Malika stood on the quarterdeck, shivering in the crisp offshore breeze. The man who held her pulled her in, keeping her arms immobilized, wheezing breaths that smelled of chewing tobacco against her cheek. Malika's chest ached, the pain spiking sharply if she dared to breathe too deeply. She breathed carefully into her belly instead of her ribs, as if that would help.
''Just toss her over,'' said the captain. A shrewish woman, she wore the standard Gimmesh-cut jacket and a nasty scowl. Early on, Malika had thought that if she ever smiled, she'd tear her face open for lack of practice.
Malika struggled against the man who held her - a survival reflex that would do her no good here. Where would she go? The bilge? The yardarms? You can't hide on a ship. If they threw her off the ship or if she threw herself over in defiance, the same end goal would be achieved: Malika dead, sinking beneath the water, along with everything she knew.
The man who held her rustled her a little bit. What was his name? Marco? Michael? If she was better at her undercover job, she would have remembered, probably. But she was shit at it, so here she was, found out, wrapped unconsenting in the embrace of a man whose name she couldn't remember. ''Let me soften her up for the devils down below, captain?''
The captain narrowed her eyes at Malika, a malicious gleam at the edge. Malika locked eyes with her and clenched her jaw, hoping to look neither defiant nor desperate.
The captain looked her over and shrugged. ''Please yourself, Brother.''
Before she'd finished her sentence, the man the captain called Brother slammed her into the gunwale. White flashed at the edges of her vision, and Malika tried to cling to her dignity and hold in her scream.
She fell to the deck, her head spinning. Across the deck, someone whooped. She rolled over, coughed, tasted blood.
Brother kicked her in the ribs, and she heard herself yell.
Above her, full sails pushed against the sky, tugging the ship ever further out to sea.
She curled reflexively into a ball, fingers splayed over her face, instinct fighting to protect her insides from the booted onslaught.
Brother didn't care - he stomped on her head, crushing her fingers into her skull.
Gods, she thought desperately, in her despair falling back on language she hadn't used in years, let this be a mercy. Don't let me know what it feels like to drown.
For the first time in her life, the gods seemed to hear her, and blessedly, Malika's world turned to darkness.
#
As soon as she opened the cottage door, the bite of the October wind put pink into Rosemary's cheeks. She braced herself against the wind, grumbling.
''Junie,'' she shouted over her shoulder, ''pad the door when I've left, darling. And stoke the fire, if you get chilly.''
She was wearing a wool cowl over a wool kerchief, a wool cloak over a wool overdress, and Rosemary still felt the chill working between the fibers, clawing at her ribs.
This would be worth it, though. The full moon meant a lower tide, which meant a bumper crop of mermaid's eyes. Easy to collect but hard to prepare, Rosemary could turn them into enough money for her and her daughter to comfortably live for the rest of the winter. Reliable, strong painkillers were in high demand in town, especially as apothecaries and, in turn, wisefolk stocked up in advance of the worst case scenarios playing out at the border.
Rosemary lived three hours brisk walk from the nearest settlement. This had its perks and its downsides: on the one hand, she'd be unlikely to be murdered in her sleep in the case of a Gimmesh night raid. On the other hand, if someone raised the alarm, she'd be the last to hear of it. The woods near the water were quiet today - a few birds, a few squirrels, the tail of a deer so distant she almost didn't spot it - but it didn't concern her. It felt like hibernation, like winter, like the stillness after a storm. Not like the barren stillness when there's danger only animals can see.
What Rosemary needed was her wax-coated pockets full of the mermaid's eyes, plucked plump and glistening from between the rocks, rushed back to the security of her prep table where Rosemary could warm her fingers enough to begin plucking out the seeds in the centers.
When she reached the shore, she surveyed it, taking in the glistening bits of green with satisfaction.
Her eye caught on something unexpected - something much bigger than kelp lay in a ragged pile.
Tension squeezed Rosemary's stomach.
There was a body on the beach.
Probably an animal, she thought, or a tumbled mess of flotsam that simply looked like the form of a small person, facing away from her, frost tingeing the edges of their clothes.
Rosemary stepped closer. No, this was no bunch of flotsam - this was certainly a person.
She needed a patient like she needed a knitting needle between the ribs.
But here, in her collecting grounds, early on this foggy morning in October, was a body on her beach.
The dark part of herself prayed they were already dead. Dead people were out of her purview. Rosemary couldn't do anything for you if you were already dead.
She looked around, wondering vaguely if someone was pulling something over on her. No sight of humans around the huge rocks piled periodically along the beach, although that didn't mean someone couldn't be hiding there. No smell of horses or sweat on the wind. Not even a ship on the horizon.
The wind played at her overskirts, nipping at the quickly-reddening tip of her nose.
No one. Just Rosemary, the body, the elements.
Fine, maybe this wasn't a trick. Rosemary moved closer to the body. It was someone smaller than her, draped in soaking linens and light wool, face down on the rocks.
Damn it all. She pushed her hopes of gathering mermaid's eyes into another day. But even though she'd been pushed out of healing, even though she'd sworn it off in exchange for not going to jail, she'd never retracted her belief in the healer's laws. Which meant that this was her problem now.
''Damn it,'' she muttered, picking her way over the rocky shore. ''Damn little baby Rosemary and her unretractable oaths.''
#
Rosemary had not examined a patient in many years, not unless she counted patting a sobbing Juniper down after she fell out of a tree or hit her head. The motions came back to her like her mother tongue.
Rosemary grabbed at the person's hip and shoulder and rolled them onto their back.
A young woman's face looked back at her, eyes closed, jaw slack. She was breathing, but not well - she gurgled as she exhaled, chest trembling. She couldn't have been that much shorter than Rosemary and she seemed muscular beneath her layers of sodden wool, but laying there she seemed terribly vulnerable. She, too, wore wool, although hers was heavy with water and dyed the mottled military greens of a guerilla warrior or a hunter. Her long hair fell over their face, which wandered between the rocks in limp lines. If there were injuries, Rosemary couldn't see them through the heavy clothes. Blood stained the jacket, but not a lethal amount, and she couldn't see an entry wound.
Rosemary stood, turned away from her first patient in eight years, and looked out at the sea.
Rosemary had left healing for a good reason. She was worse than bad at it, she reminded herself. It was better for everyone if she didn't go back. But she was a good herbalist, and a good mother and, she liked to think, a good person. And now there was a young woman here, on her beach, half-dead.
Half-dead and gurgling.
Rosemary sighed, then knelt down again. Her rough hands, more used to a gardening trowel than a surgeon's knife these days, caught on the wet fabric as she quickly checked her patient for any hidden life threatening injuries. She didn't find any pools of blood or sudden skinless expanses. When she found nothing interesting, only the slow, wet breathing and heartbeat that ticked along a little too quickly, she hauled the woman onto her back, and started off for the cabin.
The mermaid's eyes would have to wait.
#
It had taken Rosemary forty minutes to walk to the shore. It took her three times as long to walk back. It wasn't the weight - Rosemary would have disliked carrying an unevenly weighted load that might die on her, no matter how light. It was the terrain. She delicately picked her way over frost-covered rocks, following her own footsteps and wishing to hell she'd brought mittens instead of simply assuming she'd keep her hands tucked up in her sleeves.
When she reached the gate she carefully balanced the body on one shoulder, undid the complicated latch, and let it re-lock behind her.
At the door, she rapped a secret code she and Junie had had since Junie was first allowed to go out for water. It meant: I am safe, I am your family.
The first deadbolt unlocked heavily from the inside, then came the second, then there was Junie, shivering in her light clothes, the smell of smoke and drying herbs rushing out to welcome her home.
Junie's mouth formed an o and she stood in the threshhold, wavering.
''Start hot water,'' Rosemary said simply. Junie, quiet, nodded and scampered for the pail. ''Stoke the fire as high as you can safely get it.''
''Mother?'' Junie whispered.
''Yes?'' Rosemary slipped the woman's dead weight of a body down onto the bed she and junie shared. As gently as she could, she eased her head down onto the pillow.
''What did you do?''
Rosemary shot her daughter an, ''I am not amused'' look. ''You can be helpful with this, Juniper, and we can have a little bit of grime in the woodwork, or you may finish the cleaning that I won't get to today and let me tend to our guest. Your choice.''
''Help,'' squeaked Junie. ''I want to help.''
''Good.'' Time for a more thorough inventory of what the damage had been. She brushed wet hair off of her patient's cheeks and removed the one boot that remained on her foot. ''Help me undress her.''
Juniper stared, like a startled doe.
''Pretend you've done this every week since you could walk, darling, and the rest will come to you in the moment. Sometimes even adults pretend. Now, undo her buttons, please.''
They stripped the woman to her undergarments, practical and light clothing that seemed unseasonably warm for an ocean journey in October. She had impressive shoulders, Rosemary begrudgingly allowed herself to notice. She'd probably be a pretty thing, if she wasn't colored like a November sky and still wheezing water.
With her patient mostly naked, Rosemary dried off her limbs and hair as best she could, to prevent her from catching a chill, and tucked blankets around her. Hot stones by her patient's feet and fingers and anywhere the skin was thin, Rosemary began a more thorough exam.
She took a mental inventory, working from the head down. A bruise rose on her cheek, a nest of them encircled her chest, her left breast was a patchy purple. Her breasts might have saved her a broken rib or two, Rosemary thought. Still had probably hurt like hell. The woman was in a state - if Rosemary had to guess, she'd say she had been beaten. Beaten and dumped from the side of a ship? She had none of the marks of a sailor - tough hands, gnarled fingernails (hers were short but well-kept, except for the one that seemed to have popped off recently). She carried none of the tattoos or knot jewelry that indicated a life at sea.
She was wirey, though. As Rosemary palpated her limbs, looking for obvious bleeding or instability, she found herself wondering how long it had been since she had touched another woman to do more than hand back change at the market.
Too long.
She used to be a woman's woman, caring for her clients from just after the bulge began to rise in their stomachs to when their children were weaned. In those months she'd deliver their child, nurse the child when she couldn't, even pleasure her clients when their husbands couldn't or wouldn't.
Rosemary's hands used to be covered in gore on a daily basis, screams just a nuisance that distracted from her greater work. Now, the blood and raspy breathing of this patient made her stomach turn.
It was nervousness, she told herself. She was outside of the magistrate's jurisdiction. He'd never know, anyway. She would save this woman's life, then let her back into the wilds, guiding her gently away from any conversations that would frame Rosemary as breaking the terms that surrounded her freedom.
She redirected her mind to more appropriate subjects for a healer, such as how dangerous this stranger might be. Beaten and dumped in the water - what was she thinking, bringing someone like this into the house around her only daughter? She'd only be unconscious for so long. What if she was unruly when she woke? Or bloodthirsty.
''Mother…?'' Juniper looked nervously up at her as she ripped a bedsheet into strips and began to bind her patient's limbs to the legs of the table.
''It's best to be safe with strangers,'' she said.
With her guest now restrained - loosely, gently, but securely - to the table, Rosemary prepared warm water. She brought Juniper in front of her and put her hands on the girl's shoulders.
''Juniper,'' she said, ''are you feeling brave today? Are your fingers feeling steady?''
Juniper looked up at her, searching her face with uncharacteristic seriousness, then gave a quiet nod.
''Then let me introduce you to your first patient.''
#
With Junie's help, Rosemary stripped the woman of her frost-covered clothes, now dampening in the warmth.
The woman looked young and fragile in unconsciousness, although Rosemary noted the muscular curve of her shoulders, the military braid of her hair with streaks of gray running throughout.
They wrapped wool blankets around her body, which was too cold to shiver, and tucked the rag-wrapped hotstones Junie pulled from the fire by her patient's kidneys, at her feet, under her knees. She checked for frost damage or formerly hidden injuries as she went, finding mostly bruises, some old scratches, a series of sharp, small scars that raised questions she shelved to ask another day.
The only things that really concerned her, besides the life-threatening chill, was the deep gash on her right shoulder and the bruising around her ribs. She'd keep a careful watch on the woman's breathing, she decided, and would lightly dress the wounds for now, washing them fully when her patient's temperature stabilized somewhat.
''Juniper,'' she called, and her daughter's head appeared from behind the table. ''Did you finish your chores while I was out?''
''Yes, mother,'' Junie said, her face indicating she thought she'd be getting some juicy news about the strange woman in her bed at any moment. She brushed her hands on her apron. ''You were gone an awful long time.'' Junie looked her up and down. ''I didn't know you knew wisefolk ways.''
Rosemary brushed her off. ''You pick up something when you've been herbing for so long. Now, come. Let me read you your lessons.''
She pulled the book of Folktales of the Herbs of the Wilderness from the shelf, flipped it to the bookmarked page, and settled into a chair angled to where she could keep a close eye on her patient.
Now, it was time to wait.
#
Malika didn't so much awake as resurface.
First, she heard the voices. They seemed to float through her, the words garbled, age and gender unclear. They seemed kind, though. They also seemed new, which meant she wasn't where….whatever had happened to her had happened.
Hands were on her, brushing against her forehead and caressing her ribs. The touch brought her back to her body, which was unfortunate because her body seemed to be made of pain.
The timbre of the voices changed, and she sensed someone near her head. Someone wasway moaning. It might have been her.
''It's alright,'' a voice said. A woman's, she thought. Her age, probably. ''You're safe.''
Malika had woken up a girl made of bruises. She hurt everywhere. Well, not everywhere. Her feet seemed mostly okay. She could move her fingers. Still, her brain seemed several sizes too big for her skull and her ribs had to be in several pieces too many to hurt this bad. When she fumbled around in her memory as to how she'd come to be like this, she couldn't quite reach it. She'd fucked something up, probably. She just hoped whoever had done this to her was far away.
A woman stood over her, her auburn hair piled messily on top of her head, her wide face covered with freckles. Older than Malika, but not by much. She was adorable, thought Malika, then panicked, because those were the thoughts she had when drunk, and did that mean she'd been hit in the head, or drugged, or --
Another face peered over her, distracting her from her panic - a child's. She surveyed Malika in a way that made her feel like a particularly interesting bug. It was unlikely her enemies, whoever they were, would have a child floating around, so while her squinting gaze made Malika nervous, she tried to remind herself that her presence was a positive thing.
''My name is Rosemary,'' said the woman with freckles. ''And you're safe. You're badly banged up, though, and probably still full of ocean water. I pulled you off the beach this morning. Do you know your name?''
That one was easy. Malika relaxed a little, coughed, collected herself. ''Malika.''
''Nice to meet you, Malika!'' said the girl, then looked up at Rosemary in pride, as if expecting a good mark in school.
Rosemary put a hand on the girl's shoulder. ''Malika, this is my daughter, Juniper.''
She said something else, but Malika didn't catch it. Her eyes were drooping closed. The short exchange had taken so much energy and before she could answer, she'd fallen back into the warm, safe darkness.
#
Rosemary spent most of the evening and night nursing Malika -- checking that her injuries weren't swelling against the bandages, watching her breathing, making sure the suspected broken ribs weren't tearing through a lung, keeping warm stones bundled in woolens tucked against her extremities and softest parts. Junie helped until she began yawning, when Rosemary insisted she sleep and built her a little nest of blankets near the fire. Despite her protesting that she ''wasn't tired, she could nurse all night, please don't make her sleep!'', she was snoring softly in minutes, in the light of the fire looking like a giant, ragged puppy.
For her part, Malika slept. If Rosemary checked her books, she was sure she'd find lists instructing her as to the differences between natural sleep and the sleep that came before death. Checking her books didn't feel necessary, now. There was something peaceful in the way Malika was sleeping, as opposed to the unconsciousness she'd found her in.
Then, towards the middle of the night, the sleep turned sour. When the sweat rose on Malika's forehead, Rosemary moved to unbuttonunbuttoned her shirt and dab her face with cold water.
''I will not,'' Malika murmured with a feverish slur as Rosemary touched the cool cloth to her forehead.
It was foolish to try to reason with one in such a state, but Rosemary felt that she had a right to be nosy. She wanted as much information as possible about her patient. ''Will not what?'' she whispered, leaning close to Malika's face.
''I will not,'' she repeated, and jerked her arms against the cloth holding her down.
''You don't have to,'' said Rosemary, operating on a mother's hunch rather than any healer's wisdom. ''You don't have to.''
''I can't go back there.'' Her voice rose and she was moaning, on the edge of tears, face screwed up as if her pain was bubbling up from deep within her soul.
''You don't have to go back there,'' Rosemary whispered, and cupped Malika's face in her hands. ''You're safe here.''
Malika whimpered again, but her body seemed to relax.
Gods, what had happened to her? A man, Rosemary figured. The easiest story to believe, and, darkly, the most likely. Malika's husband had probably tried to kill her, failed once, dropped her off the edge of his fishing boat and failed again. It was a wonder she was alive.
What Rosemary wouldn't do to a man like that. She even grew herbs for the occasion, more as a novelty than anything, though she never used them.
When Malika settled, Rosemary returned to her chair. In minutes she was asleep, dreaming dark dreams of her own darker past.
#
In the darkness before dawn Malika woke again, this time lucid.
''Excuse me?''
Rosemary had been drowsing over her darning, an already well-patched winter coat draped over her legs. She shook herself awake at the voice.
''How are you?'' she said. ''How are you feeling?'' Rosemary kept her voice low - Juniper was sleeping, a bundle of limbs and wool in front of the fire.
Malika coughed, screwing up her face into shapes made grotesque by the firelight. ''Well enough, I suppose,'' she said. ''I'd like some water.''
''Of course.'' Rosemary warmed water and brought her bread, too, for good measure. She set them on the nightstand and stood back.
Malika tried to sit up, then found her limbs were restrained. ''Oh, gods almighty,'' said Malika, letting her head roll back against the pillow. ''You're Gimmesh, aren't you.'' She groaned, a sound more frustrated than pained, and clutched at the sheets. Her anger turned to pain and she coughed, leaning helpless against the pillows.
Rosemary felt a pang of guilt. She'd restrained her patient for her own safety and Juniper's, not considering how it would affect her patient's water-soaked lungs.
Damn. Well, proved them all right, she supposed. She'd never been a good healer.
But the Gimmesh comment - that was odd. Rosemary examined her cabin, trying to find anything in her home that would lead a visitor to that conclusion. Although she was far from an expert in the cult, she didn't notice anything particularly occult about her living space. Not unless you considered unfinished knitting obscene.
''I'm not Gimmesh,'' Rosemary finally said slowly, ''and nothing around me indicates that I am, which leads me to believe that you're either muddled in the head or have some very interesting stories to share when you're well enough.''
Malika looked at her in consternation, an impressive feat for someone prone, bandaged, and tied to a bed. ''You're joking,'' she said, and tugged a hand against the restraints. ''What's the point of these, then?''
''Well, there was a strange woman washed up on the beach. You'd do the same thing, probably.'' She shrugged and brushed her hands against her apron. ''Wasn't sure what state you'd be in when you came to, either. Some people wake up swinging.''
Malika sighed. ''What are you, then? Kalmeshi?''
Rosemary raised her eyebrows. Kalmesh was several days' travel away. ''This is Waterdam,'' she said. ''We're near the border, half a day away from the nearest village.''
She cursed herself - she shouldn't have said that. She still didn't know anything about the woman, except that she was coherent and apparently enemies of the Gimmesh. Which was a good sign, but not all who opposed the Gimmesh were good news for a woman and her daughter, living alone far from civilization.
Why'd she trusted the woman so quickly? She hadn't said anything to ease Rosemary's mind - she'd barely said much of anything. But Malika had an air of seriousness and responsibility on her shoulders. She seemed, at least, like she wouldn't immediately leap for Rosemary's neck if she freed her limbs.
''Waterdam?'' Malika stared at the ceiling. ''Damn.''
''I'll untie you,'' Rosemary said, ''If you tell me how you came to be washed up, half-dead on the beach.''
Malika assented and Rosemary began fiddling with the knots of bedsheets. Her arms were muscular - Rosemary had clocked this earlier, when she'd been examining her still-wet patient shivering with cold, but then it had been just an interesting clue to her possible background.
Now, it was a distraction.
''Thank you,'' Malika said, gently stretching her arms, wincing as she did so. As she moved to sit up, Rosemary dove for her elbow.
''Let me,'' she said. ''You've at least one broken rib. Take it easy.'' She guided Malika into a seated position then stuffed pillows behind her, giving her something more comfortable than the wall to lean against. Malika tensed as Rosemary touched her, then looked at her with a strange expression.
''Thank you.''
''Don't mention it.'' Rosemary stepped back, grateful for the darkness covering the flush of blood she felt in her cheeks. ''You're my patient. I'll help you with whatever you need until you're well enough to leave. Healers' Law, and all that.'' Rosemary handed her the cup of water and nestled the chunk of bread on her lap.
Malika sipped gratefully at the water, coughed, sipped again. ''Alright, you've earned your story,'' she said. ''Let me give you the summary,'' she said.
#
Many things were terrible right now, Malika thought as she tried to decide where to start her story. Many things were terrible right now. Rosemary was not. Maybe Malika was a little muddled in the head, but Rosemary was warm and good and safe and gentle and all sorts of things that made Malika's stomach flip inside her.
All sorts of things that made this story much harder to tell.
She'd been Gimmesh as a child, wearing their blues and grays, mortifying her flesh, bleeding into the communal bowl every third night, all of it. She'd loved it. It was her home. The Gimmeshka made her feel special and set apart and held tightly in community.
Of course it did. It was all she'd ever known.
Then her family had fallen on hard times, and she'd taken a job in the rope walk. The young men had been coarse but a small flock of older men had looked out for her - they had daughters her age, for one, but the rope walk lost people quickly enough that they didn't want industrious young people leaving just because they'd gotten jumped by a coworker when they left their shift.
As she continued her work at the rope walk, her misgivings about the Gimmesh grew. When she was a child in the Gimmeshka she'd always prized the side-long glances at her blue and grays or the whispers in the marketplace. She was the gem-in-the-rock, the pearl in the oyster. They were merely People. It made sense that they would whisper and frown.
At the rope walk, she started to listen. She began to notice the ways the Gimmeshka had lied, the truths about the world they'd twisted to suit their own struggles for power, the dark secrets buried in the old texts.
It only took a few months for her childhood to unravel. Quietly, Malika left.
She stopped talking Gimmeshka, then she took a shift when holy meetings usually were, then, finally, she moved away from her mother. (She moved in with a girl she'd met at a bar and slept with twice - not the best relationship choice, perhaps, but both knew the other was desperate and had more things to think about than sex.)
She put Gimmesh behind her completely for three years. She quit her rope walk job, met then broke up with a few other girls, took up a position that was a combination of stevedore and counter girl for the general store closest to the port.
This was where she began to hear the news: Gimmesh was getting worse. Darker, tighter, and, most concerning to non-Gimmesh, recruiting other peoples' children and pushing for spots in local governance.
That winter, she took a bad illness and lost her job.
When she improved, she'd taken up a menial job as an underpaid stevedore on the bad docks. Through a friendly supervisor, she learned through an ex that the Reeve's office was looking for ex-Gimmesh willing to talk.
That's how Malika had ended up on a flat-bottomed river sloop, bound down the coast and then inland, to the poor upriver towns at the southern front. The cargo hold was full of medical supplies, and weapons. They'd try to persuade the most vulnerable in the poorest towns to turn to Ginnesh, holding out for the day when the winds of Gimmesh would eventually sweep through the land, rushing them along to greatness.
The world was too small, though, and the cook had seen Malika at a bar, a girl on her lap and not a stitch of blue or gray on her person. It took him until they were half a day at sea to put two and two together, though.
By the time they dragged Malika on deck and threw her before the captain-priest, the shore was a smudge on the horizon and the muddled lights of the nearest city were at their stern. Far enough from her home that, if her body washed up on shore, she'd be far from anyone who might recognize her.
''I don't remember much of the next part,'' Malika admitted. Her water was cold in the cup now, but she still cradled it in her hands, thumb rhythmically stroking the rim.
Rosemary sat up straight - she'd been leaning forward in anticipation for as long as Malika had been talking, and her lower back ached from the adjustment. ''That's not surprising,'' she assured Malika. ''There's often some memory loss with head injuries.''
''Probably for the best,'' Malika said, lifting a hand to run along her ribs.
''Do you think they'll come for you?'' Rosemary said abruptly.
''I think they think I'm dead.'' Malika studied Rosemary. ''You're worried about your safety.''
Rosemary nodded, looked over her shoulder.
''And your daughter's.''
''Her name's Juniper,'' Rosemary said evenly. ''She's seen almost nine winters now.''
''She'll see another,'' Malika said, leaning over to take Rosemary's. ''I don't think you or Juniper have anything to worry about.''
Rosemary closed her eyes, took a breath, and nodded. ''I'm sorry,'' she said. ''You're my patient. Your safety above everything.''
''Unless it jeopardizes your own,'' Malika added, her warm hand still sitting in Rosemary's. ''Healer's law.''
''You know it?''
''They're not secrets, Rosemary.''
No, maybe they weren't. Maybe the healer's laws were well-known, and she'd simply been far enough away from other people that she'd lost track of what sorts of things other people knew and didn't know.
Maybe, she thought as she held Malika's hand, she'd lost track of which secrets were important.
#
Malika, you soft idiot.
Rosemary had helped her lay down again, tugged up her shirt to check her ribs, traced a bruise on her stomach with a smear of soft charcoal.
And now, lying in the faint light of dawn, pulse beating uncomfortably in her bruises, Malika couldn't stop thinking about Rosemary. She watched idly as Rosemary stoked the fire, Rosemary sorted herbs, Rosemary cracked eggs into the pan, Rosemary roused Juniper, complaining, from bed.
She liked her soft, round face scattered with freckles. She liked the way little bits of auburn hair fell from her braid, framing her face. She liked both when Rosemary looked at her with that even, probing look healers got in their eyes, and she liked when Rosemary ignored her and went about her business and Malika could simply watch her be.
Malika, against her best judgment, was developing a crush.
A crush that was most inconvenient, since Malika planned to sneak out of the healer's house the next time she saw an opening.
It wasn't that she'd lied. She truly didn't think she would put Rosemary in danger if she stayed here. If nobody knew she was alive, what reason would they have for tracking her down?
During her short time on the Ginmmesh ship, Malika had learned that the splinter faction she'd been sailing with had connections with an extremist branch, and they intended to occupy the Governor's Palace on the next independence Eve. A symbolic act, perhaps - that's what she hoped for. But the little she'd gleaned indicated that there might be violence, possibly including (but certainly not stopping at) a threat on the governor's life.
As Independence Eve was approaching in less than a week, she desperately needed to get word to her handlers back in Amarla.
Malika was no fan of the governor, but seemed an honest man who did his best. With the Gimmeshka as the alternative, Malika would have done just about anything to keep him in power.
Rosemary wouldn't understand her leaving. She'd hate to argue with the woman who'd rescued her, but more importantly she might wake to find herself tied down to the bed again, for her own good, and that was something she couldn't risk.
Malika spent much of the next day resting, sleeping on and off, eating the food Rosemary set before her. At one point Juniper sat by her and they read together, Malika helping her with the tricky words, Juniper explaining every boring detail of her herbalism study in loving detail.
The rest of the time, Malika dozed in Rosemary and Juniper's bed. While it was low to the ground and sagged in the middle it was better than a ship berth. She watched Rosemary prepare herbs, Rosemary prepare lunch, Rosemary crack eggs into the pan over the fire.
Often, she'd catch herself staring. When Rosemary would turn towards her she'd avert her eyes, hiding her interest like a girl in church trying not to gaze at the Brother delivering the service.
At dinner, Rosemary and Juniper pulled chairs over to the bed, joining Malika where she rested. The bowl she held was full of root vegetables and pickled cabbage, typical winter fare, but Rosemary had seared the vegetables expertly and seasoned them expertly, and Malika found her mouth watering as she lifted the bowl to her face.
''You've lived here long, then?'' Malika said between bites.
''Since Juniper was born,'' Rosemary said, nodding. Malika thought she saw a stitch of darkness appear then vanish between the other woman's eyes. ''I provide herbs, both grown in the garden and collected, to the people in town. We go to the market every week or so, more often in the summer.''
''Sometimes we go to town for special things, too,'' said Juniper. Eager to be seen as a woman of the world, Malika thought, and not a lonely child of the woods. ''Festivals. Once we went because the Mayor got married.''
''You've no husband, then?'' said Malika. When this was not immediately met with comment, she quickly followed with, ''not to pry, just making conversation.''
''Mother,'' announced Juniper, ''prefers ladyfolk.''
Rosemary blushed and Malika, to her chagrin, felt blood rise in her cheeks as well. She'd always been a sympathetic blusher. To disguise it, she coughed heartilly into her hand, which she quickly learned was a tactical error as her ribs erupted in pain.
''What?'' said Juniper. She turned to Rosemary, who was still blushing but now also carefully studying Malika with a concerned expression as she continued to cough. Great. ''You've always said that's nothing to be ashamed of.''
''While it's not,'' said Rosemary, regaining her composure and putting a hand on Juniper's leg, ''it's also not the sort of thing one blurts out about other people over dinner.''
Rosemary turned to Malika, clearly ready to save some of her dignity. ''I do like ladies, yes,'' she said. ''But so far, none has proved too interested in building a life with an herbalist with a half-grown child living deep in the woods.''
She let her spoon clatter against the side of the bowl then stood. ''Juniper,'' she said. ''Help me clean, would you?''
Malika, suddenly without appetite, managed another mouthful, then set her bowl on Rosemary's empty chair. She watched her hosts clean in silence.
#
Rosemary set Juniper to tying bundles of sea herbs so that she could step outside to scrub bowls in the snow and collect herself.
Malika must mean well - she'd been here for more than a day, and she'd yet to do Rosemary or Juniper any more harm than asking uncomfortable questions at dinner time. Tender subjects for a stranger to bring up, though. Rosemary wondered why she'd started prying.
Rosemary's mind drifted back to Malika as she'd first seen her, lying limp and near-lifeless on the shore of the beach. Breath rattling, wiped of character, lips pale as parchment, wet hair plastered to her face. A mystery, an adventure, beautiful sets of breasts and shoulders unattached to personality.
So, Malika was pushy, or at best, awkward. Rosemary couldn't fault her for that.
Then, she thought about how she'd asked Rosemary about her situation, asking if she'd had a husband. Assuming Rosemary sought a husband.
Malika wasn't interested in women, Rosemary told herself firmly. She'd need to quell her budding dreams of exploring Malika's body in any other context besides medical, or she'd be sorely disappointed.
#
The sun slipped below the tree line shortly thereafter, casting long, reaching shadows over the window. Before long, a proper night had fallen. Malika had been in cities most of her life, with the exception of her very short stint as a sailor, and was used to the bustle, the ambient lights from the street, a gas lamp here and there. Rosemary had none of that. Outside was a silence filled with the sounds of woods at night, not a stitch of humanity to be heard. Inside, Rosemary and Juniper worked by the light of the fire, several candles, and an old fashioned wick lantern.
Malika, still achey, watched in quiet, sometimes idly reading the book of poems Rosemary had given her, just watching.
Most of the time Rosemary was steadfast, methodical, but sometimes she'd stand in the middle of the cabin, hands on her hips, looking around like she'd lost something and puffing air out of her cheeks. She seemed to care deeply for Juniper, and Juniper would jump at everything her mother asked of her with the energy of natural eagerness, not the heavy fear that comes with beating-won obedience.
Eventually, all the dishes were scrubbed, all the blinds pulled, the doors double-locked, the fire prepared for the night time, the outerwear removed.
Rosemary, just in her undergarments, turned away from Malika and dropped her slip. Malika glanced away, out of propriety, but not before she'd seen Rosemary's broad shoulders and soft stomach, the curves of her hips lit by the soft light of fire.
Gods, Malika thought. What a dessert.
Rosemary dressed quickly. She was living her life, after all, not putting on a peep-show for a one-woman audience. Besides, it was cold.
She put Juniper to bed then, and Malika yawned, finding herself tired, and eased herself back down to a half-reclining position.
Rosemary sat on the bed, draped in a blanket, oversized socks in two different sizes on her feet, and Malika found herself wishing she could be sitting next to her, walking a sleepy child to bed.
When Juniper was asleep, Rosemary, holding a candle, came to where Malika rested.
''Let me know,'' she said, voice low, ''if you're cold and would like us to join you in the bed. On a night like this it's worth the risk of breaking your stitches open because I elbowed you in the arm.''
Malika prayed the shadows and flickering light hid the emotions rising in her cheeks. She wanted to sleep next to Rosemary. She wanted to feel her breathing deeply next to her, to ''accidentally'' put an arm around her waist, to feel her breath on the back of her neck.
''Thank you,'' she said, closing her eyes before her emotions got the best of her, ''but no. I am warm enough. You stay by the fire with your girl.''
If Malika didn't know better, she would have thought Rosemary was disappointed.
''As you wish,'' she said, turning away. ''If you become cold in the night, though.....'' her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.
''Thank you,'' said Malika, and turned towards the far wall.
#
Rosemary's mind, when left with uncertainties, was the sort that scrabbled desperately at the unknown like a rat in a cage.
Am I that repulsive? She splashed cold water on her face. She was stoking a bad mood instead of mothering it, which she rarely did anymore, but she didn't care.
Malika didn't owe her sleeping together, of course, even if Rosemary did find herself wanting to be closer to Malika, spending more time with their skin touching and not in a fashion typical of healers.
But still. This was either the choice of someone who hated her for unknown reasons, which Rosemary knew was unlikely, given Malika seemed pleasant, intelligent, and happy to help Juniper with her homework by decoding words like ''emmenagogue''.
I am choosing to believe, Rosemary told herself firmly as she curled up next to her daughter, articulating the full sentence in her head so it would be more likely to take, that she's doing it out of some misplaced sense of propriety.
Tomorrow would be a new morning. She'd get up, she'd take care of her patient and her daughter, she'd shove the warm feelings that had started blooming in her gut every time she thought about Malika down to the tips of her toes and out her boots and she would do her job like the professional she was.
Well. The professional she used to be, at least.
Damn it all, though, she'd be thinking about kissing that girl as she did so.
#
Malika slept poorly that night. Her body ached, bruises encompassing her limbs, ribs twinging in her chest every time she tried to roll over.
Still, by herself, there was pain, and there was the anxiety of leaving. Sometime deep in the night she lay awake, picking at dried blood on her arm, worrying at the edges of her bandages with her fingernails that were still intact.
Finally, Rosemary seemed deeply asleep, and the light of the day seemed a safe distance away. As silent as she could, Malika pried her aching body from the warmth of the bed and began to dress.
Malika left quickly, valuing speed and quiet more than completeness of packing. She took back her own wool coat, which had nearly dried by the fire over the course of the past two days, stuffed hard bread rolls in each pocket, and stole a lumpy, rough-hewn hat from the rack by the door. That she did feel bad about - it didn't seem like a kind way to repay all that the woman had done for her. Such as saving her life.
Rosemary wouldn't want her freezing, though, she figured, and it was a cold walk to town that would take at least the rest of the night in her still-weakened state. She probably wouldn't mind, had she known why Malika was leaving.
She probably thought Malika hated her or was off to betray her, Malika thought as she slipped out the door. It closed behind her with a muffled thud. That didn't feel good, of course, but it was better than the political disaster that might bloom if she stayed put and pursued her crush. She'd had her years of moving in with girls she'd spent one night with. She was done now.
Malika found the path to town and, in the light of the waning moon, began to make her slow and chilly way towards civilization, communication networks, and - hopefully - a warm bed from a charitable stranger.
#
Malika arrived in town just as the sun was rising. She hurt everywhere - the beating, like a hard day of exercise, seemed to be hitting a few days after the actual event. She'd walked slower than she otherwise would have, partly because of the snow but also because it was still impossible for her to breathe deeply.
She consulted a ragged but well-traveled looking man in the tavern to give her directions to Amarla. (Cross the river, half a day to the next town with an inn, sleep the night there and take a horse from there, otherwise prepare for a four-day long trek on foot.)
Sitting on the steps of a holy building, eating the pittance of popped grains she'd been handed as a pauper's lunch, Malika considered her options. She could go herself, of course - that was the best option. But that would involve either hiring a horse with no money, or stealing one, which, poorly executed, might lead to a life-threatening delay.
She could send a message, of course, but it would need to be encoded and marked with her signature, which meant she'd need to find somewhere where she could take the time and space necessary to encode an accurate message in private.
Better go herself, she decided. Perhaps the constabulary in the next town over would recognize her passcode and grant her a horse, or pass the message along their own secure channels. She just needed something a little bigger than Waterdam.
To the ferry, then, she decided. She licked the last of the garlic salt off of her fingers, her stomach still grumbling, asked for directions from a street urchin running food to an upper class house, and began to make her way towards the river.
Xii.
Trying her best to look like a traveler and not a good-for-nothing who'd just stumbled out of a brawl, Malika explained what she needed to the ferryman.
''And how much would that be?'' she finished with, hoping to gods that whatever it was, she could negotiate it down to the low, low price of zero.
The ferryman, a man both grizzled and about her age, gave her a long look. ''Gimme a minute, girl,'' he said, leaving Malika standing there, shivering. It had been too long since her last meal and the pauper's lunch had swiftly burned off. She needed fuel to keep herself going. She tried not to sway on her feet.
Heavy hands fell on her shoulders, pulling her from her reverie or hunger, and Malika responded instinctively by spinning and ducking, her heart hammering against her sternum. She'd been daydreaming, she'd let down her guard because she was in a little town, not on a mission anymore. Whoever it was was fast and well prepared for her basic escape tactics. They grabbed her arm and wrenched it, which would have been painful enough to force compliance from anyone but with Malika's injuries was excruciating. She yelped, lashing out blindly. When she centered herself enough to open her eyes, she found herself kneeling on the ground, hands behind her back. Something wet was soaking through her shirt, and she knew she'd broken some of Rosemary's careful stitches.
''You're being placed under guard of the town,'' a man said. ''For a suspected act of violence against Rosemary Lake.''
#
Rosemary rose with the sun that morning as she usually did, intending to let Juniper sleep in until she'd stoked the fire and set water to boil.
Then she noticed how flat the bed was, and breakfast was delayed indefinitely.
''Juniper,'' she called from the door, looking at Malika's soft footsteps receding in the direction of the town. ''Junie. Time to get out of bed. We're going to town today. Hustle now, love.''
Juniper, still groggy, sat up in bed, her hair pressed against her face with sweat. Rosemary swept her out of the bed and deposited her on the floor. She stuffed cold rolls into both of their pockets and threw one of her hats on Junie's head as she couldn't find the one Junie had knitted herself and usually wore so proudly on market days.
''Mother?'' Juniper yawned, ''where are we going?''
''Malika's gone,'' Rosemary said, hustling her out the door and praying the homestead would be alright without her usual care in locking it up. Visions of wolves, of bandits, of Malika's stiff fingers poking up from a snow drift swirled through her head. She tamped them down. ''We're going to town to make sure she's okay.''
Gods, Rosemary thought as they began to make their way down the path, if she's gone and done something to herself, gotten herself in danger….she swore under her breath. And she was beginning to grow on me.
#
''I told you,'' Malika said, for what was at least the seventh time (she'd started counting late), ''I haven't done anything to anyone. I was down on my luck. I was just staying with them.''
They were in an interrogation cell, which seemed to be different from a holding cell only in that it included a table and two chairs, one with built-in bolts for handcuffs.
The young constable, who looked like he'd happily kick a puppy if it didn't call him ''sir'', leaned across the table. ''Oh? And then did you take care of her?'' he asked with a hint of patting himself on the back in the tone.
You've read too many adventure pamphlets, Malika thought, but she knew better than to voice her thoughts towards this sort of power-hungry man.
''Listen,'' she said, ''can I just get a bed and a healer and we can talk about this when I'm not dead on my feet and bleeding?'' She yanked up her sleeve to back up her point, steadfastly not looking directly at the gash on her arm that now gaped wide open without the help of Rosemary's careful stitches.
''If you tell me what happened to Rosemary,'' said the constable, unimpressed by her injuries.
Malika looked up at him, wheels finally spinning in her tired brain. ''Do you have proof that something has actually happened to Rosemary?''
''I'm asking the questions,'' the constable grunted.
Malika put her head down on the table and groaned.
They threw her back in a cell for that. It was cold - she had two ratty woolen blankets to keep her warm, but all they did was keep her just on the edge of hypothermia. She kept a hand clamped on the gash in her arm, which had started to ache. The pressure seemed to relieve the pain somewhat.
As the day dragged on, Malika tried to decide which would be worse - rotting in this cell leaving Rosemary wondering what had become of her, or the indignity of Rosemary coming to rescue her.
Selfishly, she wanted Rosemary. It wouldn't be a pleasant meeting. Malika had stolen from Rosemary and she'd disobeyed her advice as a healer.
Malika shivered and sighed. With what little she knew of Rosemary, that latter sin would be worse.
#
It was easy to find Malika - the ferryman was the second person she'd talked to, after the innkeeper.
His eyes had gone wide when she approached. ''Thought you were dead, ma'am,'' he said, almost apologetically.
''What?'' Rosemary shoved Juniper behind her. This conversation probably wasn't one for eight-year-olds. ''Why?''
He jerked his chin towards Junie. ''Beat-up looking stranger showed up wearing that hat your girl always has on, Lady! What would you have me do?''
''So you've seen her?''
''Yeah,'' he said with pride. ''I turned her in.''
Rosemary pressed a fist against her forehead and blew a breath out of her nose, willing herself to be kind to a slow man who'd just been looking out for her and Junie.
''Do you know where she is now?''
''Jail, I figure,'' said the ferryman, shrugging. ''What, she your ladyfriend or something?''
Rosemary flushed. ''She's my patie- my guest,'' she said, then turned, grabbing Juniper by the elbow, and began her march to the jail.
#
Getting Malika released was easy: she was being held on charges of killing Rosemary and or Juniper, who were now standing in front of the Reeve. Within minutes of Rosemary first marching in the door, Malika was wrapped in Rosemary's jacket and hustled back into freedom.
The three of them stood together in front of the jail, Malika shivering despite the jacket and looking flatly pale, Juniper jittering like she'd eaten bees, Rosemary feeling like she was becoming mother of two instead of one. The whole time they'd been in the jail, Malika hadn't spoken. Now, she turned to Rosemary, an uncomfortable look on her face.
''Rosemary.....''
''Save it,'' said Rosemary, holding up a hand. ''Let's get you somewhere warm.'' She gestured at her arm, ''and let's get that taken care of.''
''Are we going home?'' Juniper asked.
''We'll stay the night with the sisters.''
''Yes!!'' crowed Juniper. Malika looked alarmed.
''The sisters, among other charitable projects, care for the city's animals,'' Rosemary explained.
''Sometimes, they let me help with the puppies, if I ask nicely and at the right time of day.'' Juniper flexed her fingers, as if anticipating all the dogs she'd be petting in the near future.
''We can't go back?'' Malika said.
Rosemary shook her head. ''Too late - I spent most of the day trying to find you and get you released, I don't have enough money to stay at the inn, and I'd rather not have my patient and my daughter sleeping in the streets in October.''
Malika flinched. There it was - patient, not friend, not guest. She'd screwed this one up royally. Rosemary wanted nothing to do with her. She was caring for her because of the Healer's Laws and possibly to make an example of her in front of her daughter.
She deserved the distancing. If anything, she'd even deserve staying on the streets. She might even prefer it, although Rosemary certainly wouldn't hear of it.
The sisters were kind, mostly made of older women who'd chosen to live in community and serve others, unlike certain other orders that took unwilling ''community members''. But there was enough of religion clinging to the hems of the sisters' practical work trousers that it made her stomach turn. She'd left that. She wanted no more of it.
She didn't voice any of her concerns to Rosemary. Instead, she put her head down, shoved her hands in her pockets, and walked behind her hosts.
#
Rosemary led them to the half-door at the front of the compound and knocked a peculiar staccato rhythm on the heavy wooden door. Momentarily, a grandmotherly woman with an air of being in charge appeared.
''Rosemary!'' she said. ''Are you here for business, or are you here for....?''
''Refuge,'' Rosemary sighed. She spoke familiarly, and the woman inside was clearly familiar with Rosemary. She probably supplied the community with herbs, Malika decided. ''We're not in immediate danger, and we'll only stay one night.''
''Of course,'' said the woman. ''For you, for Juniper, and for your....'' again she trailed off.
''My patient,'' said Rosemary, with a tip of the chin and an edge of combativeness to her voice.
The woman paused for a moment, almost imperceptibly. ''Right,'' she said. ''Give me one moment.''
#
Rosemary and the sisters had been on excellent terms since they'd given her refuge eight years ago, she paying for their negotiations on her part by restocking their healer's cupboards for free for the next three years.
Memories poured through her every time she came into the complex - Juniper, hungry, an infant a few days old, crying. Listening at the hidden door to Sister Burdock's heated discussion with the Reeve, sleepless nights nursing a child that wasn't hers.
Rosemary pulled Juniper close as they passed through the courtyard.
''I can give you one room,'' Sister Burdock said, ''for the two of you. It's small, but it's better than the streets and cheaper than the inn. It's cold tonight, we have many other guests. Juniper will sleep with the foundlings - we don't allow children her age upstairs, and besides, I'm sure she'd love the company of other young ones.''
''And do I get to see the dogs?'' Junie added, catching up to Rosemary's stride with a bit of a skip.
''If you'd like,'' said Sister Burdock with a smile. ''We always appreciate your help, Juniper, any time you'd like to give it.''
''We'll be gone tomorrow,'' Rosemary assured her. ''I was just...busy in town with an emergency, and it's too late to travel back safely.''
''Of course,'' said Sister Burdock. She pointed Rosemary down a hall and gave her a number and a key. She gestured at Malika's arm, where blood blossomed beneath her fingers. ''Shall I have the healer come?''
''I can handle her myself,'' Rosemary said, a flare of defiance sparking in her chest. ''It can hardly even count as healing, washing a cut and telling a grown woman to go to sleep.''
''I can hear you, you know,'' Malika said from behind her.
Sister Burdock looked flatly from Rosemary to Malika. ''I'll send supplies up,'' she said. ''Your business, Rosemary, is your own. We both know that.''
Rosemary bowed her head. ''Thank you, Sister. I'm always in your debt.''
''Hopefully not always,'' Sister Burdock said with a faint smile, and closed the door.
#
The bedroom contained a bed, a washstand, bedclothes, and not much else.
Well, not much else other than Rosemary.
''What,'' Rosemary said, turning on Malika, ''were you thinking?''
Malika opened her mouth.
Malika shut her mouth.
Rosemary must have been either putting on the performance of her life or crushing her true feelings down for the whole day, because Malika knew she was furious. She wasn't red faced, or trembling, but the set of the jaw, the deliberate way she spoke - Malika had fucked up, and Rosemary was going to let her know it.
''I'm sorry,'' Malika said, and sank onto the bed. She felt deeply tired.
Rosemary sat heavily beside her. ''Take your shirt off.''
''What?''
''DId they deafen you in that jail? I said take your shirt off. Let me see you.''
Malika complied.
Rosemary looked her over, focusing disapprovingly on the broken stitches on her shoulder and upper arm. ''The first stitches I've done in eight years,'' she said, ''and you had to go and break them.''
''Sorry?'' Malika ventured.
Rosemary dipped the towel in the water and began rubbing at the dried blood that streaked Malika's skin. Malika flinched. The water was cold, and Rosemary was scrubbing at her skin as if the bloodstreaks themselves were responsible for the terrible day she was having.
''I can explain,'' said Malika. Best to just get it out. ''I'm undercover.''
''Bullshit,'' said Rosemary, still scrubbing.
''Would you shut up? I'm trying to explain myself,'' Malika snapped, pulling her arm away. Rosemary looked up at her - their eyes met, and almost imperceptibly, Rosemary's face softened.
''I told you about the work I was sent to do? Well, I did my job too well. I was on that ship less than 24 hours and I found out things that they didn't want me to know. Things that my handler back in Amarla would very much like to know.'' She shrugged. ''Things that, unfortunately, I definitely shouldn't tell you.
Rosemary nodded. ''Were you lying when you said you couldn't remember what had happened?''
''Oh, I remember why they wanted to kill me. I just don't remember the attempt.''
A knock sounded on the door. Rosemary rose, cracked it open after peering out the view hole.
A young woman - a sister, probably - stood in the doorway. ''For your guest,'' she said, handing over a small wooden chest with a glass top. Still looking at Rosemary, she curtseyed. ''I wish you healing.'' She nodded at Malika, ''and you a steady hand.''
Malika made an exaggerated glance at her injured arm. ''She seemed confused.''
Rosemary tucked the box under one arm, sighed, and tugged pensively at the end of her braid. ''There's something I'd like to tell you,'' she said, ''although I'd prefer it wait until after I've stitched you back up.''
''Although there's nothing I love more than sitting here with my muscles exposed to the air, I think I'd rather you tell me know, actually,'' Malika said, finding herself leaning away from Rosemary's apologetic expression - and was it tinged with guilt?
''It's nothing to do with my ability to sew up your arm,'' she said, prickling. ''Sit back down. I'll talk while I work.''
Malika did as she was told, looking away both so she didn't have to see the expressions cross Rosemary's face and so she didn't have to think about the needle pushing into her skin over and over and over again.
''I've been banned from official practice as a healer in this province,'' Rosemary said simply. ''Apart from patching up Juniper or myself, with the exception of herbal remedies of course, you're the first patient I've had in eight years.''
Malika didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. The needle pressed through her skin once more, and she winced. The skin was raw, stretched, pinking around the edges, and it hurt more this time than it had the first.
''Juniper is not my daughter by birth,'' Rosemary continued, her voice wavering at the edges, ''although I love her dearly and consider her my own. I made a mistake during her delivery.'' She'd switched from being a woman's woman to being a full-blown healer a few years before. When she accepted a midwifery job because the midwife was ill, she'd gotten sloppy. She didn't tell Malika any of this. They felt like excuses, vocalized, and long ago she'd decided that she wouldn't allow herself excuses.
Silence stretched between them again. ''Her mother died shortly thereafter. What happened next I do not like to talk about, but the sisters were there for me, and the folk of this town mostly believe I left healing of my own accord for herbalism because my hands grew too weak to hold a scalpel.''
''Rosemary.''
''Shush. You don't have to say anything. I don't need your pity, just like you don't need mine.''
Rosemary finished her task in silence. Malika's mind wandered to the one bed they'd be sharing that night, wondering how she'd gotten herself into this mess and how the hell she'd get herself out of it.
#
When it came time to sleep, Rosemary tugged a blanket down to the floor and began making a little nest for herself.
Did she want to sleep next to Malika, feeling her breath on her neck, the crook of her body next to hers? Yes.
Would she be the pinnacle of responsibility anyway, doing everything in her power not to cross the careful boundary between patient and doctor? Unfortunately for her libido, she decided that she would. Heat came up from the kitchens below - this room was not nearly as cold as the cabin. She'd continue sleeping on the floor, just as she had at the cottage.
Malika watched her as she worked. Rosemary pretended not to feel her eyes on her back.
Finally, Malika asked, ''what are you doing?''
''Making my bed,'' Rosemary answered, rolling a towel for a pillow.
''We have a bed,'' Malika said, and the ''we'' caught deep in Rosemary's gut and twisted.
She should say, it's not right. She should say, it breaks the healer laws, although it didn't, and Malika would know it. She should say, it's better this way, I won't accidentally break your stitches open again for a second time when I roll over in my sleep.
But instead, Rosemary said, ''I assumed you wouldn't want to share. I've been lying to you. I've been furious with you all day.''
''It'll be warmer this way,'' said Malika, sitting on the bed. ''I only turned you down last night because I knew I'd be sneaking out and didn't want you waking.''
Rosemary felt the blush rise in her cheeks. ''I'm still mad at you,'' she said, but moved closer to the bed.
''Rosemary,'' Malika said, and Rosemary noticed even in the candlelight that she seemed to be blushing herself. Malika took one of her hands, turned it over as if studying it for the next words she should say. ''I have been lying to you, too. By omission.''
Rosemary put all of her energy into not flinching. Was this the part where Malika killed her? Had she been lying about the Gimmesh - or perhaps lying about ever having left? Did Rosemary know too much to wake up another morning?
''I have feelings for you, Rosemary. It seems wrong to share the bed without being forthright.''
The timbre of the room seemed to shift, and Rosemary's breath caught in her throat.
Her head cleared and Malika was still speaking: ''--and if you're not interested, of course you may sleep wherever you like, I just --''
Rosemary couldn't stand another minute. She closed her eyes, leaned in, and kissed Malika on the mouth.
#
Malika found herself squeezing Rosemary's hand, lips pushing back against Rosemary's. Rosemary's other hand was tugging hungry at Malika's breast, as if she expected to pluck it like a ripe fruit.
''Be gentle,'' Malika whispered through kisses. ''Don't break the stitches.''
''Idiot,'' Rosemary said breathily, hand at the fastening of Malika's dress. She pulled back and looked at Malika, fondness mixed with hunger in her eyes. ''I don't want to make more work for myself, now, do I?''
Together they worked Malika's sleeve off of her injured arm, leaving her stripped to the waist. Her skin prickled in the chill, goosebumps forming on her breasts, her nipples piquing.
Rosemary ran a finger down her collarbone and between her breasts, down to the top of her trousers. ''It's different, you know,'' she said, her finger beginning a journey up towards Malika's left nipple, ''looking at you like this. There's nothing particularly sexy about a naked woman bleeding out on my kitchen table, even if she is gorgeous.''
Malika pulled Rosemary in for another kiss. ''Don't talk about that,'' she said. ''I want to forget about that for tonight. I owe you my life. You've seen everything I have to offer. What do you want from me?''
Rosemary was properly flushed now, her breath fast and warm whenever she leaned into Malika. She looked a little surprised, but pleased. ''I'm not used to being asked that,'' she said, and her fingers caressed Malika's nipple, jolting pleasure through her body. She leaned in.
''I want everything,'' Rosemary whispered.
And then Rosemary was at the waist of her pants, and leaning her back on to the bed, one hand scrabbling at the shutters, Malika laughing as her fingers tangled in Rosemary's hair.
Then Rosemary was gone, and Malika was gone, and it was just Rosemary's tongue between Malika's legs, licking, kissing, sucking, fingers inside of her, her heart pounding in her ears.
Malika fancied herself good at giving, even though she'd prefer to be on the other side of the coin. She'd been with plenty of girls before. When she was drunk and bored as a young teenager she'd even been with a couple of scared boys from the local bar, who'd let her use their tab if she'd coach them how best to use their tongues.
Rosemary didn't need lessons.
When Malika finished, Rosemary kissed her way up to Malika's lips before dropping her underdrawers, hiking up her skirts, and lowering herself down onto Malika's face.
Rosemary was warm and wet and smelled of ocean. Malika licked like a bear at honey, Rosemary rocking back and forth and moaning in time.
''I almost wish you weren't quite so good,'' Malika said to Rosemary after. They lay together, Malika on her back, Rosemary running her fingers through Malika's fine hair, her heavy breasts laying soft against Malika's flat chest. ''It's rather distracting, having to think about not breaking my stitches when I finish.''
Rosemary laughed. ''Thank you for doing your best,'' she said, running a finger below Malika's injury. She put her head against Malika's collarbone and sighed. ''I can't tell you the last time I was with a woman, outside of the local working girls who get free herbs in exchange for their services.''
''That counts,'' said Malika, running a finger down Rosemary's arm.
''Not really,'' said Rosemary. ''It's a business deal for them, it's purely physical for me.''
''Not like this?''
Rosemary looked at her and smiled. ''Not like this.'' She traced a finger around Malika's navel. ''I wish you could stay,'' she whispered, a tremor in her voice.
''I wish I could, too,'' said Malika. ''Maybe we can talk to the sisters tomorrow and see if they can help us.''
''Maybe we can,'' said Rosemary. ''But for now, as a healer to her patient, you need to sleep.''
''Yes, ma'am,'' said Malika, smiling a little. ''And will you be joining me?''
Rosemary laughed. ''For warmth only.''
''For warmth only,'' Malika agreed, and kissed her.
When Rosemary woke in the morning Malika lay cuddled up next to her, her forehead pushed into Rosemary's shoulder.
As the light began to peep through the narrow window, Rosemary lay still, enjoying the tenderness of their proximity.
She opened her eyes, confronted with Malika's bare chest. Warmth blossomed below her navel. Damn it all, last night had opened the floodgates. Now, just an errant nipple was enough to get her hot as a cat in heat.
Rosemary rose as quietly as she could and crept over to the washbasin, where she stripped to her waist and rubbed a cold washcloth over the night's sweat.
Behind her, Malika rolled over and gave a sleepy grumble.
Rosemary turned, tugging fingers through last night's braid and the kinks in her hair. ''Good morning.''
Malika grumbled again, her nose just peeking up over the bedspread.
''You're staring at my chest,'' Rosemary said. An observation, not an accusation.
''How could I not?''
Rosemary turned back to the mirror, watching Malika's form in the reflection. ''I don't think I properly thanked you for last night,'' she said. ''I probably said something pitiful about not having been with a woman in years, which was true, but. Well. I had fun, is what I'm trying to say.''
''I did, too,'' said Malika. She yawned, stretched carefully as she eased her feet to the floor, her chest growing almost completely flat as she stretched. There was that bulk to her arms, Rosemary noted, the curve to her forearm where her muscles quivered under the skin.
''Gods,'' said Rosemary, turning back around, ''you're stunning.'' She sat beside Malika on the bed. ''What would you say,'' she said with a coy smile, ''if I told you I wanted to have you for breakfast?''
Malika looked a bit surprised. Her hand moved to the hem of her undergarment. ''You'd be welcome to partake,'' she said, and leaned back against the wall.
Rosemary pulled her hair up in a loose bun, licked her lips, and went to work.
Before Rosemary trained as a full healer, she'd been a Liktat, or a woman's woman. Every part of her body had been a tool - she'd used her hands for delivering children, her mind for making medicines, her full breasts for feeding children, her tongue for bringing pleasure to her clients when their husbands couldn't or wouldn't. She'd learned how to prop up a woman, to use just the right amount of spit, to flick and suck and nuzzle, when to dig her nails into her client's thighs, when to trail her fingertips over their stomachs.
Rosemary enjoyed the work. She liked the taste of women. She liked how different they looked, exploring the petals of their flowers, the sucking warmth of their insides. She hadn't slept with a woman in years simply because none had been available, and the presence of Juniper made it a challenge to gain the requisite privacy anyway.
Rosemary would worship at just about any woman's altar, if they'd spread their legs and moan for her.
Working on Malika was like feeding a feral cat. Everything Rosemary gave, Malika soaked in, accepting, holding, releasing herself to the transformative power of Rosemary's tongue and two fingers. Malika moved like she'd been re-animated. Gone was the brash, closed woman who'd blinked back to consciousness on Rosemary's kitchen table just days ago. Here was a woman who could take pleasure and turn it into music.
Rosemary didn't feel like she was serving. She felt like she was dancing.
''Oh, Gods,'' Malika moaned between the rhythmic strokes of Rosemary's practiced tongue. ''I think I should get shoved off of boats more often.''
Rosemary paused to laugh. ''Please don't,'' she said, looking up at Malika. ''I enjoy this much more than wondering if you're going to die of internal bleeding.''
She kissed Malika's stomach. ''Please don't die of internal bleeding.''
Malika, grinning, grabbed Rosemary's head by the hair and pushed her face back down towards her sex. ''Oh good,'' she said, a shudder coursing through the last word as Rosemary got back to work, ''because I like this much better, too.''
#
When they went down for breakfast, pink in their cheeks despite splashes of cold water to the face, Sister Burdock gave them a sideways look. ''I hope you slept well,'' she said.
''Never better,'' said Malika, and smiled.
Juniper joined them for breakfast, talking animatedly about the mongrel puppy she'd helped to feed the night before.
''And also this morning I cleaned out the cages while the grown ups ran around the garden, but that was less fun,'' she admitted. She raised her chin with a resigned, grownup air. ''But someone must do it.''
''That they must,'' said Rosemary, and smiled.
''What did you do last night?''
Rosemary didn't crack a smile, but Malika had to hide hers. ''Stitched up your friend here,'' said Rosemary.
''Your mother's touch is magical,'' Malika said.
Beneath the table, Rosemary stomped on her foot.
#
After breakfast, Rosemary grabbed Sister Burdock by the elbow and pulled her to a more private location.
''I need to ask you for a favor,'' she said.
''Your business is your own, Rosemary,'' Sister Burdock said, raising a hand in a silencing motion.
Rosemary shook her head. ''My guest, Malika, has critically important information. Lives depend on it. It's why she left in a rush yesterday, which is why we ended up here. Are you at all able to facilitate an overnight message to Amarla for her?''
Sister Burdock looked surprised. ''Lives are on the line? Are you quite sure?''
''She's quite sure,'' said Rosemary, ''and I trust her.''
Sister Burdock frowned, looked thoughtful, then shrugged. ''I'll see what I can do,'' she said.
''Thank you,'' said Rosemary. ''We'll stay here until lunch.''
''Juniper,'' Rosemary said, waving her daughter over, ''would you be able to go check with the animal keepers and see if there's anything else you could be helpful with for the next few hours?''
Juniper nodded and began a skip-walk towards the kennels.
''Malika,'' Rosemary said, turning to the other woman ''I've talked with Sister Burdock. She can help you get to where you need to go.''
Malika nodded. ''I feel like I'm leaving so soon,'' she said. ''I wish I could stay longer.''
Rosemary touched her elbow. ''It was fun while it happened,'' Rosemary said. ''And it will be a pleasant memory to hold onto.''
''You know,'' Malika said, ''I've no real ties to anywhere at the moment. Once I've delivered this message, I think I'll be done with the constabulary. I'm not really cut out for undercover work. I've got to follow this job through, of course, but....'' she trailed off, shrugged.
''We could always use an extra hand,'' Rosemary said after a long silence. ''Juniper would be happy to have you back.''
''Wouldn't you?''
Rosemary grinned. ''I'd be looking for excuses to leave Juniper in town overnight, is what I'd be doing,'' she said.
Malika leaned in and kissed her, in the middle of the courtyard, in the middle of everything.
''Stay safe,'' Rosemary said. ''It's an order. I've no wish to patch you up again.'' She leaned in again, as if to prevent Malika from disagreeing with her.
Malika pulled away for as long as it took to say, ''I will.''
#
The winter stretched on, and Juniper and Rosemary's days fell back into their regular routine. Juniper would study, Rosemary would knit, clean, and take care of the animals, and together they'd mix remedies and pack them away, ready for the spring or whenever the weather cleared enough to allow them to make it into town for the market.
When the first warm week came Rosemary hiked up her skirts, put two pairs of socks beneath her boots, and braved the mud with Juniper. It was for market, which is what she told Juniper, but she was also praying for word of Malika.
It had been four months since she'd said goodbye to her, their fingertips just touching, the late October wind between them.
Anxiety filled Rosemary. It was worse that she was pretending she didn't care, that she wasn't mainly going to town for word.
They set up in the market like usual. Business was bustling as Rosemary hadn't been able to make it for several weeks.
As she made sales, she'd slip in the question where it seemed appropriate: ''By the way, have you heard of a woman from Malika? Traveling from a distance?''
No one had.
The light fell fast during the winter, and had they attempted to return, they would have been walking in the woods. The wolves hadn't been much of a problem as of late, but still, with a little one and two heavy packs, she wasn't willing to risk it.
So they did what they'd done winters past, which somehow felt much more desperate this time around - they went to talk to the sisters.
When Sister Burdock met her in the foyer, she had an odd look on her face. Rosemary felt as if she were at the edge of a precipice. If something had happened to Malika, if she hadn't made it, or if bad news had reached her, Suster Burdock was the most likely person in town to know.
But Sister Burdock just said, ''Wait here for a moment,'' and disappeared.
After a few long, painful minutes, the door cracked open.
Malika stood in front of her. She looked powerful in a way she hadn't before, her bruises healed, her back straight. Even under the heavy layers of winter clothing, Rosemary could see her strong figure. She brimmed with life.
''Hello, Rosemary,'' said Malika.
Juniper was there, asking what was wrong, and Sister Burdock was surely coming back, and who knew who might be watching from the hallway, but Malika didn't care.
She crossed the distance like Malika had just left, and kissed her.
''Come home with me tomorrow?'' Rosemary whispered.
''I'd love to,'' Malika said, and held her tight.