“How long can you stay?” I said weakly. “There’s a ton of pie in the pantry.”
Alice glanced at the window. “The weather is surely worsening, and my place is with my queen. I wish to remain here as long as it pleases Your Highness. We may pray together.”
I beamed, my fatigued body roused by the thought of Alice staying. “Of course, I’d love that,” I said. “But you should know that we get no news here…the king didn’t want any messengers to know where I am. You’ll hear more about Francis if you go back to court.” I understood the weight of that as much as anyone.
“Perhaps I could ask my coachman to return with any urgent news from the north,” Alice offered. “He now knows that I am here, so there can be no harm. Fear not; he is most discreet, my lady.”
“That’s fine by me,” I agreed, relieved to have an avenue for some news. Alice and I shared a smile. At least we had each other now.
Winter at Robin House became infinitely more bearable with Alice Grey there. We played card games, embroidered, read poems aloud, and waited for news that never came. On the Twelfth Night, we welcomed in the new year of 1581 with blessings, fruitcake, and sweetened wine. Poor Mister Blackburn was back in bed with a headache, but I had some cake sent up to him in the hope he could enjoy a slice.
The entire household was passed out after the celebrations when a fist banged on the downstairs door in the dead of night. I thought I dreamt it until two more urgent thumps sent the outside hens into confused cackles. I shot upward in bed, finding Alice’s silhouette facing our doorway. She turned to me, her moonlit expression sharing my thought: was it news about Nick and Francis?
Alice draped a shawl over me before we dashed down the stairwell. The guards on night duty stood gathered in the entrance hall, where a young girl in a blood-red cape waited on the doorstep. The wind that blew through the open door was shockingly cold.
“What mischief is this?” one of the guards snapped at her.
“Forgive the hour, my lords,” she said in a mature voice that didn’t suit her childlike face. “I am in search of herbs in great haste. Mandrake, wormwood, chamomile…any such thing thee may ‘ave.”
I gaped at her thick braids of black hair. It was the witch from the hamlet.
“What do you need the herbs for?” I said, stepping forward. Had she come looking for me?
“There is a plague of smallpox in the village,” she replied without emotion.
“Smallpox?” a guard cried with horror.
“I ‘ave not enough remedies for everyone,” the girl added quickly. I emerged into the light, and her eyes shot to my bare thumb where she’d once detected the blue-diamond ring. “Does thee keepeth the ring safe, my lady?” she said to me. Alice grabbed my arm and tugged me away from the girl in case she was carrying the dreaded pox.
The guards formed a wall that pushed the young villager outside into a bank of snow, cursing at her. She twisted her neck to meet my eyes as the heavy wooden door swung shut in her face.
“How troubling,” said Alice as our bare feet padded back upstairs to the bedchamber, leaving the guards arguing over which one had allowed in the villager exposed to smallpox.
My bed was cushioned with blankets and furs, and yet I couldn’t relax through the images of the girl checking for the blue-diamond ring on my finger. She was more than a witch—she had to be some sort of clairvoyant.
As Alice gently snored, I watched the strips of moonlight peeking through the window shutters. It was perilously cold outside, and somewhere out there was Nick—risking his life to defend our marriage that should technically never have occurred. Less than a mile away lived a girl who might know something that could help make sense of how I’d even come to be in this time. After the loss of Agnes Nightingale, I couldn’t get past the fact that another witch had been dropped into my lap—almost like a miracle. Like it’s meant to be.
I sat up, sweat seeping into my nightgown. Visiting a witch during the daytime was out of the question. But could I actually sneak out of Robin House at night without being seen? The snow wasn’t a deal-breaker—I had a thick cloak warm enough to cook an egg in and fur-lined boots. Smallpox, on the other hand, wasn’t a disease I was keen to catch, nor did I want to risk giving it to anyone at Robin House or—heaven forbid—reintroduce it to the twenty-first century. However, having a nurse for a mom had made me pretty savvy about avoiding viruses: if I didn’t get close to anyone or anything in the village, and I washed my hands thoroughly as soon as I got back, the chances of getting sick were low. I was more at risk of giving Alice a panic attack if she woke before I returned. Sneaking out at night in midwinter was dicey, even for me, but it was also my best chance—maybe my only chance—to finally get some answers.
I made up my mind. I was going to attempt it.
Downstairs, the guard on night shift sat hunched over a book in the library. I slid into the pantry as silent as a cat, ready to declare the munchies as my excuse if he caught me. Beside the cellar door at the rear of the house, bundles of herbs were hanging upside down to dry. I tore off a few sprigs of each and slipped outside with two gold sovereign coins jingling in my cloak in case I needed to bribe the witch.
The air was arctic, and I didn’t have a lantern, but the moon hung full and brilliant, and I took it as a sign to keep going. I found the pathway, kicking up powdery snow that spilled into the collar of my leather boots. I sank knee-deep into banks of snow as I descended the side of the hill, my cheeks already numb.
Down in the hamlet, the tiny house where Joseph Blackburn and I had come across the kids and the farmer was boarded up with hand-sawed planks of wood. Keeping away from it, I hastened along the dirt path toward the witch’s cottage beside the alehouse, hugging my chest. Knifelike icicles hung from the home’s thatched roof like monster’s teeth. With my gloves protecting my skin, I banged on the decaying door, feeling no hesitation. More than anything right now, I had to get warm.
Time slowed before the narrow door parted from the frame a crack. The girl’s eyes peeked out at me for a moment before the gnarled plank swung wide open. I rushed inside to where a gentle fire sizzled on a mound of stones in a central hearth.
“My lady,” the girl stammered, falling to her knees.
“Please, you can get up,” I said through chattering teeth. She stumbled upward and tightened her shawl while I took in the primitive space faintly lit by rushlights. The uneven ceiling of crudely cut wooden beams was so low in places that I had to duck.
“This was all I could find in a hurry,” I said, pacing across the earthen floor to offer her stems of purple and green, careful not to make skin contact.
Her eyes flashed wide as she took them, her bony fingers skimming the foliage. “Lavender…mint…marjoram. Not any I hath asked for, but the lavender may help the head pains. I thanketh thee.”
She separated them into bundles on an uneven beam of wood resting on two stumps. It was the closest thing she had to a table. Hanging above her were charm-like knots of animal bones, snakeskin, herbs, and strips of hair.
“Is there smallpox in this house?” I said, unsure if I should move.
She shook her head, ebony braids flapping. “The pox plague is bound to the Blacke lodging at present. Down the street. Four ‘ave did perish thus far.”