Death

I keep waiting to hate Philomel. I keep waiting to look at her and see Balekin.

I don't.

Instead, I see the unicorn more clearly than ever, once her daughter's cleaned up and unfolded from birth. Her hair trails, a silken banner straight from the unicorn's mane, and her eyes are as depthless as her other mother's. How could I hate her? She's the daughter of my savior.

In these long, slow days after the birth, as I lie in bed resting and healing, Thistleweft weaving nearby, my daughter in my arms, the sunlight pouring in a golden glow around us, I find myself thinking of my own mother. But now I find I can think of her without the old bitterness, anger and horror. For the first time, I feel like I truly understand Eva. Why she did what she did, when she learned she was pregnant with Vivienne. Why she ran, even though she knew Madoc would find her, and what he would do when he did. Because any risk was worth taking for her child. Any chance, however small, had to be taken, if it would secure her child's safety and freedom. Nothing, nothing in any world, mattered more than her child.

I know, because that's exactly how I feel about Philomel, in these first days of her life.

As soon as I'm up and about, Thistleweft and I take Philomel to the goblin village be blessed. It's a simple ceremony by the Knot, with Heartwood pronouncing the blessing while daubing Philomel's forehead with honey, water and blood. She uses some of her own blood, which is a great honor, and then stabs Philomel's hand for the Knot. She screams, face crumpling, and I flinch a little, but Heartwood dabs my daughter's blood on the Knot and puts her under the protection of the trees. She then hands her back to me, grinning broadly. "Good job, Albia," she says. "Excellently done."

I nod, cuddling the still-howling Philomel close. I catch her waving hand with, with a flash of the unicorn's power, heal her. She stops screaming and coos, curling up in my arms.

The blessing feast lies ready on the trestle tables set up in the goblins' square. I stand, flower-crowned, holding my newly blessed child and accepting congratulations. Thistleweft stands beside me, holding Dogwood. We both hold ourselves straighter, Thistleweft lifting her head, as the goblins and other forest fey file past, urging their personal blessings on us and regarding us with awe. And, indeed, who can now doubt that we are a pair of powerful, high-ranked women? Both of us fertile, with healthy, living children, both of us with special gifts, living together inside one of the Great Trees? No wonder the dryads edge away with wonderstruck expressions and the goblins bow low, hoping for our favor.

Birch comes up and Thistleweft stiffens, but he ignores her to bow to me. "Congratulations, Albia." He hesitates. "I trust it is congratulations? Are you happy with the child?"

I nod, beaming. In my arms, Philomel stirs, fussing a little. I'm going to have to feed her soon.

"Good." He nods in satisfaction and turns to Thistleweft. "And you, Thistleweft? How are you and Dogwood coping?"

"Well enough, as you see," she says coldly. "We're quite used to babies in our house, you know." In her arms, Dogwood struggles, and she bounces him on her hip. "No, Dogwood. Mama can't put you down here. You might fall off the edge."

"Well, I'm glad you are all happy." Birch gives me a flickering glance. "Whatever the circumstances." He gives Dogwood a poke. "Be nice to your sister now, Dogwood." He heads off to the banquet table.

"I suppose Philomel is Dogwood's sister now, isn't she?" says Thistleweft thoughtfully. "In a sense. Don't you think, Albia…?"

I hardly hear her. I'm frowning after Birch. Does he suspect…? With an effort, I turn back. Even if he does, Birch won't use his suspicions to harm me. He's not the type.

Still, the thought's enough to cast a shadow on the moment. I hunch over Philomel, as though trying to protect her from the stoop of a hawk. I think again of my mother, and a fierce fear and determination seize me: I can't let anything happen to this child. I can't let anyone bring her harm. Not Balekin, not anyone. Ever.

"Hey." Thistleweft's voice calls me back. She nudges me. "None of that now. This is a happy day."

I pull myself together and nod. She's right. I hoist up a smile and greet the next well-wisher.

Later, when I'm following Thistleweft home, Dogwood grizzling over her shoulder while Philomel sleeps in my arms, I think again of Balekin and tighten my grip on my daughter. If Balekin ever learned of her, he'd stop at nothing to get his hands on her. Fathering a child—even illegitimately, on a mortal girl—would raise his chances of inheriting the throne astronomically. He'd snatch her away the instant he found out about her, parade her around the High Court as his daughter. His miracle child. He'd be King Eldred's favored son, right at the head of the line for succession. He'd brag endlessly about how he fathered a child and his brothers didn't. The courtiers would be all over him. He'd be unassailable.

But Balekin doesn't know about Philomel. And he never will.

A smirk lifts my lips.

It was common knowledge at Court that Eldred has been getting impatient with his sons' infertility for a few decades now. I saw him bully Dain and Balekin about it a few times, like at the ball: making pointed remarks about their lack of offspring at Court functions, while the courtiers tittered and the Princes squirmed. I felt sorry for them—then. Now I feel nothing but malicious glee as I imagine Balekin writhing, infuriated and helpless, before one of his father's jeers while the whole Court sneers and snickers. Later, he'll go home, gnashing his teeth and wondering furiously how to remedy the situation, and all the while I have a beautiful little girl who he doesn't know a thing about, and never will!

Take a bite of that and chew, Bale-boy!

In my arms, Philomel wakes and squalls, her face crumpling. I open my shirt and let her suckle as I walk. Her pull is greedy, and I smile to see her feed, so strong and healthy. Thrive on, my daughter.

There are no seasons in Faerie, not as Earth knows them. Trees go through short cycles, perhaps only days-long, of putting out tender new leaves, letting the leaves mature, and then fall from the branches in red and gold cascades, only to be replaced with fresh new growth. Barring enchantment or atmospheric disturbances such as storms, the air remains ever the same: mild and warm. Fruits and nuts are always ripe, always at their most eatable moment. Only the heavenly bodies—sun, moon, stars and planets—track the flow of the year, and, for a human like me, who can't see so well at night and who has plenty of responsibilities here on earth, it's easy to lose track of time.

So I'm genuinely surprised when Thistleweft turns me one day and says, "We need to make you a New Year's dress, Albia."

In the middle of changing Philomel while Dogwood clings to my leg, practicing standing up and taking steps, I blink up at Thistleweft. New Year? Have I really been here a whole year?

On the bed, Philomel shrieks for attention, and I hastily wrap her in her new clean diaper. I guess it has been a while. Philomel has plumped up into a beautiful three-month-old. She still can't sit up, but she can lift her head a little, and her eyes focus on everything. She grabs a hank of my hair and yanks. I extricate myself from her grip, eyes watering. She's certainly strong.

"You should wear white to the village festival." Thistleweft takes hold of Dogwood's hands and marches him around the room. He laughs, "Mama! Walk-walk!"

"It's appropriate to your position as the Lady Healer," Thistleweft continues bossily over the noise. "White with silver embroidery, in honor of the unicorn. I'll get started tonight. And you should add some embroidery or something to Philomel's best gown."

I straighten, putting Philomel to my shoulder. Nausea roils in me. Why do I feel so reluctant? It's just a party. But the Court ball was just a party, too. A New Year party.

I'd rather not go, I sign, shifting Philomel awkwardly.

"Don't be silly, Albia." She's only half-attending, swinging Dogwood around to his shrieked laughter. "It's the most important event of the year. And you're the Lady Healer. You can't not go."

She has a point. But still I argue. Bad things happen to mortals at faerie revels. And, while the goblins may have been kind to me and I have rank among them, they're still faeries. And, at the revel, they will be drunken faeries.

"Oh, nonsense, Albia." She hoists Dogwood into the air, to his happy squeals. "No one's going to hurt you—not if they want you to keep healing them and making sure their babies live. And anyway, I'll be there."

Shouldn't I stay here with the babies? I plead. You can go, without being saddled with us. Have some time to yourself for once.

She abruptly stops playing, going stone-still in the middle of the room. "Mama!" Dogwood complains, still dangling from her grasp.

She ignores him. She doesn't look at me, but stares out the window. "Time to myself," she says in an odd, flat voice, "is the very last thing I want."

She puts Dogwood down. He wails in protest, but she ignores him, going to prepare dinner. I go to attend him, staring at Thistleweft. She works with a stiff back and a pinched green face, slicing the fruit a little too hard, too fast. As though she's trying to cut away something more than shiny crescents of fruit.

That night, Thistleweft ascends to the canopy with her spindle, and I awake the next morning to the clatter of her loom as she weaves the glowing threads of moonlight into a fabulous silver-white fabric.

She makes me stand on the stool as she takes my measurements, before taking up her scissors, needle and thread. Her scissors flash, her needle whips, and in a fraction of the time it would have taken a mortal seamstress, she has the dress ready for me.

Reverently, I touch it. It truly is beautiful: a simple silver-white dress woven entirely from moonlight, a flowing ankle-length skirt, with long sleeves and a low-cut bodice that buttons down the front. "So you can nurse Philomel," she explains in her no-nonsense way. She shakes out the dress, and it settles in airy waves. "It needs embellishment, though. I don't suppose you could trace a few designs for me?"

I nod, unsurprised. Thistleweft may be a great weaver and seamstress, but she has no more imagination or creativity than any other faerie. She can make a glorious dress within an hour, but it's still a dress she's made many times before, no doubt designed by a mortal. She can't think of any original designs, or original decorations to go with it. That's a mortal talent.

Accordingly, I draw out the designs: modest chains of flowers, mostly, and an edging of silver along the bodice. I do include two whorled motifs like unicorn horns, to be embroidered high on the sleeves, near my shoulders. It won't hurt to remind everyone of my status as the Unicorn-Blessed.

Thistleweft watches, bouncing Dogwood on her knee, while Philomel sleeps. "So amazing," she murmurs quietly. "How mortals can do this. Just think of new designs like this. Howdo you do it?"

I shrug. It's natural for us. I finish the final design and begin to run the pricking wheel over the paper.

"Yeah, that's what Mary used to say—" She breaks off suddenly.

I glance up. Who's Mary?

She's quiet a moment, letting Dogwood tug her finger. He giggles and coos. "I used to work with a mortal designer," she says at last. "Centuries ago. Her name was Mary. She was very good. Though she must be dead by now."

My eyebrows shoot up. Only aristocrats, associated with royal Courts, are ever allowed to steal away mortals, to bring them to work and live in Faerie; it's a major badge of status, and a constant irritant to common faeries. The only way Thistleweft could ever have worked with a mortal is at a Court—and she's never said anything about being at a Court before. I want to ask more, but something about her closed, shuttered face, her determined focus on Dogwood, tells me not to.

I turn back to pricking out the first design. I suppose I can live with yet another secret.

The New Year revel arrives. Thistleweft and I both don our clothes, and I can't help comparing how different this is to the last revel I attended. Instead of an intricate gown that needs a maid to put on properly, I slip on my simple moonlight dress. The live white flowers Thistleweft embroidered into the fabric, using my designs, breathe out their scent at my every move. I dress Philomel in a similar outfit, admiring the sparkle of light on the designs I embroidered. At the same time, Thistleweft puts on her gown of green leaves and gold sunlight and dresses Dogwood in a little red vest over black trousers. Then, instead of being handed into a coach, we place our babies in their carriers, swing them onto our backs, and climb up the ladder to the treeway.

I bring my knife and salt with me, hidden in the folds of my dress. Just in case.

The Red Branch village is alight: fireflies gleam in woven cages and pixies dash to and fro, leaving trails of multicolored light behind them. Everywhere, goblins are dressed in their best: feathers and flowers abound, with embroideries of light and fabrics of leaves. Music rings out in intermittent bursts. The Red Branch being the major power in this valley, lots of other faeries are attending too, with even the water hags hulking, weed-covered, in the village square. They bar mossy teeth at me; I lift my head and pass by.

It costs me to pretend I'm all right. Inside, I'm shaking. There's a pain in my abdomen, like Balekin is tearing into me again. His hands on me. I close my eyes against another hideous flashback. Focus. I open my eyes and force a smile to my lips. Balekin is far away. No one here is going to hurt me.

Thistleweft and I bow low to Heartwood, who is enthroned on a chair of branches, swathed in cloth of autumn leaves. "Good evening, ladies," she greets us, smoke from her pipe wreathing around her head. "Joyous New Year."

"Joyous New Year," Thistleweft replies, and I sign it too. "May you and your tribe continue in power and prosperity," Thistleweft says, and I agree.

"And you two as well." Heartwood takes up a cup of mead in a toast. "May you remain happy and powerful together."

Thistleweft hesitates a moment. "May it be so," she says at last. "But should we pay tribute to the trees now, Heartwood?"

"Actually, we were waiting for Albia before we got started." Heartwood turns to me. "Albia, can you wait by the Knot? We all have to renew our contract with the trees tonight by shedding some blood. You can heal everyone as they do so."

I nod and curtsy, secretly grateful to be given a task that will keep me occupied and give me an excuse not to party.

I stand by the Knot, that center of tree goblin power, and heal each goblin and goblin ally as they all nick themselves and let the blood dribble onto the tangle of branches. I'm very busy at first, as everyone wants to get this part over with so they can go party. I heal them as fast as they go by: goblin men, women and children, and their assorted allies. Even Thistleweft, though she grimaces in distaste—she hates it when she has to avail herself of my power—and Dogwood, though he shrieks. But he soon cheers up as the music starts and the dancing begins.

Oh, no. Music. Of course, the goblins play music all the time, but not like this. This is festival music, bright, beautiful, irresistible and utterly horrible.

Memories creep on me like a disgusting tide: stumbling off drunk with Balekin. His awful whisper. Raked across the ground. The ripping violation. I close my eyes.

No. No!

"Albia?"

I open my eyes to see Birch. Alone of all the goblins, he doesn't seem to have dressed up: his bark clothing is a little neater than usual and there's a line of gold embroidery on his shirt, but that's it. His red eyes are grave. "Are you all right, Albia?"

I nod, take a deep breath, and gesture at the Knot. As he cuts himself and gives his blood to nourish the trees, Philomel begins to complain. I swing her around in her carrier, jigging her in my arms.

I heal Birch's cut arm in a quick, businesslike flash of light. I hesitate, looking at the Knot, now stained black with blood. Taking out my steel knife, I carefully nick myself, letting my own blood splatter onto the Knot. Then, with great reluctance, I do the same to Philomel, with a copper knife. Just because she's a newborn doesn't mean she gets out of it, but it still hurts to hear her shocked, pitiful wail.

I heal her quickly and comfort her, holding my cut arm against my side. Do you have any bandages? I manage to sign.

"Still can't heal yourself?" But he says it kindly. He takes out a leaf from his pocket. "Here. It's a heart-tree leaf. It'll stop it getting infected."

I nod and take it from him, applying it to the cut. It adheres and seems to reduce the pain.

Birch watches. "Well!" he says at last. "You've been here a whole year now, Albia. How are you liking it?"

I like it fine, I say truthfully. Here. I hand him a sweet-jasmine flower from my hair. In payment for the leaf.

He holds it in his claws, delicately. "Sweet-jasmine," he muses. "Whose scent induces mild euphoria. Yes. It is repayment." He tucks it in his buttonhole, where it blooms like a pale star. "Would you like to dance, Albia?" He gestures at the square, where the musicians are warming up for another number. "Thistleweft can look after Philomel."

I freeze, looking at his offered hand. I should accept. It would be so rude not to. But all I can see is Balekin. Balekin, who offered his hand so. Balekin, who danced with me a year ago. Balekin, who led me off into the dark—

Birch sighs, dropping his hand. "All right. I will take no offense." He starts to move away.

Startling even myself, I dart forward, still clutching Philomel, and tap his shoulder. He turns to me inquiringly.

One dance, I say and, before I can change my mind, hurry to drop Philomel off with Thistleweft, who's sitting this dance out.

I rejoin Birch in the square, and we stand ready, holding each other's hands at arm's length, and then the music begins.

All faerie music is enchanting. Dancing to it is utterly intoxicating. I swoop and glide around the square with Birch, prancing around each other, stamping our feet and clapping our hands as required by the dance. A part of me is still pinned under Balekin, screaming and struggling. But another part is enjoying this. It's good to dance with Birch, who is graceful and quick and carries me through with assurance. And the music is, of course, utterly wonderful, out beneath the New Year stars and the New Year moon.

The song comes to an end, and Birch bows while I curtsy. That was lovely, Birch signs to me. His eyes dance.

I give a silent laugh. And for me too. But I'd better go back to the Knot.

"Yes," he says aloud. "Lots more blood to be spilled tonight." He watches me go back to Thistleweft.

As I reach her, I brace myself for one of her glares and nasty Birch-remarks. I can't imagine she approves of me dancing with him. But instead she looks up with a small smile. "Did you have fun, Albia?" Philomel sleeps in her arms while Dogwood snoozes with his head in her lap.

I nod. I'll take Philomel back now.

"No." She tightens her grip on my daughter. "Let me hold her. Just a little longer."

Her tone is so melancholy. She watches the dancers with strange, sad eyes. What's the matter? I ask in concern.

She hesitates, opening and closing her mouth. "I'll tell you," she says at last. "But later. Not here."

I have no choice but to nod and head back to the Knot. But still I watch her as she sits, rocking the babies, and watches the revel as though she'll never see anything like it again.

As soon as we're home and the babies are safe in their cradles, I turn to Thistleweft, folding my arms.

She sinks down onto the bed. She looks so weary. She rubs her forehead, between her eyes. "Albia," she says at last, "you have to promise not to tell anyone what I'm about to tell you."

I nod, placing my right hand over my heart. It thumps with urgency and foreboding.

She takes a deep breath. "How familiar are you with faerie precognition?"

I know faeries can have premonitions, I sign warily. But they're unpredictable, and usually incomplete. I cock my head. Have you had one?

"Yes," she says dully. "A few weeks ago. I had a premonition of my death."

Her words slam into me. I gape at her, too aghast to sign, to think.

"Sometime in this new year," she continues, voice flat, "I'm going to die. I don't know exactly when or how, but it will happen. I won't see the next New Year revel."

I find movement then, signing frantically. No! There must be something we can do—

"No!" Her voice raps out, so loud and vehement that Philomel stirs, snuffling, but doesn't wake. "No, there's nothing we can do," Thistleweft says in a softer tone. "Trying to avoid Fate just hastens it. You should know that."

I bow my head. I know enough stories to know that's true.

"Don't look like that," she says gently. "No faerie truly lives forever, you know. Sooner or later, something gets every one of us." I blink at this, surprised to hear my own deductions spoken aloud, so simple, so matter-of-fact. "I've lived three thousand years, and that's more than most of the Folk get. I have only one regret." She reaches out, laying a gnarled hand on Dogwood's cradle. "My son," she says sadly. "The only child I ever bore. I won't live to see him grow up."

I hurry over to her, sitting down beside her, and take her free hand. She squeezes back. Then she turns to me, face full of a new determination.

"I believe the unicorn brought you to me for many reasons, Albia," she says. "And I think this may be one. So you must promise me, Albia—promise on your heart—that you will love and care for Dogwood after my death. That you will, to the best of your ability, shield him from harm and raise him to adulthood if at all possible. Promise me this."

Her eyes are blazing, determined and pleading. Looking into those eyes, I place my right hand on my heart. Then, reaching out, I place it on hers. I nod.

She sighs in such sweet relief. "That takes a weight off my mind, Albia," she says softly. "You have no idea." Her gaze travels to Philomel. "Or maybe you do."

Yes. Maybe. But I can barely think of that past the enormity and horror of the news. Thistleweft. Dead. I can't imagine it.

We go to bed, pulling on our shifts and settling down beside each other, drawing the curtain as if this is some ordinary night. Thistleweft soon falls asleep. But I lie awake, blinking against the darkness and praying to a half-remembered God that she's wrong.

For a few months, it seems the human God may have answered my prayers.

Life goes on, full of work and baby-business and activity. I keep a sharp eye on Thistleweft, but though she's quieter than before, she keeps up her usual round: spinning in the morning, weaving in the afternoon, interspersed with housework, selling cloth and caring for Dogwood and Philomel. This may not sound like much, but, speaking as someone who's lived in terror most of her life and even now carries a deep, deadly secret, bleeding me constantly, I'm in awe of her courage. It takes more nerve and resolution to live calmly and stick to your routine under certain doom than it does to singlehandedly face down the Wild Hunt.

So life goes on. We keep up our activities, doing housework and going out to gather colors, Thistleweft spinning while I mind the babies and keep a more anxious eye out than usual. We have a few run-ins with predators and hostile fey—most seriously when a group of Unseelie kobolds try to ambush us—but I'm fast with the salt and the knife these days and we all escape unscathed, darting up the trees while our enemies scream and claw at their eyes or moan over the poisoned cuts I've given them.

"Not bad, Albia," Thistleweft says breathlessly, leaning over the treeway railing to observe the shrieking kobolds. "That poison does have its uses."

I smile, patting the pouch with its death's head butterfly warning. It seems to be working: faeries eye it fearfully and keep a safe distance—except, of course, when they're begging for my healing hands. Which is just how I like it. Let their need be tempered with respect, and their respect tempered with fear. But I don't think my salt or my reputation can keep Thistleweft safe forever.

How can you be so calm about this? I demand one evening while I'm nursing Philomel. My nipple slips from her mouth and she lets out a complaining howl. Hastily, I put it back in, and she sucks happily.

I stare at Thistleweft anxiously. It's all very well to be cold and calculating about faerie mortality rates when you're surrounded by faeries you'd gladly see drop dead. But I can't be impartial to Thistleweft's death. How can she be so sanguine?

"What's the point of making a fuss?" Thistleweft barely looks up from playing with Dogwood. "It'll happen whatever I do or say or feel. Why waste my last few months being frightened?"

She has a point, I suppose, but still. Aren't you a little frightened? I ask timidly.

She pauses. "Yes," she says at last, slowly. "But I won't let it ruin the only time I have with my son. And knowing you'll care for him when I'm gone makes me feel so much better."

I don't reply. I'm glad she trusts me, and I fully intend to fulfill that trust. But I wish she'd let me tell someone. It's awful going around with this terrible secret hanging around my neck. Especially when I meet Birch, and he always asks how Thistleweft and Dogwood are doing, and I have to smile and sign, Fine.

Philomel finishes feeding, and I hoist her over my shoulder for a burp. While I'm patting her back, Dogwood slips out of Thistleweft's grasp and charges across the room to yank at my pant leg and try to pull the blanket off the bed. "Alby! Alby!"

Philomel coos with delight at his antics and burps up a milky stream over my shoulder. I sigh. It's overwhelming enough with two mothers looking after the babies. How will I manage after…?

I bite my lip. How can I even think such a thing? How selfish can I get? Here Thistleweft is going to die, and all I can think about is how much work I'll be left with once she's gone. But it's hard not to, especially when Philomel begins yanking my hair and Dogwood climbs up to play with her, shrieking into my ear.

"Here, Dogwood." Thistleweft comes to scoop him up. "Stay with Mama." A shadow falls across her face at this, and she holds the oblivious Dogwood tight. "Stay here with me."

The timeless days of Faerie slip by, and nothing seems to change except Dogwood and Philomel grow bigger and stronger and more active. Thistleweft smiles to see Dogwood so vigorous and healthy. "To think he was such a sickly runt when he was born!" she says as he races by, waving a leafy stick and singing nonsense. "What a wonder you've done, Albia!"

I manage to nod and smile over containing the squirming Philomel, who admires Dogwood's game very much and wants to join in, despite being barely able to sit up. She lets out a yell, snatching at Dogwood's branch, but he yanks it away.

"No! Mine!" With his free hand, he signs out the words, as he often does. This always fascinates me: how he'll speak aloud while signing at the same time. It reassures me that he understands my sign language, even if he often behaves as if he doesn't.

"Dogwood! Behave. You have to share." Thistleweft reaches over to give him a light cuff—which causes him to wail in exaggerated agony—and snap off a piece for Philomel to play with. She gurgles happily, waving her twig.

"Those kids!" Thistleweft says, partway between amusement and exasperation. "Do you think you can manage them for a bit tomorrow, Albia?"

Sure. Why? I sign around Philomel awkwardly.

Thistleweft glances out the window. "It looks like there will be a good sunrise tomorrow. I want to be sure to capture some of the color. So I'll be leaving early." She shoots the babies an exasperated glance. "Hopefully these two should still be asleep. I'll try to be back soon."

I nod. I'll have to get used to looking after the kids on my own soon anyway, though a part of me still hopes that Thistleweft is wrong and nothing will happen. Please, let nothing happen. Let Thistleweft be safe.

Thistleweft sits down at her loom while I rock the babies to sleep in their cradles, and later I fall asleep myself, to the rhythmic clacking and shushing.

The next morning dawns bright and fair, sparkling through the canopy. I wake up with Thistleweft, and we get breakfast together, quietly, while the babies sleep. "Dogwood's going to need a new bed soon," Thistleweft murmurs, looking at her son's feet hanging over the end of his cradle. "Maybe you can get Birch to—" She breaks off.

I lick my lips, nerving myself up. Thistleweft and I never, ever, discuss her relationship with Birch. It's as taboo as discussing my past. It's grown to be such a rule between us that I can hardly bring myself to approach it. But if I don't ask now, I may never know. I raise my hands. Thistleweft, what—

"Ah! There it is!" Thistleweft retrieves her spindle triumphantly from the floor at the foot of the shelf. "Dogwood must've knocked it down. Well, I'm off. Goodbye, Albia."

Goodbye, I sign.

With a final kiss on Dogwood's brow, she heads out the ground-level door. The roses rustle aside for her.

Philomel wakes and begins fussing for a feed. I pick her up and open my shirt. She nuzzles in, and I stand by the window, watching Thistleweft walk across the clearing. Helpful of the roses, to always stay clear of the windows—

It happens so fast.

A shadow leaps from the trees. Thistleweft looks up, she screams—but it's the briefest of cries. The manticore is far too quick for her. The clawed front paws knock her down, the scorpion tail flickers, and Thistleweft's body twitches, seizing up, before subsiding. Dead.

Philomel begins to cry at Thistleweft's scream. Mindlessly, I comfort her, rocking her against my chest, while I stare out the window at the manticore. A lion with a scorpion's tail was how I always heard them described: but this is much more than that. This is a vast lion, a monster with a reddish-gold coat and claws like knives, muscles rippling under its savage hide. And its face…it's a cross between a lion's and a woman's, twisted into a mask of savagery, the eyes golden slits.

The manticore is female. That's the first, inane, stupid thought that crosses the blank void of my mind. The manticore is female. And she's just killed Thistleweft.

As though she's heard my thoughts, the manticore turns her head, in a leisurely, predatory way, to look at the cottage. For a moment, we gaze at each other through the window: me with my baby in my arms, her with my friend under her claws. I see no thought in her face, no hostility or malignance: she's just a large, powerful animal looking at something that interests her mildly.

Then, with a flick of her lion-ears, she turns away. Bending over, she scoops Thistleweft into her mighty jaws. I let out a soundless cry at the way my friend's arms flop over, helpless and limp, and her spindle falls to the ground. Then the manticore turns away and disappears into the forest, taking Thistleweft with her.

After a moment, the birds begin tentatively to sing.

We can't stay here. That's the thought that drives me through the blank numbness. We can't stay here in the cottage. I sit down to write what feels like a long, laborious note, explaining that there will be no healing or cloth selling today due to a death in the house, and attach it to the ground door. I do so very quickly, not lingering outside for a second. Then I wake Dogwood to spoon some breakfast into him.

He's cranky. "Where Mama, Alby?" he asks, blinking sleepily. "Don't want breakfast. Where Mama?"

I can't answer him. And I can't keep trying to feed him. The effort required is just too great. Come on, I say. We're going to the village.

"Don't wanna go village." I note, with detached interest, how he sulkily and completely unconsciously signs out his complaint while speaking it. "Want Mama. Where Mama?"

A part of me—the part that never stopped screaming after my own mother was killed—is asking that same question. But I can't answer him. I can't break down. Come on, I say, and take his hand.

"No! Won't go! Want Mama!" He clings to a shelf and howls. Philomel shrieks too, face crumpling.

It's too much for me. I thump down beside Dogwood, my legs giving way. Philomel shrieks louder at the impact. I jiggle her against my shoulder, rocking back and forth, while the tears come and I shake with silent sobs. Thistleweft. Thistleweft. How can you be gone? How can you be gone and just leave me here?

Why is it always like this? Do I have to lose everyone I love?

There's the sound of footsteps overhead. "Hello?" Birch's voice calls down. "Thistleweft? Albia? What's going on down there?"

"Birch!" Dogwood calls up. He scrambles to his feet, calling up. "Birch!"

I just sob harder. Now that the tears have started, they won't stop.

"Can I come down?" Birch calls after a moment. "Thistleweft, are you in there?"

"Mama gone!" Dogwood yells.

"Gone..?" Birch shuffles. "Gone where?"

I take a deep, shuddering breath. I wipe away the tears. I can't just sit here sobbing. The children need me. Holding Philomel in my lap, I sign to Dogwood to be quiet while I get ready. He obeys, looking at me with a frightened expression. I think he's only just noticed that I'm weeping and on the verge of breakdown, and he doesn't know how to react. He sticks close, clinging to my pants, as I place Philomel in her carrier. He clings to my side as we head up the ladder.

The journey up the shaft of the Tree is surreal. How can the spinners still be here, rustling away, when their mistress is gone? How can the Tree still be standing? It seems to take forever to climb up the ladder and achieve the platform. When we emerge, the ordinariness of the day is more bizarre than ever: everything looks just the same, just as it would on a normal morning, as though the world hasn't irrevocably changed.

Birch is standing there, looking very usual except for his anxious expression. But he takes one look at my face and the anxiety melts into horror. "Thistleweft?" is all he can say, whispering.

I nod, feeling sick.

He turns away, head bowed. He stumbles a little, and steadies himself against the railing. "Thistleweft," he whispers. "Thistleweft."

"What?" Dogwood stares between us, face open and confused. "Where Mama?"

I kneel down, Philomel awkward on my back, and sign the hardest thing I've ever had to say. I'm sorry, Dogwood. She's dead.

"Dead?" His hands sign the word in an unconscious echo. "Dead?"

I nod. The manticore killed her this morning.

"The manticore?" Birch blinks; then shakes his head in a strange resignation. "The manticore."

That doesn't mean anything to Dogwood. I can't take my eyes off his face as the horrible news sinks in: his mother is dead. "No. No. Mama!" he shouts suddenly, loud enough to startle a flock of birds from the branches. "Mama!" He lurches for the edge.

I lunge and grab him before he can fall off. He flails for a moment, struggling against me, before going limp. His tiny body shakes with sobs. "Mama," he moans. "Mama."

I hold him tight, rocking back and forth, while he weeps, my own tears falling. There's movement beside me, and Birch reaches a tentative arm around my shoulders. For once, I don't shy away. For once, a man's touch is warmth and reassurance rather than threat.

"Hush, Dogwood," he murmurs. "It will be fine. We'll get through this. Hush, hush…" And Birch holds me and my family while we sit in the brightening morning and weep and weep.