Page 4 of Matches and Mistletoe
“What?” Her pulse pounded at her throat, and the room seemed to tilt dangerously aside. “How do you—I thought—”
“Breathe, Unwanted,” said the Felwitch coolly. “Or you will fall over, and I am too busy to catch you.”
“I don’t want you to catch me,” she managed, and she sat right down on the rug. It looked to be woven of a thousand different twisted scraps, yet somehow its variegated colors fused beautifully. Its spiral pattern made her dizzier, though, so she looked up at the Felwitch again.
“Why am I here? What are you going to do with me? What did you do with the baby you took?”
“The child? I found him a place where he was wanted. As to why you are here—I believe you know that. I cannot take anyone who is wanted. You were not. So here you will stay until I find someone who wants you.”
Thistle pulled her lip between her teeth, biting it hard. The pain served as a barrier to the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
She counted to a hundred, and then she said, “What if no one ever wants me? What then?”
The Felwitch sighed and put down his work. His eyes were the blue of a midnight sky, the blue of bruises. They sliced through Thistle’s remaining shreds of confidence.
“That is a conundrum, indeed,” said the Felwitch. “What can you do, girl?”
“I am twenty-two years old. Not a girl,” she replied. “But you know that. You’ve been giving me presents since I could walk.”
“So I have.” He gazed at her, inscrutable. “I know every resident of Embry Hollow. I know their deepest desires and their most ridiculous cravings. A dubious magical gift of mine. But you—you I’ve never quite been able to satisfy, have I?”
Something in his gaze brought the blood to Thistle’s cheeks. She scooted farther from him, nearer to the hearth. “I’ve always been thrilled with my midwinter gifts.”
“But that’s not exactly true, is it?” He leaned forward, planting both elbows on the worktable. “You were pleased, yes. Thrilled, no. And that’s because I’ve only been able to read your surface wishes, not your innermost cravings. Your grandfather was the same. I had to use what I could glean, and guess the rest.” He nodded toward the bed, where Thistle’s book lay. “That, for example, was a guess of mine.”
“It’s beautiful, and I’m grateful.”
“But you haven’t opened it yet.”
“I only just woke up.” Her brow furrowed. “And as to your question—what can I do—I can weave, poorly. I read. I draw a little. I’ve planted gardens, but for some reasons the insects always seem to devour everything that begins to bear fruit. I can cook—”
“Ah!” His eyes lit up. “I cannot cook. Or rather, I don’t like to. There are so many more interesting things to be doing. You will cook for me. And maybe clean a little.”
Thistle narrowed her eyes. “I did not come here to be your maidservant.”
“Would you rather go back in the bag?” His dark eyebrows arched higher.
“No.”
“Well then.”
Brimming with frustration, Thistle jumped to her feet. The sharp movement might have startled another man, but the Felwitch kept tinkering, unperturbed. She wandered around the room, poking at various items.
“You do need someone to keep this place in order,” she said, after a time. “I kept my grandfather’s dyes and spools and yarns organized for him. I enjoy such work. Perhaps I could do the same for you. And cook a little. But we will share the cleaning chores. I despise dusting, and mopping is a bore. Are there other rooms?”
“Many. But they are empty, and need no tending.”
“Oh. Perhaps I could fix one for myself, to sleep in. There’s only one bed here.”
“Suit yourself. And now be silent. I want to finish this before midnight.”
“What happens at midnight?”
But the Felwitch did not answer.
Thistle found a candle and lit it at the fireplace. She circled around the Felwitch’s worktable and passed through a narrow door behind him, into chilly gray corridors frosted with cobwebs, whispering with eddies of wind that leaked through the cracks of shuttered windows. She could tell by the state of the stone and plaster that the house was very old, much older than most of the buildings in her village.
For her own room she settled on a small chamber near the Felwitch’s nest. There was a bedframe already there, and surprisingly there were no mice in the mattress. Perhaps the Felwitch had some magic to keep pests at bay.
