way you sing or the way you know things. We sighted mundane live strange lives-"
Her canker sores throbbed.
"-but we deserved happy ones. Forgive me my silence and forgive me my anger," Cyril said, "but I still hope you could grant me the honour of giving you a happy life."
Bridget bowed her head.
"The honour may be yours but the pleasure is mine," Bridget said. "But I must ask you a favour first."
"Anything, of course," Cyril said.
"Call me Cassandra," she said with a smile.
"Like the cursed princess?" Cyril asked with a frown.
"Who knows," Bridget said. "Maybe it was a gift."
Ballads quoted
· Some Say the Devil is Dead
· Johnny I Hardly Knew Ya
· Lord Randel
· The Three Ravens
· The Maid and the Palmer
· The Water is Ride (part of which was featured in Clockwork Prince)
· Danny Boy
· p. 58: Clockwork Princess
· The Fields of Athenry
· p. 128: Clockwork Princess
· p. 171: Clockwork Princess
· Lord Lovel (p. 204: Clockwork Princess)
· John Harris, or The Daemon Lover
· Greensleeves (p. 519: Clockwork Princess)
· Hind Horn