Free The Assassin's Wife by Moonyeen Blakey

liquid gold.
    “Why do you always braid it?” she asked one night, watching me brushing my own hair before bed. “You should wear it loose.” Taking the brush, she made long, sweeping strokes through the curling mass which hung to my waist, humming with satisfaction as it crackled under her fingers. “See how thick it is!”
    “But it’s dark,” I said with a dissatisfied pout, “not fashionable. I wish it were fair like yours.”
    She shook her golden mane, laughing as she ran her hands through the silky locks. “But mine’s nowhere near as thick as yours. Yours has such a sheen. See how it gleams red under the light. It’s a shame to hide such curls.”
    She arranged it loosely about my shoulders, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “See! It makes those lovely eyes of yours look huge! There’s many a lad in London would be glad to woo a wench with such wonderful dark hair!”
    I blushed, making her giggle. Philippa had a liking for young men, and Mistress Mercer teased her about the swaggering young swains who hung about the premises in the hope of a glimpse or a word, but while she chattered and tossed her wayward locks at all of them, Ralph Fowler won her favour. Sometimes, lying in the dark, she told me about him, whispering of their trysts and her hopes of marriage.  
    “But suppose his parents won’t let him marry you?” I asked, excited by the daring tales she told.
    “Pooh!” she said, wrinkling up her nose as if at a bad smell, “they couldn’t stop him. I know how to make him want me so badly, he can’t think of anything else!” Her eyes sparkled as she confided the latest intimacy she’d allowed him, laughing at my ignorance. “I thought country girls knew all about the natural needs of men.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly.
    Sometimes Philippa questioned me about my country home. When I spoke of it, I realised how small my village really was. But that didn’t stop me yearning for its green fields and shadowed woodlands. How different did the tiny thatched cottages seem after the teetering city houses with their lofty wooden frames and painted walls, how little the squat-towered church— and yet I craved the earthy smell of the byre, the comforting hiss and fizzle of the forge, the familiar discord of the blacksmith’s clanging music. I understood then how Brother Brian felt about his home across the sea.
    “Why did you come to London?” Philippa leaned on her elbow, all curiosity.
    “My father died, and my aunt and uncle took me in.” I fidgeted, uncomfortable with the memories this stirred.
    “But you don’t live with them now.” She eyed me closely. “Betsy told me they sent you away for conjuring—”
    “The fortune-telling got me into trouble,” I answered, incensed by the serving maid’s tittle-tattle. “I wasn’t really to blame. Betsy first suggested it anyway. It was around Twelfth Night and my aunt and uncle had gone out. Judith wanted us to play this game she’d had of Betsy—she said if you threw petals or leaves into a bowl of water, a spirit would show you the letters of your future husband’s name.”
    “What happened?” Philippa’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
    “I don’t really know. I’d never played it before, but I saw pictures in the water and it frightened them. A face appeared and I screamed. There was a great commotion because my aunt and uncle returned early and I fainted. My uncle was furious and accused me of conjuring spirits.”
    “But what made you scream?” Her voice fell to an awed whisper.
    “I’d seen that face before in my dreams.”
    She waited for more but I didn’t tell her I’d know it anywhere by the piercing brightness of its blue eyes and the sensual curve of its mouth.
    During the turbulent events of my eleventh year, however, my new dreams set Philippa complaining.
    “She wakes me with nightmares.” She adopted a pained expression. “How can I sleep when she’s always talking about murderers or being