Free Ash by Malinda Lo Page A

not listen. On the night that she burned the wreath’s last leaf, she did not come back from that dream world. When her mother came to wake her the next morning, Kathleen would not open her eyes, though her breast stil rose and fel , breathing in the lingering smoke from the burning wreath. They say that she did not die; instead she simply slept there, her mind lost, her body stil and empty, alone on her narrow bed.
    Ash read and re-read the story as if it were a map to her own future. Though she knew it was meant to be a cautionary tale, 75

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    now that she had seen that fairy, she thought that Kathleen’s fate was not so cruel after al .

    When autumn came, Ash’s stepmother told her to bring out the trunks of winter clothes stored under the stairs, and as she rummaged through the dusty, dark space, she came across a box of books that had been her father’s. Kneeling near the lamp, Ash pulled out volumes on history and trade regulations, old account books, and a smal , cloth-bound journal written in a fine hand. Inside the front cover her mother’s name was written, and it was dated years before Ash had been born. She stuffed the book into her apron pocket, and al that day she felt the weight of it on her hip like hidden treasure. That night, squinting at the book in the candlelight, Ash saw that it contained what appeared to be recipes for medicines or possibly spells. There was a remedy for fever; there was a recipe for al eviation of headache; there were instructions on making an ointment to treat burns. Under a long list of herbs, there was a notation next to the entry for mugwort: “May be used sparingly for lucid dreams.”
    On one page titled “To Reverse Glamour,” many lines were crossed out, and the ink had been smeared and blotted several times as if her mother had been trying different combinations.
    “Take one part feverfew,” read the instructions, “and mash with two thimblefuls of spring dew. Soak for one fortnight in a black glass bottle beneath the shade of a mature hawthorn tree.
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    Add one part wilted bryony stem, brewed with essence of ver-bena in cotter’s wine. If necessary, add foxglove.” At the bottom of the page was a note: “Maire Solanya believes ineffective. Will test on next full moon.”
    There were several pages of notes on love, and Ash wondered if it were an attempt at a love potion, but there were few ingredients. One line was underscored several times: “The knowledge wil change him.” But though Ash paged through the entire journal, she never found out who he was.

    One morning in early winter, Beatrice did not come to unlock her door. Instead her stepmother turned the key in the lock and woke her, saying, “Beatrice is il . She won’t be here today.”
    When Ash went downstairs, Beatrice was not in her quarters behind the kitchen. “She went to her daughter’s to recover,”
    Lady Isobel said when Ash asked where she had gone.
    But she did not come back the next day, or the next one. At night, after Ash had washed the supper dishes and banked the kitchen fire, her stepmother cal ed for her to come to her chamber. “It’s time for you to start learning something beyond scrubbing the floor,” said her stepmother, and held out her hairbrush.
    “But Beatrice does this,” Ash said in surprise.
    “Beatrice is not coming back,” said Lady Isobel.
    “What happened?” Ash asked, startled. “Is she all right?”
    “She is fine,” her stepmother said. “But I can no longer af-77

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    ford to keep Beatrice on here, so you wil be required to take over her duties.”
    “But there is too much work even for two,” Ash objected.
    “Then you wil have to learn how to work harder,” said Lady Isobel, holding the hairbrush out pointedly. When Ash did not move to take it, her stepmother continued, “You already know who to blame for this: your father. If he had not left so many debts, you might have had a lady’s upbringing. But the best you can