As time passed, Cassandra quickly learned that Eve had been right about Jenkins. He was kind and patient; even with the most trying or most quarrelsome of patients when it came to medical matters. To her surprise he practiced medicine every bit as well as her father had done, and that also impressed her. He was also unfailingly courteous to her, always addressing her as "Mistress" even when it was just the two of them. She was a little surprised to find herself thrilled that after that magical (in more ways than one) Alban Arthan celebration, Jenkins was much more openly affectionate with her, though he never tried to so much as steal a kiss from her without asking for permission first—permission that was always readily granted. As the days passed and the old year drew to its close, Cassandra quickly grew more and more comfortable with her would-be Companion.
One icy afternoon a few days after Alban Arthan, the two were working on an inventory list of the various herbs and their current levels, especially working on a list of those that would need to be replenished as soon as possible in the upcoming growing season. Cassandra sat at a small wooden table in the laboratory, a goose-quill pen in her hand, softly scratching the names of various plants onto a scrap of paper.
From across the room, Jenkins surreptitiously watched her. When he had first met her here in this house just after being summoned, he had been pleasantly surprised to discover that the frightened but courageous young woman armed with a fireplace poker was his witch. She was not only strikingly beautiful, but he quickly discerned that she was also kind and good-natured, intelligent and curious. He found himself attracted to her at once, and though that very first meeting had been somewhat awkward, Cassandra had since been nothing but open and friendly to him. Their first kiss beneath the sacred mistletoe at Alban Arthan had come as a pleasant surprise to him. His mistress had been more receptive than he'd dared to hope for, and she'd been much more open and relaxed around him since that night. He frowned at that; he sensed that despite the warming of their relationship, there was still an undercurrent of uneasiness in the young woman, and he had a suspicion as to why that should be. Perhaps his mocking of Magistrate DuLaque before the Solstice day had inadvertently caused his mistress to question Jenkins's own abilities when it came to certain acts of intimacy.
His mind went back to that first night after he had been summoned, when the Carsens had taken him and Cassandra aside—Eve with Cassandra and Flynn with Jenkins—to describe for them what was expected of each of them. Jenkins, of course, already understood that the Ritual of Binding entailed physically joining his body with Mistress Cillian's. But most of Flynn's conversation had been taken up by explaining to the Companion that in this time and in this place, such things as physical intimacy were not spoken of easily when spoken of at all, and therefore Mistress Cillian might be hesitant to even talk about the sexual component of the Ritual of Binding, let alone agree to it. Flynn had warned Jenkins that the young witch might very well reject him altogether because of this one requirement of the ritual, an idea that had astonished and dismayed Jenkins at the time; it still troubled him. Bearing this in mind, he had been content to remain silent on the matter, allowing his mistress to broach the topic when she was ready. But perhaps the time had come for him to be the one to speak up first…
"May I ask a question, Mistress?" Jenkins inquired now as he stood and walked slowly to where she was working. Cassandra looked up from her list and smiled warmly; the Companion's heart fluttered in response.
"Of course," she answered, and at once laid down the quill to give him her full attention. Not certain how to phrase his question in an acceptably delicate way, he decided the direct approach would simply have to do.
"Do you find my physical appearance unpleasant to look upon?" Cassandra blinked, momentarily confused by the odd question, then shook her head.
"No, no—not at all," she answered truthfully, lowering her eyes. Indeed, from the beginning she had found Jenkins to be quite handsome—especially once he had been stripped of that ridiculous outfit he'd been wearing and the thick mask of cosmetics. She remembered again the feel of his hand on her cheek at Alban Arthan, his wise brown eyes that seemed to see directly into the very depths of her being, his lips brushing hers, his mischievous tongue—and the memory sent a warm tremor through her chest. "I… I think that you are very attractive, actually."
"I see," he said quietly, then frowned slightly, as if pondering her answer. "Then perhaps you fear that my current corporeal form is too agéd to provide you with satisfying sexual congress?"
"OH!" Cassandra yelped softly, a hand fluttering to cover her mouth as her head snapped up to stare at him with shocked blue eyes, taken aback by the bluntness of the unexpected question.
"I can assure you, Mistress, that my outer form is not an accurate predictor of my physical prowess or stamina," he went on, oblivious to her discomfiture. "I am more than capable of satisfying all of your sexual needs and desires—"
"Stop!" Cassandra cried, her cheeks burning and turning deep scarlet as she quickly ducked her head, her eyes fixing themselves blindly onto the floor between them, breathless with excitement and mortification as the words rushed from her lips. "I-I'm sure I do not know what you are talking about, Mr. Jenkins!" The Companion cocked his head.
"I am talking about the Ritual of Binding that must take place between us if I am to be your Companion," he explained, puzzled, "I was told that Eve had spoken to you about this? Did she not tell you about how you and I must—"
"YES! Yes, she did!" Cassandra cut him off frantically, still unable to look him in the eyes. "She told me all about it! It is just that… Well, it is… It is…" The young woman squirmed uncomfortably on her chair.
"Your face is very flushed; are you ill, Mistress?" Jenkins asked, at once concerned, "Shall I fetch Mr. Carsen for you?" A harsh bark of laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation escaped Cassandra despite her distress as she huddled before him.
"Why?" she asked, risking an upward glance. "You are supposed to be the doctor here now, remember?" A look of self-reproach passed over the tall man's face.
"Yes! Of course I am! Forgive me, Mistress," he offered with a tiny, contrite bow. "Would you like a nice herbal tea? I think chamomile and mint, and perhaps some rosehips as well, with a nice dollop of honey to sweeten it…?" He crossed the room to the storage shelves and began digging through the various jars and boxes in search of the ingredients he wanted.
"Y-yes, some tea sounds very nice," Cassandra agreed shakily, grateful for the change of topic. She jumped up from the table. "I-I'll go to the kitchen and put the kettle on the fire!" She rushed from the laboratory before Jenkins could say anything in reply.
Once she was safely in the privacy of the kitchen, Cassandra's hands shook as she poured some fresh water into the large copper kettle and then hung it over the low fire in the fireplace. She dropped onto a stool and watched the flames as they brushed the bottom of the kettle, heaved a loud sigh.
"I am more than capable of satisfying all of your sexual needs and desires—"
Cassandra drew a shaky breath as she remembered the frankly-stated assurance. To her shame, her mind drifted into a persistent fantasy she'd been having lately where she and Jenkins were unclothed, touching each other, kissing, caressing the places on each other's bodies that no one dared speak of aloud… She shook her head violently to dispel the lewd yet seductive images, and then immediately scolded herself for her prudishness.
He must think I am a childish little fool! she thought, suddenly angry with herself. But now that she had space and time to think, it occurred to her that perhaps Jenkins actually was the child. Not childish, though; more…childlike. The way he had so plainly asked if she thought he was too old for the binding ritual was how a child would ask such a question—before it was corrected by its elders on what was proper to talk about and what was not, that is. Cassandra frowned. She realized that she felt a twinge of jealously at that, of Jenkins being so free to talk about a subject normally so taboo in her world. Was that what it was like to be a witch? Would she feel that kind of freedom one day, if she continued on this magical path from which her father had tried to protect her? She had to admit, the idea appealed to her. Imagine! Being able to talk about something like…sex…without fear of censure or being judged a woman of loose morals!
"Excuse me, Mistress?" At the sound of Jenkins's quiet voice, Cassandra jumped up from the stool with a squeak and spun toward him while nervously smoothing her apron and dark woolen skirt.
"Mr. Jenkins!" she greeted him, nodding. There was a small pottery bowl in his large hands, and he held it up.
"I have blended a tea that I think you will enjoy," he said, his voice uncertain. "Chamomile, mint, rosehips, with just a touch of valerian for soothing."
He stepped forward and held out the bowl. Cassandra met him halfway and took it from him, and their fingers touched briefly. She couldn't help but notice that his were long and warm and suggested strength. She risked a quick glance at his face and found him gazing down at her, his sharp brown eyes fixed on her. She wasn't certain, but she thought she could see something in them, but what? Affection? Concern? Pity?
"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins," she murmured as she took the tea and stepped back, forcing her eyes onto the bowl now in her hands.
"Mistress…I am very sorry if I offended you earlier, in the laboratory," he said awkwardly after a few seconds, then raised his silver head. "I am still learning the ways and customs specific to this place and time, and I beg your indulgence. In a few more weeks, I promise you that you will not be able to distinguish me from any other man in the village—"
"NO!" she blurted loudly, her eyes flying open wide as her head jerked up to look at him. Jenkins, his mouth still open, blinked in surprise. Cassandra looked down at the bowl again. "W-what I mean is—I… I am glad that you are not like the other men!" Jenkins closed his mouth and stood up straighter.
"Indeed?" he said, sounding delighted. He paused, as though considering something. "May I…speak freely, Mistress?"
"Yes, please do." The tall man paused again, wanting to choose his words carefully.
"I…have been thinking that you are…displeased with me in some fashion—"
"Oh, no! No! Not at all!" Cassandra hurried to answer. She turned and set the bowl of tea on a nearby table before turning back and looking up into his serious eyes. "I find you very pleasing! I have enjoyed our conversations very much, and I truly enjoy spending time with you!" She paused then, chewed nervously on her lower lip for a moment.
"I have actually been thinking that…I will end up being displeasing to you, when all has been said and done," she finally admitted. Jenkins gazed down at her for moment, astonished by her confession.
"How could you possibly displease me, Mistress?" he asked, appalled by the very idea. The kettle of water began to boil. Cassandra, desperate for some activity with which to draw attention away from herself, turned to the fireplace and seized the handle of the kettle bare-handed. The hot metal burned her palm and with a shriek that was more surprise than actual pain she dropped the kettle. It clattered loudly against the hearth stones, scalding water spilling across the floor. Cassandra clutched the wrist of her burned hand and instinctively jumped backward from the hot water—straight into the stool behind her. Unbalanced, her feet becoming tangled with the tipped stool, she began to fall backward and she cried out in helpless panic.
As fast as lightning, Jenkins lunged forward and scooped her up into his arms before she could hit the floor. He swung her body around and then gently set her back onto her feet. His arms remained around her small waist, however, as though he was reluctant to let her go. An intense tingling wave passed through Cassandra's chest as she looked up into his worried face, breathless at how easily he had caught her. She barely felt the strength of his long arms holding her close enough for her to breathe in his scent. Jenkins stared down at her, and for just a moment she thought she saw a spark of something flash through his eyes, something wild and hungry. The contact was suddenly broken when Jenkins forced his eyes toward her burned hand.
"Your hand, Mistress!" He finally released her and carefully pulled the injured hand closer to inspect it.
"It…it is fine," she answered weakly. Jenkins looked up at her.
"It is most definitely not fine," he countered firmly, then went back to gingerly examining her palm. "It is not a serious burn, fortunately, but it still wants a salve." He looked up at her again.
"Please come back to the laboratory, Mistress; I will tend your hand and bandage it for you." He turned and started for the doorway. Cassandra didn't move, however, except to absently close her fingers over her now-throbbing palm while she stared at his back. Jenkins stood aside to let her pass through the door first, but when he realized she wasn't there, the Companion turned back to look for her.
"Mistress?" Jenkins said, confused. Cassandra took a deep breath, grateful now for the pain in her hand. It helped to keep her focused, grounded, in his presence. When she still refused to answer him, Jenkins came back and stood in front of her.
"Mistress? Is something wrong? Are you all right?" Cassandra looked steadily down at the floor, stock still as her nose picked up his scent again. Again, she felt a warmth flood her, felt her heart beat faster within her chest as her body remembered the feel of his arms around her. She found herself wishing mightily that he would tip her face up, look deeply into her eyes again, perhaps tenderly touch her cheek. Perhaps even—dare she think it?—kiss her again…
She intentionally pressed her fingertips into the burned palm, using the pain to jerk her harshly back to reality and out of her foolish daydreams.
"Yes," she replied, her voice rough, "I am fine!" After a long pause, Jenkins slowly reached out and lightly placed his finger underneath her chin, unknowingly fulfilling her wish as he gently raised her head and turned her face toward him. He was alarmed to see tears welling in her blue eyes.
"Mistress!" he exclaimed softly, distressed to see her so unhappy. "What is the matter? What has upset you so?" Cassandra jerked her head free and lowered it in shame as she backed out of his reach.
"I cannot tell you!" she barked, misery in her voice. "I… I…" She shook her head violently as her courage failed her. "I cannot—I am too ashamed!"
"Mistress," Jenkins began softly after a moment, "I want you to know that there is nothing that you cannot share with me, especially if I am to be your Companion. Anything you say to me will be kept in the strictest of confidence, I can assure you. Not even the Carsens will know of it." Cassandra looked up and into his dark eyes. She saw that he was sincere, and so she squared her small shoulders, blinked away her tears.
"Eve…told me all about the Ritual of Binding, that it requires me to…to be…intimate with you," she answered, her voice quavering slightly as she stumbled through her explanation. "And…I am afraid!" There, she had said it, at last! Once she had given voice to her fear, she couldn't stop. "I have never been with a man! I know nothing of such things, and…I…I fear that you will be disappointed or disgusted with me and will not wish to be my Companion after all!"
A single short half-sob, half-sigh manage to escape the unhappy woman before she swiftly stifled her emotions again. Jenkins stepped to her quickly and lightly placed his hands on either side of her face. To her amazement, as she met his gaze she could plainly see not pity, but empathy, that his heart was genuinely aching for her. For a moment she thought her knees might buckle beneath the weight of her relief, but through sheer determination she forced herself to stay upright.
"Mistress, you have nothing to fear in that regard," he assured her steadily as she looked up at him. "You forget, I have only been in this human form for a few weeks now—and I have very little direct experience of such things." Cassandra, surprised by this information, gasped softly.
"You don't?" she almost squeaked, a slight note of astonishment in her voice. "But Eve said that you know what to do and…and…"
"I know that I have performed the Ritual before with my former witches, I do have an understanding of the mechanics involved," he said conversationally, "But it has been a very long time since my last Ritual of Binding, and even then I do not actually remember anything of it." Cassandra could only blink in surprise.
"T-truly?" she breathed. Jenkins nodded his head.
"Truly!" he confirmed, sounding almost proud of himself. A puzzled expression then came to the tall man's face. "Did your father not tell you anything about the Ritual of Binding?" Sadness clouded the young woman's face again as she gave a sharp shake of her head.
"He did not even tell me I was a witch," she informed him forlornly, lowering her eyes. "I did not find out about that until Flynn read my father's letter to me after the funeral."
"What?!" Jenkins almost yelled, outraged, and dropped his hands as he took a step back from her, while Cassandra flinched and cowered at his reaction. Seeing it, he instantly quashed his anger over Samuel Cillian's dereliction of his responsibilities and raised his hands in a gesture of soothing.
"My apologies, Mistress, I did not mean to frighten you," he continued, keeping a careful reign on his temper, "But I am greatly dismayed to learn of this only now, and gravely concerned!"
"But…Flynn was supposed to have told you all of this answered in dismay. Jenkins began shaking his head in denial even as she spoke.
"Flynn told me that your father was reluctant to raise you as a witch," he said, "But I did not understand that to mean that you had not been taught anything about your heritage!" He turned from Cassandra and began to pace restlessly while he ran his hands over the front of his black waistcoat. "Even if he did not want to raise you as a witch, he still should have taught these are things when you were very young, so that you would know what to expect when you were old enough to decide for yourself if you wanted to live as a witch and summon a Companion!"
"Reverend Carsen says that my father was trying to protect me…" Cassandra began weakly. Jenkins spun around to face her.
"Your father was a fool!" he snapped impatiently. He caught himself again, closed his eyes as he struggled again to tamp down his temper, but it was too late; Cassandra sprang at once to her beloved father's defense.
"Do not dare to speak of my father like that!" she fiercely tore into the large man, rushing across the room to stand mere inches from him, her red head tipped back as she glared furiously up at him. "My father was a good man! He cared for people, no matter who they were! He did not care if they were rich or poor nor what their status in society was—he treated them all the same way!"
As she harangued Jenkins, Cassandra balled her hands onto fists and began pummeling his chest as she strove to make her points, the pain from her burned hand all but forgotten compared to the pain now in her heart. The bewildered Companion backed away from her slowly under the assault, like a bear being harassed by a small terrier.
"He treated them was respect and courtesy and tolerance and love! Slave or freedman, man or woman, adult or child, Christian or not, it did not matter! He helped all! And if my father chose not to tell me about…about…witchcraft or Companions or summonings or bindings or…or…or whatever type of mischief you have now brought to my doorstep, be assured that he had good reason for it, and you have no right to gainsay his wisdom on the matter, ever!" With a final angry shriek, Cassandra placed both of her hands on Jenkins's chest and pushed him away with all her might. She wrapped her arms around her body, almost panting as she watched him stumble backward a few steps, his eyes wide with surprise at the ferocity of her anger. A tense silence fell between the two for several long seconds before the Companion finally spoke.
"I am, indeed, the only fool here," he said quietly and stiffly, and, looking away, he began to straighten his clothes, and refused to make any further eye contact with the still-fuming woman. Jenkins gave her a bow in surrender, then nodded at the table where she had set the bowl of tea earlier.
"You had better heat more water for the tea, Mistress," he instructed her blandly, then turned his back on her and headed for the door. But Cassandra had caught the subtle reproof in his voice and it reignited her fury all over again. Incensed, she ran to the table, snatched up the bowl of herbs and hurled it with all her strength at him, barely missing the back of his head as he passed through the doorway. He ignored the shattering crockery as he lumbered back to the laboratory.
Cassandra closed her eyes and clenched her fists as she fought back the bile and sadness and anxiety that were threatening to overwhelm her. She took several deep breaths, slowly exhaling each one until she felt calm returning to her. She opened her eyes and loosened her hands; instantly the pieces of the bowl and the scattered ingredients of the tea Jenkins had made caught her eye. With a final, heavy sigh, she crossed the kitchen and knelt down onto the floor, began gathering up the pieces of the broken bowl, her burned hand beginning to throb painfully again as her temper cooled.
With tears stinging in her eyes, she thought of how Father would have scolded her for such carelessness with the dish. Even something as simple and plain as this small clay bowl cost them money, and they had never had enough hard cash on hand to be able to afford wasting it by smashing things in a fit of childish anger. Cassandra suddenly stopped picking up the pieces as a thought came to her mind; if Father really was a witch, could he have…simply fixed a broken item with magic?
Could she simply fix a broken item with magic?
Without having any idea as to what to do, the young woman quickly finished gathering all of the pieces and held them carefully in her cupped hands while she sat back on her heels. As she stared down at them, she wondered how her father might have used magic to fix the bowl. Almost immediately a flash of inspiration came to her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
After several frustrating minutes of nothing but darkness, bright vibrant colors suddenly burst into view behind her eyelids. She gasped in surprise at their intensity, but Cassandra kept her eyes tightly closed and forced herself to breathe slowly. For several seconds she merely watched the colors as they danced against her eyelids, and soon she was able to discern shapes: Numbers, unknown symbols, lines, waves, all in different colors that gently glowed like the newly-risen morning sun. Suddenly there were even more shapes separating themselves from the colorful jumble. They glowed a bright blue-green outlined in black, odd shapes with sharp points and jagged edges. Once they had separated themselves they began to slowly spin in space in front of her, turning so that she could see every side and surface as if she was turning each piece individually in her hands. A soft gasp escaped her when she understood that these shapes were the individual pieces of the broken bowl she was now holding in her hands.
Her heart began hammering hard within her chest in excitement. Cassandra adjusted her position on the floor, sucked in another lungful of air and unconsciously held it. With her eyes still shut, she focused on each of the glowing pieces before her mind's eye. Slowly, painfully, she began to move them around by the force of her thoughts alone, carefully fitting each shard together as she "repaired" the broken bowl in her imagination. After what seemed like an eternity, the final piece was finally floated into place. The outline of each shard shone blindingly in gold, then faded away along with the background numbers and symbols until only the softly-glowing image of the bowl, now whole, was left before her. It was only then that she became aware of the weight in her cupped hands and the aching for air in her lungs.
Cassandra gasped for air as she slowly opened her eyes and looked down. There, nestled on the palms of her cupped hands was the bowl, completely restored, without so much as a crack or a chip to indicate that it had ever been damaged. But before she could celebrate her achievement, Cassandra slumped to the floor as a sharp stab of pain shot through her skull like a gunshot. She instinctively cradled the newly-mended dish against her body to protect it as she rolled onto the cold stone floor, her entire body beyond overwhelmed by a bone-deep exhaustion. She closed her eyes, whimpered at the agony in her head, but at the same time she was exhilarated that this—her very first attempt at using magic—had been so successful.
After several minutes the pain had finally eased enough for her to slowly climb to her feet, stumbling a bit as dizziness and nausea threatened to overtake her, but she forced herself to ignore it. She looked down at the bowl in her trembling hands again and smiled.
"I think… I think I will make some tea now!" she whispered to herself faintly. She carefully, proudly set the bowl down on the table, then picked up the wooden pail and shakily stumbled outside to fetch more water from the well.