The Seasons of Salt

Chapter Fourteen

Pippy hauled them awake with one large hand on either shoulder, the covers thrown across the floor. She was a thin and wiry woman, but she was strong. They were thrown to the floor by the covers whilst Pippy shook with rage above them.

Cerissa blinked blurrily in the light. Sylas rubbed his eyes beside her. He’d had another nightmare last night and had come creeping into her bed for comfort. He must have overslept.

“I have lost count of the number of times I have told you to stay out of each other’s beds,” she snapped. “It is not appropriate. You’re growing older now. You’re not babes in arms in anymore. How long will you be doing this, hmmm? Until your beard bristles grow, Sylas? Or your moon-blood comes, Cerissa? Or until you are wed and have someone else to share your bed with? It is not right.”

Cerissa bit back a yawn, trying to seem penitent.

“And you can take that face off, Cerissa Dowse, it does not fool anyone. You’re going to be crawling back under the covers together the minute my back is turned. I do not know why I try with you. You never see Jonnah making this amount of trouble for us. And your poor mother! As if she does not have enough to worry her! Is that what you want? To plague her to death?”

Cerissa had cried bitter tears the first time Pippy found them together, cuddled up cosy under the bed-sheets. They were right little then, only four. Just after they’d been moved to their own big bedrooms, out of the night nursery. Now she just let it wash over her. They were not doing anything wrong. He was her twin. Why should she not comfort him when he was sad? Fishes swim together, Da always said. She did not know why the thought of it upset Pippy so much.

The kitchen cat came prowling in chasing a mouse that was skittering towards them. The little beast buried itself in Cerissa’s skirts with a squeak and the cat pounced on her lap. It seemed to forget its prey when it was there though, it pushed its head up against her, purring loudly. Its tail flicking under her chin, making her squirm.

Mushroom had been much more friendly than usual, lately. She’d often come pressing herself up against Sy or Cerissa, whenever she caught sight of them. Mayhap she was kittening again. That made her soft, sometimes. Cerissa stroked her hands over the soft grey fur, and Mushroom purred louder, her claws digging little holes in Cerissa’s thighs as she paddy-pawed her way into a comfortable position. Cerissa fished the mouse out and set it free quietly whilst Mushroom was distracted.

“He has nightmares, Pippy,” she said as patiently as she could as Pippy huffed and puffed above them.

“Then he should go to your Ma. Or better yet, he should remember that he is a big boy and stay in his own bed.”

Sylas rolled his eyes at Cerissa. He never took Pippy seriously, even when she was raging like this. He was cheerful again now, by the bright morning light. He had not said much when he crawled into bed with Cerissa last night. Had not told her what the white-haired witch had said. Had not asked her to write to Da again.

Cerissa got to her feet, and Mushroom leapt reluctantly away.

“Is it nearly breakfast time, Pippy?” she asked, cutting across Pippy’s shouting. Pippy stood there panting with fury, her skinny face red, her hands on her hips. Her lips were scrunched up small and pouty and she just glowered. Then all at once she slumped.

“Sylas, go and get some clothes on, boy. Your best jerkin, please. And wash your face properly, I’m coming to check.” She ushered him out of the door like a hen flapping its wings at its chicks across the courtyards before whirling around to face Cerissa again.

“Have we got a guest for breakfast?” Cerissa asked curiously.

“No.” Pippy was rummaging in the clothes’ chest curtly. She reached right down to the bottom and gave a horrified shriek as she pulled out the blue and white dress she had been searching for. Cerissa squirmed uncomfortably, her bare feet twisting on the floorboards. “What have you done, child? This dress cost good money! Look at these pleats! Look at these sleeves! Do you know how much fabric that takes? Covered in dust and cobwebs and stains! Torn along the hems! Whatever were you doing in it, girl?”

Cerissa did not think it was a good idea to confess she had been creeping along underneath the floorboards in it, so she just murmured something inaudible and cast her watering eyes down to her wiggling feet.

“You will not tell Ma, will you?” she whispered.

“I ought to,” Pippy said darkly. “I would, if I did not think your poor mother had enough to deal with. Here, put this on instead. And the Fae help you if you drop so much as a single spoonful down it.” She thrust a smart dress in Cerissa’s direction. It was blue too, but deep as the midnight sky, and much less frilled. The waist was cinched uncomfortably and the skirt fell out in pleats, but the collar was plain and the sleeves stopped near her wrists where they ought to, in Cerissa’s opinion.

“Why are we dressing up?” she asked as her head was wrestled through the skirts. Her voice came out muffled and squashed until at last it popped into freedom. Pippy plumped her skirts fussily and then thrust her down to the little wooden stool, pulling a brush hard through her hair. Cerissa bit her lip to stop herself from crying out.

“Curiosity is unladylike, Cerissa. Your mother will tell you everything you need to know.”

Everything was unladylike in Pippy’s opinion. She very rarely said things were unlordlike though. Cerissa was starting to suspect that being a lady was not the great honour it was supposed to be.

She allowed herself to be neatly bedecked in plaits and ribbons and then tripped down the ladies’ stairs to the Great Hall. There was a buzz in it today, in the long table stretched down the middle of the hall. They kept an informal house, especially when the menfolk went to war. When they had guests round, they had the top table and the children’s table, and the lower tables for those below the salt. When it was just them, they only had one long table stretching down and, apart from all the Dowses and the lady’s maids and Gerinson the steward, who crowded at the top edge of the table nearest the dais, everyone sat where they wanted to. Da said that his father had believed in too much order, and he did not intend to be the same sort of lord. A little bit of chaos never hurt anyone. Especially the Fae folk. And he always winked at them when he said it and Ma pursed her lips into a scowl but she kept her chiding tongue for behind closed doors.

Cerissa felt sad and squirmy now, thinking of Da again. He had not replied to her letter. Maybe he had not got it. Maybe the white-haired witch had got it instead. Maybe she had stolen it with whatever magic powers white-haired witches had.

Sylas, Jonnah and Gerinson rose as she entered, Great-Grandma waved one wrinkled hand in greeting as she spooned watery porridge into her pursed mouth with the other, and Ma gestured Cissa to sit down beside her. Then they took their seats again. Gerinson had been sitting up above Jonnah, opposite Ma, where Da usually sat. He had been talking deep and earnest across the table to Ma as Cerissa came in. He winked at Cerissa just as Da usually did and she scowled at him fiercely.

Sy was not saying much again today. He'd been quiet recently, and it was worrying her. Mayhap she would write Da again anyway, even though Sy had not asked her to. Mayhap she had not told Da clear enough how bad things were here. He would come home for certain-sure if he knew how much everyone needed him now.

A mouse ran over her foot underneath the table, and she squealed, picking her feet up sharply and jogging the heavy wood. The milk jug wobbled, but Gerinson shot out a hand and righted it before it tipped itself all over her. Ma glowered at her.

“Can we have one breakfast where you keep yourself in good order please, Cerissa?”

Cerissa did not say anything. Gerinson grinned at her conspiratorially.

“You’re not Da,” she told him fiercely. He froze a little and then smiled again, more gently.

“No, but it will not be long now until he’s home. I know you’re missing him something fierce, little warrior. We all are.”

“When?” Jonnah said plaintively. His voice was quiet. Cerissa had not realised he’d been listening. Gerinson ruffled his hair with an affectionate sigh.

“Soon. Sooner than you think, mayhap.”

“Polric,” Ma said warningly and Gerinson had excused himself from the table with another small smile. Ma turned to Cerissa instead.

“Eat up. I want you in the sewing room with me whilst the boys have their lessons this morning.”

“But-”

“I know your father lets you learn with your brothers usually. But their lessons today are not suitable for a lady’s education, and your father is not here. You will spend the morning with me, Cerissa.” There was fire in her eyes and Cerissa did not want to challenge it today. Ma never let her have the interesting lessons. The history ones about war and betrayal, elopements, cuckolds and broken marriages which broke and raised dynasties. Nor the warcraft ones where they studied gruesome battles and bloodied tactics. It did not really matter, because Sy always told her all about it in right full detail afterwards, so she did not really miss anything – only she did object to Sy and Jonnah being able to learn it properly and she only heard it second-hand.

She forced down the horrid, lumpy porridge as quick as she could, so as not to taste it for any longer than necessary and then scuttled away to wash up whilst Ma traded polite conversation with her Lady’s Maids.

The sewing room was round and warm, covered in elaborate tapestries and hoops with half-finished projects on it. Ma was working on a new dress for Cerissa now, and she bade her stand up on a milking stool whilst she pinned the hem of it. Cerissa stood obediently and stared out of the window whilst the grown-up ladies talked and giggled about things she did not rightly understand. She ignored them mostly.

Ma liked to make the family clothes herself. They bought plain clothes from sewing-folk in the village, but the best clothes Ma made by hand. Reminded her of her youth, she said, when, even though she was a lady, she had to make all the family clothes. Ma had not been rich, like Da, when she was young. She did not have it as well as Cerissa did. Cerissa did not know how lucky she was, to have the luxury her Da gave her, and she ought to act a bit more ladylike and grateful for it sometimes.

Besides, Ma said she liked to make the clothes. It made her feel like she was gifting something special to her children and her husband. It did not make much sense to Cerissa. Clothes were clothes whoever made them. But it made Ma happy and when Ma was happy she was not so scrunchy all the time, so Cerissa played the good little maiden and only shuffled about a bit and did not even cry out too much when Ma jabbed her with the pin by accident.

The world outside called like a Fae-song. The river ran faster under her wistful gaze, sparkling in the lights, ripple-edged with white. It looked cool and clear and she longed to go diving underneath the surface, despite the cool autumn air. She’d forgotten the last time she’d gone swimming.

The thought came back to her hard and fast, that night, weeks ago now, that the animals had come and they had been thrown beneath the salt waves to scare the magic off. She shuddered. She’d all but forgotten that. It lingered murkily beneath the edges of her memory like a nightmare, and she was not even certain-sure it had actually happened now.

Ma’s hands were warm as they touched her cheek gently and Cerissa startled back to the moment. Ma did not have River Eyes. She was not born a Dowse. She had clear blue, summer sky eyes. They were crinkling at her with pity and Cerissa did not know why.

“It’s all going to come clean, Cerissa,” she said softly, and water was pooling there in her gaze. “No matter what happens, I promise I will look after you. I know you miss him, sweetling. I swear to you, it will all come clean by the end.”

She glanced over her shoulder out the open window, to the winding path beyond the river, curling over the hills through the forest glades out into the distance where Da had gone marching all that age ago.

Sweetling. Ma’s only pet name for her. Da called her plague, mostly. Or monster. Or trouble. But he did not mean any of it. He only called her that when he was happy. When he was cross he did not call her owt but Cerissa. Or Cerissa Auricula Dowse. Gerinson called her little warrior, and she liked that grand. But Ma called her sweetling. The only one who thought she was sweet. She had not called Cerissa sweetling in a month or more. Had been too scratchy and fractious. Cerissa did not know what it meant that she was calling her it now.

She wrestled the dress off her head when Ma allowed her to and sat neatly hemming kerchiefs for Jonnah and Sylas and Da for the next Fae Day, coming up quick, only a month or two away. The last Fae Day had been ever so grand, with the bonfires and the dancing and being allowed to stay up late for it. Sy had been especially wild that day, and no one at all had chid him for it. Fae days are made for wildness, Da said, and Cerissa had run around barefoot and loose-haired and no-one had done more than rolled their eyes at her. She had danced around the fires until she was out of breath, dancing the river song that all Bridgenford folks danced young or old, man or woman, had splashed in the rivers that rose to meet her, throwing handfuls of light into the air like rain, drenching them all. The men folks had all worn twigs woven in their hair like crowns and the womenfolk all wore flowers in their loose hair – the day when every one of the common-folk could be royalty, Da said. And the singers from the villages had all sang rude songs about the Dowses, songs which called Da slow-witted and Ma prudish and everyone had laughed, Da loudest of all. And when Sy had gotten all offended and cross, Da had stopped him and pulled him onto his lap and said this was an important part of Bridgenford, that for two days a year, the longest and the shortest, the common-folk needed to be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with their Large Lords without fear of recrimination, needed to be able to vent their frustrations and that it was all a part of what made Bridgenford work so well. And besides, it was all meant in jest and good fun. He said even Grandda Gerin had been able to laugh at himself on Fae days, and Grandda Gerin did not laugh at much, by all the rivers.

What would they sing about Jonnah, when he was the Large Lord? That he was slow as a carthorse and just as dense, probably.

She started to make up her own little songs in her head as she stitched.

Jonnah is a deadly force,

Slow and steady as a horse,

He’s awful big and awful quiet.

Cerissa looked up from her stitching. “Ma, what rhymes with quiet?”

But Ma was not listening. One of the servants had come in and was whispering something quietly in Ma’s ear. She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath and then she nodded.

“Fetch the boys and take them to the courtyard,” she said curtly. “Cerissa, go and fetch your cloak, the weather is bitter cold today.”

“Where are we going?”

“Do as you are told without questioning everything for once, Cerissa,” her mother snapped and Cerissa fled to do as she’d been bid.

By the time she had returned with it, Ma had already had the household lined up in the courtyard, just like they did on the rare times that Aunty Féon came to visit with Cousin Ryland and Little Erilla.

“Are our cousins coming to stay with us?” she asked Ma curiously as she took her place. Ma just hushed her. Gerinson winked in her direction and surreptitiously turned the edge of the hem of her cloak back upon itself to hide the mud-stain Ma had not yet noticed. Sylas was fidgeting and Jonnah was standing stiff and anxious. She asked them instead. Sylas just shrugged and Jonnah stared straight ahead as if he had not even heard her. She turned to Gerinson instead. The steward always knew everything that was going on in Beaversbane House. That was his job, after all, so Da said.

He bent beside her. His yellow hair was greying now, and the lines around his eyes were growing deeper.

“No one is coming to visit, lass,” he whispered in her ear. “Only, the scouts in the village say the banners have been seen in the distance.”

“The banners?” she asked in confusion.

“Hush, Polric, do not get her hopes up,” Ma snapped in an undertone. “You do not know what she will find when they get here. A lot can happen on the roads, and Holdfast is-” she bit down on hard on the end of her sentence, abruptly aware she had said too much, but it clicked into place in Cerissa’s mind at last.

“Da!” She exclaimed. “Da’s back! Da’s come home!”

“Cerissa! No, wait! You do not know that yet,” Ma called after her desperately, but it was too late. Cerissa had already begun pelting over the courtyard, sending her cloak and hair streaming out behind her. Sylas let out a whoop of triumph and ran after her hot on her heels. She could hear Ma shouting in frustration, could even hear Jonnah yelling that he would bring them back as he too fled after them, but it was too late. She was gone. Over the castle bridge and across the river Dowsitch, which laughed and sparkled at her merrily as she sprinted, down the Holloway, hemmed in with hedges, across the marsh-fields and the fens, tall rushes and kingfishers, frogs and newts and algae, mud squelching up the hem of her nice dress (Pippy was going to murder her) until she clutched at the stitch in her side and thought she could run no more. She slowed, Sylas out-pacing her, Jonnah catching up. He made no attempt to stop her, whatever he had told Ma, but grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him, helping her sprint onwards. The flags rose high in the distance, joggling along as the standard-bearers cantered up to meet them, shimmering blue and white in the sunlight, the horned and tusked fae-fish, the emblem of the Dowses, rippled with every jerk as if it was swimming through the air.

“Da!" She gulped down another deep breath and forced herself onwards. She caught hold of Sylas’ hand in her free one and the three of them pounded down the path together towards the caravan approaching them. They heard a laugh drifting over the tops of the hedges and a man in riding leathers leapt down from his horse whilst he was still a road’s length away. He held his arms wide, blonde beard bushier than ever, clothes mud-worn and battle-weary and all three of them hurtled towards him. They almost knocked him down with the force of it as they collided into him and he laughed and laughed and laughed until the whole of Bridgenford was rolling with it.

Da’d come home at last.