Author's Note: Alright, here it is. The time has come for some angst, hurt/comfort, as Daniel reveals some of his backstory, and Regina touches upon her complicated relationship with Cora. Good luck to your feels, and many thanks for sticking around for this story I'm telling.
Trigger Warning: implied abuse.
Chapter 8
Unhealed, It Haunts
The door creaks but slightly as she slips in; she has come to know it, learnt to open and close it with utmost care, hardly making a noise. The smothering stuffiness of the room weighs down on her immediately. A dozen odours mix and mingle. She knows them all by now: hard-packed dirt floor and a carpet of fresh straw, sweaty sheets, melted candlewax, sticky steam and burning firewood, teas and syrups and tinctures and poultices and the herbs to make them. She can tell each smell apart, so familiar have they become: the minty smell of pennyroyal leaves, fresh and sweet; horse-heal root, oddly pungent and deliciously perfumey at the same time; the distinctive maple-syrupy smell of amber-coloured fenugreek seeds; hyssop with its minty leaves and spiky blue flowers, and the bitter smell of hyssop tea. There's musky angelica, fragrant anise seeds, and sweet liquorice taproot. There's the peppery smell of caraway leaves, fine and feathery; the honey-smelling coltsfoot leaves, heart-shaped; and the unmistakable foul stench of comfrey poultice. Yet the overbearing smell of garlic overpowers them all. They are bad smells, sad smells. Even sticks of cinnamon, always a favourite of hers, have lately come to smell of sickbed to her.
Quietly, lest she disturb the sleeper, she moves across the straw-strewn room to retrieve a jug from the small pantry, and parsley from a shelf. She looks around for a bowl only to find no empty one, so she sniffs at the nearest one and chucks its contents into the fire. In goes the parsley, followed by the wine. The jug is almost empty; she has to coax what remains out by turning the jug upside down. The thin trickle of the last of the sour red liquid is just enough to drown the parsley. Just the smell of alcohol is enough to make Regina's head swim. Boiling it will make that go away, she knows, and hangs the bowl over the fire by the chain fastened to the rear wall of the chimney.
The straw rustles and the legs of the chair scrape against the floor as she sits by the bed. Nothing has changed since early morning. Daniel had tucked his Daddy in then, placed a water-soaked towel on his feverish forehead, and left for the stables, as Regina hurried to take her lessons back in the mansion - which she hadn't been supposed to leave in the first place. Not then, and not now, she thinks. Not for this house. Not when Edric is ill.
It seems he has hardly moved all day. She reaches for his forehead. Even before she comes in contact with the towel or the skin, she can tell by the heat emanating from the skin that the fever has not subsided. The towel is warm to the touch, and almost completely dry. Regina hurries off to soak it anew in a basin on the counter. Leaning over the bed with the fresh cold compress in hand, she never hears the door open.
Daniel enters noiselessly despite the hurry, just as Regina is placing the towel carefully back on. A hint of a smile flickers across his weary face at the sight, but is replaced by a frown again.
"He's still asleep, then," he says softly. Regina turns with an involuntary twitch. She swallows and nods, and watches him closely. Daniel crosses to the fireplace at a brisk pace, waves of steam rising from the bowl away, and peers in. "It's done."
"Not quite," Regina replies and steps to the fireplace. Daniel looks at her quizzically as she fumbles with her sleeve. She pulls out a patch of cloth, unfolds it, and holds her hand up for him to see. Daniel looks at the small pile in her palm, then at her, then back at her hand again. He knows what it is even though he's never seen it up close, or this much of it. A new bout of hope spreads in belly and warms him from the inside. It is a while before another realisation hits him. He looks back up at Regina, puzzled. There's conflict written all over her face: part proud, part abashed, she smiles a smile that's regretful and joyous both. That's more than enough evidence for him.
"They didn't give this to you, did they?" It's no question really, they both know.
"No," she admits and hangs her head, but only for a split second; then she raises it again, defiant and resolute. "I took it."
Daniel's at a loss for words, caught up between concern for her and concern for his Dad. Saffron is deemed a powerful cure for several illnesses amongst its other uses, but it is also rare and costly. Daniel could never afford to get it, no matter how many doctors swear by its effects. A small amount is kept in the Mills kitchens for seasoning, and a pouch of it stored in Lady Cora's fabled cupboard of mysterious ingredients, Regina told him before. There was no question of asking for any though. Yet now, here it is, delivered directly to him by Regina - stolen.
"You shouldn't have…what if they had caught you? What if they find out yet?"
"They didn't. They won't. I didn't like it…" That much is clear, Daniel thinks. Neither would I have expected you to. "…but I had to," she explains urgently. At the sight of guilt settling on his face, she corrects herself quickly. "I wanted to. If it helps your Daddy, it'll have been worth it, right? The least we can do is try."
He stares at her long and hard as she throws a few threads of bright red-and-yellow in the bowl to let it all simmer. Still astonished, Daniel squeezes her hand in thanks. She understands.
There is more to the saffron-pinching than Regina is letting on, despite her assurances of the contrary. Her stomach is tied in knots the following day, and will be for days to come, until she is sure Mama has used what Regina thinks of as her potion kit and not mentioned anything about a missing ingredient. She had enough on her plate with meeting with Daniel every moment she could against Mama's wish, educating Daniel without her knowledge, and paying daily visits at Edric's sickbed in the face of the risk of catching whatever it is he's suffering from despite Daniel's caution and Mama's express ban.
Fear of Mama's wrath keeps her away from Daniel's for an entire day and much of the evening. Regina busies herself with tedious needlework and piano practice to appease Mama, in Regina's own doubting soul at least.
Come late evening though, she finds herself slipping through the ever-so-slightly-creaking door. The familiar scent of illness and medicine engulfs her immediately. Nothing moves in the room except for the dwindling flames of a candle on the bedside and the long, fiery tongues in the fireplace. Edric is breathing heavily, wheezing, struggling with each breath. For a moment, she thinks them both asleep. Then she hears her name whispered form a dark corner.
She finds Daniel sitting cross-legged on a mattress. He's been sleeping there since his Daddy was confined to bed, she remembers. The moment she sees him up close she doubts whether Daniel's been getting any sleep at all for the past few nights. She joins him gingerly, fighting a sudden onset of apprehension. After the whispered name, Daniel speaks no more. Neither does she for a while, but merely watches him staring into the flames from the corner of her eye.
Edric stirs and draws a laboured breath, only to be overwhelmed by a spell of cough so violent that it sends spasms through his body. Used to him mostly just lying in a feverish sleep, Regina is stunned by the scene, but Daniel jumps up and rushes to his aid. Regina soon sees, however, that there isn't much for him to do, besides holding a bowl for Edric to spit the thick green phlegm into. Desperate for something to do herself, Regina takes the jar with the grossly stinking comfrey poultice and begins to smear a thick layer on a clean towel. Gradually, the coughing spasm subsides at long last. Daniel presses the poultice on Edric's chest, while Regina manages to get a spoonful of angelica syrup down his throat. She's relieved to hear his breathing turn regular again, even though there are still grunting noises at each breath. Soon he falls back into a heavy, restless sleep. Regina and Daniel both remain standing by his bed, she with the empty spoon in her hand and him awkwardly holding the spitting bowl.
"Nothing more we can do," Daniel breaks the silence eventually. He empties the bowl and sets it at the bedside, then returns to the mattress. Regina follows. Silence falls again, dark and heavy. At long last, Daniel turns to her. "It's happened before," he says miserably. "But it's never been so bad, or lasted so long."
Regina nods, remembering him mention his Daddy's recurring health issues when they first met. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "It will pass," she whispers, and prays that the words prove true. They've been trying so hard… it has to end well. It's only fair! All those herbs and concoctions can't be all for nothing after all!
It is Daniel's turn to nod. "It's just…" he swallows. "Every time Dad is bedbound… it reminds me of Mum. Of how she died."
Regina lets out a gasp. Daniel has mentioned his Mama once or twice but never in detail, and it's seemed so hard for him each time that Regina's always chosen not to ask questions. "Do you- do you want to talk about it?" she offers timidly.
Daniel keeps quiet for a while; long enough for Regina to consider it a refusal. Then he clears his throat and starts to speak – slowly at first, and sadly.
"Her name was Elaine. She worked in the gardens of some lord Dad was grooming for then; that's how they met. Mum loved plants. Everyone agreed she had a green thumb. I had my own patch of garden when I was little, you know. I wanted to grow the most ridiculous plants together, so it was a patch of fruit and veggies, flowers and weeds. Apparently there was a weed I was particularly fond of, don't know which." The memory paints a smile on his face – a genuine one, one of those she hasn't seen since Edric took to bed.
Regina smiles back. "My apple tree," she recalls. "And the herbs, you know them all." She remembers his exasperation at the dry theory of her biology notes, the flowers he used to bring her as consolation prize during home confinement, and the colourful and lively detail with which he described the nature in Emerald Valley, too. It all makes sense now.
He nods dreamily, far away in mind, in space as well as time. Regina chooses not to disturb him, to let him savour the memory. He eventually resumes talking.
"We were happy - I remember that even though I was very young. One day they told me I was going to be a big brother. I was so excited about that! I made plans for…all kinds of things, really, but especially weeds to grow and horses to ride and pranks to play on Dad."
That's quite new to Regina, who has never heard about brothers or sisters of Daniel's before. He would make a great big brother, too, she thinks, and almost tells him so, when in the last she remembers Daniel has no brothers or sisters. That can only mean one thing… She closes her mouth again and bites her lip, hanging on his words and dreading what's to come at the same time.
"Mum's belly grew so big…I was completely baffled. Then when the time came a family took me to stay with them during the birth. No one told me too much about it before or after. When I returned home I found my little sister in the crib, pink and squalling. Dad told me to tickle her palm with my finger, and she squeezed it in that tiny little fist of hers. She even stopped crying for a moment. But something was wrong… I could tell from Dad's tense face. I didn't understand - they were supposed to be happy. A doctor came and went and Dad told me I could go and see Mum – she was still abed in the other room. The way he talked…it made me want to cry – he was so sad, so troubled. I told myself I was being silly. I went to Mum. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I still remember everything about her…" Daniel's voice trails off and he rubs his eyes distractedly. Regina stares at him, transfixed.
"She looked both like herself and nothing like herself. She had the same chestnut hair; but it stuck to her sweaty brow and lay flat and limp on the pillow. Her eyes were the same green with specks of gold; but the sparkle was gone. They were still warm though…but vacant at times, as if she were someplace else. Her cheeks were hollow and her face pale like wax… And as she pulled me close, her hand shook so badly. There was a blazing fire, yet she kept shivering from cold… And when she started talking…her voice was weak and talking seemed to tire her so much. She told me-" The words catch in his mouth.
Regina grabs his hand before he can brush away the tear that trickles down his cheek. He will not be crying alone. "You don't have to…if you don't…" she stammers.
Daniel shakes his head as another tear rolls from his eye. Clutching her hand in his, he presses on. "She told me she loved me, and to keep up my vegetable patch, and to help Dad with hers, and with everything else, too… That he'd always take care of me. And that my little sister would rely on her big brother to look out for her. I was petrified. I asked where she was going – was she leaving us? I was only five years old. That was the closest she came to crying. But she never actually cried; she looked peaceful, if sad. She kissed me and hugged me ever so tight… I burst into tears as soon as I'd left the room. That was the last time she ever hugged me. Dad went in after me, and when he came back out… I knew she was gone."
Sobbing, Regina makes to pull him into a hug, but Daniel resists, refusing to give in to tears just yet.
"My little sister… She stayed with us for two more days. Dad was with her night and day but there was no saving her. She went wherever Mum had gone. There hadn't even been time to give her a name…"
This time Daniel doesn't fight back the tears anymore. He leans against Regina's shoulder and she wraps her arms around him. They remain so for quite a while, his head resting on her shoulder, her cheek pressed to his head.
"We left the day after," Daniel mumbles into her shoulder, his voice thick with emotion but firm once again. "We moved from place to place for years, never staying anywhere too long. Dad seemed to prefer it that way, and I didn't mind. Only shortly after we got on the way his illness began, and it kept getting worse. Then we settled down here. I hoped it wouldn't return," he finishes with a note of desperation.
Regina suppresses a sob. She must be there for Daniel now. She seeks for words of encouragement feverishly. "He's going to be fine," she blurts out. He has to be. She feels renewed faith flow through her - a welcome sign. "He will get well, like all the times before. Like I got well, remember?" It's only fair.
Daniel disentangles himself from the embrace and looks her in the face. His eyes are red but dry, his jaw set, his chin raised. He gives a slow, determined nod. "You're right. I mustn't…give in to doubt. Dad is strong. This place is better for him than anywhere else, and he has all the medication and all the care. I should make better use of my time –make some more tea, and some food, too, to make him strong."
"I'll help," she says immediately, with a lighter heart once again, glad of the determination on his face, the calmness returned to him.
She watches him pick the herbs he needs, mix the spiced wine, add the saffron – he keeps it in the little satchel on the top shelf, hidden and treasured. She watches him slice the apples and set them over the fire to cook as she works the mortar and the pestle, crushing pennyroyal leaves into a fine powder to mix with honey.
A moon beam creeps in through the window and hits the sheets just as the apples are cooked, the wine warmed, and the honeyed cough remedy prepared. Daniel walks over to the bed and sits on the side. Regina fancies he hesitates for a fragment of a second before he puts a hand on Edric's shoulder and shakes him gently. He doesn't stir. Daniel shakes him again, with more force. "Dad," he mutters, "Dad, you need to wake up, you need to eat something and take your medicine. Dad," he repeats with a hint of frustration.
It's this last word that seems to work eventually – Edric's eyes flutter open. He gazes straight at Daniel but appears not to see him for a moment, so hazy and unfocused is his stare. "Dad," Daniel says with relief. "It's me – Daniel?" Edric's mouth twitches ever so slightly in an attempt to smile. Standing at the bedside looking down on them, she sighs a mighty, grateful sigh. Edric raises his eyes to meet hers, and a puzzled looks settles on his face. "Dad, Regina's here, too. She's been helping me take care of you." It takes a while before Edric seems to have taken this in; he gives the tiniest, slowest of nods. "We have apples," Daniel says, encouraged by his father's responsiveness, "and tea, and mulled wine. And honey with pennyroyal for your cough. Which would you have first?"
Edric opens his mouth and attempts to speak. The words come slowly and with much effort, clumsily formed. "Can't…eat. Just…drink?"
Daniel frowns. "But you need to eat something," he presses miserably.
"What if we did it this way?" Regina pipes up, sets the honey-and-pennyroyal mix on the bedside next to the flickering candle, and helps herself to a slice of apple. She dips it into the honey deftly and brings it to Edric's cracked lips. To both of their relief, Edric accepts the food, rolls it once or twice in his mouth, and swallows.
Slowly, painstakingly, they manage to feed him about the third of the apples, and most of the honey. Edric crinkles his nose at the bitter hyssop tea offered to him, but accepts the mulled wine sprinkled with saffron, and, gulp after gulp, drinks up the whole cup. As Daniel removes the cup from his mouth, Edric moves his hand on the sheet but cannot manage to raise it, so Daniel reaches for it. Edric gives his hand a feeble squeeze. He holds Regina's gaze for a moment; then, exhausted by all the effort, he drifts off again, his breathing a little calmer, a little more regular than before.
Nothing moves for a while: not Regina, leaning against the bedside table with the almost empty bowl of honey in her hand; not Daniel, with the half-full bowl of apples in his lap and his hand laid on his father's; not the cloud behind the window that's shielding the moon from view. The air is stiff as ever and still, yet there seems to be a slight breath of fresh air stirring outside and finding its way in through the window, and the silence is peaceful rather than oppressive.
A mighty growl cuts through the stillness, loud and clear, coming from Daniel's stomach. Regina sniggers. "I skipped dinner," Daniel remembers with a smirk. "Aren't you hungry?" Regina's stomach rumbles in response, and makes them both grin. "We can finish the apples," he suggests, "and get something else on the side."
"The honey," she nods. "And a cinnamon stick to go with it?"
They settle in their corner on the mattress, with the honeyed apples between them. They eat their way through them in silence at first, realising with the first mouthfuls just how hungry they truly were. After the apples are gone, they scoop every bit of honey with their fingers, wiping the bowl clean. By way of dessert, Daniel chews on a liquorice root, and Regina munches on a cinnamon stick. The heavy cloud has shifted and their view is of the clear night sky, the moon out of sight by the time. Daniel frowns.
"It's late. Won't you be missed?"
Regina shrugs; Daniel thinks to have spotted a hint of fear in her eyes but it's gone before he can be sure.
"I don't want to get you in trouble."
"You? You haven't done anything. They wouldn't know to look for me here anyway. I'll slip back in if there's a commotion. But I don't think there will be. It's just this once, anyway."
Is it him or herself she's trying to convince, Daniel wonders? Regina's upbringing is exceptionally strict, that much he's noticed; anyone with eyes to see would have noticed. Too strict, he's heard many a whisper. In fact, he's heard worse whispers than that about Lady Cora, but he's never seen the proof of those. He knows better than to share that kind of gossip with Regina, too.
Some trace of his thoughts must have shown on his face, judging by the curious look Regina gives him: "What is it?"
"Nothing," he returns automatically, abashed. Regina frowns. It's such a bare-faced lie, and it's not something they do between themselves. He knows he will have to come up with a better response, no matter how much he hates going there. "I was just wondering… well, about your parents," he admits, watching her closely.
Regina lowers her eyes.
"Forget it," he blurts out.
She shakes her head, still avoiding his gaze, bidding her time.
He reaches out and touches her shoulder. "Regina, I didn't mean to," he says anxiously, without knowing exactly what it is that he's done.
"No, that's alright," she mutters, and finally meets his eye. "It's just that…the story of your family…is so different from mine."
His mother is dead; hers is alive. He comes from servants; she's as good as a princess. That's as different as can be, yet Daniel is sure she means neither one nor the other. In the end, they both have the same thing in mind: unspoken so far though hinted at, yet ever-present. The memory of their first meeting floats to the surface of his mind: the horror on her face as she discovered the ruin of her dress ("Mama will be so angry"); the way the other children bullied her and teased her about Lady Cora, and the tearful confession of her having no friends. Her words ring in his ears, etched in his brain with surprising clarity: "I just wanted to play with them. Just like all the other children. I don't have anyone to play with." For a split second, he could swear she has just spoken those words, so vivid is his memory. But Regina is in fact just quietly sitting with her hands folded in her lap, looking at him miserably.
"I shouldn't have brought it up," he offers hastily - she can still back out if she doesn't want to have this conversation.
"I know there are rumours," she says. "About Mama."
A strange occurrence, Daniel thinks, for how can she be answering his own thoughts so precisely without him having voiced them? "How do you know?" he asks, playing for time.
"I keep my ears open," she answers somewhat irritably. "The servants talk. Villagers talk, even if I am made to stay in the carriage I hear things. And if I wanted to ignore the talk, those children back then were very clear about it."
If ever Daniel has felt more uncomfortable, he sure doesn't remember the time.
"They're scared of her. They say Mama is evil. How can they say that? I think it's because she has powers other people don't. Magic," she ponders bitterly.
"You don't like magic," Daniel notes.
"I hate magic," she says simply. "Magic does strange things to people. Daddy says so, too. He says Mama wasn't always like this. So I think magic changed her."
"Some magic is good, isn't it? How about fairy magic?"
"I don't know, I've never seen it. I just wish magic didn't even exist. You can do horrible things with it…hurt people," she finishes under her breath. There's fear in her voice now, Daniel is sure of it.
"Hurt people?" Surely not, he shivers at the thought that crosses his mind. She swallows, wide-eyed. "Regina?"
"Sometimes, when I misbehave…" she whispers, leaving the sentence hanging in the air. Daniel's heart skips a beat. Seeing the horrified expression on his face, Regina suddenly looks alarmed. "But all parents punish their children when they misbehave, so there's really nothing wrong with that!"
"Punish them with detention, maybe. Or some extra duty. Not by hurting them!" Well, some parents do, he knows, but those aren't the kind of punishments he or his family ever practised.
"It's not like she wants to hurt me! I don't want you to think that!" she exclaims with tears of fury in her eyes. "She means well, she loves me, I know it!" But her eyes are telling a different story, one of doubt and craving, and under his piercing look, she buries her face in her hands, shaking violently.
Horror-struck, Daniel makes to touch her, then withdraws his hand. "Regina," he says pleadingly, frowning all the while. He doesn't like what he's heard, but he understands instinctively this will better go unsaid.
Regina raises her tear-stained face to look straight in his. "You don't believe it, do you? The rumours? You don't think she's evil?"
"No, of course not," he says meekly. "She's your mother. Of course she loves you. Of course you love her. I understand that."
Regina sniffs. The relief on her face is plain to see. "I do love her. It's just… Mama's so hard to please," she mumbles. "I just… I just wish she were proud of me. It's hard to live up to her expectations…and sometimes I'm not sure I even want to. I just want to do some things my way, be myself, you know? And then I feel guilty because I disappoint her. Is it horrible of me? Am I terribly selfish?"
"Of course not! You're nothing of the sort! Look at you now, helping my Dad and I. How could you be selfish, or horrible?"
Regina smiles crookedly at his words, and for a moment it looks as though the tears might have to blow a retreat. It's all too much for her in the end, though. Words unspoken for so long, thoughts she's been pushing to the very back of her mind, emotions she's buried deep down in her heart - they have finally been voiced, and heard with patience, and received without the judgement she had always feared, with the caring and understanding she'd craved for and needed. And she bursts into tears more plentiful than before, but with a relief never before known to her. Her cheek is pressed to Daniel's tear-soaked shoulder as he holds her, rocking her back and forth like a baby.
Gradually, Regina's sobs subside, the tears dry out, and after a while, Daniel realises Regina has fallen asleep. He leans against the wall, careful not to move too much so as not to wake her. His eyes slide over the untouched glass of mulled wine with scarlet and gold specks floating on the surface. He gazes out of the window pensively, wishing Regina's tears were rarer still than saffron.
