Page 64 of The Witch and His Crow

Eleanor drew back and gestured for me to copy what she’d done. Before I could even come up with an excuse, she stoppedme. ‘It is the least you can do, since I’ve looked after you so well over the past days.’

She was right. There was something in her belief in me that made me toy with the idea of old magic. I leaned forwards, tracing the triangular symbol for air across my palm. Of course, nothing happened for me. Old magic was clearly not even a muscle I could begin to exercise. I was about to stop when Eleanor offered me words of encouragement.

‘Picture, in your mind, what it is you will your element to do. Is it to blow out a candle, or feed a fire? Do you wish to conjure a storm or ride the winds as your steed?’

‘Impossible,’ I replied.

‘Is it?’ Eleanor shrugged, searching to the stool beside her and lifted the slim cream candle which danced with a bud of fire at its wick. ‘I suppose it is, for someone who contemplates the act but does notbelieve.’

I focused on the symbol again, not only tracing it on my palm but conjuring wild images of all the endless possibilities controlling the air could offer. I closed my eyes, blocking out the world around me, narrowing my focus. I longed to make this stranger proud of me.

Wind rattled glass. ‘That’s it, my boy.’ A breeze danced over my skin, clearing away the heavy, straw-damp air suffocating the rooms of Eleanor’s house. ‘Keep going. Feed the element with your intention…’

I felt the cool breeze toy with my hair, dance across my neck and the impossible—yet possible—grace of old magic in my…

Arwyn announced his presence by clearing his throat. As soon as I opened my eyes and looked at him, the air stilled. My connection was severed. The symbol went from glowing lines of silver in my mind, to an abyss of emptiness again. But what I noticed was that the candle Eleanor held out no longer burned with flame.

‘I think we should head back to the stable,’ Arwyn said, voice firm.

I tried to read his expression, but it was void of anything that gave his thoughts away. And as I’d previously imagined, the tunic fit him perfectly. It broadened his shoulders but was held cinched to his waist by the leather belt Eleanor had provided him.

‘You are right. My husband will return shortly. There are a few supplies I want to get you first, just bear with me a moment.’ Eleanor rushed out of the room, slipping past Arwyn who continued to stand by the door like he was guarding it.

‘You could’ve given us away,’ he hissed.

‘She’s a witch—her intuition alone will mean she knows we’re lying,’ I retorted.

‘If we are going to survive the trial, we need to first survive the time we’re stuck in. Giving away that we don’t belong here will only endanger us.’

I rolled my eyes, finding his presence irritating once again. ‘We’re not going to survive this trial if you continue speaking down to me. Trust me on that.’

He stepped into the room, bringing the tension with him like a cloak. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I don’t threaten, I promise.’

‘Here you go,’ Eleanor announced, sweeping back into the room before we both went at each other. Unlike Arwyn, I forced a smile and pretended everything was alright.

‘Thank you again for your hospitality, Eleanor,’ Arwyn announced in his monotone drawl. ‘We’ll be out of your hair for the rest of the evening and gone from the village by dawn. Hector,’ his voice darkened again. ‘I’ll meetyououtside.’

I waited until Arwyn had walked into the corridor before I addressed Eleanor. ‘Sorry about him, he can be grumpy.’

‘A shadow always needs its sunlight,’ Eleanor said with a wink, handing over a straw basket. I didn’t have time to tell her that I certainly wasn’t his sunlight, before she listed off the items she had given us. Food supplies, blankets, another change of clothes and more importantly, two bottles of her husband’s home-brewed honey ale. Strong stuff, she said. I would’ve asked her the alcohol percentage, but that really would’ve proved we didn’t belong here.

Instead, I thanked her, offered her a final hug, and went to move.

‘One more thing, but this gift is just for you.’ Eleanor reached into the pocket of her apron and produced a small book. The last time I had seen one like this, it had been in Romy’s hands.

‘A grimoire,’ I said, hands refusing to move to claim it. ‘I can’t possibly take that. It’s yours.’

‘Correction, dear boy. It’s my ancestor’s grimoire, and the last I checked all witches are kin, are we not? So please, take it. I’ve learned everything I can and could recite the grimoire from cover to cover. I have no one to give it to, and you have no one to learn from. It only makes sense you take it, learn from it, practice the craft. It is your birthright, one taken away by those who broke your family. It would be my honour, truly, to accept you as a Letcombe if you please take it.’

Tears filled my eyes unexpectedly. Crying was not something I was comfortable doing, or was used to. But here the tears came, free flowing, tracing over my cheeks as I took the grimoire from Eleanor. ‘How could I possibly say no to you after your beautiful speech?’

‘You don’t,’ Eleanor said, taking me in, planting a gentle kiss to my crown. ‘Now go. Just remember the Letcombe name, carry it on for me. The blood between family binds us, but the craft is always a thicker thread.’

‘Thank you,’ I said as I hugged the grimoire tight. There was no point in drying my eyes. ‘I will.’

‘I get the impression, my boy, that I will one day soon be thanking you.’

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