Page 7 of The Witch's Fate
I go about my morning routine, washing my face and brushing my long thick brunette hair, all the while enchanting the day with unexpected blessings as I do each morning. I weave my locks in a simple braid and finally, I chose a dark blue cotton sundress with a pleated skirt and thin straps. Blue, the color for calming in magic.
Eventually, I tie on my pocket purse and throw open the door, half-expecting to find someone on the other side.
There is no one there. Only the slight chill of the night battling the morning sun.
With feigned ease, I stride across the yard to my stone oven, casting a quick glance over the well and the bench. They are the same as they were yesterday aside from a glistening layer of this morning’s dew. My garden is damp, too, the soil soaking in the moisture before it can be burned away by the sun.
I do not know why I feel so lonely all of a sudden. Worse than lonely—alone. I skim my fingers over the soil and find a seed, then grow a hasty cucumber and another potato. I cannot jump to my feet fast enough after I pull them out of the ground.
A feeling at the back of my neck brings goosebumps down my spine. Breathlessly, I turn.
There is nothing. The fields are empty. The forest—as far as I can see—is empty.
Goosebumps prickle on my arms and the back of my neck. I square my shoulders and make a point of looking all around, letting my eyes linger on every piece of the land.
“See?” I say under my breath. “There’s nothing here. You did not sleep well, and that is all this is. The invitation is only an invitation.”
There is no answer, of course. Except for my beating heart proving that it does not believe my excuse.
I don’t run back to the cottage. I walk back with my head held high, pretending I do not feel so uneasy. Pretending I amsafe here, and that I do not mind the lifetime that stretches out before me without anyone to pass the time with except the villagers who write to me for spells. That is enough for one person. It will be enough for me.
It is time to answer the invitation.
But first?—
I scrub the cucumber and potato and chop the cucumber into slices to have with tea later. I find a place for the sweet potato in the kitchen. I breathe slowly and deeply, easing myself into the next task. I make a point to feel the calm of my home and the security of it all around me. The security that I have built.
When I’ve thought it over long enough, I find a glass pen and ink, then sit at my table and consider what to write.
There is no need to include many details. Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte will likely not read my reply, since there are people who do those kinds of things for the royal household. I bite my lip as I dip the tip of the pen in black ink, still feeling odd and lonely and somehow exposed, even though I’m safe in my cottage.
This reply is aboutthankingthem for the invitation, first and foremost, so that’s how I start. I tell Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte how grateful I am to have received it, and though I must decline, I wish them all the happiness in the world.
Then I sign my name at the bottom and spend a minute or two looking at my signature.
Is it…enough? Pretty enough? Elegant enough? Respectful enough?
They know I am a solitary witch without a coven, who lives in Athica and has not been seen by most people in years. And whoever opens this letter and marks off my name on the invitee list won’t be paying attention to my signature, so I fold it up and seal it with a bit of wax and a pressed flower I made last summer.
Somehow, the sight of that flower, pressed into the purple wax, makes the uncertain feeling even more intense. As if this is a mistake. I don’t often ignore my intuition, but venturing so far alone is simply not wise, no matter how curious I may be.
Without wanting to send off this message with loneliness clinging to the paper, with the snap of a finger I light a white chime candle in a brass candle holder. I concentrate on a spell to make sure there is no harm done—not even an uneasy feeling—in my denial.
“For the good of all and to the harm of none, my rejection will be met with understanding. My attendance is not required,” I say aloud, testing the words. “Their love remains admired. With all that’s meant to be, I’ll stay here with fate to see.”
I repeat the words again, using a fingertip to trace the invitation script into the candle. On the third repetition, the spell takes hold and flows through the candle and out through the flame.
The candle flame dances in the softness of my exhale, and as my spell covers the paper and the words I have written, contentedness smooths out the harsher edges of my loneliness and doubt. I may have lost my coven. I may spend my days in a silence most people will hopefully never know. But the candle is proof—I am never truly alone. Not as long as I have my magic.
With that spirit and energized by the sight of the candle burning happily away, I get up and start gathering items for a gift to send as well.
“Ah yes!” I state as the perfect gift becomes so obvious.
Thatwill be the perfect thing to send along with my message. A heartfelt thanks for the invitation, my regrets that I cannot attend, and a lovers’ grimoire cast with a beautiful intention of a royal union.
This is the kind of project my sisters would have rejoiced in. Everyone would have had a part to play. There would have beenplayful arguments over what to include and who should cast the spells and which of us should be the one to carry it to the wedding.
I think of my sisters and their joy and wrap that around me like a blanket and hum one of the songs we used to sing under my breath as I work.
