Page 32 of Enslaved

“And what do you get out of it? Out of my pain?”

“Why, I will harvest it. That pain is mine for the taking.”

“And it will begin three days from now?”

“Yes.”

“And last for three days after?”

“Yes.”

I could do it. I could finish my quest in time, see Danny freed and sent safely home. Surely this was manageable.

I become aware of the Prince’s stare. I cast him a wary glance. His complexion is pale, his expression almost desperate. “Darling, you can’t be serious.”

But I stand. Fists clenched, I face the crone. “How will you harvest my pain?”

“Through your blood, of course.” She tilts her head to one side. “Do you need every gory detail? The secrets of Bhorriel’s Daughters spelled out for you in childish terms?” She holds out one gnarled, claw-like hand. “Or will you make the bargain, little human?”

The Prince curses and moves as though to grab me. But he’s bargained with the crones himself, has he not? Even he must see the value of their power when necessity drives. Sometimes bold moves are necessary for bold outcomes.

With a quick step forward, I take the crone’s hand. Her grip is much stronger than I anticipated, hard enough to crack my bones. I scarcely have time to gasp before she flips my palm over and, with three quick jabs, pierces my thumb, index, and middle fingers with an iron pin. I yelp. Blood wells, and the crone, using a lace-trimmed handkerchief, dabs all three wounds in quick succession, staining the lace with three bright crimson spots.

When she lets go, I hastily clench my fist. But when I dare uncurl my fingers and look, the wounds are already gone. Thumb and both fingers still throb, but not a single drop more spills.

The crone cackles happily to herself as she folds the handkerchief and stuffs it into the front of her bodice. “Very well, child. Let us give you a way to drown without dying. Will you step into my garden with me?”

It’s jarring to leave behind the familiar comfort of Danny and Kitty’s parlor for the horror of the Wild Magic Realm. I feel the edges of my sanity threatening to fray and am grateful when the Prince takes hold of my elbow. Without his steadying grasp, I’m not sure I would have made it down the porch steps without toppling.

The crone makes her way into her garden, moving with surprising nimbleness for a woman of her apparent age. Several of the more poisonous-looking plants snap at her, and one bristles and growls at her passing. She doesn’t react so far as I can tell. Nevertheless, they seem to retreat into themselves, drawing back into their beds and planters as the Prince and I pass by.

We come to a stagnant pond in the middle of the garden. Green, pus-like foam covers most of the surface, giving off an awful reek. Undeterred, the crone wades right in up to her waist. I stop short, watching with wide, horrified eyes. She doesn’t mean for us to follow, does she? I gag, covering my mouth and nose with my hand. I’m not sure I could brave it.

The crone proceeds to the center of the pond where she reaches down deep, her arm scrabbling about a little. “Ah!” she says at last and gives a mighty tug. There’s a moment of resistance; then up comes a large orange flower trailing slimy-looking leaves and a thick stem. Turning back to us, she waves the hideous thing over her head, then wades back to shore. “This is what you need, dearie,” she says. Green foam clings to her skirts as she emerges, dropping in awfulblopson the ground around her. What passes for grass in this world steams and withers away at contact. She holds out the flower to me.

I stare. “What do I do with it, exactly?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple.” The witch grabs the awful green stem and holds it up to her mouth. “You take this between your teeth. Then these”—she opens the awful petals to reveal two long stamen at the flower’s center—“go up your nostrils. It won’t stop the water from filling your lungs, but it will keep you alive.”

“For how long?”

“Three hours.” She smiles that toothy smile of hers. “One hour for each drop of blood.”

Will it be enough? Enough to take me to Ulakrana and back again? It will have to be. I reach out and, shuddering, let the witch plop the awful thing in my hand. It feels fleshy and alive, more like a slug than a flower.

The Prince observes all this in silence. I can almost feel his astonishment, like a vibration from his soul. Up until this moment, he didn’t truly believe I would go through with it. Suddenly he shakes himself and says harshly, “How much for a second, Beldame?”

“A second what?” she inquires, all blinking innocence.

He waves a hand. “A second one of those.”

I turn to him sharply. “You’re not coming with me! It’s much too dangerous. I’ll go alone and—”

“Please, Darling, don’t arouse my ire with such painful absurdity.” The Prince fixes his gaze on the crone. “How much?”

She gives him a long, slow, contemplative look. Then, to my surprise, she reaches into the front of her bodice and pulls out a second flower. As though she’d expected him to ask and prepared accordingly. This flower is pink rather than orange and somewhat crumpled, but she offers it to him. “No charge, pretty thing. It looks to me as though you’ve not got long before your own pain will begin in earnest. Then my sisters and I will harvest. Take this as a little pick-me-up. To keep you going until then.”

I gape from the crone to the flower to the Prince. I don’t understand what’s happening. Did he also bargain away future pain in exchange for the curse he purchased? His cheeks are drained of their usual golden color, his expression hard as stone. I cannot read him.

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