I was dimly aware that I should be embarrassed , tearing off succulent strips that greased my lips , barely chewing before grappling to swallow the large chunks . The fruit tarts were glorious , sticky innards of pear and peach oozing over my lips , ambrosia dribbling down my chin .
But swallowing was painful . My stomach groaned in protest , a dull sickness uncoiling in my gut , imploring me to slow down . Forced to pause my bestial indulgence , I met the gaze of the woman still surveying me as if she would add me to her harvest .
‘ Aren ’ t you eating ?’ My fingers trembled above the plate . My stomach gave another unpleasant twist .
‘ I ’ m full ,’ she replied blandly , her eyes charged with an emotion I could not place . She was perched opposite me , hands folded neatly under her chin as she watched . It dimly occurred to me that the food might well be laced with something , that this was all a ploy to poison me and sell whatever my body had to offer . So be it , if it meant I could die with a full stomach .
I pushed away the nausea and bit into another pastry , chasing it with a berry whose tartness cut exquisitely through the cloying apple filling . I faintly noticed the woman rise from her seat , turning and busying herself with something on the worktop . My attention turned back to the strip of meat I took a bite from – something like chicken . It fell apart with impressive tenderness .
The scraping of something heavy against wood grated the air . More berries found their way into my hand , the juice , blood-like , staining my fingers .
I felt , rather than saw , her presence behind my chair . Felt the air stirring behind my head . I twisted in my seat . And there she was , her wrinkled hand raised , clutching a large iron pan . Her eyes shone with exhilaration . The berries tumbled from my hand as her own came down . The crunch of pan on skull reverberated through the cottage . Outside , the branches of the trees whispered on .
*** The old weaver walked to the market . She purchased some rhubarb in exchange for a bundle of golden thread , neatly tied with a scrap of red fabric .
Ella Millar 73