Hex Life

by Rachel Deering

  She jumped back. “Who are you, and what are you doing here in my home?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know me, Greta. I’m Jesper.”

  Her heart thudded even harder than the night before. Now she was sure she was going mad. Many times, she had prayed for God to turn Jesper into a man so that she might have someone to share her life. A brother if not a lover.

  It seemed God had finally heard her prayers.

  She couldn’t deny that this man looked like Jesper. He was lean and strong, and his eyes were the same gold, which she’d never seen on a person. His hair, thick and glossy as Jesper’s, had long strands of gold among the black at his temples and mixed in with the sparse whiskers on his face.

  “I must be dreaming,” she said.

  “Believe that if you must. Just know that I’m here to comfort you. Don’t be afraid, Greta. You’re not alone. We can be together forever, if that’s what you want.”

  She let him lie next to her on the pine needles. The body pressed against her felt very familiar; it felt like the same heavy body that leaned into her every night. His hair was the exact same texture as Jesper’s, comfortingly silky and fine. He was the same as Jesper in so many ways, but a man.

  Though not exactly a man. Greta could tell that, too.

  * * *

  Greta was afraid to return to the castle the next day but had no choice. Jesper wanted them to leave and find another place to live, but Greta wasn’t sure. For one thing, she had been promised clothing and a new pair of shoes if she stayed for a season’s service. She felt, too, that she owed Den an explanation. He had been kind to her and would be worried if she disappeared, maybe even send guards to look for her.

  It was wash day at the castle, a busy day. Greta’s job would be to carry heavy wet clothing outside, twist the last of the water out, and then spread the garments on bushes and fence rails to dry in the sun. She was soon exhausted, nearly tripped over her own feet going up and down the stairs, her arms full of wet cloaks and tunics and gowns, her own clothing soaked through.

  Despite her exhaustion, she kept an eye out for Den to tell him she was leaving. How could she not? After last night, everything had changed. She didn’t understand what was happening or what Jesper was, but he had chosen to reveal himself to her, and that was important. It made her feel special. She wouldn’t tell Den that part, of course. He wouldn’t understand. He might think she was crazy or possessed. He might even think the stories about her were true.

  She worried a little bit that it did mean they were true. Was this how the devil came to you? Pretending to be a friend, a protector?

  No, Jesper was not the devil—she was sure of it. Jesper had been with her for a year and had never done anything bad, never so much as nipped at her. He caught game and brought it back for their dinner. He protected her from wild animals. He kept her warm on cold nights. He loved her, and he proved it time and again.

  Greta was running out of places for the wet clothes. She went to the field behind the stables where there were some bushes in full sun, a perfect spot for drying, even if it was a little far. She clambered through the fence and past grazing horses and cattle, and into the field.

  After she’d finished arranging the clothing, she stood for a minute to catch her breath, when a man emerged from the other side of the copse. She didn’t like the look of him. He was older, perhaps twenty, and big, with a roughness to him that put her on edge.

  He cocked his head. “What are you doing out here with those things? Are you stealing them?”

  “It’s wash day,” she said, though surely he knew this. The countryside was dotted with drying clothing. “I work at the castle.”

  “I work in the stable and I’ve never seen you before. You’d better come with me. I’m taking you in to see the steward.”

  She dodged his hand as he reached for her. “I’m headed back that way, and you can follow me if you want and speak to the laundress. She’ll tell you.” She didn’t want him following her, but she wanted his hand on her even less.

  Then he lunged for her. He didn’t think she was stealing, she realized. He might not even work there, perhaps he had come out to steal a horse. But that didn’t matter at the moment; all that mattered was the queer way he looked at the wet clothing clinging to her body. They were far from the castle and the stable. There was no one to hear if she screamed.

  She saw a blur of black and gold in the corner of her eye before she realized it was Jesper. He was on the man in a flash and then they were on the ground, man and dog. Jesper had his teeth sunk deep into the man’s arm and the man was on his back, legs kicking in the air as they tussled, the two surrounded by a cloud of dirt. The man was screaming and Jesper was growling, a frightening growl that Greta had never heard before. The thrashing slowed and soon there was a pool of blood on the ground and the man was still. He began to moan.

  Jesper shook the arm in his teeth like a rag doll.

  “Jesper, stop! You’ll kill him.” She could barely get the words out.

  They ran deep into the woods, branches whipping at her face and tearing at her dress. The dog bounded next to her like a deer, fleet and sure. She wished she could run like him, that she could be like him. That the two could run forever, and never stop.

  They stopped when she was sure no one was following them. She leaned over, hands on her knees, gasping to catch her breath. Jesper stood next to her, a man now. He wasn’t breathing hard at all.

  “Why did you do that? You may have killed him,” she said. Tears sprang to her eyes, from fear. Not fear of his teeth or claws: fear of what would happen next.

  “He was going to hurt you.”

  “But now they’ll come looking for us. They’ll say you’re dangerous. They’ll take you away from me—they might even kill you.”

  He tossed his head. “It doesn’t matter. We won’t go back. We’ll leave.”

  She supposed she knew this, deep in her heart. The moment Jesper showed her that he could become a man, she knew they couldn’t stay in the village any longer. That life was over.

  He was strong and fearless—and magical. She could admit that now. She wished she could be like him, and never be afraid again.

  “You can,” Jesper said to her, reading her mind. “You just have to decide to do it.”

  She knew what that meant, though. What she would be agreeing to.

  But there was no reason to stay. There had been so little kindness for her in the village; only Den. Whereas Jesper had been good to her every day she had known him. He had never given her a reason to doubt him or be afraid.

  In the end, it was no choice at all.

  “Okay,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  HOW TO BECOME A WITCH-QUEEN

  Theodora Goss

  1. THE COFFIN

  You look at the coffin as it is lowered into the rectangular opening in the cathedral floor, that was made specifically to contain it. Inside is your husband, the man to whom you have been married for more than twenty years, you’ve forgotten exactly how many. The man with whom you have three children. The oldest, Gerhard, will inherit the throne. He will be called Gerhard IV after his grandfather, who was Gerhard III or, to his enemies, Gerhard the Drunkard. His younger brother, Wilhelm, is jealous of him, and you foresee a rivalry, perhaps even a struggle for the throne. They were such lovely little boys, you think, remembering when they wore short pants and played with toy soldiers. What happened to them? They are young men now, beyond your purview, and Gerhard in particular takes after his father, who was not a bad man, but not a particularly good one either. A typical king of these small kingdoms, which are perpetually at war with one another, obsessed with politics and power. Wilhelm, at least, is an affectionate son, but you worry that with the privileges of a prince and nothing to do, he will become dissolute, possibly a drunkard like his grandfather. And your daughter Dorothea, who takes after you—well, you worry about her as well. She is still young, only fourteen, but soon she will be old e
nough for the use to which princesses are usually put—a marriage to cement alliances. You don’t want her married off to a prince she barely knows, who may be cruel, or ugly, or just smell bad. Her father would have married her off without a qualm, so you are glad he is dead, although of course you can never say such a thing. The list of things queens cannot say is a long one, and you have not said them for most of your life. His death means your position at court is diminished, but you never cared for pomp and circumstance anyway. If you had been given a choice, you would have stayed in the forest with the dwarves—or the huntsman. Your father’s court taught you that prestige comes at a price. Most are willing to pay it—you, increasingly, are not.

  Would Gerhard force Dorothea to marry? That is the question which has been bothering you since your husband died. He might—she is a pretty girl, although still awkward, as awkward as you were yourself at that age, when the queen your mother asked for your heart and liver and you had to leave the only home you had ever known.

  So that is the dilemma in a nutshell. You have no place here anymore, not really. And there is Dorothea to consider. What should you do?

  As you stand there pondering, with your black handkerchief held up to your dry eyes in mimic grief, the stone that will cover the coffin is put into place. Lying on top of it is an effigy of your husband in armor, looking as handsome as he did in life, with Harald II engraved beneath his feet. He was always an attractive man, even into his forties. Not the sort of man you would expect to die from a heart condition, but here you are, a widow. Across the cathedral, his mistress, who used to be one of your ladies-in-waiting, is sobbing into a friend’s shoulder. For him, or because with his death, she has lost her place in the court hierarchy? Gerhard has never liked her, and will probably send her packing back to her father’s damp manor house by the southern marshes. You have absolutely no pity for her. We all make our own beds, and must lie in them.

  After the funeral services are over, you return to your rooms in the castle, escorted by your ladies-in-waiting. As you walk down a corridor, you pass the chamber where your own coffin, the one made of glass, is displayed. Visitors are allowed to see it Mondays through Thursdays, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, along with other national treasures such as the crown of Gerhard I, who was crowned by the Pope himself, or the emerald necklace of Queen Sofronia, which you wore at your wedding. Someday you may lie in that coffin again—however, you have no intention of dying anytime soon. A plan is coming to you, but will Gerhard agree? How can you put it to him so that he cannot refuse? You have an idea…

  “Your Majesty,” says Franziska, your lady’s maid, who has been waiting for you in your bedroom.

  “Yes?” You turn toward her. As you do, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. For the first time in your life, you are wearing black. It suits you. Your hair is still black at a distance, although up close, with afternoon light coming through the windows, you can see strands of gray. Your face is still youthful, although there are lines under your eyes, of either age or fatigue. You are the same age as your mother when she tried to kill you, and here you are, trying to figure out how to protect your daughter. She is just as pretty as you were at her age, you think loyally, but you know it’s not true—how could she be, without the additional charm of magic? Hair as black as night, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood—those were the words of the enchantment. Other women might be content with dyes and cosmetics, with carmine and lamp black, but your mother must have a daughter as beautiful as herself, created by magic. Of course, when that daughter turned out more beautiful… Well, this is no time to go over that old history.

  “Yes, Franziska? What is it?”

  “The king, Your Majesty. He requests permission to enter.”

  For a moment you are startled: when has your husband ever asked permission to enter? You expect him to come walking in as usual, but then you remember—he is lying under a stone effigy of himself. It is of course Gerhard, who is now king, although the coronation will not be until Sunday, in the cathedral.

  “Mother,” he says, after you have nodded your permission to Franziska. He is stiff and dutiful as always. He has been like this since his days at military school, which affected Wilhelm so differently—if Willi had not been a prince, he would surely have been thrown out for his drunken capers, despite the fact that he was a surprisingly good scholar. Now he is the opposite of his brother—romantic, impulsive, a natural rebel. “I hope you are bearing up under your grief.”

  “Indeed,” you say, offering him your hand to be kissed. “Thank you for your consideration, my son. As you know, I am devastated by the loss of your father, and cannot think how to console myself. After your coronation, where I shall be proud to see you crowned as his successor, I would like to withdraw to the Abbey of St. Winifred, where my mother is buried. I would prefer to mourn in private. Do I have your permission to make such a journey?” It is tiresome to ask permission, but you have had to ask permission from men all your life—your father, your husband. Only in the forest were you free.

  “Of course, of course,” he says. He looks relieved that you asked—it seems he would rather have you absent from court for a while. A king newly crowned does not want the queen dowager interfering in matters of state.

  “And perhaps I shall take Dorothea with me. The nuns will know how to assuage the grief of an emotional girl.”

  “No doubt,” he says. Again he looks relieved to be rid, for a while, of inconvenient females. “I shall need you both here when Prince Ludwig of Hohenstein comes to negotiate the new trade pact for the Five Kingdoms, but until then…”

  So that’s the husband he has chosen for Dorothea! Ludwig of Hohenstein is only ten years older than her, and not particularly ugly—you do not know whether he smells bad—but he is utterly and completely ordinary. A boring man. You do not want her marrying him, unless she herself wants to—if she is to marry dullness, let her choose it herself.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” you say. You curtsey, and you can see that although he raises you up and tells you that sort of thing is not necessary, not for his own mother, he is secretly pleased.

  When Gerhard is gone, you smile. That was easier than you anticipated.

  “Franziska,” you say. “I want you to pack for a long journey. Only black gowns.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” says the lady’s maid. It makes sense that at this delicate time, the queen dowager cannot be seen out of mourning.

  But black, you think, is for more than mourning. It is the appropriate color for a witch.

  II. THE FOREST

  The huntsman’s house is exactly where you remember, both too far and not far enough away from the castle.

  He looks at you warily, a little anxiously. He has heard, no doubt, of the king’s death. Such news travels fast.

  He looks different—how could he not? He has a beard now, and there is gray in it, as well as in his hair. He has taken off his green cap with the feather and is standing respectfully, waiting for your command.

  You remember the first time you saw him. He was only seventeen, with golden-red hair and the beginning of a mustache.

  “Princess,” he said. “The queen your mother commanded that I lead you out into the forest to kill you. She told me to bring back your liver and heart. But I cannot do such a thing. Take my purse—it does not have much in it, but a little is better than nothing. Run and hide, at least until Her Majesty is no longer angry with you—although why she is angry, I cannot imagine. If you follow the road, you will come to a village—there you can perhaps hide yourself as long as necessary. I shall kill a young doe and take its liver and heart back to her instead.”

  “My mother the queen will not get over that anger.” You remember how she looked at you the day you returned from St. Winifred’s, where you had been at school for seven years, coming home only for holidays. You remember the look in her eyes when she realized her magic had worked too well, that you were, not jus
t as beautiful as your mother, but more beautiful. You could hear the courtiers whispering it—“More beautiful than the queen herself.”

  Your father said, when he did not know you were listening, “She’s as beautiful as Elfrida—more beautiful, because younger. She’ll be easy to marry off.”

  You looked up at the huntsman then, thinking, Why should I run? Let him kill me, let us get this over with. But you decided, perhaps only because it was a sunlit summer day and all the birds were singing in the trees, that you wanted to live. You took the purse, then went up on tiptoes and to his immense surprise, kissed him on the mouth. And then you turned and ran, not down the road, but into the forest.

  Years later, after your mother’s death and your husband’s coronation, you said to the king, “Do you remember the huntsman who spared my life? We should reward him by giving him a position in the castle.”

  “There is no use for a huntsman in a castle,” said King Harald. “But I can make him a gamekeeper in the forest. That is easy enough.”

  It was not so easy sneaking out of the castle when you were the queen, especially under the watchful eyes of your ladies-in-waiting, but Franziska helped. When you came to the gamekeeper’s house for the first time, you knocked gently, then opened the door. You had not seen him in years—now he was twenty-seven, tall and handsome as he stood up, startled and a little frightened at this apparition.

  “Your Majesty!” he said, bowing.

  Of course he recognized you, even after all these years. Who else has hair black as night, skin white as snow, lips red as blood?

  “None of that, if you please,” you told him. “I have come for something you owe me.”

  “And what is that?” he asked, although you thought he already knew—he was looking at you not like a queen, but like a woman. A wave of relief washed over you—you had hoped, had thought, there was something between you, that you had not imagined it all those years ago. Some small bit of the magic we call attraction or even love, but you had been so young, and not at all certain. And now here it was in his eyes, and in his arms as you claimed back your kiss.