Page 6 of The Witch's Fate
What this scent promises—amatch—is not something I will ever have. The scent does not belong to a wolf, and even if it did, I will never be mated to one. And yet these feelings stir, unwelcome but so dominant.
I move toward the portal without realizing that the pang in my chest has become something more than curiosity. It is disappointment. The mission has gone well. I’ve done what I came here to do. And though I may never see this land again, it will make no difference to the rest of my life. I’m as cursed as I was before I came, and as cursed as I will remain after I leave.
This is not the time to let a wild urge overwhelm me.
I take one last look at the land that spreads out around me, remembering my duty and the only purpose I have to live.
Maybe, in another life, I would have broken free of my responsibilities and gone in search of the witch. Maybe I would have found her. Maybe we would have spoken, and she—who chooses to live alone amid all this beauty—would have understood what I have never been able to explain to other soldiers or wolf shifters.
I wish all of that, and the land, a silent farewell. It has been generous to me these past days, and I won’t forget it.
Then I close my eyes, shutting all of it out, and prepare myself for my departure. Only to find that the portal refuses to open.
IDALIS
As goosebumps spread down my arms, I remind myself, the howl of a wolf is nothing to be distressed about. I live alone, and that means the woodland animals have nothing to be distressed about, either. The deer are free to roam. The wolves are free to howl. It is an unsettling sound so close to the cottage, but only because it had come as a surprise. There is something different, something that causes the feelings of earlier to come back stronger.
My sleep should not be so restless. My heart should not be as wayward as it is.
I am as safe as a person can be in my cottage. I have cast protective spells many times over. The walls and doors are sturdy, and the shutters are strong enough to survive even the heaviest of storms. Magic roams in every corner of my home. I am so divinely protected, I know this, and yet…
Yet I wake several times in the night and lie there, listening for the sound of someone approaching. As if I know that is what is coming although it has never happened in the years I’ve been here.
As the hours drift away, there is no sound of steps that come. No one approaches. No one comes close to Athica, let alonemy cottage. They did not come close when my coven was alive, either, out of respect or superstition or both.
I almost wish they were not superstitious. I almost wish they were not afraid.
But perhaps what they believe about me keeps me safe.
I fall into a night terror of what happened before so fast and hard that I did not know it until it was too late. After that, I lie awake, staring into the dark and trying to convince my heart to settle down.
I drift off into an uneasy sleep that does not last. Even my trick of closing my eyes andpretendingto be asleep does nothing. I resent it when the world starts to wake up around me, with the first bird calls of the morning echoing across from the forest.
“Fine,” I grumble finally. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell the sky is lightening through the slim gaps in the curtains. That is the danger of knowing my home so well, I suppose. I’m so attuned to every change that I cannot ignore the stirring of the morning. Whether I’m ready or not, it is coming, and it is only making me feel worse to lie in bed and try to force sleep that will not come.
So I push off the covers and stretch, long and luxurious, then step out of the bed as if I plannedto be up this early and I’m not annoyed about the poor sleep I barely got.
There is no rush—I’m not going anywhere—so I stir up the fire and brew a pot of tea. I throw open the curtains and watch what I can see of the sunrise, gradually soaking the fields in rich greens dotted with pinks and purples and yellows. Beautiful colors. They have brought me so much joy in the past. I try to take that same joy in them now, but I do not feel much of it. My mind wanders back to the invitation and disappointing the prince.
I had thought the tea would bring me calm, but it doesn’t. I tap my foot on the floor and breathe deeply and stretch—all things that would usually relieve this restless feeling.
No matter how many times I attempt to ground myself, sipping my tea and looking pointedly at the beauty outside my window, the feelings do not disappear.
Whose spirit is this? I do not like to think of such things as hauntings. The spirits may come and go as they please. It might even be comforting if some of my sisters returned in a spirit form to visit me.
This does not feel like being visited by a loved one.
It feels like loneliness, and the loneliness only gets worse. The cottage, which has always been snug and clean and well cared for, feels oddly empty around me. I have felt like this at times over the years since I lost my coven, but I never felt quite so…small. The world outside has never felt so huge, seeming to stretch away from me forever.
Anything could be out there.
That has always been true, hasn’t it? It dawns on me as if so obvious, the unsettling feeling is longing. A part of my soul longs for more.
And if I wished—truly wished— I could be out there, too, farther than I’ve ever gone before. In a land where no one has ever heard of my coven. In a brand-new life that pretends it is whole and never lost anyone.
It’s only a human thing to believe that there is something better on the other side of the forest or just beyond the next hill. That we could run far enough to leave behind the pain of our pasts. Maybe, after so much time alone, I’m willing to believe that any other life would be better.
“Not true,” I whisper to the flowers, with the hot cup of tea in both hands and the warmth of its steam tickling my nose. “Not true. Look at you.”
