slightly. “I do not think so.”
“And most certainly, he has made an impression of a certain strength on you, has he not? All this complaining— I think the lady doth protest too much.”
“Oh, really, Aunt Theresa!” Valerian cried, cheeks flaming to scarlet.
“Perhaps you wish he had taken even more notice of you, hmm? But at any rate,” Theresa continued before Valerian could protest yet again, “you know how important it is that we remain in his good graces. The town will follow his lead in their treatment of us. If the baron shows disapproval, it will be more than our lives are worth the next time some farmer has a cow die on him, or his wife miscarries.”
Valerian turned her eyes away, staring out the open door at the twilight settling over the meadow. The fluttery shape of a bat crossed her field of vision, chasing insects. “I know.”
In those two words were fifteen years of awareness that she and her aunt were outsiders, for all that the townsfolk and farm wives sought their aid. They were respected for their knowledge, and both despised and feared for suspicion of whence that knowledge had come. That fear, while keeping them somewhat safe in their isolation, could turn destructive with a change in the wind. The witch hunts of the past century were long over, the witch laws recently repealed, but the countryfolk found more truth in their own beliefs than in the letter of the law. She who was a healer and midwife today might tomorrow be denounced as a poisoner in league with Satan.
It was not a fate to wish on anyone, much less oneself. If being nice to the baron would do anything to prevent it, nice she would be.
Chapter Three
“You are not going to wear that, are you?”
Valerian turned from the small silver mirror at her aunt’s critical tone. “What is wrong with it?”
“Really, Valerian.”
Theresa’s exasperation spoke for itself. Valerian tightened her lips for a moment in defiance, then loosened them as she gave in, and she began to yank at the laces of her work-a-day bodice.
“I know, I know, my foolish pride,” Valerian muttered, removing the bodice and pulling on her best black one over her chemise. It had elbow-length sleeves, and was both stiff and tight enough to provide support for her breasts. It was her best more by virtue of newness and quality of material than because of any decoration, although with the purple laces that matched her skirt it had a certain attractiveness to it. “I did not want him to think I had dressed up for him.”
“Come here, let me fix your hair.”
Valerian flounced down onto a stool with an exaggerated sigh. Theresa pulled a few wisps of hair from her braid to frame her face, then squinted at her critically. “You need something more.”
The cottage had a high roof, steeply peaked, and thatched with heather. In the dark recesses above their heads hung line after line of drying plant matter, from herbs to flowers to lengths of root. The cottage forever smelled of a combination of wood smoke and sweet dry greenery, punctuated with touches of scents both more spicy and more noxious. Theresa dragged out their ladder, and she quickly retrieved a spray of dried purple statice from where it had been hiding in the shadows above.
Ignoring her niece’s fierce frown, she twisted the papery flowers into Valerian’s braid. “There. It goes against human nature to think a witch would wear flowers in her hair.”
“More likely he will think I am trying to attract his attention.”
“And so what if he does? If he thinks you like him, he will be more inclined to be kindly disposed towards you. The last thing we want to do is antagonize the man.”
“I do not want him to take it as an invitation.”
Theresa shrugged. “I know you will be careful. And it might not be so bad, if you decided he was not so disagreeable. . . .”
“Aunt Theresa!”
“Hush, child. I am not trying to sell you into prostitution to secure our safety. But you are