one way, then another, making wide, deliberate zigzags towards the earth. As it descends, it grows larger, grows wings, grows a voice.
It is a raven, and its raspy cry mocks my own dry sobs. It lands on a fence post by the path, ten paces up the slope from me. Proudly it flexes its great black wings; when fully open, they span nearly as far as I can spread my own two arms. Its sleek head gleams with an iridescent, oily sheen.
I lift myself up on my elbows. In answer, the bird cocks its head to the side so I can admire its lifeless black eye, set like a black pearl in the side of its skull. It repeats its raw cry – a terrible, merciless cry.
Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
The sheep bleat in fear and move away. The raven hunkers down into itself and gathers its energy to spring. It has decided on a target, chosen a victim – a young lamb that has wandered too far from the flock –
In a flash I am on my feet, a stone in my hand. With all my might I hurl it at the raven. My aim is low, and the stone hits the post with a sharp thwack. The bird flaps its wings clumsily in surprise and rises on taut, wiry legs. It swivels its head to look at me full on.
I hurl another stone. This time I hit the bird squarely, right on its oily black chest.
KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
The raven screams in fury and takes flight, circling around and swooping low over my head. I fall to the ground and curl in a ball, covering my face with the shawl.
Go ahead, wicked bird, I think, try to peck out my eyes if you can. Even blinded, I will grab you by the throat and never let go. I am that angry and reckless now, and I care nothing for what happens to me.
As if hearing my thoughts, the raven retreats, still complaining, until its furious cry fades into the sky.
I uncurl my body and look around. The sheep stare at me, their limpid, nearly human eyes wet with gratitude.
I shiver with cold and fatigue, and my knees weaken with the relief that comes when danger has passed.
It has passed for the lamb, perhaps. For now. But not for me.
Finally I let myself feel all the fear and sorrow in my heart, and my tears are set loose once more. I am easy prey, I think, a motherless lamb, alone in the world. No flock, no friends, no green field I can call home. And the skies are full of ravens.
I have no choice. I must go back to Hulne Abbey.
During my wild race from home, rage and hurt blotted out all sense of time passed or distance travelled – but now, on the shame-filled journey back, the movement of the clock resumes with vengeful slowness. It is a full three hours before I reach the cottage. For the final torturous hour I must pick my footing step by step in the pitch dark, for of course I have no lantern. Twice I stumble and catch myself on my hands, leaving my palms scraped bloody from the gravelly path.
Easy prey, my fear whispers to me with every step. Remember what you are.
The cottage is cold and dark when I finally cross its threshold, with only a few glowing remnants of a fire glowing among the ashes in the parlour hearth. If there has been a supper I have missed it, but with no one to cook or call him to the table, Father may well still be working, reading and muttering, oblivious to all that has taken place outside the locked world of his study.
I light a candle and rummage in the pantry until I find a leftover boiled egg and some cold cooked potato. I wrap them in a linen napkin to take upstairs with me. I will eat them in private and then go to sleep, to put the memory of this awful day behind me as quickly as I can.
The house is so quiet; perhaps Father has already retired to bed. Out of habit I pause to check the pail by the back door, the one marked POISON that holds the belladonna seeds. Tonight is their last night soaking in this watery womb. Tomorrow they will be planted, in the garden where I am not permitted to go.
I lift the lid and lower my candle so I can see inside.
The bucket is dry and empty. The belladonna seeds are gone.
My first, horrified thought: Has someone stolen them? Father will be furious!
But then I listen again: the cottage is silent, but there are noises coming from outside. Dull, digging noises. The sound of earth being turned.
Now that I no longer need its light, the moon has risen and bathed the courtyard in its soft glow. But I do not have to see my way. I know exactly where to go. Past the courtyard, past the fishpond, past all the garden beds, up the narrow winding path to the left that leads to the tall, locked gate.
I lay one hand on the rough metal chain; with the other I clasp the lock. I press my forehead against the cold iron bars, and peer through the dark forms and moving shadows of a mysterious world I will never be allowed to enter.
Father is at the north wall, bent over in the moonlight, digging. Whistling softly. Happy.
Silently I return to the cottage. I stand by the back door, my head hanging down in defeat.
Without my bidding, my foot lashes out and kicks over the empty pail.
Will everything I care for be taken away from me?
23rd March
AFINE, CLEAR DAY, BUT A SHARP METAL SMELL IN THE air warns of a coming storm. I planted more radishes in the morning, also set bulbs of onions and garlic. The bulbs overwintered nicely in the cellar; they were dry and firm, with no sign of mould.
Took out my mending basket to repair torn stockings and found a
The sound of hoofbeats seems to come from nowhere, and gets louder so quickly I drop my pen to the floor in surprise. Father did not say that we would be receiving company, and now I cannot recall if the beds are made—
The hoofbeats get closer by the second. They must be headed here, for the nearest farm is two miles in the other direction.
“Father!” I call, as I half run to the kitchen to put away the breakfast things. “Someone is coming! Shall I prepare a meal? Shall I make tea?”
It has been almost a week since Father stole (for in my mind he did steal them) and planted the belladonna seeds. We have not spoken of it, nor have we spoken of much else in the intervening days. But the excitement of an unexpected guest makes me forget my resolve to punish him with my silence.
“Father!” I call more loudly. “Are you expecting company?”
We do not get many visitors at the cottage, only the occasional tradesman trying to sell us tin pots, or a matron from a neighbouring farm seeking a cure for the toothache. But every now and again the duke himself will appear, unannounced, with a small hunting party in tow. This land is the duke’s land, as is most of the acreage in Northumberland, and the fields and forests that spread over the site of the old monastery
