'in Her rivers may we be cleansed'

The pale woman sat at his table shook, even under the thick woollen blanket he’d draped her in, even in the warm haze of the summer evening. Her seaglass green eyes watered in the glow of the oil lamp, short, pale hair too dry and brittle to catch any light. It was cropped, he noted, and her stained tanner’s apron was longer than her dress, though not long enough to save her tights from laddering - they were more thread than fabric. He straightened himself out, bringing out a pot of tea and two cups to the girl. She met his eyes, then looked away as if it stung to look upon him. 

“Where am I?” She asked, voice brittle, fixing her gaze on one of the many trinkets dotted around the shelves.

“Hethith,” he said, then paused, letting the words roll around his mouth before he continued. “Sorry, you tried to break into my workshed, not knowing what town you were in?”

She shrunk back further into the blanket. “Sorry, sir.”

“No, I…what’s your name?”

The pale girl’s eyes widened, then settled in a split second. Like a mother hare, he thought, pretending she hasn’t sensed danger - but this girl seemed far too young to yet know the perils of such a role. Her nostrils flared.

“Bridgette.” She licked her lips and brought the tea to her lips with trembling hands. 

“Bridgette?” He followed her line of sight to the small statuette of the Goddess Brigantia sat atop piles of books on the desk across from her. “Really?

She managed a small nod. He chuckled, reaching to refill his cup of tea.

“Then you can call me Earl. Earl Grey.”

It took her a second, but she caught onto the joke - then caught onto the laugh spilling from her mouth and swallowed it down. Her face returned to stoicism. He took a lighter up from his pocket, holding out a tin of thin, hand rolled cigarettes. 

“D’you smoke?”

The girl looked at him and licked her chapped lips. She did. With feigned hesitation, she reached a slender finger into the tin. Her nails were bitten, beds peeling and bloody. She was certainly a good actress, whether for politeness or dignity’s sake, he could not say - but she hungrily dipped her head - and cigarette - into the flame, shielding it from a wind that was not there, before adjusting. A painful cough, too dry to be natural, came out of her as she took a deep, desperate drag. He mirrored her, tapping the end of his own cigarette into a glass ashtray, nudging it closer into the centre of the table. 

“I’m not angry at you, sweetheart. You didn’t have the money for a hostel?” 

She shook her head, absentmindedly watching the smoke curl in the air between them. 

“I’m Hammond. Really.” The old man looked her in the eye. “Hammond Reilly.”

She looked up, meeting his blue eyes. 

“Violet,” she said softly. “Violet Wrenback,” she said, fingering the apron. “Just Violet, really.” He didn’t push. 

“Alright, Violet.”

“Look, I apologise, I…I was out too late.”

He tilted his head slightly. 

“I was meant to be home before dark,” she continued. 

“And who’s waiting for you at home? Your mother? Your fella?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing like that. My little sister.”

“Your little sister?”

“Stepsister. She’s not really little…I just like to think of her as little. She’s only a couple years younger than me. Fifteen. She’ll be fine without me.”

He paused and mentally corrected himself. The teenager sat at his table shook, even under the blanket and in the summer haze of the evening. She took on a far frailer image now, smaller and younger. 

“And where is she?” Hammond asked, concern washing over him. He considered taking back the cigarette - but it seemed to be calming her nerves, and he surmised one cigarette in a situation such as this wouldn't kill her. 

“…Home. We live, uh…I took the ferry over.” Now, she seemed to realise what she was saying, tapering off into guarded silence. 

“They won’t run this late,” he noted. 

“I needed a place to stay.”

“And you have one. You can have breakfast with me, and I’ll get you on a ferry tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” She moved to get up. 

“No, no. Stay here. It’s much too cold for me to turn you out onto the streets.” He smiled, and panic flashed across her face as the warm summer air lay between them. “I won’t have you sleeping in that shed either.”

“Here?”

He nodded. 

“Really?

“Violet - Dia Brigantia. Goddess of rivers and pastures. My husband, may he rest in peace - he was devoted to Her. To caring for those who need it. He was a midwife.” Hammond took the gold ring from his finger, turning it over in the lamplight, inscription running along the inside. Do not fear to stain my hands with your blood - in Her rivers may we be cleansed, Her pastures may we be cherished. “He was brilliant, Danny was,” the old man chuckled and returned the ring. He plucked the statuette from where it stood, pressing the pad of his thumb into the brass of Her face. “Are you a religious woman, Violet?”

She shook her head. He set the figure down in front of her, next to the ashtray. Brigantia stood in tarnished brass, surrounded by sheep, dress flowing, hands clasped over heart. Violet moved to sit down again, wrapping the blanket around her tighter. “No, sir,” she said. Brigantia’s eyes followed her as she moved. 

“Hammond.”

“Hammond,” she asserted. 

“I lost him three years ago. Myosotis.” 

She took a long drag, straightening up. She did not take her eyes off of the idol, and nor did She, even through the stream of smoke Violet blew at Her. 

"His church never found out until it was too late," he continued, as Violet watched in uneasy horror. "Wish they had. Wish Brigantia could've helped him." Now he looked the girl in the eye. She tapped the ash off of her cigarette, watching the ember break off into the tray. 

"I'm not mad at you, Violet." He looked right at the pale girl, calm and collected. She tried in vain to mirror him, eyes wild in sickened panic. She shifted, holding her bag closer. She wanted nothing more than to swallow a mouthful of the drug down, close her eyes and surrender to the high; escape this man, this house. He knew.  

“You’re doing this for your sister,” Hammond continued. “I understand.” 

Her feet planted to the ground, blanket shed from around her. She scanned the small room frantically. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It hung in the air, seemingly pathetic. “For your loss,” she added, and the hollowness of the statement only rang louder, with none of the weight she intended. 

“Thank you,” he said. Then: “I’m not mad, Violet. You’re safe here. I’m not here to confiscate your product…or tell the authorities.”

She didn’t look him in the eye. 

“Who were you selling to?” He asked. 

She grit her teeth and stared at the floor.

“For your safety. Eudore Lagan? Tyrell?”

“...Tyrell…Lagan.” 

He sighed. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. 

“Right,” he said. “Rest. We can sort this in the morning.” 

She looked to him, then to the blankets on the floor. She sighed. 

She was safe.