As Above, So Below

30th July 1566

Though the linens should be white, the nightgown Becca swirled with her paddle had inexplicably turned purple. Almost as if the colour poured into the sudsy lye solution and grabbed onto the material like a monk to a relic. She squinted, unsure if it was her failing eyesight or perhaps a trick of the morning sunlight against the buck tub.

Definitely purple.

With a swift pluck, she removed the bothersome gown, then squeezed out lilac-tinted water. Her heart thudded as bubbles dribbled over the back of her hands, fizzing slightly on her skin. The garment remained a vivid, eye-catching violet hue. Certainly, the fabric had entered the soak off-white, but, without some kind of miracle, it would likely dry the kind of colour Becca would have been thrilled to wear, if dyeing it had been intentional, and she were allowed.

Worse, Becca couldn’t imagine a less appropriate shade for dour old Mistress Turner’s delicates. Unbidden, an image of the older lady, prancing around for her husband, the miller, popped into her mind. Clad in nothing but the frills of her now violet nightwear. Becca scrunched her eyes closed, hoping the picture would disappear and turn into a practical solution, but instead, Mistress Turner twirled and dipped in her mind’s eye, as if practising a jig.

Unable to banish the vision, Becca opened her eyes and then squeezed more water out. Caught air puffed through the fabric, billowing up with two breast-like lumps. She giggled. Maybe the sensuous purple would ignite the flames of passionate reconciliation in the old, oft-arguing couple? Imagine. Master Turner, looking on at his wife with a glint in his eye… Her sour expression lighting up for once… Eww.

As she shook out the nightgown, cracking it to send any remaining water to the ground, her giggle grew into a cackle. She really oughtn’t think of such things – lust was a sin, was it not? Perhaps not, as long as you were married. Becca had little inkling of such matters, being resolutely unattached and completely disinterested in the ways of married life. Besides, prospective suitors were few in a small village when the entire Clish family line was known for magical powers. Except for Becca, who’d never been so blessed with power, nor feminine grace. She was now past usual child-bearing age, so her chances of a match were almost nonexistent.

She draped the gown over the edge of the tub, catching sight of her fingers. They’d turned purple too! This was ridiculous. She straightened her back and reached for her staff with a groan. First, the Lammas bread dough this morning had positively glowed pink as she kneaded, which she’d put down to bad wheat fermenting. Now this material mishap. What in the good Lord’s name was going on? She grasped the elm stick, automatically wrapping her fingers around its familiar knobbles as she leaned on it to stand up from the stool.

As she stared down at the water, glinting darkly in the sunlight, Becca wondered if the problem was the piss? Someone eating too much beetroot? It hadn’t looked purple when she’d poured it over the ashes and clothes earlier, although her eyesight was unreliable. Surely she’d have noticed the hue?

Nor could it be a floral issue – the lavender she used to scent her wealthier clients’ clothes had never left a mark before. Besides, she’d not yet rinsed the nightgown in the scented solution. Perhaps, if she tried, it might neutralise whatever had poisoned the suds?

She dunked the gown in and out of the rinse water, valiantly hoping for a shift in fortune and tone, but to no avail. If anything, the colour brightened, although the rinse water ran clear when she squeezed it out.

She grimaced. For sure, she wouldn’t be going near the iron today; why invite a third disaster?

Wiping her hands on her skirt, faint hints of lilac smeared on the dark yellow fabric. Becca groaned. It was hardly her best dress, but when you only had a choice of three and your livelihood was laundering, any stain would draw attention. Wet was acceptable, expected even, but stains were a sure sign of incompetence. Or a messy eater.

Dried, her fingers remained a lurid purple as if there was some kind of infestation causing everything she touched to change colour, including herself. Her heart sank as she willed herself Not To Touch her face.

As Hardingstone’s main – only – laundress, or ‘lavender’ as the village liked the call her, her reputation and income would suffer if anyone found out clothes in her care were liable to be returned an entirely different shade. She prided herself on spotless whites, perfectly pressed. This was usually eminently achievable without the need for the magical intervention her Ma would have used, just because she could.

It wasn’t as if Becca was popular with the villagers, anyway. Never invited to gatherings, she only showed up if she felt like it. No-one really paid her any heed or asked her to dance, and she quite liked that. Her hearing had always been temperamental, so conversing over music only led to misunderstanding. Worse, a jig with her uneven gait simply looked silly, the result of a childhood accident attempting to rescue a puppy who’d fallen down the village well. She’d been so sure that pup had spoken to her. Urged her to climb down and help it, like the Devil beckoning her down to hell.

Her Pa had loudly dismissed the idea of a talking dog as whimsy, and not just for the villagers’ benefit as they gathered to mount her rescue. He suffered enough being married to a known witch. Talking animals was a sign of witchcraft, and no-one openly acknowledged that if they could help it.

As for Becca, the resulting broken leg healed poorly, despite her mother and grandmother’s ministrations, which was hardly a good reflection of their abilities. Her limp was proof that she wasn’t a witch, because if she were, then she’d be fine. Even now, years later and fully grown, her knee and hip ached if she walked too far.

She glanced at the sheets, already laundered in the same buck tub of water, now hanging on the many lines which criss-crossed her garden, whitening in the sun, without a hint of hue or stain. So what else but magic could have caused such a violent, violet colour?

Everyone knew she didn’t have magic…

Until she did, perhaps?

She frowned. As a girl, her Ma, Isolde, had often comforted Becca about her missing magic by reminding her, despite their blessed bloodline, ‘Magic isn’t a crown to wear. It’s a candle to hold. And some candles take years to light.’ After the well incident, and her subsequent suffering, Becca came to believe herself unworthy of having the powers her fore-mothers yielded.

Besides, she was absolutely, perfectly, entirely content with the life she’d got – lacking in dangerous adventure and fulfilling with routine. She’d no need of magic. Up until today, she’d survived without it, as did all the other humans.

She didn’t want it.

Becca shook her head to rid herself of the ludicrous idea, then dropped the wet nightgown on her good foot. Its coldness might slap some sense into her. Instead, all she felt was a tepid dribble soaking through her stockings and into her boots. She held her hands out in the sunshine. Wrinkled, smelling slightly of aged piss… and unmistakably purple. As she could find no other plausible explanation, perhaps there was a flicker of something happening to her.

But, oughtn’t she to have ‘felt’ something?

She wished fervently that Ma, or even her maternal grandmother, Mabel, had told her more before they passed to the other side. Becca looked again at her coloured fingers, huffed then shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to know, so the blame for her ignorance rested only with herself.

Their magic had been measured. Controlled and precise. If someone wanted a spell for keeping the fire burning all night, or a tonic to soothe a crying babe, the solutions were dispensed with ease, a smile and no recourse. Without complaint, on the assumption they worked. People came back, for different solutions, again and again.

Purple clothes, hands and pink bread, however… that would be an issue. Purple may be her favourite colour, but it held dangerous connotations as well. Only royals were allowed to dress themselves in such a glorious shade. By law. And she’d no money for a fine and no time for the stocks.

She grabbed the offending item and stomped inside. As she shoved it into a sackcloth bag for disguise, she knew whatever ‘this’ was must stop before she got herself in trouble. Becca scratched her head. Who would know how to make it go away? Her mother and grandmother were cold in their graves, and Pa wouldn’t have a clue. The Vicar was out of the question, for obvious reasons, and she hadn’t any friends.

So, in the absence of family, she probably should ask the nearest witch for some guidance. Who better to explain than the local coven leader, charm-maker and herbalist? Besides, she needed soapwort from the woods, to try to remove the purple.