Chapter 4

Molly's head was pounding; stress and emotional distress had combined to bring on the mother of all headaches. She wished she could unhear her grandmother's words, but the old woman had been determined to tell her the full, unvarnished truth whilst they had some privacy. It had been worse than she thought. Her life would be hard from now on, the old woman had told her plainly. The work would be unending and the living poor. She was a gypsy's bastard who was nothing but an unwelcome reminder of the family's long buried shame and nobody wanted her here. Even her grandmother would rather she had managed to find a place somewhere better.

It turned out that her uncle had only agreed to take her in because she knew her way around a forge and could therefore earn him more beer money. In return her past would be erased and never mentioned again by anyone. It would be put about that she was just a girl who had been taken on for piece work. Her grandmother would protect her as best she could but was relatively powerless. Molly's cot in the house had been all the old woman could get in return for her promise of silence. If not for that Molly would have been bedding down in one of the outhouses but it seemed that this was the limit of the old woman's influence.

Floating in the suffocating darkness, she replayed the end of their dismal conversation silently to herself. There had been something slightly unreal about it but if anything could have demonstrated the vast gulf between her old life and the new one it was this simple exchange.

'Can you make nails, bab?' The old woman had asked, staring at her intently over her half-finished cuppa.

'Of course', Molly answered with a soft smile. 'Making stud nails for shoeing was one of the first things I learnt. I made my first even before Da went off to fight.'

Granny Pritchett nodded with satisfaction and relaxed noticeably back into her chair. 'And how quickly can you make one?'

'About two minutes', she replied proudly. 'It depends on how delicate it needs to be. Da said I had a knack for it because I cared about getting them smooth and even so as not to damage the horses hoofs overmuch.'

'That's heartening to know but we have no time for fancy work here.' Granny Pritchett's gaze was sober and unforgiving. 'We make nails, true, but it's for the building trade not the lord of the manor's prize stallion so we do it quick and we do it dirty. At first, you'll be slower than most your age but eventually you'll catch up. In a few months you be banging out four nails a minute. That will be about 1,700 a day… although I could do more than two thousand in my prime. And Prue, sad little bitch though she is, isn't far off my best.' Despite her words there was no heat in Granny's pronouncement, only a kind of weary detachment.

Molly was so shocked that she almost laughed. Four nails a minute? It was ludicrous, impossible! Even her father couldn't work that fast and he could do almost anything using the alchemical trilogy of fire, metal, and hammer. As to the thought that taking more than 15 seconds to make a nail made it 'fancy work' - it was ridiculous. She truly though her grandmother was mazed. But longer the woman spoke the more it became clear that the she was serious. Molly had sat slumped on the prickly horsehair stool in despair. This time her grandmother's calloused hand stroking her hair was no comfort at all. All she could think of was how desperately grateful her mother must have been to escape with someone who truly loved her. How could she be expected to survive here where no one, except a single, powerless old woman, cared at all?

Now Molly was lying on the sagging mattress bought by her grandmother's last roll of the dice, the lavender bag under her head totally unequal to the task of covering up the musty smell coming from the damp bedding. From the main room she could hear her aunt's steady breathing. Knowing how much the woman despised her, she did not find her presence comforting in the slightest and the thought of her uncle's return made her shiver in terror. The man's presence had been discomforting enough when he had brought her to the house. Now she knew the depths of his hatred towards her she was pure frightened of him. Perhaps one of the outhouses would have been better after all – at least she would have had some distance.

Some untold time later she heard her uncle making his unsteady way up the stairs and staggering across the floor. By the creaking of floor boards Molly could tell that the man was watching her through the gap in the hazel hurdle. She closed her eyes tightly and slowed her breathing, pretending to be asleep. Eventually he tottered back over to his wife. There was a squeaking sound as he crawled drunkenly into bed, followed by a mild sleepy protest from her aunt. There was a sharp slap of hand meeting face and then, after a few moments, a pig like grunting. Molly could hear Prue making a soft whimpering sound. She pressed her palms against her ears - she didn't need to hear this on top of all the other horrors. After an endless moment the grunting stopped, and the snoring began. She could hear Prue sobbing softly in the darkness. She dearly wanted to weep along with her, but she held back her tears. If her aunt had hated her before, the knowledge that she had been witness to Archie's degradation of her would only make it worse.

Molly eventually dozed off not long before dawn; her dreams were full of horrors. For the first time since she died her mother visited her. The woman's shade said nothing which could help Molly escape from her situation, but she was full of dire warnings of slavery, murder, and pain.

Molly was wakened by someone roughly kicking the end of her bed. The bed creaked and swayed alarmingly as she started upright only to find her aunt glaring back down at her.

'Get up', the pinch faced woman said viciously. 'You've five minutes to get yourself some breakfast and then you need to be out and about.' Molly didn't bother to enquire as to what the woman meant. She knew there would be no helpful or supportive information coming from that direction. The best she could do was to be instantly obedient and flexible until she knew exactly how the land lay. Anything else, she feared, would lead to a beating, if not worse.

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