Chapter 103

Home Is Where the Heart Is (Buried)

The rest of the Acolyte’s grimoire contains bone crushingly dull parables, lectures on application of the law, and some more spells belonging to the Blind Queen that I cannot use. I write it all down diligently. Then I hide the notes in a cookery book in my private boudoir, next to some bawdy novels because you never know when these things will come in handy. The notes, not the bawdy novels. Bawdy novels are always handy.

That done, I thank the grimoire, which is still groaning, and leave it to digest in peace.

What now?

I must confess to feeling a little lost and overwhelmed. Having set myself this mammoth task, I have no clear way to accomplish the end goal of destroying the Whisperer. A war against Janvier was a small project by comparison. Perhaps some therapeutic building and gardening is necessary to help me relax as I chew it all over? I really do deserve a break after all the stress of the last few weeks. What is the point of being queen anyway, if you can’t disappear barefoot into the forest for a while and plant some dahlias? And I need to go and collect the wool from the draugr shepherds and do some spinning. Yes, yes, this is exactly what I need.

I call Jenkins, and grab one of the spare spirit infused witch brooms from the local coven. I bid the Keep farewell. Together, my cat and I set out, flying high over the treetops to my old cottage in the heart of Downing Forest. Or rather to the remains of my cottage.

In the light of the primrose pale spring morning, the tumbled down shell does not look sad at all. It looks peaceful. The snow has finally melted away entirely, and the forest (the parts of it that are alive) smells like loam and new growth. Green shoots peek through the earth, and small creatures rustle in the bushes.

Around my cottage the ghost garden gleams faintly luminous in the early light. The fresh morning air chasing away the more virulent odours of the people mulch leaving only the more pleasing scent of the draugr roses. My undead bees are very busy, I can see the hives bustling with activity.

We touch down at the end of the garden, by the gate. Instantly I feel the weight slide off my shoulders. Here is where I belong. Or perhaps I just need some time alone with my soul? To reattune. Bah. That is the sort of thing my mother would say when she was alone. I considered bringing her, but for now her skull can stay on her shelf at Dunbarra Keep.

Jenkins leaps from the broom and settles himself on the garden wall to wash. The poor lad is in such a state. He has been dead for a while now, and has partaken of a few more fights than is wise. Some of his bones are showing through the rumple of his soft black fur. He does his best to smooth it neatly but I can see he is vexed with the mess of his coat.

“Soon, my love,” I murmur, patting his soft head gently. One of his ears is practically missing.

I will make him a lich, and then he will be as safe as safe can be from the wear and tear of the world. As safe as I am, and as indestructible. Just as soon as I get the courage to summon the Whisperer again.

No doubt he will drive a difficult bargain. Not to mention that I need to practise on other creatures before liching Jenkins. Imagine if it went wrong? I would never forgive myself. Fixing my cottage will give me the courage. I hope.

I turn to look at it. My former home is in a rather sad state of disrepair. Of course, I could call up some wights from the village to help me rebuild, but I’m really not in the mood for any kind of company. Also, there is a certain satisfaction to doing things with my own hands. For a brief while I can pretend things are as they once were. Just Jenkins and I, living in the deep forest, tending to the small business of our lives.

The fireplace is mostly still standing, and surrounding walls. The protective charms that I had hung around the chimney were less effective against war-mongering liches than stray flames, but they did their best. It is something to work with.

Working out from the chimney stack, I mark out the rooms with twine and sticks. It doesn’t take long before I have something that resembles the original floorplan of my cottage. Looking down at it, I realise this is the perfect time to make some improvements. The pantry was always too small. There is no cellar. I always wanted a cellar. Adding an extra room or two wouldn’t do any harm at all. It would be nice to have a place for surplus crafting supplies, and my most private things.

Lost in thought, a movement from just outside the garden startles me. I leap up, grabbing my axe but then relax. It is just the beastie. It appears to be napping under the ghost oak. Sleepily, it waves a bashful tentacle at me, and I wave in turn. I wondered where it had got to.

Actually this is quite nice. I still have some basic pits and traps dug in the surrounding forest, and the villagers know not to come to this part of Downing or risk disembowelment, but… my cottage has been burnt down twice, and reduced to a pile of rubble once, all in the space of one year. Some more robust defensive measures are clearly necessary.

All the same, I cannot bring myself to spoil the ambiance of the greenwood by building fortifications and walls. If I do I might as well just retire to Dunbarra Keep forever and be done with it. But no one in their right mind would tangle with the beastie. I also have a suspicion it can teleport, although my evidence is currently circumstantial.

I start digging out my new root cellar, thinking hard as I shovel great earthfuls of soil and rock over my shoulder. A decently sized hole soon appears in the forest ground. Hmm. What now? I pile up all the available stones. That, at least, is easily done, with my inhuman strength. Then I pop over to my crafting stash in Little Downing. Once in the village, I send one of the wights to order the things I do not have (namely thatch, and some woodworking tools) and come back with a cart full of supplies, and a few bodies I have been saving for a rainy day.

Taking great care, I bury the skeletons of some wolves, a bear, and a lynx under the deep foundations of the new cottage. These will be wraith guardians that can be summoned at will in the cottage’s defence. And they are nicely discrete. What else?

I mix bonemeal into the mortar, enchanting it for strength and add that to the earthen base. The walls themselves I intend to build the traditional way, dry stone, each rock carefully fitted together. As I build, I talk to the stones, explaining how I would like them to be, murmuring to them of the value of fortitude, of durability and toughness. To my surprise the limestone responds to my whispers and I redouble my efforts to raise the spirits of my materials.

It is a peculiar sensation, not unlike the one I felt raising Elizabeth, my terrible and ancient flying lizard. The stones are old, and not exactly sentient, but they understand enough to bond together. Once, parts of them were alive. I build, whispering to the rocks, and my vision swims with images of ancient sea creatures, little conical shelled fishes, and strange, crawling things the size of a grain of rice.

Soon the outside wall is finished and it is so sturdy I would like to see Janvier try and knock it down. Not that he can. He is too busy being a chandelier. The floor over the new basement will have to be made of wooden planks. Again I consider sending for a carpenter to help, but in the end decide to do it myself. So what if the planks are not quite straight? If the joinery is a little wonky? It simply adds to the charm.

I roam the forest, searching for trees to fell, preferably from where they are growing too densely. A short while later I am hauling back stout trunks. Stripping branches and scraping the bark off is slow, but the work is soothing. Jenkins is busy in the garden with activities of his own, as are the draugr bees.

Day and night cycle above me, stars and sun wheeling overhead as I painstakingly split and shape the logs with a adze. No one comes to bother me, and for the first time in weeks I am truly able to relax. The floor goes in, one plank at a time, and not quite straight, but lovingly wrought.

The window and door frames are tricky, and here my lack of expertise is more obvious. I patch up the holes with more of the homemade mix of bone meal, thatch and mortar. I don’t feel the cold, but I will mind if the rain comes in and spoils the curtains I am planning to hang. Or if the cold creeps in shatter the glass of my potions, or the rain ruins my carefully gathered herbs.

Soon I am working on the roof-structure, fashioning a loft and eaves out of the timbers, and deciding on the pitch of my new roof. I spend a happy night braiding anti fire and destruction charms into the newly laid thatch. This in particular is satisfying, although I am not sure if they will work now I am a lich. I do them anyway.

There. The structure of the cottage is done, and I am terribly pleased with it. The interior I will take my time with. The drapes, and wall finishes, the shelving and so on, all of this requires great thought and will be immensely fun. While nothing can replace the things I have lost, I will start again. The import parts are here. Tomorrow I will make curtains and fix up the flower beds.

I nailing a horseshoe over the door, as well as a selection of charms to deter the fair folk, and stand back to admire my handiwork. If I had my way I would work an image of the Green Lady into the wood over the eaves but I do not dare. That would definitely fall under the category defined by the Whisperer as ‘going too far’. I cannot resist adding a few witch marks, but I do not linger over them.

The stout front door needs a lick of paint. Black, obviously. I do it, and it is lovely but what else? Something is missing. Ah yes, a wreath for the spring. I build one out of bones and ribbons, threading it through with spare straw and ghost flowers from the garden. I attach the wreath to the door and stand back to admire it.

There. I am done. I am home.

I spend the night daydreaming about curtains with Jenkins on my lap. The next morning I step out of my brand new front door intending to go and visit the shepherds in charge of my draugr sheep. Some spinning is just what I feel like, now I have a cottage to do it in.

Someone has left me some primroses on the doorstep. How strange. A house warming present? But from who? They are wrapped in old, earthy bits of hessian with the roots still attached, so I assume they are meant to be planted. I pick them up, admiring the delicate little yellow blossoms and look out down my garden path.

There is no sign of my mysterious gift giver. Doubly strange. I doubt there are many people bold enough to leave flowers at a lich’s doorstep.

“Thank you!” I shout, into the forest. Just in case. No one responds.

Pulling my door shut behind me I consider the primroses. I cannot leave them; they will wilt in the time I might be gone. Where to plant them? Primroses like a little shade, a little sun, not too much of each. I cannot plant them in my own garden, the spreading rot of my undead corruption will kill them, which would be a shame. Unless… Hmm. I locate a pair of old winter boots (hurrah for lich feet!) and top them up with fresh loam. I deposit the primroses in the top, patting them into place, and deposit them on either side of my front gate. They look a little out of place, amongst the draugr lilies but I will find a better spot for them later. And they are pretty.

Closing the gate behind me, I call goodbye to Jenkins and set off to see the shepherds.