A hedgehog trundled away from her tread, out foraging early amongst the cool long grasses about the vegetable beds. The trees were in the main not full-leafed enough to whisper but muffled winter's croaks with budding foliage and what they had, as though the old year's corpse were not the springing-point for the green. She approached the cottage, calling.

Perhaps she was too quiet, or the inhabitants too engrossed in their tasks: Maggie was cautiously ducking into the kitchen and re-knocking the door as she went before Widow Sexton looked over, gathering up fallen bundles of herbs knocked from the rafters, and called into the other room. "Mercy, Maggie's here!"

"Unless she's got a baby in the last two hours, you get tea for her and tell her wait, if I move fast I'll get shards o' china in my 'ands. Sod's law that is," came the reply from the parlour.

The Widow tried to keep her straightest face at that tone, which soon became a genuine welcoming smile, even if the kitchen did look like a couple of bullocks had been through it. "Maggie! Real tea or herbal tea?"

She nodded at some sweepings sat in a strawwork sieve on the displaced table. "We've got just about anything, and some idiot mix besides."

"Herb, please, Miz Sexton," says Maggie with an answering smile, draping her shawl on a peg by the door, "And what can I do t'help here?"

Maggie got her choice of lemon, orange, spearmint, peppermint, lemonbalm, thyme, ginger, rosesugar, hawthorn, burdock, dandelion flower, lavender and chalmomile, which the Widow Sexton set up for brewing whilst Goodie Westcott disposed of the china sherds she had and set one of her remaining fancy plates on the table. Maggie was set to retrieve the broom stuck in the rafters over Mercy's bed upstairs, since it had clearly got wedged up there by some enthusiastic poking for secrets by someone standing on the bed itself (presumably they thought Goodie Westcott could hide things there by levitation).

The broom came down easily with Maggie's reach and strength, and when she returned to the kitchen a miraculously unstolen acorn scone with herbed apple-butter was laid out ready for her by a steaming mug. Goodie Westcott waved away Maggie's thought of shifting the table back where it ought to be and lowered herself heavily into a chair that should itself be somewhere else, taking spearmint tea with a lavender pinch for her own part.

"So, what tale do y'bring me, then?" she asked, sipping.

Maggie sips her orange and ginger tea and looks a bit abashed. She nibbles the scone while she gathers her thoughts.

"Forgive me, Goodie Sexton, and no offense intended," she begins, a flush creeping up her throat, "But my tale involves two other people and I must share it with Mercy alone." She gives a nearly simpering smile to try to soften her words even more.

[[GM edit: terms of address - the Widow Sexton was very much married. 'Goodwife' carries what I believe to be the intended level of respect for the head of a household.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:47, Thu 26 May 2022.

The scone was warm, tasting of autumnal nuts and fruit. The widow could not help but wince a little at the amount of trouble that seemed impending there between a blush from Maggie and seeing a midwife and diviner about a private matter, her voice dropping to a concerned maternal tone: "All right, but if either lad needs a talking-to in the village, I'll deal with him or his mother as needs be."

She rose, taking her scone from warming by the range. "Y'don't need to put up with every kind of foolishness - there's good times can be had without drink or man that aren't the worse for the lack, I swear it. Mercy, may I...?"

"Take the poker, Tempe, and I'll be doin' with sticks," Goodie Westcott assured her. "Go with God," she added in the old-fashioned manner, hardly thinking about it. The Widow Sexton nodded and set out armed and provisioned to make her way home.

"I thank ye, Miz Temperance, for your kindness," Maggie calls after her amid furious blushes at the state of her reputation in Scorch Norton. Ah, well.

Then she tells Kate's story of Nathan Fox's visit, omitting no detail, and her own fears of what it means and portends and the danger posed to her sister.

"Hmm," said Mercy, leaning back in her chair. "I'd say Kate has the right of it if she feels she's conceived, but what part the Wood had in that I'm not for sure. At that, I'd agree that it's not any child specifically the Wood wants, either: rather that what She does, her particuler power, it's of a kind that's in flesh and the makin' of flesh. Same's causes seed to take, in the ground or in the womb, or otherwise to rot if it's witholden, that's my thought."

"Something happens if she gets a life with power that runs along with hers, and not that bit acrosswise, as it might be with a maiden or the father of a thing. What, I don't know, but if heathens would carry on sacrifices but keep that back, I can't think as it'd be anything good for us such as lives on the land hereabouts." She tapped her fingers against the side of her cup, thinking.

"You're right about which is our Fox, though, I should think. Herself up there can't...make souls, though she can keep 'em, and hand out shapes. 'New' sounds right. Even if someone'd been conscious, somehow, all the while She'd had them kept, I imagine as it would be a shock to be in a body again, like a living thing." She shuddered, once.

"Well. I suppose the question is, do we tell anyone else...is Kate well, in her own feeling? Not desperate to meet him again or feart sick or any such?"

"I think..." says Maggie, then hesitates, gazing into her cup, "I think she felt gently used by this Fox thing. Jack is a hard man, though he does not mistreat Kate, I don't mean that at all, really, but there’s little gentleness to him. T’be spoken to an’… and touched with gentleness…I think Kate found that … Well, I think that was agreeable to her and a memory she will keep deep in her heart to… to treasure.

“Even before I told her of my suspicions, she knew a memory it had to stay, that no good could come of it. Now I believe, I hope, I’m sure she will be on her guard.”

She looks up, searching the wise woman’s face for an answer. "But what is there for us t’do about this false Fox? Do we tell Nathan Fox an’ his people so as they c'n be on their guard?

“And, Mercy, why is She stirrin’ now? What’s changed in the Wood or in Scorch Norton or in the World? Or in us?”

"That Kate has all the sense God gave your mother, Lord rest 'er, and most He never gave your father, to boot." Mercy set her cup down thoughtfully. "Aye, and soft and patient usage will help a woman achieve and her womb to take, so we can hope there's nothing owed to Herself up there."

"What worries me is that Herself can't be making souls, so if this wood-thing has wants of its own, and speaks, She's gone an' put some captive in that body...it's not Polly, for I imagine the least trace of her would have other concerns to be going on with, and I'm not for sure the guardians didn't catch her soul to save it, so as She's only got the life. It's not your father, for whatever some folks say I'd have known long before if he were that sort of man, by trade if not by instinct. If it's that old Mr. Fox, I can't but wonder 'ow long it'll be before his nature reasserts itself through the thing and starts treating the whole county like a chickenhouse." She drummed her fingers on the table.

"What should we tell that household, an' all...'bar the door against your master in case he's not him' will hardly pass, an' we don't know that the thing, such as it can look like one man it's not, might not look like another. A relative might be easiest, if it's Fox, but those as the Wood's seen up close, maybe even shed a hair or drop of blood in Her domain...I wouldn't be so sure it couldn't copy them, given time to practice, but the village'll likely be for shutting them up in their houses if we could make them believe that, and our own vicar amongst their number."

"I think...I think betwixt us - an' I'll get Tempe to help, without mention of quite how you got to be for certain, no fear to poor Kate - ay, I think we ought get those who ventured in the Wyzenwood together as best we might. Then try a fair parley with them. After church might be simplest: though it gives the thing the night, most of the village is set to go about in pairs, or at any rate the women. With no sword nor pistol that we know of, enticing or dragging, the thing would have a harder time making off with two than one."

Mercy was quiet for a while at the last plaintive question, taking up her cup again to swirl the dregs like they might answer. "Someone killed Polly Durbin," she said at length, "-because he was too afraid to even wait and see if she carried his child to term."

"Do ye have any suspicion about who it was killed Polly? Was it a Scorch Norton man?

"So it is some fetch that Kate saw? Not Nathan Fox at all?" Maggie is awestruck that she might have been right about it. "Could th' Fox people put up some sort o' protection then t'keep it out? Like a horseshoe over all th' doors? Or somethin' like?"

Margaret Yendale rolled 2 for Know 55%.

The midwife frowned, shaking her head. "Nothing as would make more sense than it being Tom Bees, only he spent so long trying to woo her, makes little sense that he'd kill her once her family would finally have to accept him for her choice or else send her away - she implied the child was his and said he'd surely marry her, only Long Tom looked surprised when I tried to ask on it. Then he threatened to get me and/or Hester Collins branked and set away for hysterics, as it were, so I let him know as it'd be the worse for him if he tried."

"There's temper to him, for sure, and he went in the Wood and the bargain that seemed to be hangin' loose afore, with Herself just trying to send us animals, offering-like, that changed after. You could say the same of Samuel Hartman or Master Fox, though, save that the two could vouch for each other the night it happened, or so I've heard, the young squire fallen drunk asleep with the Criddle hands." Goodie Westcott gave a tense sigh of frustration.

"I don't know, though. There's stupid boys who're rank murderers and there's stupid boys who're just stupid boys, is how it is. Have ye any notion yourself?"

She thought about protections. "Seal it out once, perhaps, but that's assumin' it isn't in, an' belike if I did rig up something with as best I know about the Wood - for She's not quite of the Good Folk, else they'd not shun the place - they'd just go an' invite it in again. I could catch it in a trap, if we but knew where it was and could lead it in..."

"Not Tom. No," Maggie says slowly, "He c'ld jus' marry her an' would, I think. But I don't see it being any Scorch Norton manoy. And Master Fox, well, he c'ld snap his fingers at th' village an' at th' Durbins."

"A trap? Aye," her poacher's mind likes this idea, "But how bait it? Wouldn't do t'put any o' th' girls an' women in danger. I'd do it though. Y'know I'd stand with ye against Hell itself, Mercy."Her gaze wanders around the cottage that's still not entirely put to rights.

"Who did this here, Mercy? An' was it just mischief or a threat of worse? Will ye be safe alone here tonight? I promised Kate I'd come home tonight, but I know she'dll understand if you need me." Her face shows that she's not sure of Kate's understanding but wants to protect the wise woman, if needed.

"He could, at that, an' it'd scarce be an effort for him to bed about any girl in the village," Goodie Westcott agreed, swift enough that Maggie could tell it wasn't a new thought. "Only thing is, there weren't two of him 'til this afternoon."

"Being asleep with the Criddle hands don't mean he mightn't wake up, for sure, but for all his crest is 'Be Bold', it's carrying things a bit far to think he could surely get out and go back again, and not one wake at the going or to miss him in the rest of the night, and say so."

Mercy smiled at Maggie's solidarity. "I'd hope as we'd not have to go as far as that," she said. "The thing'd just have to believe ye weren't onto it, and be led to a point between knots of power...probably somewhere on the Fox estate, though that carries a risk of bein' seen. I'll try to set it up on the morrow."

"Hmph. Overgrown boys looking for spells, belike, or bits of poor Polly," she said, surveying the mess likewise. She smirked at the offer. "Ah, no. They don't dare come back whilst I might cast curses - if they did, I've a sight more powerful casting for 'em."

She got up and headed to the range, picking out a skillet from its hook. "Cast iron. Don't you fear for me any. Man or Wood-thing, they won't get past that."

Maggie pops the last bit of scone into her mouth, smiling at her friend as she chews.

"Aye, 'spect you'll be alright then. I'll get home and give Kate a hand. Unless something stirs, I hope t'stay home t'night. Bide ye well, Mercy Westcott."

On the way out, she stops and gives Tempe a proper hug and bids her a good night. Then, Maggie is away and across the fields to Yendale farm.

Temperence Sexton was indeed sitting up on the gatepost like an unweildy bird and as such surprised by Maggie swooping up to hug her: she tensed, briefly, then laughed and let the poker go, returning a hug that might not have been Maggie's mother's, but at least was someone's, and truly meant.

"You look after yourself, spring bean," she told her, holding on a moment more, then let the big young woman loose to push through the gate and run.

Clean air, turned earth and new growth replaced the richer manure-and-flower scent of gardens: the smell of these long-known fields in spring. The first part of the gradient made little impression on Maggie's powerful stride, though at length the steepness brought her to labouring and at last to a flushed skirt-swinging walk, feeling the weight of the day. Still, the sun was just low enough to catch in the hedges and the longer blades of sprouting barley, turning each edge to a stained-glass wonder, and it was good to be higher than the village, even with the Wood looming at her side.

A hare shot past her, maybe an animal, maybe a young woman running and still running while she should be dead two thousand years before. The brown shape went up like an arrow and curved away some way before the farm wall, vanishing around the hill. It was cooler up here, touched by the wandering winds and the Wood's shadow, and the warm giddiness of a lot of ale and male attention seemed extremely remote.

---

She came in to a quiet house, her child still asleep in the cradle and Jack seemingly doing no more than watching it a moment, a half-made twine of nettle strands looped around his hand and lolled loose against his thigh. The farmer tensed at the appearance of Maggie's big shadow.

"Coughed," he explained himself, and directed his sister-in-law to the byre since the cows were in and Kate attending to them. Assured that he meant Jamie no harm, at least, Maggie wandered out to play with the kept calf and sing to the cows whilst Kate milked. It was unclear if this made for better or worse milk than cows unsung-to, but the beasts at least seemed entertained and if there had been any tension between sisters it eased away like the grey from the sky as the day waned towards night.

Maggie had not expected to sleep soundly, what with Wood-things abroad, wildness put by and Yendale's often-stretched sense of peace, but between the day's trials and a soft scatter of rain in the night she was conscious of very little waking once abed. There were only familiar scents, and quiet murmurs in the night, then the soft and rising wash of sleep.

What a lovely sequence. Thanks.

Maggie gives a quiet thanks to Jack for tending to her babe. She goes out to the Byrne and, between snatches of song, relates to Kate what Mercy thinks of Fox’s visit and what it might suggest. Sleep overtakes her quickly. She awakes a bit past dawn to birds twittering on the ridge pole overhead.

Hearing Kate rustling at the hearth, she turns out to help her sister, washing her face and hands and breaking her fast on porridge and milk.

She finger combs her hair and bids Kate to be careful of any wandering 'strays'. Then, she wraps her shawl about her and sets off for the village to learn the news of the inn.

As she strides along the lane toward the green, Robin comes along the other way. They pause near Mercy Westcott's copse for Robin to give his news. He tells her that he and the other lads around  weren't up to anything with Jim Stone, but that Jim did have Polly's coveted silver fish Not sure since when, but they were friends, Polly and Jim, and he wouldn't hurt her for it.

"Polly's fish that she's that proud of and lords it over everyone else? She gave it to Jim Stone?" Maggie asks incredulously, "Alright get along with ye. Your master'll be wanting you."

After Robin has taken himself off, Maggie ponders for a bit. Then she swings off to Mercy's cottage to give her this new bit of news.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:20, Sun 26 June 2022.

Merrily bustling in at the back door as was her wont, Maggie was at first somewhat alarmed to find Goodie Westcott sat slumped over the table in her shift, her still-thick plait of hair coiled beside her like a companion beast. Hastening over to her caused a small warning scrape of iron from the pan at her left hand before she lifted a sleep-hazed face to Maggie's.

"Oh, mornen, is it?" she said vaguely, blinking at the apparatus on the table. Maggie did not recognise the purpose of the glass- and earthenware jars, string, nails, and sharp-smelling stuffs exactly, but she did know a trap new-oiled and ready for assembly when she saw one.

Maggie shares Robins tale of Polly's fish and Jim Stone.

"I don't reckon Polly givin' her jewel t'anybody, least of all some boy. It worries me, Mercy.

"What's this yer fashioning?"

Seeing that Maggie was disinclined to wait until she was in what might be called a fit state for visitors, Goodie Westcott dipped a jug to the water pail and filled the kettle, setting it boiling whilst Maggie talked. "Mph. Don't like it either. The lad will go for someone an' you get him angry enough, sure, and he'll hold a grudge, but it makes too much of a normal kind of sense for him, to go'n lure her out to the Wood in the middle of the night."

"Could be she felt it owed - what would be so great a deed ye'd give up a best treasure for't?" The midwife put her hands far back on her hips and arced her spine until everything crunched that was going to, then rubbed her face.

"Trap," she explained of the mess on the table, giving it a dubious glance. "It's about ready to go out, once I've made sure that whatever I was thinking at three in the morning was the kind of sense that holds in daylight. What kind of tea'll you have, an' blood pudden or sausage?"

Having no idea what such as Jim Stone could provide Polly such that she would part with any valuable possession (the girl was not open-handed), Maggie declines to speculate. This is especially so with something like a trap to catch her mind.

"Trap, eh? How's it work?"

"Hmph. Think of it...as a deadfall more than a snare, though it might not kill the thing, dependin'," Goodie Westcott said, taking Maggie's preferences for second breakfast when they were given and setting to preparation.

"Herself up there isn't an iron thing - like the Good Neighbours, She's older than iron, probably can't interact with it directly. So I've made a working on the string that makes it as near like Herself by what we know as I reckon will come attuned if one of her things passes it. String comes and wraps about these nodes of iron jarred up with rue and sealed with crossed rowan and- other things, so as soon as the string means Her power, that power can't pass so easy."

She gestured vaguely at the jars. "I'll have to bury 'em to be certain they'll not explode an' make it secret, but get a thing of Hers in a circle of these, it'll be of a sudden cut off from Her. Completely or mostly I don't know, but if it don't kill the thing it'll weaken it. Finden it to lure it in there will be the hard part."

Maggie nods, concentrating on Mercy's explanation. "May be I need t'cast m'self some iron shot, aye? An' keep a good iron blade near me."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:47, Sun 17 July 2022.

"...the knife, ay, that might help a little. I'd not say shot, since if y'didn't get it clean, whatever ye shot at, there's a thing driven mad with the burning inside, and that powerful besides. A hare that does nothing but watch or a calm thing mimicking a man is one kind of problem, a monster as can maybe put teeth where it likes an' gone raging like a rabid dog, that's another."

She slid Maggie's tea across to her, the tiny seeping basket set in the top. "You tend the pan and I'll get dressed," she said.

Maggie watches the pan with part of her mind while another is busy with Mercy's words. She decides that she'll cast some ieon shot all the same.

After a bit, she pulls the pan from the heat, calling out, "All done in here, Mercy."

Goodie Westcott eventually reappeared, setting up her hair. The cottage smelled of warm meat fat now, atop the usual scent of herbs and vinegar. Mercy found them what was left of yesterday's bread to make the most of the grease that came with the heavy breakfasting.

"Thank ye - we'll need some strength to get us through the sermon, not even minden what comes after. It's some day we've got ahead."