12) Inkwell

"You should bathe before you go back to bed," he said gruffly, face turned away from hers as he turned the tub upright and poured steaming water into it from the cauldron. Hugging her arms tight across her body, she didn't think she would ever be warm again.

"I don't think I can manage it alone." Exhaustion made her more honest, more vulnerable, than she wanted.

"Gretchen won't be back til morning," he replied stiffly.

"If you wouldn't mind helping me, I think we can make due." She was suddenly shy, and then felt ridiculous for being shy of all things, after such a day.

He turned to her, and she saw tears on his face. He wiped them away abruptly. "Then give me your nightdress, woman, you're half frozen."

He was very careful as they worked, pouring water over her and deliberately not noticing her nudity as he helped her wash her legs and toweled her dry after. She bound up her slowly bleeding flesh with the rags Gretchen had left for the purpose, and pulled on his spare nightshirt; all of hers were unfit to wear before they were washed again. The hem dragged the floor, and she rolled up the sleeves until her hands were free. He pulled back the blankets for her and helped her climb in. He opened the chest where the rug he slept on was kept.

"Wait," she squirmed over to the wall, leaving most of the bed free. "It's too cold to sleep on the floor." She firmly told her fear that she wouldn't be afraid of him any longer, even a little bit, that he was far different than the King.

"I snore," he said finally.

"I know. I have nightmares. Rob's not big enough to warm the whole bed, and the sheets are cold." She hated the edge of pitiful complaint in her voice.

"That's terrible," he said, smiling wryly despite the tension of uncertainty between them. She turned to face the wall, and heard him take off his boots and pull on his nightshirt. There was a long pause as he stood watching her, and then he carefully eased into the bed beside her. When she didn't protest, he reached out and pulled her gently against his chest, a massive arm settling across her body with a comfortable protective heat.

He did snore, but her nightmares scattered away from her, and for the first time in a very long time she slept, deep and true.

She was terribly weak in the days afterwards. The first snows followed the first frosts almost immediately, and by the third day after the baby's birth they were firmly isolated, the path closed even to Gretchen's determination. Rob brought them small game every day, and Bronwyn simply added the fresh meat and the first of their stored vegetables to the stew pot early each afternoon. She slept most of every day, and tried to conceal her dismay at how long her body was taking to heal. Grahme must have seen her impatience and gave her small tasks to do between naps in her rocking chair.

He spent a lot of time carving small things, door knobs and spindles and small animals, and she was often put to work painting them or rubbing fine beeswax into the smooth wood. She fancied that he captured the spirit of the animals he carved, and found herself smiling a bit as she painted the eyes on a fox or a rabbit, or polishing the fine feathers of a duck. There were no wolves among his growing menagerie. One afternoon, when the window of a sudden blizzard rattled the shutters and frightened poor Robbie into cowering under the bed, the giant gave Bronwyn a book and asked her to read a marked passage to him while he worked.

She blushed, embarrassed. "I don't know how to read," she admitted, looking down at the words helplessly, running her fingers delicately over the inked page.

"It's time you learned, then," he replied, gesturing for her to come to the table. She came to his side and he scooped her up onto his lap. Seated thus on his thigh, she was at a good height to awkwardly accept he quill he placed in her hand.

"The best way to learn reading is to learn how the letters are made and to know how to make them yourself." He changed the angle of her fingers around the quill and pulled a piece of parchment over to them. Together, they bent over the parchment and the lesson began.

Bronwyn hated learning to write. It was harder than she thought it would be, and as the days passed she felt she had no aptitude at all for it as she looked down at her scrawled and blotted words and compared them to the ordered neatness of Grahme's script. Out of politeness, and a sense of duty to him for all he had done for her, she continued with the lessons. When he smiled and counseled her to patience when she had another difficult practice session, her frustration finally came to a boil.

"It's all well and good, but it doesn't mean anything, writing letters and child's words. What is the point of this at all?"

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His smile faded to seriousness. "Let me show you." He set her on her feet and brought a thick tome down from the top of a tall shelf. "What does it say?" He pointed to the words tooled into the thick leather of the binding.

She looked at the words, tracing them lightly with one finger, scowling at the letters. "Esses of Plants," she said finally. "It's nonsense."

"Look again, at the first word."

"Esse - no, that's not right." She thought hard. "Essence of plants?" She looked up at him. "What does that mean?"

"Tell me what lavender flowers are good for," he said casually.

"Soothing tiredness, calming the distraught, bringing luck, which is why we have it planted in the garden - but you know all of that."

"I know that because it's written in here. Look," he opened the book and she saw how worn the pages were. "See, Lavender. And it says more than what you told me a moment ago."

She looked at the words in wonder, and saw the fine drawing of the plant, stem, leaf, flower and root, next to the entry. "What does it say?"

"I'll not spoil the surprise for you, Miss Bronwyn. If you want to know you'll have to read it for yourself."

"Is this a joke?" She looked from the page to his face in dismay. "I'll never be able to read all of that!"

"Oh, I think you will, my dear." He stood from his chair and set her on the seat, kissing her hair fondly. "I'm going to go bring in the firewood. I hope you decide it isn't impossible after all." She considered throwing the inkpot at him but decided against having to clean up the mess afterwards.

Thus motivated, she plunged forward, and the Essence of Plants became her primer, though it was not one her teacher would have chosen for her. Her physical strength returned slowly as she did battle against herself and against the words. She still hated the gradual process of her learning, but for the chance at more knowledge she disciplined herself harshly. By Midwinter she had recovered fully in body, and her mind only occasionally ambushed her with stray fears or illusions. She learned to listen to the wind outside the shutters, and to the crackle of the fire and to see the patterns of the smoke from his pipe and the steam from the cauldron. He showed her, in the depths of the winter night, brilliant soft curtains of light shining in the darkness, and those held meaning, too. She learned to read all of these things even as she learned to read the sprawling and spidery script in his books, and the things she read gave her pause.

She learned to read her own dreams as well, and to remember them. She dreamed sometimes of the girl and her frog-turned-prince, and others of the constable who had found her under a bush, who had found that any darning that went into the basket she'd mended from was complete the next day. More often, her mind's eye showed her the Princess Janette, learning to cook and clean and care for the brothers at the Deep Woods Monastery. The girl stood straight and proud, but it was not the pride of station, but the sense of purpose in the work that she did, the friendships she formed. Something deep within the princess was released, and sometimes Bronwyn heard echoes of her singing even after she woke. Other nights, Bronwyn dreamed of wicked yellow eyes and slashing teeth, and a knife plunging down into blood.

Bronwyn could not avoid the simple fact of the Giant's love for her. That thought never unleashed the fear, but let loose a wistful memory of sweetness, of a kiss she could never forget. Grahme never touched her uninvited, and made no advances at all even as they continued to share his bed. She considered that carefully, as carefully as she tended her cooking and the herb lore and the pigeons in the coop that carried messages back and forth to the Giant and whoever it was he corresponded with. As she devoured one book of herb lore he would produce another, and then another as she finished them.

"Grahme," she said quietly in the depths of the night. She had been listening to the creak of the trees talking to each other on the mountainside below the house, and to the thrumming in her own blood and bones. Spring was coming.

"Yes, my dear?" She rolled over to face him and propped herself up on her elbow to look at him in the dim light of the banked fire.

"I've been watching, listening. I need to tell you something." She searched for the words as he waited patiently for her to continue. "I don't know if I will be called away again, by fate or magic or even the wind, sending me back into the world. I do know that if I should be called, that I must go alone with Robbie."

"That is the way it often is, with witches, he replied. "It makes them hard to love and difficult to keep, because they were never meant to be held in one place, and mortals want to hold on to what they love."

"Yet you allow yourself to love me?" The silence stretched on for a dozen heartbeats, and she feared she'd hurt him badly already.

He sighed like a wind in the trees. "You have not been loved enough simply for who you are. You have been loved as a queen, and as a servant, and as someone to be sheltered. I doubt any has seen past all that to see who Bronwyn is, within. So it is my gift to you, for as long as you are able to stay."

She lay down with her head on his shoulder. "You are more than just someone to rule or serve or be grateful to, Grahme. You are my friend, and a better healer than you can know. I can't love you with all of my self, but I will give you what I can, until I am called away again."

His arm tightened around her, and he kissed the top of her head. "Are you certain? The things that have been asked of you already, the pain you've suffered -"

"Those things have nothing to do with you. Besides, I can feel the wanting in you, even now. I may be a witch, but you are dear to me. I am not made of ice."

"Tis true. Your feet eventually thaw out, at least in time to get out of bed in the morning." She was startled into smiling. He traced her lips with an ink-stained and calloused fingertip, and then kissed her gently. The kiss was chill and salty with tears, but what came after was warm.