responsible for its crimes. She is. I always said she was a witch."
And even if—if—Kirwyn hadn't discovered the bucket and had a different plan to evade being found out, then someone—the town magistrate or representatives from the lord who held this land—would come to investigate the crime. And
they
would find the bucket. That bucket might have been—
might
have been—safe from discovery long enough to go dry if all that was going on in the silversmith's house was a wedding. But it would certainly be chanced upon now chat there had been murder done.
She and her mother would have to leave—now, tonight, immediately—and flee farther and faster than they ever had before.
She became aware that Edris had taken hold of her arm, and she jerked away, thinking that somehow Edris knew, Edris was crying to restrain her, Edris planned to hand her over to the Saint Erim Turi authorities. But Edris didn't try to catch hold of her again. She only said, mildly, "Sometimes it's best to weep and not hold it in." And Nola realized she was responding to the last thing Nola had said, that Nola was trying not to cry over a supposed friend's death.
Modig said, "You try to hold it in, and you try to hold it in. But you can't."
Nola sat down heavily, just barely making it onto the straw-filled mattress on the floor.
Edris—for all her bulk and despite being at least twice Nola's age—crouched down beside her. "I'm so sorry," she said, so sympathetically—over the wrong thing—that Nola found herself crying.
She and her mother would never, she knew,
absolutely never,
be able to outrun the storm that would break out in Haymarket if that bucket was discovered. She said, and this time she meant it, "We must go back." If the bucket hadn't been seen yet, she must make sure it never was.
Her mother said, "None of us thinks you should go."
Edris, misunderstanding, thinking that Nola's mother was including
her
in the sentiment, said, "I don't know." She shook her head, to indicate she didn't know the situation, and in truth she
didn't
know the situation, much more than she could ever guess. Still, she pointed a finger at her father to warn him not to take sides, and she repeated, unwilling to get between mother and daughter, "I don't know."
Annoyed with herself, Nola wiped her eyes. They
had
to go back. Yet how could they—when she knew Kirwyn had already killed once? How could they go back when everyone would blame her mother because they had all heard her say that Innis would die?
That
thought made Nola's mind stop going in the same circle. How had her mother known? Of course. Some abbot had told her, some abbot who had found his way into her mother's head. Well, he hadn't exactly told her. Her mother had overheard him saying the Mass for the Dead. But since when had her mother's voices been real—never mind been able to tell the future?
It was a coincidence, Nola told herself. An awful co-incidence that could get the two of them killed. The
three
of them, she wryly corrected herself, if you counted the abbot.
And surely she would be as mad as her mother if she took her mother back to Haymarket. Ic would cake twice as long co get there, and people would be twice as apt to notice them, and things were twice as likely to go awry.
But Nola had to go there.
And how could she
not
take her mother? What other choice was there—to leave her here?
Nola looked at Edris and Modig, who had come running—well, come as fast as each of them could—when they thought there was some trouble, who had asked pointed questions to make sure Nola's mother was not being harmed, who were—contrary to all expectation—friendly.
I can't leave her here,
Nola thought.
What would ¡he say, what would she do, what trouble would she get into without me?
But it was safer than taking her to Haymarket. Wasn't it? Where both a murderer and the authorities were?
It was a
terrible
plan. But there was no other choice.
To her mother, she said, "I can
And even if—if—Kirwyn hadn't discovered the bucket and had a different plan to evade being found out, then someone—the town magistrate or representatives from the lord who held this land—would come to investigate the crime. And
they
would find the bucket. That bucket might have been—
might
have been—safe from discovery long enough to go dry if all that was going on in the silversmith's house was a wedding. But it would certainly be chanced upon now chat there had been murder done.
She and her mother would have to leave—now, tonight, immediately—and flee farther and faster than they ever had before.
She became aware that Edris had taken hold of her arm, and she jerked away, thinking that somehow Edris knew, Edris was crying to restrain her, Edris planned to hand her over to the Saint Erim Turi authorities. But Edris didn't try to catch hold of her again. She only said, mildly, "Sometimes it's best to weep and not hold it in." And Nola realized she was responding to the last thing Nola had said, that Nola was trying not to cry over a supposed friend's death.
Modig said, "You try to hold it in, and you try to hold it in. But you can't."
Nola sat down heavily, just barely making it onto the straw-filled mattress on the floor.
Edris—for all her bulk and despite being at least twice Nola's age—crouched down beside her. "I'm so sorry," she said, so sympathetically—over the wrong thing—that Nola found herself crying.
She and her mother would never, she knew,
absolutely never,
be able to outrun the storm that would break out in Haymarket if that bucket was discovered. She said, and this time she meant it, "We must go back." If the bucket hadn't been seen yet, she must make sure it never was.
Her mother said, "None of us thinks you should go."
Edris, misunderstanding, thinking that Nola's mother was including
her
in the sentiment, said, "I don't know." She shook her head, to indicate she didn't know the situation, and in truth she
didn't
know the situation, much more than she could ever guess. Still, she pointed a finger at her father to warn him not to take sides, and she repeated, unwilling to get between mother and daughter, "I don't know."
Annoyed with herself, Nola wiped her eyes. They
had
to go back. Yet how could they—when she knew Kirwyn had already killed once? How could they go back when everyone would blame her mother because they had all heard her say that Innis would die?
That
thought made Nola's mind stop going in the same circle. How had her mother known? Of course. Some abbot had told her, some abbot who had found his way into her mother's head. Well, he hadn't exactly told her. Her mother had overheard him saying the Mass for the Dead. But since when had her mother's voices been real—never mind been able to tell the future?
It was a coincidence, Nola told herself. An awful co-incidence that could get the two of them killed. The
three
of them, she wryly corrected herself, if you counted the abbot.
And surely she would be as mad as her mother if she took her mother back to Haymarket. Ic would cake twice as long co get there, and people would be twice as apt to notice them, and things were twice as likely to go awry.
But Nola had to go there.
And how could she
not
take her mother? What other choice was there—to leave her here?
Nola looked at Edris and Modig, who had come running—well, come as fast as each of them could—when they thought there was some trouble, who had asked pointed questions to make sure Nola's mother was not being harmed, who were—contrary to all expectation—friendly.
I can't leave her here,
Nola thought.
What would ¡he say, what would she do, what trouble would she get into without me?
But it was safer than taking her to Haymarket. Wasn't it? Where both a murderer and the authorities were?
It was a
terrible
plan. But there was no other choice.
To her mother, she said, "I can
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