Working as quickly as she could, Hazel slid the needle into Cook’s split palm and began to sew up the cut tight with sutures. Now, I’m afraid this might sting just a bit. Hazel held it in the fire until it turned black, and then she lifted her own skirt and pulled a long silk thread from her chemise.Ĭook gave a small cry. “Now, that’s not so scary once the blood is washed away,” Hazel said. As the blood and soot fell away, the deep cut came into clear focus. Hazel took the kitchen basin over to Cook and had her wash her injured hand and wipe it clean on a dishrag. You, there”-Hazel called to a scullery maid-“Susan, is it? Will you fetch me a sewing needle?” The mousy maid nodded and scampered off. Hazel wiped her own hands on her skirts then looked up to give Cook a small, comforting smile. The cut was deep, along the meaty palm of the base of her well-callused hand. She gave half a thought to the frog squelching in her petticoat and the looming rainstorm, but only for a moment. You’re bleeding!” Hazel reached out to coax Cook’s injured hand forth. Just-resting my aching legs.” Cook attempted to hide her hand behind her apron. Cook wiped at her eyes and stood, trying to smooth her skirts. Her red face was damp with tears and redder than usual. Hazel’s eyes followed the trail of red to see Cook sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen by the fire, cradling a hand and rocking back and forth, cooing to herself. The onion, the board, and a dropped knife nearby on the floor were splattered with blood. An abandoned onion lay half chopped on a board. The kitchen was hot when Hazel entered in a rush, with great clouds of steam burping from the iron pot on the fire and the thick smell of onions clinging to every surface. She would go in the back way, so no one would bother her and she would be able slip up to her bedroom immediately. Time was limited, and so Hazel cut her walk short and turned around to head swiftly back to Hawthornden Castle. As soon as the rain started to fall, her experiment would be ruined.įrom behind the azalea bushes, Hazel looked around to see if anyone was watching her (her mother wasn’t looking out her bedroom window on the second floor, was she?) before she knelt down and casually wrapped the frog in her handkerchief to tuck into the waistband of her petticoat. The sky was heavy with gray clouds threatening a rain that hadn’t arrived yet. She was taking her daily stroll after breakfast, and the frog had just been there, lying on the garden path, on its back as though it had been trying to sunbathe. It had been dead already when Hazel Sinnett found it. THE FROG WAS DEAD, THERE WAS no doubt about that.
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