Birgitta blanched at the
connection being made between her name and Durnstein. Mistress Rimbaud shook her head and placed a
reassuring hand on Birgitta’s arm. ‘This
tea is for you. But you want something
for your son. I have seen him acting in
the square. The fire, the painted face,
the dragon scales – not all actors’ props.’
Birgitta hung her head. ‘What can we do?’ ‘We don’t have much money.’
The old woman looked Birgitta
straight in the eye. ‘The cheapest
solution…’ She paused, turned her back,
rearranged some of the potions on her table, and went over to a chest. She took out something wrapped tightly in
waxed linen and place it in Birgitta’s hands.
‘No!’ cried Birgitta. Although the object was completely covered,
its weight and shape was unmistakable.
‘No ordinary knife,’ said Mistress
Rimbaud. ‘Something special.’ Birgitta shook her head. ‘Before it’s too late?’
‘My son,’ said Birgitta, pleading
desperately. The old woman nodded
thoughtfully, spat on the floor and replaced the knife in its chest.
‘I have something that will
help. For a while. Mandragora root, wild garlic, valerian,
nightshade. I will show you how it is
prepared. Then you can make your
own.’ Birgitta fell to her knees,
sobbing into the old woman’s skirts.
‘What your son suffers from can only be cured by the grave. In the meantime, this will help to keep him
calm. Help him to sleep.’
Holger was angry when he heard what
Mistress Rimbaud had said. He slapped
his forehead in frustration. ‘We have
been so careful. How has the news reached
here? Hundreds of miles, months on the
road. How can people know about our son
before we even arrive? People and their
stories. I expect they have you riding a
broomstick and me shaking hands with the Devil.’
Julian opened the
door of his cage and stepped inside.
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