Page 6 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
“Of course,” Idris and I said in unison, breaking apart.
“Ready?” the lead wagoner called.
We stood on the edge of town, right where Waldron’s main cobblestone road ended. The modest caravan—three wagons in total, each with one driver and two horses—waited in the grass not far off, facing north.
“Almost!” I replied, dropping into a crouch to pet Anya’s elderly wolfhound, Wicker. His pink tongue darted out, lapping at my cheek. “I’ll miss you, too,” I told him.
When I stood again, I surveyed the street, trying to soak up every detail. Quaint cottages were snuggled up in neat rows, edged with unruly flower boxes. The River Wend meandered through the middle of town, swans gliding along its calm surface and ducks bobbing butts-up for pondweed. The surrounding hills looked like a massive, rumpled quilt, patched with square crop plots and fields dotted with sheep and buttercups. The wind smelled of loam and livestock; the sun seemed to kiss every stone sweetly.
I loved Waldron in the spring. I’d never been to the capital city of Fenrir Territory, but I knew it wouldn’t be as charming. Nothing was.
Hiking my satchel a little higher on my shoulder, I started toward the wagons, shaking hands, offering hugs, and speaking my farewells to everyone who’d come to witness my departure. Waldron was the closest I’d ever come to feeling a true sense of belonging, but the terrible truth was: no one here knew the complete me. The Hattie they knew was a carefully constructed portrait, where only the prettiest glimpses of a larger and more complicated painting were visible.
But that didn’t mean my love for them wasn’t real—that I wouldn’t miss them all terribly.
When I approached the last wagon in the line, Idris was there to offer me a hand, helping me up. I took a seat on one of the numerous candle crates, setting my satchel on the floor by my feet, the vials inside it clinking. There were a few things did not wish to travel without: my herbology books, an arrangement of tinctures and potions, plenty of dresses, and copious snacks for the road.
Gripping the railing, I gave Anya my best, most optimistic smile, hoping she couldn’t see the nervous anticipation I was feeling. “Wish me luck!”
Anya shook her head. “You don’t need it.”
“Pretty sure I do.”
Apothecary apprenticeships were only a small fraction of the teachings that happened within the walls of Fenrir’s Collegium. Folks from all over the Seven Territories of Marona traveled there with the hopes of one day becoming an Adept of the Order of Alchemy, the Arcane, or the Archives. And while I’d set my sights on a more modest and applicable apothecary license—with the sole intention of being able to legally practice healing alchemy for the folks in Waldron—I’d be studying alongside students of all calibers, from all corners of the kingdom.
I needed all the luck I could get.
But Anya wasn’t having it. “I know you, Hattie. Luck or no, you’re going to take them by storm.”
I know you, Hattie.
Her words made my heart twist like a wrung-out bar rag.
While I’d neverliedto Anya, but I’d never been entirely truthful, either. I’d omitted large swaths of my past from her—not only because I hadn’t wanted to relive the events that led me to Waldron, but because my history was too dangerous to divulge, even to her. Anya had respected my caginess—never prying—and that had only made me feel worse about my inability to be completely honest.
So, while shedidknow me—from my favorite tea (chamomile) to my love of reading (mostly about herbs) to my teasing (but doting) sense of humor—she didn’t know the labels of my identity. Shecouldn’t. And no amountI-lie-to-keep-people-safereasoning could assuage my guilt. Because when it came down to it, I was deceiving my best friend. I was living a lie.
I compensated by being as truthful about everything else as I could. Always sharing my honest opinion, always wearing my heart on my sleeve, always offering my friendliest and most social self. But deep down, I cravedrealconnection, and in spite of what I hid from her, Anya was as close as I’d ever get. My safest place in a dangerous world.
Thinking about all this—how much I wanted to tell her and had to hold back, how much I loved her, how much I’d miss her—made my eyes well with tears. When one tracked down my face, I caught it with my tongue, my taste magic noting the quality of the salt.
“Oh, Hattie,” Anya said, reaching over the railing of the wagon to give me one last squeeze. I tucked my face into her shoulder, feeling more tears wet the fabric of her dress. “At least they’re not carting you off in a prisoner caravan.”
At our last farewell, Anya had been in shackles, heading off to trial for a Fates-predicted crime she hadn’t yet committed. Though she had eventually been absolved, her journey to the capital had been far more fraught than mine would be.
Hopefully.
I snorted and wiped my eyes. “I always love being reminded of watching my best friend being taken away like a criminal. That’s comforting, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Anya said, bouncing her eyebrows. “Your time in Fenrir will fly by. Just enjoy it.”
I gave her my best bubbly smile. “I will.” Then I met Idris’s eyes again, inclining my head.
“I know that look,” he said, scratching his beard. “I’ll keep her safe.”
Two nights ago, I’d caught a glimpse of a terribly diseased bobcat from my bedroom window, skirting the edge of the Western Wood. Its body had been deformed—stretched larger—with gnarled antlers pushing through its skull, spider-like legs protruding from its sides, and glowing red eyes.
A monster.
