The Ruins of Lace (7 page)

She placed her hand atop mine.

I grabbed it and pulled it toward my pillow while reaching for her pillow with my other hand. In the doing of it, I was careful not to uncoil myself and sit upright. Not to move my shoulders or my head. I prayed she would be as careful as I.

I sat there for some several seconds, her pillow on my lap, expecting to be punished. But then I heard Sister’s voice start up a chant for the younger children, and I knew we would not be discovered.

Mathild must have known it, too, for she sighed.

I bent over her pillow, nose to her pins, trying to feel where she had stopped. It was a pattern like my own, though not as wide. It seemed as if…
nee
. I turned the pillow around. Began anew. It seemed as if she had stopped in the middle of…a leaf? A petal? Sliding my hand along the length, I felt the pattern contained within its thread. She had stopped in the middle of a petal. And it seemed as if…I fingered the stitches she had completed. And then, I pressed her elbow.

She reached out toward my lap, but her hand did not find the pillow.

Quickly, I pushed her fingers down to her work.

She took her pillow from me as I felt for my own. “You are…” I paused. My voice had come out raspy and raw. I tried once more. “The middle of the petal. Five stitches. Then turn.”

If she thanked me, I did not hear it. But if I could not hear it, then neither could Sister.

On Wednesday I was late to Herry Stuer’s. If I hadn’t known it before, I could tell by the way his pallet reeked of stale piss. I glowered at the girl who looked after him. “You could change it a time or two.”

She flounced away from me toward the door. “And taint my hands with the scent of it?” With a flash of her skirts, she was gone.

Marguerite was her name. And it was only because our blessed Lord had once cared for such as she that I did not speak my mind.

Whore.

With some pushing and pulling, I rolled Herry off to one side and then swept the fouled straw out the door. I left it in just such a place that Marguerite would have to tread upon it when she returned.

“If she’s to have a few coins for the keeping of you, pardon my saying, the least she could do is remember you while you’re yet living.”

He said nothing. He hadn’t, not since that night a month ago when he’d been felled by apoplexy in one of the rooms above the inn. He’d been wrapped in the arms of the young Marie. Old Herry had always been one for the pretty girls. He’d come sniffing around my own skirts a time or two back fifteen years ago or so. And from the sights I’d seen during my care of him, I was sorry I had not been more willing.

I tore away the blanket from Marguerite’s own pallet and took half her straw to make a new one for Herry.

“The least she could do is share some of what’s yours with you.”

I rolled him onto the clean pallet. He blinked.

Kind eyes he had. Kind eyes he’d always had.

I stooped down and pressed a hand to his cheek.

He blinked once more.

“
Ach
, Herry.”

A tear bloomed at the edge of his eye.

I knelt and brushed it away with the hem of my apron. “And what would the guildsmen say if they knew old Herry Stuer was a man for crying?” I shook Marguerite’s blanket. Once. Twice. Let it settle itself down across Herry. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Poor man. When had old Herry ever harmed anyone? What had he done to deserve an end like this?

“You know, that girl did ask for the looking after of you.” Though anyone with any sense could guess she had asked to care for him only after his guild had made known the amount of money they would provide for his care. Old Herry still had his wits about him. I knew it by his eyes. He might not be able to move or talk, but he could see. And hear.

I wasn’t quick enough to catch the next tear before it leaked onto his cheek. It crept down to his neck, leaving a trail in the grime that covered his skin. I rose, and finding no rag, took the edge of Marguerite’s other shift and dipped it into a bucket of water. “Just let me get the look of you.” I scrubbed at the sides of his mouth where drivel had made a crust and then worked beneath his chin where the remnants of a pottage had collected in his whiskers. “You were always one for a neat shave and a clean shirt. ‘There’s nothing like the sight of Herry Stuer on a Guild Day,’ that’s what I used say.” I dipped the shift back into the water and wrung it nearly dry. “I did. And that’s a fact.” It could do no harm to let the man know how much I had fancied him. Even if he had been older. He’d had such a way about him. If only he hadn’t fancied everybody else. Such a fine, good man. “Shall I give you a shave, then?”

I would. I did. There was time enough for it. If Marguerite returned before I was done, it would be a miracle to rival the virgin birth. There was only Father Jacqmotte who awaited me, and with his head in his books this day and his thoughts on the eternal, I doubt he knew I had gone anywhere at all.

Such a fine thing to see Herry’s face revealed. And I have to think it did him some good, as well. I lay a hand to his cheek, just because I could. Who was there to stop me? And who but Herry would ever know of my foolishness? So soft was his cheek. But gaunt. And gaunter by the day. He was not long for this world. But he probably knew it as well as I, so there was no point in dwelling upon it. Death would claim us all soon enough.

I patted his hand and then took it up in my own. Of course, I had to curl his fingers round mine, but there was a nice heft to it as it lay in my palm.

“
Ach
, two fools are what we are. You for lingering. And me for dawdling.” As I said it, I shed a tear for the man with nothing left but his wits, and the woman with nothing left but her work. I sat there beside him, holding his hand, until I heard Marguerite coming toward the door.

The devil himself would have heard Marguerite coming, accompanied as she was by some man or another. All shrieks of mirth and howls of laughter, they were.

I gave Herry his hand back and tucked it underneath the blanket I’d settled atop him. For certain it would stay there for the night.

I opened the door when I heard the straw’s rustle and Marguerite’s curse. “You might have pushed this all to the side!”

Hiding a smile beneath a hand, I did push it aside with the toe of my clog as I brushed past her. “And you might give him a look over in the middle of the night. To see if he wants for anything.”

“And if he did, could he tell me?”

“You’ve only to look at him. He’d tell you. With his eyes.”

She sneered and then shut the door in my face.

One month, the lieutenant said he’d give me. But I still hadn’t found any lace.

Once, though, I had been close. I’d stopped a man as he stepped into the line. There was something about his eyes. Something in the way they shifted back and forth as he looked around. There was only the shack and the lieutenant and myself to look at. It seemed strange to me he should be so interested in the goings-on about him. Especially when everyone else concerned themselves with the tips of their own shoes.

I’d asked him to remove his cloak.

There was nothing hidden inside it.

I’d asked him to remove his coat.

There was nothing in there, either.

I might have stopped right there, but it seemed to me if he had nothing to hide, he would have said so.

I asked to look in his pack. He had a purse in there and a shirt and what looked like a very fine loaf of bread. “Is it any good?”

He looked up at me. “What?”

“Is it good? It looks as if it is.”

“It’s…very nice.”

My father was an excellent baker. Anyone in Signy-sur-vaux would have said so. It wasn’t easy to make a good loaf of bread. That’s why I’d joined the army.

He coughed. “May I go?”

“What?”

“Have you finished?”

Had I? I didn’t think so. “Might I have some?”

“Some…?”

“Some of your bread.”

“My bread.”

Even if there were no lace hidden inside, I had a sudden longing for a good piece of bread. He was no destitute peasant; there were no children staring hungrily at this loaf. I thought—I hoped—he could spare just one bite.

He broke off the heel and handed it to me.

It was very good. Quite good, in fact, though not quite so fine as the bread my father made. I waved the man into the line and stepped back to survey the crowds.

I wondered that day and the next and the one after it whether I ought to have left Signy at all. There were benefits to being a baker.

A hot oven to warm the home. Bread without end for the children.

There had been ten of us at my father’s house. A brood of brothers and sisters. And there had been cousins, as well. My family had flowed along with the river from Signy-sur-vaux out to l’Abbaye and even unto Dommery.

Why had I ever left the place?

I’d had bread in abundance and a fire that had rarely ever gone out…though in the summer, with the fires roaring, I might as well have lived in the pit of hell.

My father had never understood why I could not be content. “You want to be the only Boulanger who makes no bread?” That’s what he’d asked me when I told him I was leaving for the army.

And that’s when I’d had to tell him the truth. “It’s not what I want to do,” I’d said. I didn’t mind the fires in the winter. Or the fall or the spring. I liked the smell of bread rising. I didn’t even mind kneading it. I just didn’t want to become known as the man who made bread.

He’d thrown up his flour-drenched hands, loosing a fine, dusty cloud that settled upon his shoulders as he spoke. “What does that have to do with anything? You’re a Boulanger! And
boulangers
make bread.”

It had everything to do with it in my opinion. That’s why I’d joined the army. Once he’d gotten used to the idea, my father had claimed it as his own. And when I was posted to the border, he’d told everyone in town I would soon make my fortune catching smugglers.

And I might have. Had I caught any of them.

So how was I supposed to write him and tell him I’d failed? Again. At something that was supposed to be so simple to do? I couldn’t decide which would be worse: working for the lieutenant who expected so very much, or working for my father who was content with so very little.

Hunger had gnawed a hole right through my belly and come out on the other side. I knew it, because I did not hunger anymore. Neither did I sleep. Neither did I hear.

I did nothing.

I was nothing.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the box.

I woke, though I had not been sleeping. I woke to the scent of something sweet. Something clean. I was out of the box, and the bad master was in front of me. I could see his feet.

“Drink.”

In front of his feet was a bowl.

“Drink, Chiant!”

I wanted to drink from it, but I couldn’t get my head to move.

He reached out, grabbed one of my ears, and jerked on it to lift my head. Then he slid the bowl beneath my chin with his foot and let go my ear.

My head fell into the bowl.

“Drink!”

I wished I could drink. I opened my mouth enough to let my tongue fall out. The liquid was sweet, but I could manage only one lick.

“Do I have to feed you myself?”

He grabbed my head, hooked a finger between my jaws, and forced them open. Then he took up the bowl and poured it down my throat.

I could not swallow fast enough, and most of it ran down my muzzle to my paws.

“
Emmerdeur!
”

Kicking the bowl away, he shoved me back into the box and sealed it up. I licked my paws where the liquid had spilled, and I did not stop until I had consumed it all. After a while, I began to hear the birds again. And the squirrels. And soon, I felt my strength returning.

With the bowl had come a memory. The sweetness of the liquid had served as a reminder. I remembered everything now. That bowl would be followed by another. And another. And finally, I would be freed.

I turned onto my side, rolled into myself, and at long last, I slept. I dreamt the memory of a hushed whisper and a hand that stroked my fur. Moncherargent.

Moncher, Moncher, Moncher.

•••

When I woke, it was to the sound of footsteps approaching my box.

I curled into a ball and hid my nose beneath my paws.

A nail pulled through wood, and then a wall came off my box.

I blinked at the sudden invasion of light. Slunk back into a shadow.

Something struck the top of the box.

I flung myself against the back wall.

“Come out!” The box shuddered.

I curled back up into a ball.

“Chiant! I give you something to drink. That’s all. See? Here.”

I heard the sound of something sliding along the ground and lifted my face so I could see. It was a bowl. I raised my nose and took a sniff.

It was a bowl of something sweet.

I raised an ear.

Listened.

“Are you coming out?”

I let my ear drop, pressing it tight against my head.

The bad master’s face appeared in front of the bowl. “Drink, damn you!”

He shoved the bowl toward me with his foot.

The smell of it flooded my nostrils and brought hunger creeping back into my belly. I put forward one foot, stepping out from the shadow.

“
Oui.
That’s it. Drink.” His face disappeared.

I waited a moment to make sure it would not return. Then I stepped forward. Raised my nose. Sniffed.

The bad master was nearby. I could smell the sour scent of him. I took another sniff. He was not too near. Perhaps if I drank quickly…I put my head into the bowl and lapped it up as fast as I could. But I was too slow.

The wall hit me on the snout as it came down.

And as I pulled back away from the bowl, as I retreated into the box to the safety of darkness, the wall was pounded back into place. The next time he came, I would be ready. The next time, I would not cower in the box. I would not creep out to drink. The next time he came, I would jump right over the bowl, take to the forest, and run straight to my other master. That is what I would do.

I would do everything right this time.

And I would never be sent away again.

•••

I woke to the sound of a door opening. I raised an ear.

It was the door to the house.

I crouched. Tensed.

The wall came off my box, and a bowl was placed in front of me.

Ignoring it, I made ready my escape.

But then…

My nose picked up the scent of the liquid…so sweet. I could not keep hunger from rallying inside me.

No. All I had to do was run. I would run and run and run and not stop until I came to the good master’s house. And he would feed me all I wanted and just a little bit more.

I looked out beyond the bowl to the forest. It waited for me.

The wind blew a breeze into my box, and it brought with it the scent of the bowl. It smelled so good.

Perhaps…just a little sip. Just one.

I crept forward, looking at the bowl.

Just one sip. What could it hurt?

I put my head out of the box. I looked around, but I could not see the master. I could smell him, I could hear him breathing, but I could not see him.

Just one sip.

One quick sip, and then I would run. I would run so fast he would not catch me.

I lowered my snout to the bowl and thrust out my tongue for a quick sip. It tasted so good. And as it went down my throat, it warmed everything inside. Just one sip more. What harm could it do?

I stuck my snout down deeper into the bowl…let my tongue linger in the liquid.

What was I doing!

Quickly, I lapped up another sip. And then another. And one sip more.

The wall caught my paw as it came crashing down.

I drew it out from underneath the wood with a yelp. By the time I had finished licking it, finished tending to it, I was trapped.

Again.

•••

I slept. But I did not dream of cream. I dreamed a memory, one of whips and muzzles.

In my dreams, the bad master carried me into his house.

I hated being in his house. It smelled stale and sour. But being in his house meant the time was near. It meant my wounds would be treated, and my belly would be given food.

All I had to do before being freed was endure one thing more.

In my dream, I whined at the memory of that one thing.

The bad master laid me on a pile of straw, but he kept hold of my feet, wrapping a cord about them and pulling it tight. Then he took a pair of shears and started to work on my fur. Beneath the bite of the blades, it fell from my skin in clumps.

After he finished clipping me, he drew a pot of water from the fire and dipped a piece of cloth into it. Then he rubbed it over what was left of my fur.

Even in my dream, I was thirsty. I leaned my head over and tried to lick up the water.

He cuffed me on the nose.

“It’s for cleaning, not for drinking. You will have enough to drink, more than enough, when you get to my cousin’s.” The master finished cleaning me, and then he took up a razor. Like always, it got caught on my skin.

I yelped, turning to try to lick at it.

“
Connard!
Stop moving!” He tried once more.

Again the razor bit into me.

“
Chiard!
You’re bleeding all over!”

He dropped the razor and stalked to a cupboard. Came back with a bottle, which he raised to his lips.

I was still thirsty. I licked my nose. I wished he would let me have a drink from his bottle.

“Perhaps I should give you some too, Chiant. To send you faster through the forest?” He laughed. “
Non.
This drink is too good for you.” He took another sip and then set the bottle down. When he picked up the razor, it went better that time.

“Here, Chiant.” He tossed a blanket over me. I curled into myself beneath it, trying to hide from what I knew was coming.

He used it to dry my skin, turning me this way and that beneath it. After he uncovered me, he unwound the cord that bound my feet and set me on a table. And then he placed a piece of fabric across my back.

“Silk. How do you like that? Nothing but the best for the best. That’s what we’re paid for.”

I liked this part of the dream. The fabric was soft against my bare skin, and it kept me warm.

“So. What do you think of that?” He held out a long length of a white web. I could see the fire’s light through it.

I stood, completely still, as he wound it around my body. To move even one muscle would mean…I whined at the thought of what he would do to me as a nightmare began to nibble at the edges of my dream.

“Don’t even think about it, Chiant!”

Around and around and around the web went. And then another piece of fabric was placed atop it. The next part was the worst. I cowered as I saw him pick up the hide.

“Come, Chiant. Don’t you wish to see your brother?”

I wanted to back away from him, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

The first time he’d done this to me, I had squatted on the table with the web wound around my body, and I had pissed into it just for spite.

He had pulled out the nails from one of my back paws. Only the thought of fires and laps and cream had pushed me through the forest that night to the good master’s house.

I heard myself whine, but though I tried to rouse myself from the dream, I couldn’t.

This part was the worst. It brought back memories of a time when my brother and I wrestled in front of the fire at the good master’s house. Memories of a time when we slept entwined, his head resting on my belly.
Legrand
he was called. He was bigger than me. But somehow, whenever we played, he always ended up on the bottom.

He always let me win…until
that
day.

Until the day when the bad master came and took him into the good master’s barn.

I followed, because I did not know then how my life was to be. I did not have any knowledge of switches or boxes, of hunger or thirst. I only knew sleep was for dreams and life was for play. I followed to see what new game there might be.

But I followed too late.

By the time I reached the barn, the bad master had already plunged the knife into Legrand’s throat. His blood had already spilled out upon the ground, and his tongue hung, motionless, from his mouth.

The smell, that odor of un-life, had filled my nose and stilled my legs. I could not breathe. I could not move. I could do nothing but watch.

I watched as the bad master shoved a hook through Legrand’s leg and hung him from the ceiling. I watched as all Legrand’s blood drained out into a pail. I watched as the bad master took a knife and began to separate Legrand’s skin from his body. I heard the tear of skin from flesh, the rasping of knife against bone. And I watched him peel the fur back from my brother’s body in one big piece.

And then he turned, and he came at me, just like he was doing now. “And now, Chiant, it is you who are Legrand.” He said those words that day just the same way he said them in my dream.

I cowered at the horror of it, but I dared not move. If only I could close up my nose. If only the scent of Legrand’s hide were not mixed with the odor of death.

The master came at me from behind.

Even in my dream I closed my eyes, for I did not wish to see what I could not help but feel.

He lifted first one back leg, then the other, threading them through Legrand’s hide and pulling it up over my back the way I’d seen the good master pull on his clothes. He pulled Legrand all the way up to my neck.

I shrunk from the feel of him. From the scent of him.

Coming forward, he lifted my front foot, tugging it through the place where Legrand’s front leg used to go. Then he did the same with the other.

I was bound up with, I was shrouded in, Legrand. The weight of him, the feel of him set me to shivering. The memory of him made me whine.

“Hello, Legrand. It has been a long time since we see you! Ey—no crying, Chiant. He was such a good brother to grow so big for you. Such a good brother to let you borrow his coat.” He put his hands around my padded body, picked me up, and set me on the ground.

I woke with a bark. And then I sat there in the dark of the box, and I shivered.