I am aware I should stop saying genitals. Thankfully, Catlin looks at me as though what I’ve just said makes a kind of sense. ‘His genitals totally fancy my genitals, Madeline. I know for a fact they do. I have evidence.’ She grins. ‘Hard evidence.’
I cover my face with my hands, and glare at her through the gaps between my fingers.
‘I cannot believe you just said that.’
‘Me neither,’ she says in a small voice.
‘Are you ashamed of yourself?’ I look at her, furrowing my brow like an angry teacher.
She swallows once and then decides she’s not.
‘No. I regret nothing. Which is also what I will say to Lon when I lose it to him the night of the lock-in.’
‘Argh. Too much information. And also, no.’
‘I didn’t ask your permission,’ Catlin snaps.
‘I know you didn’t. But … first of all, too soon, and secondly, do you want to have an audience?’ Lon probably wouldn’t mind an audience at all, I think.
‘Look, it’s my body and I get to do what I want with it. And I want you to support me.’
‘What, to stand at the side of the bed waving pompoms and cheering?’
‘Lon would probably love that.’
‘Eww.’
‘You just hate feelings and the people who have them.’
‘Maybe I just hate Lon?’
‘You can’t hate Lon. Because then I would hate you.’
God help us both, I think. And I say goodnight. I think we’d end up having a proper screaming row if this kept going. And I don’t want that. I don’t want us to move further apart than we already are.
I get a glass of water with fresh mint in, and make sure the window’s open wide. I’m going to bed later and later these days, avoiding sleep and all the fear it brings. Outside the window something howls, probably a rogue husky. I open up my book, turn on the bedside lamp and settle in. My phone vibrates. It is a picture of Oona. She says, ‘Bonne nuit.’ She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt to bed, and her hair’s all sticking up. I send her back a picture of my toes poking out from the bed. A little kiss.
The world’s not bad or good. It is both, and kind of all at once.
20
Oregano
Mamó is home. Not that I’ve been stalking her. Well – maybe just a little. I want answers. It’s more of a stake-out than a creepy stare-fest. Though obviously there is some overlap between the two. I’ve been keeping an eye out for a pair of binoculars in the attic.
I lurk outside her door, a little afraid to approach or knock.
‘Stop gawping and get in.’ Her voice is sharp, so no change there. I think she’s being friendly. Almost friendly. It’s hard to tell. She generally glares. I venture down the little cobbled steps. It’s surprisingly bright here, for a basement. There are big windows, slanted to trap sun. Lace curtains let in light but hide what’s going on inside from people outside.
She has an awful lot of plants in pots. So many growing things. I pick one up and stroke the leaves and sniff it.
‘What’s this?’ I ask. It’s leafy like a plant, but growing on some rocks.
‘Lungwort,’ she says. There is a pause. ‘It is a lichen.’
She puts the kettle on the little stove and replaces several jars on their shelves. She has floor to ceiling jam jars, vials and little roundy bottles. I take it in, all organised and filled with mulch and bones and different-coloured liquids. Some of them look quite a bit like blood.
‘What’s lungwort for?’ I say, and then realise the clue is in the name. ‘Apart from lung stuff?’
‘Wounds. Ulcers. It’s not for any one thing really. None of these are for any one thing. It depends on the person that needs them, and the person that’s working with them. And other factors.’ Satisfied her shelves are set to rights, she takes two china mugs and plonks them on the counter. I search the ceiling for a thing to talk about. A thing that isn’t: ‘Magic. Tell me. Now.’
‘Are you all right?’ I ask. Her face is pale, and the shadows under her eyes are dark.
‘I’ve had a lot of extra jobs to do. Since the fox. And clients keep on coming.’ She closes her eyes, but only for an instant. ‘Every one of them takes something from me.’
She rubs another lichen with her hands.
‘This one is called ruffled freckled pelt. It grows on oak, maple and birch. It was hard to convince it to grow here. Wasn’t it, pet?’ She’s speaking to the plant and she is smiling. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen her smile before. Not properly. Not fondly. She turns to me.
‘Your sister. Where does she spend her time?’ Her face is grim again. It makes more sense.
‘That’s her own business. Ask her,’ I say, a little bit offended.
‘Fair enough,’ she says. ‘But there are things you should be wary of in Ballyfrann.’
‘Such as …?’
I wonder who she means. Whoever killed the fox perhaps. Layla and Oona already seem to be wary of Lon, but I can’t imagine Mamó being wary of a pretentious teenage boy. Could she mean magic people? Other witches … Is she, like, a witch? What does she call herself? It’s label worries all over again. I have so many questions in my throat, but they won’t seem to hop out of my mouth. It’s brighter in the basement than it was in the garden. The light in here is strange. I’d love to have a proper poke around her flat. There’s a solidity to it, a safety. All the jars, the herbs, the plants, the leaves and bones and shells. They all make sense.
‘You’ve got a head on your shoulders.’ She eyes me for a moment. ‘More or less. You’ll figure it out.’
‘I need more information,’ I press on. ‘Who should I not trust? And why?’
‘I always think it best,’ Mamó says, ‘to start with everyone. And as you gather knowledge, you can amend. The world is sharper here than other places.’
‘Sharper how?’ I ask her. ‘You need to speak more plainly.’
‘What I need,’ she says, ‘is for you to open your eyes and look at what’s around you. I don’t owe you my effort or my time.’
She takes another sip, and when she speaks again, her tone is more conversational. ‘You want to study medicine?’
The dire-warnings portion of the evening appears to be over. Now, awkward chitchat. I roll my eyes. I liked the danger more.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I told you that before.’
‘So did your mother.’ She stirs her tea. ‘She popped in for a chat. Her words, not mine.’
‘And did ye chat?’ I ask.
‘I do not chat. I speak. And I listen.’ She sighs. ‘She’s a nice woman, your mother. Soft, but not too soft. I didn’t encourage her however. I’m not here to make friends.’
‘What are you here to do?’ I ask.
‘I’m here to work. Drink up your tea. I’m only on a break.’
I drain to the end of the mug and put it in the sink. I can feel the curiosity welling up in me.
‘Mamó,’ I say. ‘I want …’
‘I know what you want to know,’ she says. ‘But are you ready?’
I look at her. I don’t think that I am. But I have to know.
‘I am,’ I say.
I swallow. I can hear the helpless glug of sound breaking the silence. Mamó starts brewing more tea, silently. The clang of spoon on teapot. It’s hard to wait. Catlin would be charming her and grumbling. But I’m not my sister. I fix my eyes on her and settle in.
Mamó’s eyes are darkly tarnished grey. The barrel of a gun. She is a weapon. When I first moved here, I thought that they were blue. I can see the knuckles bulging through the rough skin of her hands, her rainbow-stained nails. This is the closest to awkward I’ve ever seen her.