I turned away hastily. The tears on his cheeks were tinged pink from the cuts on his face. I could not bear to see them. I ran down the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Conspiracy
The Pocked Man at your window
The Pocked Man at your door
The Pocked Man brings the plague days
To stretch you on the floor.
When blue flames at your candles suck
You know a witch has got your luck.
Don’t suffer a snake upon your hearthstone
Or plague will whittle your children to bone.
Your bread not to rise, your milk to stand sour,
Your butter not to churn.
Your arrow shafts to twist as they dry,
Your own knife to turn and cut you,
Your roosters to crow by moonlight
By these may a householder know himself cursed.
“We will need blood from somewhere.” Kettricken had heard me out, and now made this request as calmly as if asking for a cup of wine. She looked from Patience to Lacey seeking for ideas.
“I’ll go fetch a chicken,” Lacey said unwillingly at last. “I’ll need a sack to put it in to keep it quiet-”
“Go then,” Patience told her. “Go quickly. Bring it back to my room. I shall fetch a knife and a basin, and we shall do it there, and bring but a cup of the blood back here. The less we do here, the less we must conceal.”
I had gone first to Patience and Lacey, knowing I would never get past the Queen’s attendants on my own. While I made a quick visit to my room, they had gone before me to the Queen, ostensibly taking her a special herbal tea but really to quietly beg a private audience for me. She had dismissed all her ladies, telling them she would be fine with just Patience and Lacey, and then sent Rosemary to fetch me. Rosemary played by the hearth now, absorbed in dressing a doll.