Chapter Five - Cordelia
Cordelia is, as of yet, wholly unsure how exactly this conversation took such a sharp turn for the worse. She had asked what she considered to be a fairly tame and matter-of-fact question, a standard part of investigation, only to be met with the swift wind of hostility and a raised arm which sorely looks like it wishes to strike her.
She'll understand why later, of course, sitting in bed and ruminating into the night. Whatever explanations she could be given now would require time to settle and process in the backgrounds of her mind, slowly churning away a sense of social awareness which she does not possess in the urgency of the present.
So, failing to understand why, perhaps, this question is an unsuitable one, Cordelia asks, "Did you do anything to deserve this?"
Alma Brien O'Darcy's temper snaps like a frozen branch in winter, splintering and thundering into the soil below. Her nostrils flare, her fist hangs in the air. Her boots stop into the rain-drenched ground.
And then she unleashes the most colorful, and admittedly creative, salvo of curses Cordelia has ever heard. Indeed, she learns quite a great deal about local profane aphorisms and insults from this arsenal, many of which she politely holds onto for her own vocabulary later.
She resolves not to recoil at Alma's fury, having learned from pub-brawls that most cursing is simply bravado and the white-hot flash of immediate anger, one which often cools once indulged. She holds her shoulders square as Alma's spit and temper test her composure, trying to hold a neutral expression for as long as necessary.
Alma's husband's tolerance gives before Cordelia's does. He timidly grabs hold of his wife's arm and steers her away, muttering something resembling an apology to Cordelia. It's unclear whether or not he means it.
Annette approaches Cordelia's side, voice quiet with a soft correction in her voice. "Perhaps don't imply that a Kerish woman deserved a Blight," she advises.
Cordelia lets herself frown. "It isn't even Blight, it's poisoning - so it's clearly
targeted-
,"
Her companion makes an expression that says,
I know, dear.
Cordelia shoves her hands into the pockets of her longcoat.
You ought to have asked, "Did you do anything to provoke the Coven
?"
She shakes out the tension in her neck, briefly minding the mild headache she acquired on the journey over to the O'Darcy farm. There would be time to dwell on the social failures later, but for now, she wrenches her attention back to the farm before her.
Brown leaves. Desiccated.
Soil largely undisturbed above surface - toxin not tilled in.
No notable odors, save the expected.
Uniform destruction across the surface area.
Topsoil color largely intact.
Not Blight, she decides. She'd already stated this prognosis publicly, with great confidence - it would be horribly embarrassing to then be incorrect, not that she is worried of such failures in her observation. Blighted potatoes remained green and healthy above the surface, their sprouting leaves appearing indistinguishable from an untainted tuber. Nothing abnormal above the surface, something despicable underneath.
Further, the potatoes themselves would take on a slushy texture, disgusting even to the thought. Accounts of the smell further the wretched experience - rank, earthy, and something resembling mildew.
She shoves a gloved hand into the soil at the base of one sprout, hunting away for the seed potato, and once located, she yanks it out unceremoniously for inspection.
Firm, if a bit damp.
No Blight, then
.
Clumps of soggy dirt keep hold of the leather even after she lets the tuber fall from her hand. The fresh rains have kept the soil boggy, full of rank puddles which now bring home to an unacceptable number of buzzing insects. The soil in her hand contains the twisted roots of weeds, the slow creeping of a worm, even smaller creatures Cordelia suspects some unfortunate soul has dedicated their life to the study of. And -
She notices it in the soil, deciding her test for the substance without need for lengthy debate.
Annette reads her decision too late to stop it. "What are you-,"
Cordelia shoves a small clump of soil into her mouth, folding it flat against the roof of her mouth with her tongue and allowing her sense of taste to do the work for her. It tastes... well, rather familiar, unearthing a forgotten memory of having performed quite a similar act as a young girl, eating the dirt from Miss Holm's potted plants. She'd like to say that this occurred at a very young age, and is less than pleased to recall she was old enough to be speaking, because she related the experience quite vividly to her mother at the time.
Once satisfied by her test, Cordelia hocks it out of her mouth, letting the salivic mass of phlegm and soil descend back from where it came from.
Annette's brows knit tightly together, only resolving with a sigh of resignation. Her finger floats up to Cordelia's jowl, lightly brushing against it. "You've got some on your cheek."
"As I suspected: salt."
"Salt," her companion repeats back. Her head tips curiously. "That is not a poison."
Cordelia waves a hand over the dying crop before the two of them. "Applied liberally over a field, it may as well be. The brown leaves, dry and cracked - the salt has stolen the moisture from inside the plant, despite the rainfall."
Wickedly clever. If they'd have simply burned the plants, it would have been far less effective, providing singe marks to each one and clearly demonstrating the assault upon them. Salt provides the miracle - dried out plants amidst the wet season.
Magic.
Science
, Cordelia snorts to herself, massaging a palm to her temple to ease the headache and smacking her lips to clear the taste of soil from them.
Clever
.
Annette seems to agree. "So, not a curse then. Clearly explainable."
"But meant to look like one."
Crows feathers have been scattered over the fields, not placed into any discernable pattern nor at any regular intervals that Cordelia can detect. Each corner of the crop has been defamed by some sort of standing totem, hardly larger than a foot - a crossed set of trigs dangling a few bones of small creatures.
Wishbone of a turkey.
Femur of a squirrel.
Bicuspid of a boar.
Correction: incisor.
But the totems aren't connected in any way to the scene at hand. They're theater, Cordelia decides, meant to portray the image of one thing at work, so that an onlooker would ignore the far more obvious evidence at hand. A curse, or so they would willfully accept. Sleight-of-hand, transposed to a larger scale.
A better farmer would easily note the salt.
But a poor farmer, in hard times, easily swept away into fear of a curse... well, that is the sort of target which would already believe in the power of magic, easily swayed into belief.
Cordelia briefly considers raising the point to Matthew O'Darcy, Alma's husband who tends the fields.
Better not
