Suzanne McLeod - The Bitter Seed of Magic

A hand touched my face—

And the memory rushed into me.

‘ Here’s your little man, dear,’ Witch Harrier smiled. ‘All bathed and ready for his new mummy.’

Behind Witch Harrier came Dr Craig, his bald patch shining pale as a fish’s belly in the overhead lights, and his messy brown curls crowding his jug-handled ears.

She squirmed lower in the bed, the memory of Old Big Ears doing it to her as disgusting as ever—but for once she was tired and desperate enough that she almost didn’t care that he was here, didn’t care that his face held that same suspicious expression it had ever since she’d told him she was expecting after that one time. She’d put up with him if it meant keeping her baby. Nothing was going to stop her keeping her baby.

She took him carefully, nerves and excitement making her tremble. What if she dropped him, or held him too tight? Then as he settled in her arms, her nerves turned to happy eagerness. She gently pushed back the blanket and traced his little scrunched-up face, still flushed from the birth. Her heart stuttered with awe. He was beautiful, perfect, incredible. His nose was hers, and his chin looked like his father’s, and his ears were neat and flat to his head—not like Old Big Ears’ monstrosities—and his eyes were screwed tight shut … but she knew they’d be blue.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in his soft baby scent with a deep-felt joy. He wriggled, and she loosened the blanket some more, tucking her finger inside his tiny hand as he waved it. The baby’s own fingers tightened, clutching at her with a strength that surprised her, his little mouth puckering up with a quiet whimper.

‘He needs feeding, dear,’ Witch Harrier told her encouragingly. ‘Just point him in the right direction and you’ll be fine.’ She sent an indulgent smile Old Big Ears’ way. ‘I was with my two boys.’

She glanced from one to the other in embarrassment. It didn’t matter that they’d both watched avidly as she’d given birth, or that Old Big Ears had done it to her. She didn’t want them watching now. She rocked the baby, too fearful to ask them to leave, but hoping they’d get the hint and go anyway.

But deep down, she knew they wouldn’t. Witch Harrier wasn’t going to be denied any moment of her new ‘grandson’, and Old Big Ears was the school doctor. All the girls in her class knew what he was like, they’d all commiserated with her when he’d bought her Bride-Price, and gossiped with relief behind her back. Of course, she’d always known someone would buy it; she was a ninth-generation witch, the most powerful in her year. She hadn’t worried about it much, not after her mother had told her what to do so they wouldn’t have to give the money back if she didn’t get pregnant within the year, like a lot of the girls had to; wizards were more infertile than witches a lot of the time. But why did it have to be Old Big Ears, that disgusting pervert? When she’d found out, she’d decided to put her mother’s alternative into action straight away. She hadn’t wanted Old Big Ears doing it to her more than was necessary. He was even worse than the other girls knew, too; he’d spent the last week ‘instructing’ her with hands-on demos; pinching and squeezing, until she’d wanted to cry. She hadn’t, though, but now she hunched her shoulders at the memory. With that and the awful sickly-sweet fenugreek tea Witch Harrier had made her drink to bring her milk on, her breasts were like two aching, swollen boulders sitting on her chest.

The baby whimpered again, more demanding.

She shushed him.

‘Did you want some help, dear?’ Witch Harrier leaned forward, her face solicitous. ‘Breastfeeding is so important, not just for his health, but it will make the magic come much more easily to him.’

She knew that, she’d been told it often enough: wizards weren’t just born, they were breastfed.

‘Maybe, I should help you this first time, Helen?’ Old Big Ears said with a lascivious look.

She shook her head, then quickly tugged at the bow on her nightdress, trying not to let them see. Witch Harrier was right, the baby knew what to do; he latched on straight away, no hesitating. She flinched at the slight sting, then the small pain and the soreness and aching dissolved in relief, her worries disappeared and love flooded out of her into her son. She didn’t care about the audience any more, this was just perfect. He was her baby. Her wonderful beautiful baby son.

Tired and exhausted, she fell asleep holding him.

Soft singing jerked her awake, and, panicked, she looked at the baby. He was cuddled safely in her arms. He’d fallen asleep as he’d fed, and his little mouth hung open. Now she could see his tiny, sharp fangs, not just feel them: the minuscule specks of white glistened against the soft pink of his baby gums. And two tiny beads of blood trembled on her still leaking nipple. Heart fluttering fast and anxious, she surreptitiously tried to wipe them away as she covered herself with the thin white nightdress.

‘Dear?’ Witch Harrier’s disapproving voice made her look up.

Her heart stopped.

They were all there.

Witch Harrier, Old Big Ears, the kelpie … and next to him was a young girl, hardly any older than herself.

The girl was the one singing, a soft sad lullaby, swaying from side to side as she twirled her long silver-gilt hair around her finger— Beside her stood the Irish wolfhound.

‘No,’ she screamed, clutching at her son and staring at the dog in abject horror. ‘You said I could keep him! You promised !’

‘It’s for the best, dear,’ Witch Harrier said, her face hard.

The sidhe girl stopped singing and danced over to her. She leaned down and kissed the baby’s head, then looked at her with the wide, guileless gaze of a young child.

The pendant was hanging round her neck.

‘Don’t be sad, pretty girl,’ the sidhe whispered, and took her son from her arms.

‘Did you have to drop her?’ Helen Crane’s familiar patrician voice, along with the reek of ammonia, pulled me out of the despair of her memory. ‘She was already injured, and now you’ve made it worse. She really needs to have most of her faculties about her for this, otherwise it won’t work. It’s important; we won’t get another chance.’

Looked like I’d found Helen, or rather, she’d found me. And she wanted something, which really wasn’t headline news. I pushed her desperately sad memory to the back of my mind and played dead as I tried to assess my injuries through the pain radiating out from my shoulder, down my arm and across my back. The verdict came back: not good. I was pretty sure my collarbone and shoulder blade were broken, and quite possibly my humerus too. My left arm was useless. On a lesser scale of discomfort, the flagged stone floor I was lying on was cold and hard, and the temperature was near-freezing. The icy chill made the police-issue gem- and spell-studded silver cuffs shackled around my wrists and ankles burn like super-heated brands.

‘I know it’s important, my lady,’ an apologetic male voice said. ‘I tried my best, but we were attacked and I almost lost her. I ask your forgiveness, my lady.’

I peered out from under my lashes. Jack the raven in his blond, indigo-eyed sidhe guise was crouching by my hip. He was wearing jeans, topped with a thick purple jumper, so his ability to get himself changed from feathers into clothes had either improved, or I’d been lying unconscious for some time. He was looking worriedly at Helen, kneeling next to him.