Chapter 4: Chamomile

The east wing smelled of cold stone and old wax.

The key was heavy and the lock was stiff, and nobody had opened it in a long time.

Inside were three rooms with the furniture still covered in sheets.

A woman's shawl hung on a hook by the window, grey with dust.

A man's boots stood under the bed, and the leather had gone stiff.

I knew whose rooms they were before I let myself think it.

I did not sleep in the big bed.

I lit one candle, pulled a chair to the window and sat with my aching hand in my lap.

Ivar had given me his parents' rooms and had not said a word about it.

I did not know what to do with that.

Someone knocked.

It was not Ivar's knock, and it was not Bram's.

It was three soft taps, and I knew them from my whole childhood.

"Linnet, darling," Mother said through the door. "Please. I only want a minute."

I opened it.

She stood in the corridor in her grey travelling cloak with a tray in her hands.

On the tray was a teapot, one cup and a small plate of honey cakes.

"You did so well today," she said. "I couldn't sleep until I told you."

"Is that why you came?"

"Of course it is."

She stepped past me and set the tray on the table.

"I brought your chamomile too," she said. "It's the night before Hollow Night. You know how you are."

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