The Soul Consortium by Simon West-Bulford

Livio asks, leaning over the kettle again. “I can smell the lavender, but what else did you use?”
    “Sage, valerian, and a little mallow.”
    He shrugs his indifferent approval.
    “Mama,” Arrigo says, a glint in his eye, “has Dominique’s witchcraft done you any service? Do you feel the vitality running like Zeus’s elixir through your bones?”
    “It isn’t witchcraft,” I protest.
    “Shut up,” Fran hisses. “And you, Arrigo, do you want to bring the magistrates here with your careless words?”
    “He was joking,” Livio says, returning to his stool with his attention on Mama.
    “Joke or not, if Dominique is suspected of witchcraft we will all be implicated. I don’t care if
she
burns, but I have an estate to manage.”
    “Witch!” Mama leans forward and points an accusing finger at me. “I spit on the day my womb conceived you, and I wish a demon’s fate on your soul. You, of all my children, are my biggest disappointment and in no small way.” She slumps back, barely enough life in her to cough, but her remaining vigor is channeled through her expression in a visage of malice directed straight at me. Delirium, I hope.
    An uneasy silence falls, and Mama’s eyes shut.
    She doesn’t mean to be so cruel. None of them do. With Mama so close to passing away, her thoughts are confused. Nerves are frayed, and the temptation to say regretful things is great. Times have been hard, even before Mama grew ill. They say we are living in peace now that Ferdinand and Philip rule Italy, but in our village very few people have welcomed the Spaniards. It is no surprise then that my engagement to Enrique made me unpopular, and though I love him dearly, I have spent many days in tears, wishing I had not fallen for him. My family’s discontent is a terrible burden to me, and I must accept the criticism that comes.
    “I’m hungry,” says Livio. “Is there anything to eat, Dom?”
    “I baked bread this morning, and I have some rabbit stew heating on the stove for Enrique if he returns from the docks today.”
    “He won’t mind if I rob him of his food?”
    “I prepared extra today in case of visitors. We’ve been receiving many since Mama … Would anyone else like some bread and stew?”
    Arrigo shakes his head. “Not hungry, Sister.”
    “I’ve tasted your efforts before,” Fran says. “With culinary skills such as yours, it is no wonder your fiancé spends all his time at sea in the arms of other women. No, I’ll have neither bread nor stew.”
    The brothers laugh, and I look at Mama who has not stirred since her outburst. “Mama? Do you feel well enough to try some stew?”
    Her eyelids part a fraction to reveal jaundiced whites and dilated pupils. A soft whisper is on her lips, but she is too tired to answer properly.
    “I’ll bring you a small bite. See if you can try some.”
    “And don’t forget to bring fresh water and clean bedclothes,” Fran says as I stand.
    “I won’t,” I say with a smile.
    I leave the bedchamber and close the door behind me. Their whispers exchanged in sharp tones follow as I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They may be thinking that I am unable to hear their hurtful words, and I know that Enrique would tell me not to stand for such backbiting, but I see no point in antagonizing them with any reproach. Mama would want to see a happy and contented family around her before she leaves us. I only wish I could do something to soften her words toward me. Just once.
    I sit on a stool by the table and look at the pot through the watery blur of tears gathering in my eyes, the pitted base glowing red above the flames, its simmering contents bubbling with meaty juices, salt, and potatoes. I breathe deep, knowing the flavorsome vapors will soothe me and the comfort of cooking will dry my eyes, but I find it so hard to ignore the pain. Unless the Lord intervenes, Mama will never leave her bed again, and the part of me that longs to hold her tightly and beg