After Ever

After Ever

The Marrain Chronicles, Book One

Why, Grandmother

Nobody’s Daughter

Somebody’s Children

The Violet Cloak: A Marrain Legend

Anne B. Walsh

Copyright 2018

Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Why, Grandmother

Author’s Note

Nobody’s Daughter

Somebody’s Children

The Violet Cloak: A Marrain Legend

Author’s Note

Also by Anne B. Walsh

About the Author

Dedication

For everyone whose story isn’t quite what they expected.

Me, too!

Foreword

"…and just how complicated is my life about to become?"

When I wrote those words in August 2018, finishing a story I entitled The Violet Cloak: A Marrain Legend, I had no idea how prophetic I was being. I had intended to continue writing and publishing stories in my Marrain universe, playfully twisted and inverted fairy tales, throughout the rest of that year, then pause in November to win National Novel Writing Month and work on my annual holiday collection.

Of those three things, only my NaNoWriMo win happened. My brain thinks it’s funny, and will often let me put out titles and even summaries for upcoming stories before saying, Oh, you don’t really want to write that. Here, have an overwhelming inspiration for something else entirely. Eating? Sleeping? Doing your day job? Totally optional. (All kudos to my awesome roommate who ensures that I do not, in fact, neglect these things!)

As for my holiday writing, at first I thought I wasn’t going to do anything at all. Halfway through November, one of those overwhelming inspirations hit, and three weeks later I was staring at over 55,000 new words of fiction from the Marrain universe. Since I was going to be releasing that story as a free gift to my readers for the holiday season, it seemed like a good time to also put out a unified edition of the currently available Marrain stories.

Just to reiterate: the stories in this collection have already been published. Three of them—Why, Grandmother, Nobody’s Daughter, and The Violet Cloak—are still available for purchase as individual tales at The Store Which Shall Not Be Named (legal issues… just go with it). The fourth, Somebody’s Children, is in my 2017 holiday collection, King of Peace and Glory, which is free to read online. So if you are current on your Anne B. Walsh fiction, there is nothing new here.

If, however, you are coming over from reading my 2018 holiday story, The Promise… well, most of all, welcome! I hope you enjoyed that tale, though you probably did or you wouldn’t be here. Please enjoy these stories as well, and possibly check out my Facebook page. It’s the easiest way to find out what I’m up to (and see photos of boneheaded dogs and bossy cats).

Thanks, as always, for reading, and I’ll see you in whatever decides to let me write it next!

Anne B. Walsh

Why, Grandmother

"Why, Grandmother, said Little Red Riding Hood, what big ears you have!"

"All the better to hear you with, my dear," said the Big Bad Wolf…

A basket filled with three-leaved wood sorrel hanging from her arm and a cautionary rumble of thunder ringing in her ears, Sofia Holtzer took a single step along the wooded path towards the cottage she shared with her husband Geoffrey before pausing. Off to one side, in the center of a patch of greener grass than most, bloomed a tiny patch of wildflowers, three vibrant cones of purple side by side.

Sofia hesitated, her tongue caught between her teeth, then darted off the path and plucked the flowers, burying them deep under the sorrel in her basket so they wouldn’t be immediately visible. She’d always loved rich colors, especially when they showed well against her olive-toned complexion instead of making her look sick. As a girl, she’d dreamed of buying all the madder root the dye merchants would sell her and weaving an entire cloak in her favorite shade of russet, even if it ended up being only long enough to reach her knees.

I’ll tell everyone I’m a rich woman now, and this is my riding cloak, she’d explained to her parents, prancing about the room on her imaginary horse and sending them both into fits of laughter. And if people ask why I’m still walking everywhere, I’ll say it’s for my health!

That dream, like many others, was nothing more than a memory now. Geoffrey had made it clear long since that he wouldn’t stand for his lawfully wedded wife wasting her time or his money on useless pretties. The memory of the day she’d thought to please him by tucking a single blossom into her dark braids could still make her chest clutch tight with mingled shame and fury—

Oh! The exclamation burst from Sofia’s lips as she bumped into something firm, yet yielding. A hand caught her arm, keeping her from falling backwards, and she hastily squeezed her hazel eyes shut and willed away her tears before looking up at her unexpected savior. I beg your pardon, she began. I didn’t mean—

Envy squeezed her throat shut. The older woman with whom she’d collided wore a full-length cloak of the same deep red about which Sofia had once dreamed, lined at its collar with silvery fur.

No harm done, my dear, the woman said briskly, releasing Sofia’s elbow. Not to me, at any rate. You, on the other hand, seem to be in a great hurry. Trying to outrun the rain?

Yes, Grandmother. Sofia ducked her head, grateful for this easy excuse. I was out picking greens, my garden hasn’t fully come in yet, and I didn’t realize how quickly the storm was blowing up. My husband won’t be able to work in this weather, and— She coughed, appalled at what she’d been about to confide to this total stranger. I beg your pardon, she finished haltingly. You’ve no need to hear all this. If you’ll excuse me?

Nothing to excuse, my dear. Though I may ask your help instead, if your house is close by. The woman nodded to the basket on her own arm, filled with several types of greenery. I’ve been gathering the shyer herbs I need for my work, the ones that only grow in the woods, and a thorough soaking would ruin them before I could get them home. Could I take shelter with you until the rain passes?

I… Sofia struggled for an instant, then made up her mind. Even Geoffrey would be hard-pressed to turn this chance meeting into a conspiracy against him, though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Yes, of course. It’s just down the path. Follow me, Grandmother.

Gladly, my dear. The woman tucked the checkered cloth lining her basket more securely around its contents as she kept pace with Sofia. Her short, dark curls were streaked as silver as the collar of her cloak, but she moved with ease and vigor. You must be Sofia Desoto, the baker’s daughter. I remember hearing you’d married one of the local woodcutters not too long before my girls and I moved into town last winter.

Sofia Holtzer now, Grandmother. The name she’d grown so quickly to hate rolled off Sofia’s tongue with false ease. And you?

I rather like ‘Grandmother’ for the time being. The woman laughed, a warm sound, inviting Sofia to share the joke with her. Your husband can hardly blame you for not telling him something you didn’t know yourself. Her eyes, dark and knowing, flicked to Sofia’s face for a fraction of a second. Or can he?

He can. Sofia hadn’t known she was speaking until the words had left her lips. He always does.

I see. The woman pursed her lips but said nothing else, until side by side they hurried into the clearing where stood the little cottage to which Woodsman Holtzer had brought home his bride at the end of last summer. Stone-walled and thatch-roofed, a brick chimney built onto one side and thin-shaved slabs of translucent mica in the windows, it bore the appearance of a solid and comfortable home, where one might relax and enjoy one’s evening after a hard day’s work.

Appearances, as Sofia knew all too well, could be deceiving.

The latchstring of the door hung through its hole, as she’d left it, and a sigh of relief rose to her lips. Geoffrey was likely trying to eke out a few last minutes of work before the rain brought an early end to his day. She pulled the string, lifting the latch, and the door swung open under her hand. Here, Grandmother, she said, glancing up at the sky once more, where another, louder rumble of thunder had just sounded. Please, be welcome.

Thank you, my dear. The woman stepped past Sofia into the cottage, pausing to wipe her feet on the mat outside the door, and Sofia slipped inside and pulled the door shut just in time, as the first drops of rain pattered on the packed dirt of the path. I’d imagine this little shower will be good for your garden, if not for your husband’s mood. Bit of a surly fellow, is he?

Oh, only when he’s awake. Sofia tried for a light and joking tone, but the words fell heavily into the quiet room. Please, Grandmother, sit down. I’ll stir up the fire and light the candles.

Don’t rush on my account, my dear. The woman seated herself at the kitchen table, in what was usually Geoffrey’s chair. Though I must say, whatever you have on the hearth there smells delicious. Clever of you to bank the coals around the pot that way. You’ll have a hot meal ready to share with your husband when he gets home, without the need for you to sit in the house tending to it all day long.

Thank you, Grandmother. Sofia blanched to hear the shakiness of her voice in the three short words, and turned quickly towards the wall, hanging up her own gray cloak to hide her face. One of Geoffrey’s favorite tricks was finding new ways to force tears from her. She prayed he never realized that a few honest words of praise could still turn the trick.

Well, hello there. The pleasure in the other woman’s voice brought Sofia around in a rush, momentarily terrified that Geoffrey had slipped in through the back of the cottage without her hearing him, but the room was still barren of anyone save their two selves and—

Sofia stared. The older woman’s greeting had been addressed to a small bundle of greenery she held in her hand.

I’m so sorry, my dear, she said when she looked up and noticed the expression on Sofia’s face. You must think I’m quite mad, talking to a handful of herbs, but I’d forgotten I plucked this earlier today. She laid down the spade-shaped, faintly fuzzy leaves on the table for Sofia’s examination. Pinkwort, it’s called. And yes, I’m well aware that the leaves are green and the flowers are white, she added with a brief, mischievous grin. It comes by its name from the jagged edges on the leaves. As though they’d been cut out with pinking shears.

I see that. Sofia crossed to the table, picking up one of the leaves and breaking it in half under her nose. Oh, what a lovely scent. It’s a type of mint, isn’t it?

Yes, and one which makes a tasty tea, if I do say so myself. One of my daughters is always brewing a pot of it, to help her stay focused while she works, and we’ve all grown accustomed to helping ourselves to it as we please. The woman got to her feet and glanced about, nodding in satisfaction as she spotted what she’d been looking for. I saw your well outside. Shall I draw us a bucket of water while you wake up your fire, and then we’ll put the kettle on so you can try it out?

Please, Grandmother, don’t trouble yourself, Sofia began, but the older woman held up a hand to halt her.

The only trouble we’ll have here, she said, her voice stern but hints of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, is if you try to deny me my hot drink. You wouldn’t do that to an old woman, now would you?

Of course I wouldn’t do that to an old woman, Sofia retorted as she poked up the fire, surprised by how easily the bantering words rose to her lips. But I don’t see any old woman here. Do you, Grandmother?

Disrespectful young whelp. The woman pretended to bristle in affront, then laughed again and reached into the fur collar of her cloak, unfastening something within it and shaking out an extra fold of red cloth, which came up to cover her head. A clever bit of tailoring, to hide a hood so it’s out of the way but you have it when you need it, she explained when she saw the direction of Sofia’s gaze. My own grandmother worked it out long ago, and we’ve sewn cloaks on this pattern in my family ever since.

It sounds lovely. Sofia piled a small thicket of sticks atop the glowing coals in the hearth and got to her feet, laying a hand against the basket in which she had brought home her sorrel and its hidden prize of flowers. My mother wove the most beautiful baskets you ever saw. She taught me how to do it, of course, but I never could get my weave as tight as hers. You could carry water in them if you had to, and not a drop would fall on the ground.

Not a thing one could say about the world in its present state, the older woman commented, drawing her hood tight about her face as she opened the door, revealing the sheets of rain currently falling outside. Here I go!

Sofia took advantage of her guest’s momentary absence to light a taper at the fire and set the candles about the room burning. With better light to help her, she took down three plates and three mugs from the wall-mounted cupboard, as well as setting out three spoons from the small drawer where the cutlery was kept. Having the table ready for Geoffrey as well as herself and her guest might help calm her husband’s inevitable anger at throwing away my good food on some useless beggar.

Moreover, she had a suspicion about whom, exactly, she was entertaining to supper on this cold and rainy evening. A peddler had wandered into her little clearing a few weeks past, and she’d traded him bread and butter and water from her well in exchange for the news from the towns and villages nearby. In Amaranth town, he’d told her, the baker’s old house and its grounds had been sold over the winter to an herbwoman and her daughters. Unless Sofia was mistaken, the woman she was calling Grandmother was that very herbwoman.

This, if true, would mean that Grandmother had a certain level of protection against Geoffrey’s rages and jealousies. Physicians were expensive, their remedies even more so, but an herbwoman could treat your illnesses and injuries with a few leaves and roots you probably grew in your own garden, or your children found hidden away in the woods. No village was complete without an herbwoman, so Sofia had been delighted to hear that Amaranth had gained a new one at last, even as she felt a little pang, remembering the home which had once been hers.

Of course, there was the recurring murmur that certain herbwomen might also be witches, that their remedies would heal the body only at the price of endangering the soul, but Sofia had never believed such a thing. Aunt Sally, the town’s previous herbwoman, had attended Mass every day, and sang the hymns as loud as any, though always slightly off-key. Her hands, when not bandaging injuries or stirring decoctions, had usually been filled with cloth and thread or needles and yarn, and her door, like the priest’s, was never closed to anyone who was hungry or in need…

Three raps on the door of the cottage snapped Sofia out of her memory trance, and she hurried to let Grandmother back in, the bucket in the older woman’s hand filled to brimming and her cloak shedding rivulets of rain. Goodness, the skies seem furious today, she commented, removing her cloak and hanging it over the back of the chair nearest the fire. Do you have some rags, my dear, so I can sop this water up before it ruins your floor? Or would you rather get them yourself while I fill the kettle?

I’ll get them, Grandmother, I know where they are. Sofia hurried to the shelves which lined the cottage’s back wall, her hand going unerringly to her ragbag. Geoffrey never meddled with such woman’s nonsense, which meant she still had this one place of refuge in which to hide her few remaining treasures. By the time she returned, rags in hand, Grandmother had filled the teakettle and hung it on the hob over the fire, into which she sat gazing with a pensive expression.

I saw your garden while I was outdoors, she said as Sofia mopped up the water from the split-log floor. "You clearly love growing things, and I’d say you have