Page 17 of The Wand of Lore

Witch, someone muttered, and soon the word was on everyone’s lips until they were a pack of hungry wolves sauntering to find their prey. She was waiting for them outside her cottage. She had left her daughters inside the cottage and cast a spell to protect them. It would not last forever, but she hoped she could satiate the villagers’ thirst for blood before the protection wore off.

Gwenneth could only imagine what happened next. The wolves encircled Sarri, ready for a fight. It was too easy, though, over before it began, and they dragged the witch to the village center. There was a pyre and a torch and the wolves were howling; then the fire grew and the witch’s beautiful dress caught fire first. She screamed, and the fire roared, and thevillagers quieted, ashamed or exhausted, and Gwenneth was changed forever.

Back in the cottage, Gwenneth stayed inside as she was ordered. Fear pounded in her skull, and the pounding was worse when she tried to open the door. She would stay inside forever, she thought. Her mother didn’t come home that night, and the child made a stew with carrots and potatoes and leeks that were already in the house, then took her mother’s small broom and tidied the cottage.

Her sister, Nayla, awoke from a nap crying for her mother. Gwenneth hugged the child as she wailed and pounded her with tiny fists. When the screams turned to whimpers, Gwenneth put the child on their mother’s sheepskin and continued sweeping the floors, glancing occasionally at her mother’s bowl of stew still sitting on the table.

She ignored the nagging, far-away thought that her mother would never come home even though her supper was growing cold. Gwenneth stayed indoors the next day too, but there was little food left inside the home, and Nayla was growing restless. Gwenneth would have to venture outside if they were to eat. Anyway, the last bunch of flowers was wilting, and she wanted to pick fresh flowers for her mother’s homecoming.

She waited inside for two days until finally, one morning, she put on her mother’s long, dark cloak, grabbed a harvest basket, and opened the door just a hair. Days before, her body had ached when she tried to leave, but now she could tell the spell was waning because she opened the door with ease. The fresh morning air called to her, so she pulled the door all the way open and skipped outside. The skip was a surprise, given her nerves, but she loved the outdoors and it was a beautiful day; besides, their cottage was beginning to give off an unwelcome stench and could use the fresh air. She hummed as she went to the garden to find some food, carrying little Naylaon her back. The baby cooed and giggled as the breeze tickled her ruddy cheeks, and Gwenneth felt maybe there had been a misunderstanding and she might still find her mother. She decided to go into the village to get some answers.

By the time the girls made their way to the village center, Gwenneth had a basket full of Swiss chard and squash and freshly cut basil. She smelled charred meat first, and when she saw the burnt pile of logs, she gasped. Somebody had at least granted her the mercy of removing her mother’s body, but she knew immediately. Then: screaming, wild digging, flying dirt, arms surrounding her. She was in the Owenses’ warm cottage, being held and rocked like a baby as she sobbed on the woman’s generous shoulder.

Once Gwenneth and Nayla were back home, Gwenneth closed her door and didn’t venture to the village again until she was at last summoned for a spell. One day, a few years later, she was on a house call when she noticed a boy her age, Stevey, had overnight become a man. She looked around and realized that boys everywhere were filling the gaps that their fathers and brothers had left, sitting at heads of tables and even starting to marry the girls-turned-women.

Stevey had dark brown skin and starry black hair and a smile that widened as he tossed jokes her way with ease. She invited him back to her cottage and sent Nayla out on an errand. They used each other up and replenished each other in the same evening, and then he went out the door and on his way.

The villagers left the girls alone by and large. Mr. and Mrs. Owens would bring them food from time to time, or new clothes as their old dresses became increasingly tattered and small. Still, Gwenneth taught her sister never to open the door, neither to friends nor strangers, and they met their company outside. Villagers seemed to forget about Sarri and talked inhushed whispers of the strange girl with her strange sister, but largely they left the girls alone unless they needed her services.

Gwenneth missed her mother terribly but was content with the life she shared with her baby sister. Marvin had sat across from her at breakfast, tossing her the occasional smile like a man tosses bones to a dog. Gwenneth would keep her promise to her mother and never open the door. This man was not invited to disrupt their family. She retreated up the stairs, ignoring the sounds of confusion and protest below as she entered her room and closed the door behind her.

Chapter Twelve: Vaylor

Despite Gwenneth’s unambiguous disinterest in him, Vaylor still trekked up the stairs, found Gwenneth’s pack, and carried it down for her. His father was a prime jerk, but nobody could say that Vaylor had been raised incorrectly. Sure, he had spent a childhood with a family that made little effort to hide their desire for his death. But he had enjoyed every other privilege of nobility, and he was a gentleman; nobody could accuse him otherwise.

He stopped by the innkeeper, who was all too happy to replenish their provisions, then found his horse in the stables. Vaylor fed him a couple of carrots and a biscuit the innkeeper had given him and got to work combing him with a brush he found in the stable. Gwenneth’s behavior at breakfast had been completely baffling. She had come downstairs all smiles, and he had done the right thing apologizing to her. And how did she respond? By storming away. He got the message loud and clear. Apology not accepted. He shrugged the thought aside and shifted his attention to his worthy steed.

“Another day on the road, Sir Henry,” he muttered apologetically. “We’ll be at Gorenth Castle soon enough, and you won’t have to lug the witch around any longer. Hang in there.”

“Excuse me?” Gwenneth said from behind him.

Vaylor’s ears burned as he turned. “No offense. Sir Henry just isn’t used to the extra weight.”

“Extra weight? I know; it’s all the harvest food we start eating in the fall. Nayla always tells me—”

“No, please, don’t misunderstand me! You’re quite slender. I mean, not too slender. I mean, you’re great! Your pack is big, that’s all.”

Gwenneth raised an eyebrow, and Vaylor looked at the floor, hoping to the gods that the ground would open and swallow him whole. As usual, the gods were preoccupied, so Vaylor tried to change the conversation.

“Well? We’re ready if you are.” He patted Sir Henry’s rump, then helped her onto the horse. Dutifully, Vaylor sat behind her and held her against him as they set out once more. Was it duty that caused him to smell her hair in hopes of catching that intoxicating scent of honey and warm spices? He wondered briefly how she could possibly still smell so good after the time they’d spent on the road and the harrowing day she had experienced. Alas, he would rather cut out his own tongue than ask. Her plentiful red hair was tied back in her signature thick braid, and judging by her smell, she had probably bathed.

Though he was determined to remain ever the gentleman, he was thoroughly unhappy with the way she had treated him. He tried to distract himself from the festering anger, but there was little distraction on the road to the castle, under the blue sky, with only the sound of Sir Henry’s hooves disturbing the landscape.

It was quite rude of her to storm out on him after brunch, and truly untoward of her to refuse to offer absolution. He had given a genuine apology. What kind of witch wouldn’t accept that? He understood her point. She found him to be cruel, antagonistic, and possibly a murderer. All true, but all beside thepoint. He was there to help, but a humble servant. She was rude, but at least her hair smelled nice.

They made good time, passing through two villages before nightfall. They considered finding an inn at the second village, but they had lost a whole day in Aldersbridge and agreed to keep going. They rode until the light was too dim to see the path, then stopped for the night in a clearing a little way off the road.

“Help me make a soup,” she commanded as they made camp.

“You do that. I’ll ensure our packs are situated properly.”

“The packs are fine. Find me some of the mint that was on the side of the road.”

“I couldn’t tell the difference between mint and a pile of weeds. I will not be collecting herbs. I’ll tend to the fire if you desire assistance.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, a look that was growing increasingly familiar. “Suit yourself. At least grab my tinctures from the pack. We may as well use one for protection out here in the open,” she said finally, and her slender body disappeared into the woods.

As promised, Vaylor gathered logs, set out their packs, and started a fire. He sat by the fire, tapping his foot on the ground and ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. The witch was taking too long. What was she thinking, dawdling in the woods, hunting for weeds when there was a perfectly good fire where they could rest and warm themselves? He tried to relax from the hard day of riding but kept glancing at the tree line, hoping to glimpse her emerging into the dying light. When Gwenneth still hadn’t returned with the herbs as the sun set, he grew alarmed. Surely this was more than whimsical dawdling. He set out after her but cursed himself for not paying attention to the direction she had gone. It was dark now and difficult to see in the woods,and he realized he had been holding his breath inadvertently with worry. He exhaled and started running through the trees. He ought to have brought a torch with him, but he hadn’t been thinking straight.

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