Rosemary Thorne's Arc

Chapter 15 of 24

The cover story held for six days. On the seventh, Rosemary learned how thin it was. She was pulling carrots when Damien came down the path with a basket of eggs from the farm. He forgot himself at the gate. He set the basket on the post, brushed hair from her cheek, and kissed her forehead. It lasted a breath. Rosemary heard the hedge rustle before she felt the cold in her stomach. A neighbor's boy stood on the other side, mouth open, a stick forgotten in his hand. He ran. "He saw," she said. Damien's hand fell. "How long?" "Long enough. Cousins don't kiss like that." By the time she reached the village, the story was already turning. The baker's window was crowded. A woman she sold jam to would not meet her eye. The boy had told his mother. His mother had told the well. If Mabel Crumb pinned the tale down before dark, Rosemary would be run out by market day. She went home the long way, thinking. The garden gnome she had left a cream bowl for was sitting on the doorstep, cross-legged, beard tucked into his belt. Whisker Riddlewick had been coming each moonrise since the witch fell. He usually took his cream and left. Today he grinned like a man who had been waiting. "What binds a knot no priest has tied," he said, "and cuts the tongue that would untie it?" Rosemary crouched. "I don't have time, Whisker." "A vow," he said, when she did not answer. "Spoken before witnesses. Spoken before the loudest one." She looked at him. He looked at the cats. "One kitten," he said, "and I bring the loudest witness to your door within the hour." "No kittens." "A saucer of cream, then. Every moonrise for a year." "Done." He was gone before she stood. Within the hour Mabel Crumb was on her path, apron still floured, cheeks pink from the walk. She had come, Rosemary knew, because a gnome had whispered something too good to miss. Rosemary met her at the gate with Damien beside her. She spoke loud enough for the hedge, because the hedge was always listening. "The cousin story was mine," she said. "I paid you to spread it. I lied because I was afraid of the village. He isn't my kin. He's the man I mean to marry, and I'll have the banns read this Sunday." Mabel's mouth worked. Damien took Rosemary's hand where anyone could see it. He did not flinch. "Write that down," Rosemary said. "Sell it for what you can." Mabel went. The path emptied. Damien kept hold of her hand. "You've spent your good name," he said. "I've traded it," she said. "For a real one." Inside, the cats circled the empty cream bowl. Sunday was four days away.