Tristan was not in the kitchen when Bronwyn ate dinner that night, and in fact, she did not see him for the rest of the night. Despite her promise to Enru, or perhaps because of it, her curiosity toward him was fully aroused, burning like a candle in her breast. She remembered, or imagined, his dark liquid eyes, his long artist’s hands, and ached in a way she’d never experienced before.
Her Path of Sorcery lessons with Bèatrix did not begin for some time; there were too many other duties to be mastered, the duties of a midwife’s apprentice. Bèatrix served the nearby village as their midwife and wisewoman, and though she was generally regarded as a Crone, or worse, a Witch, she was given proper respect by every villager. Her powers were legendary, or rather, the tales of her powers were, and few residents were stupid enough to cross her, and usually regretted it for a long time after.
But Bronwyn’s education up to this point had not included any domestic instruction whatsoever; she was ignorant of even the most basic housekeeping tasks. Laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending; all were beyond her, though the cooking came quickly. She was a natural at it; cooking very nearly the same things as Potionmaking, and though she hadn’t learned it yet, Enru and Bèatrix both privately agreed their charge would prove to be formidable at crafting and brewing potions.
Bèatrix told Tristan, at first, of the difficulties in Bronwyn’s training. Mostly it was complaints, disbelief that she was so inept at the basic duties of a woman, but it soon turned to praise at how swiftly the girl was learning. Enru watched the young man every moment he could spare, distrustful of his intentions.
Through it all, Bronwyn sailed cheerfully, eagerly learning each new skill, practicing her mending and embroidery far into the night. Her quarters became immaculately kept; she began rising earlier even than Bèatrix to light the fire and prepare the morning meal.
The first time this happened, Bèatrix woke to the smell of smoke. She leapt out of bed with an agility belying her physical age, and raced toward the source. Bronwyn knelt there, in the kitchen before the fire, the bellows in her hands, her face black with ash and soot as she stubbornly worked at an ember, trying to breathe life into it.
Even as Bèatrix skidded through the door, the flame burst forth, singeing Bronwyn’s eyebrows as she sprang back in surprise. She looked up, her face glowing through the filth, at Bèatrix, her eyes shining. “I did it!” she exclaimed happily.
After catching her breath, Bèatrix smiled weakly. “So you did.” She sat heavily on the bench at the table. “Would you make me some tea, Bronwyn?” she asked. “I didn’t expect you to get up this early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Bronwyn, bustling about. “Rosehip tea?” Bèatrix nodded and Bronwyn filled the tea kettle and set it above the fire to boil. “I just kept thinking how pleased you would be if you woke up to breakfast.” She began cutting some coarse brown bread. “I didn’t think it would take so long, though, and I certainly didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s alright,” assured Bèatrix, yawning slightly. She glanced out the window to the lightening morning sky. “Where’s Enru?”
“Asleep still, the silly cat. He was out all night hunting mice and only came in about an hour ago.”
“The only good thing about that animal,” declared Tristan, startling both occupants of the kitchen as he came in from outside. Bronwyn lowered her eyes and concentrated very hard on arranging the bread on a plate with some butter.
“Oh, come now, Tristan,” chided Bèatrix gently. “He’s good for more than that. He warms my feet at night!” Both of them chuckled.
I’d thank you not to discuss me when I am not present, Enru said dryly, slinking into the kitchen and sitting at Bronwyn’s feet. You would be surprised what I can hear.
“Oh, did I hurt poor Puss’s feelings?” sneered Tristan, openly contemptful of the cat. Bronwyn whirled to face him, her cheeks red with anger.
“How dare you insult my familiar,” she said quietly. “You live with Bèatrix, one of the most renowned Sorceresses ever. You should know that to insult a familiar is insult the Sorceress.”
“But you’re not a Sorceress, girlie. You’re a Midwife’s Apprentice, and it would suit you to remember your station!”
“Tristan!” Bèatrix’s voice was sharp. “Bronwyn is right. Though she is in training you must still respect her as you would respect me.” Tristan narrowed his eyes but said nothing, merely sitting at the table and reaching for a slice of bread.
The kettle began to scream and Bronwyn hurried to pour its contents into the teapot, stirring in the herbs that would make it into rosehip tea. She set it and several mugs on the table, reaching for a saucer to put some milk on for Enru. Her face was pale with anger, her mouth set in a thin line as she finished setting breakfast on the table. She sat for only a few moments, to wolf down some bread, her eyes trained on her plate, not saying a word. In fact, the whole table was silent, a strained silence.
As soon as she was done eating Bronwyn jumped up and began sweeping the cinders into the fireplace, careful not to catch the broom on fire. Again. Enru watched her sadly, knowing she was fighting back tears. He was the only family she had known for many years, her only friend. And Tristan had said she was no Sorceress-that must have stung.
But Enru didn’t know just how much it did sting-the main reason Bronwyn learned her duties with such eagerness was not to impress Bèatrix; it was to impress Tristan. She wanted to show him how smart she was, how quickly she learned; she wanted him to be proud of her, to look at her with fondness.
Bèatrix felt the humiliation rolling off her charge in waves, and from the expression on Tristan’s face, he could feel it too. He shifted guiltily in his chair and excused himself almost as soon as Bronwyn finished her breakfast. Enru leaped lightly after him, his ears back with anger.
“Bronwyn,” said Bèatrix gently, rising and placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She froze, trembling, on the verge of tears, and was afraid that if Bèatrix was too kind she would dissolve and shame herself further.
“I am sorry, Mistress, for quarreling with Tristan. I shall not speak to him again.” She sniffed and began sweeping again, furiously.
“Don’t,” said Bèatrix. “Tristan behaved absolutely crudely. You have no need to apologize to me; he was completely out of line. And he will apologize to you. I promise.”
“I don’t care,” said Bronwyn, forcing a careless tone in her voice. “He doesn’t mean anything. He’s just…stupid.” She stopped, realizing how childish she sounded, and clamped her mouth shut again. Bèatrix watched her quietly with her intense blue eyes, and said nothing in her wisdom.
After a moment Bèatrix shuffled and sat at the table again, watching the fire as she tamped and lit her pipe to smoke with her tea.
Once Bronwyn finished sweeping, she wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, sliding her hands in the pockets. She watched Bèatrix watch the fire, and both were lost in their thoughts when a great clatter arose outside.
“Bèatrix!” an urgent voice was calling. “Bèatrix!” Immediately the old woman was on her feet and at the door, peering out.
“Oh, halloo, Master Thatcher, has Millie gone to childbed again?”
“Aye, Bèatrix, and she’s in sore need of your skills. We’d be most grateful should you come down.” He averted his eyes and bowed his head a little, shuffling his feet and pressing his back to his horse.
“Well then, I shall come down, me with a new Apprentice to be breakin’ in.”
Master Thatcher looked up a little and saw Bronwyn behind Bèatrix in the doorway. He smiled a little. “A new Apprentice? A right pretty one-she’ll be leaving ye to have her own littles before you get her trained!”
“No, she won’t, if she knows what’s good for her,” said Bèatrix darkly. Her expression brightened. “But come now, I must harness the horses to the carriage to bring all the supplies and my Apprentice.”
“Much obliged, Bèatrix! I’ll set to harnessing your mares.”
“Thank ye,” said the midwife, and turned to the kitchen, gathering herbs and bundles with remarkable speed. Bronwyn stood in the center of the room, her face pale.
“Go fetch several bundles of linen, girl,” commanded Bèatrix, wrapping a glass jar of kingsfoil in rags to protect it and setting it gently in a large straw basket. Bronwyn didn’t move. “Go!” snapped Bèatrix, turning around. She took in Bronwyn’s terrified face and sighed.
“Bèatrix,” said Bronwyn. “I’ve never seen a birth before.”
“Not even a cat, child?” asked Bèatrix in disbelief. Bronwyn shook her head.
“If I did, it was before my Introduction. And I don’t remember anything before that.”
Bèatrix stopped cold. “What?”
Bronwyn frowned, trying to understand what had caught her mistress’s attention. “I don’t remember before my Introduction?” she asked.
“You don’t remember your life before your Introduction. Why?”
Bronwyn shrugged. “Enru said that it was normal, that even though mine was difficult, hardly anyone remembered.”
Bèatrix opened her mouth to say something but Master Thatcher was back at the door, peering in. “Bèatrix? Your girls are harnessed and waiting. I’m going to go back to Millie.”
“We won’t be long after, Master Thatcher!” called Bèatrix. She looked back to Bronwyn. “Go fetch an armful of clean linens, and pack them in this basket.” She thrust another large woven basket at the girl and turned her, giving her a gentle shove. “And don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Your inner magics will take over, trust me.” And if they don’t, then Enru will be doubly beaten! she swore grimly to herself as Bronwyn scurried away.
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