Children of the May (Children of the May Book 1)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Magikos (part two)

âAre you alright?â said Margaret. She took my hand and looked at the fingerprint-sized burn where Epicene had touched me. âYou should get this into water.â

âC-Come with me, I know a place.â

Shaking my hand in the cool air as we went, I took her to my favourite place in the whole of the gardens: an enclosed pond fed by the stream that ran from the fish-fountain. I sat cross-legged on the ground and plunged my hand into the water, immediately feeling that the goldfish who lived in the pond thought themselves very well fed. The pain in my hand cooled to a tingle.

âWhy would she burn you?â Margaret sat in front of me.

âBecause sheâs s-s-spiteful. I-I-Iâd never realised that before. They all are. Theyâre all so m-mean to Accolon, b-but now I think heâs really the only n-nice one.â

My eyes had been opened. That day had shown me the others for what they really were: selfish, unfriendly and mean. They had bullied Accolon and Bellina from the moment he saved us from drowning in the cave, just because those two had found each other and were content. Melwas, Mordred and Agravaine were jealous because they had involved themselves in a nasty game that was nothing like love. I was certain now that Accolon had been trying to warn me about Margaretâs imminent return. He had been trying to stop me from hurting Palomina.

âWell you shouldnât worry about it, Drift. Weâll show them another way. We can be enough for each other. Itâs like my mother used to say ââ

I flinched.

âAre you alright? Does it hurt?â

âN-No. Itâs fine.â

I took my hand out of the pond to check the burn. Epiceneâs fingerprint was still red. I thought it would probably blister.

Margaret plucked a blade of grass. âDrift,â she said quietly, not looking at me. âIâve noticed that whenever I mention my mam, you look very sad. I donât feel sad about her any more; I still feel how much she loved me. So you shouldnât feel sad, either. Unlessâ€Â¦Ã¢Â€Â™ She caught my eye, and quickly looked away. ‘Are you sad about your mother? Did she die too?’

I felt tears coming to my eyes. None of them had ever asked me about my mother. When they’d talked about their parents it was normally at mealtimes, and I found it easy to distract myself by concentrating on the food.

‘N-No. My m-mother is alive.’

‘Oh.’ She wanted to say something else, but wasn’t sure how to put it. ‘Then what?’

It all poured out of me. I told her about my lonely childhood, about how my mother could not stand to be near me. I told her about my sisters, about Nerina’s cruelties and Nemone’s pinching. I told her about the look on Neave’s face as they walked out of the hall and abandoned me to Sir Dinadan. I told her how I’d never been loved, unless it was by the fish I swam with in the lake, or Martha the blacksmith. The tears ran hot down my cheeks as I spoke. Margaret listened to me patiently. I could not look at her as I told her of the shame I felt; how badly I’d failed at being a son my family could love. Then I told Margaret of the one tender embrace I’d experienced before I met her.

‘On m-m-m-m-m-my tenth b-birthday, when my sisters w-were dancing round the m-maypole, my m-m-m-m-mother called me over to sit on her knee.’ I breathed in deeply. I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to tell this story out loud. I could hear a quake in my voice, well beyond the violence of my stutter. ‘I-I-I-I-I d-did as she s-said, and she p-put her arms around m-me. She t-told me to watch my sisters d-dancing. She s-spoke in my ear. Aren’t they beautiful? she s-said. Your lovely sisters. They are children worthy of my love. But you –’