by Isla Jones
The corners of my lips tuck into my cheeks and I give her a stiff nod. She warns me, here. The hex she has on the book will only fade when her life does. Until then, I cannot touch it without blisters erupting all over my body. Eventually, they should fade, but the pockmarks would forever scar my flesh.
I lean forward and draw a blanket over my legs. As I glance at the curtained window, I see that it is fresh morn outside. My fainting spell must have lasted all day yesterday and through the night. It is Saturday, and tomorrow comes the full moon. I am now left with one day and night to make what the village needs.
“Grandmother,” I say. “If Priest Peter doesn’t think me a witch, why has he ordered me to procure wolfsbane for all the villagers?”
Her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “Did he,” she says, though it is not a question. “Peter has always been one for the theatrics. Oh, when he brought you to me…All that flapping of the robe, the shaking of his precious book.” She rises from the chair and starts to make hot lemon water. “You were inches from death, yet he cared most of how fraught he appeared.”
“Who was my mother?”
The question spilled from my lips so fast I could not stop it.
It takes us both by surprise. Grandmother stilled a mere moment before she set the black kettle on the fire-grill. “Your mother was a prostitute. As my own daughter passed, your mother followed days later.”
“In birth,” I say, my eyes downcast.
“There was no one to look after you. Priest Peter once came to me for a sickness in his leg. The village physician’s treatments were temporary. He put leeches on the wound, the swelling would fade a while, then the sickness would return.”
“Infection.” I pick at a loose thread in the blanket. “Priest Peter had an infection in his leg, didn’t he?”
“Indeed. And physicians … Well, we both know how silly they are.”
“Everyone is silly to you.”
“No, dear. Only the silly are silly to me.”
In answer, I hum and push my finger through a hole in the blanket.
“Back to my tale,” she snips. “The priest came to me when he realised that the physician was failing him. Three visits to my cabin and he never needed to come again. So when you were near strangled by a cord from your mother’s womb and so close to death, Peter brought you to me. He begged that I care for you. It took months before your strength was suitable and by then…”
“You had come to love me,” I say, a touch of hope to my voice.
“Yes.”
A smile twists my lips.
“I love you too, Grandmother.”
Silence slips between us—the kettle’s whistle shatters it.
Grandmother clears her throat and—with her back to me—pours us some hot lemon drinks. It isn’t until I have had a third that my muscles feel strong again and the drowsiness lifts from me.
When I am poorly or unwell, Grandmother insists I do not go wandering through the woods. Our confessions today—of familial love—have hardened her. After she collected the last of the wolfsbane for me, she fills my basket with it and sends me on my way.
Before I leave, I ask her again why Priest Peter relies on me for witchcraft.
Grandmother tells me that he does not. He relies on his own judgement to bring hope to the villagers, for hope is the only emotion that can conquer fear.
15.
The church bell rings four times barely a minute after I unpack the wolfsbane on my worktop. Never before have I catered to the whole village. The weight of it slumps my shoulders and brews a sweat above my brow. I have lost too much time.
Years of practice speed up the process. That, and I wish to distract myself from the truths Grandmother told me today. Brewing wolfsbane paste demands patience and concentration, and I am all too willing to offer both.
The cauldron hisses in the fireplace, where it boils a fresh batch. At the workbench, I grind wolfsbane stems and petals into a pulp. Then, I switch tasks to spooning the cloudy-pink paste into small phials.
Will Priest Peter reimburse me for these phials? They don’t come free.
The cauldron’s hiss loudens to a rattle. I hurry over and take the cauldron off the grate to let it sit. Before I have my bandage-wraps off, there is a knock at the door.
Visiting hours have begun; I suddenly realise how tired I am.
Wiping my gloved hands on my apron, I approach the door and glance at the window. Through the gap in the shades I see a glimmer of light. Whoever is out there has a lantern, so should be able to read the ‘CLOSED’ sign I have hung out just fine.
“The wolfsbane will be ready tomorrow,” I call to the knocker. “The Priest will have the supply midday!!”
Some phials are ready to be taken now, but I should like to have enough to distribute at once, and I am busy enough tonight without a constant parade of knockers at my door.
I am just about to turn my back on the door when he answers, “It’s Colton. I have your owed trade.”
I unbolt the door and usher him inside.
Colton surprises me. Two hares and a rabbit dangle from the rope in his hand.
He traces my gaze to the prizes he has with him. “I won’t be hunting tomorrow,” he tells me. “And you were not home last night to deliver the trade to.”
“Oh.” I nod numbly, disappointment drifting over me. For a moment, I had thought he meant the other trade. The one that should help me begin the most complex of witchcraft I have ever dabbled in.
I take the rope and lead him to the workbench.
His mud-brown eyes wander the shelves, and I suspect he might be impressed, or at least curious. There is not a mason jar or phial that his gaze doesn’t rest on for a beat.
“Why the third?” I heave the kills onto a small table in the corner, then face him with the workbench between us. “The third catch,” I say. “You owe me for last night and tonight.”
“Tomorrow is a full moon.” His eyes still wander, only now they graze the wolfsbane stems laid out on the workbench and the ground powder that has yet to be brewed. “Even in the hours of sunlight, I shouldn’t think it wise to risk a hunt in the woods.”
“You surprise me.” Hands still gloved, I spoon a lump of powder into a wooden mixing bowl. “You hardly look as wise as you seem.”
He doesn’t react. No sneer, no insults. He just watches me prepare the next batch of wolfsbane for a quiet moment. I almost think he is enchanted, though the thought is sillier than Grandmother would tolerate of me.
From beneath my lashes, I study him. Each flicker of his lanternlight over his shadowed face, the gleam of his rich eyes, the way his pink lips pinch as if to lock away secrets.
“You want wolfsbane, I want a fresh trade,” I say.
Surprise raises his brows as he looks at me. He thinks I have read his mind, but I merely read his face. Colton rests his lantern on the workbench, then unties a leather pouch from his belt.
He hands it to me. “Does this suffice?”
I peel open the pouch, large enough to stuff a small rabbit into. My bunched lips stay at the side of my face as I sift through the contents.
One newt. A shrew, though smaller than I had hoped. Part of a hedgehog (I imagine an animal got to it before Colton did).
I release the pouch and look at him. “And the new-born rabbit?”
“Of that, I had little luck,” he tells me, fingering the edge of his lantern. “I looked, and the closest I found to a new-born rabbit is that.”
He points to the adder in the jar behind me—the pregnant adder he traded some days ago. It isn’t enough. I need a new-born. Not to kill, but to extract blood from. I care not if the new-born hops off with its mother after.
“Is there not another way to get one?” I ask, my voice a huff. “Truly, all I need from it is a phial of blood.”
Colton drums his leather-wrapped fingers on the bench. “The butcher might be in possession of one. We have an understanding.”
“Excellen
t.” A smile lifts my lips and I hand him a crystal phial no longer than my pinkie. “Fill it two thirds of the way.”
Colton’s blank expression remains as he tucks it into his pocket. Then his eyes meet mine—he holds my stare. I read him easily.
“Fine,” I relent. “Have your wolfsbane now.”
Colton swipes a full phial from the bench.
“Be careful not to touch it,” I tell him. “If a drop of that makes contact with even the hairs on your body, you could very well die. Wolfsbane is most lethal, even from mere contact with the skin.” I raise my brows to emphasise how important this is. He nods once, a brisk tip of the head. “To use it best,” I add, “you shall want to coat a brush with some drops, then paint it around the entrance to your home. A doorway to most, but you…”
I hesitate and think of the wide gate. Then I hand him a second phial.
“You shall need two. Ensure that every bit of that gate is covered in this. And even after it dries, do not touch it without gloves.”
“What is to stop a patron from touching the gate?”
“The villagers will all know by tomorrow midday. Though, some are blatant imbeciles, so might I suggest a sign to remind them?”
“Like the one on your door?” He jerks his head over his shoulder. “Closed—do not knock or touch.”
“Precisely.” I smile a tight gesture, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. There is no wolfsbane on either of my doors yet. I have been too busy trying to catch up with the demand that I forgot my own need for it.
Colton lingers a moment, and I am taken back to the first night he came to my home. There was a question in his eyes then, and it has returned now, drifting behind the veil.
I arch my brow and study him. Finally, I ask, “What was it you wanted from me the first night you came?”
The veil darkens. “I wanted nothing from you. My intent was to ask a question.”
“Is there a difference between wanting a remedy and wanting an answer to a question?” I lean over the edge of the bench and tuck my arms together. “Not much of a difference that I can see, for sometimes answers are just as medicinal as remedies.”
Perhaps I speak a piece of my own thoughts, of Grandmother’s confessions.
Colton folds his arms over his chest and studies me back. His gaze drops a little, to my bosom, but he’s up and staring at me again with a second.
“You’re a witch,” he tells me.
“Am I?”
Colton rolls his jaw, churning through the wave of thoughts that shimmer behind the darkness of his chestnut eyes. Then, he puts his hands on the bench and leans closer to me. “You are a witch,” he echoes. “An impressive one, to some. Are…are there limits to the medicines you can make?”
I snort, a most unladylike sound. But I am no lady and have never pretended to be. “Of course. Limits apply to all medicines that anyone tries their hand at. There is no cure for most diseases, and there is always the inevitable fate of our deaths. I try to make the journey to death a bit more comfortable, is all.”
“Comfortable,” Colton repeats.
He drinks me in as if seeing me for the first time, and not of the heated sort. There is a flush to his cheeks and he glances over his shoulder as though someone is standing behind him, listening to each word we speak.
“I need something for comfort,” he says in a low, deep voice. If it is meant to be a whisper, he fails terribly. And his gaze drops again, just as quick as the last time.
I draw back. It is my turn to blush. Surely, he does not think he is in any way a man like Dante is. Dante is the only patron I shall offer such services to.
Before I can voice my offence, Colton explains; “My muscles—from the work I do out in the woods, the labour around the village, the craftsmanship in the workshop…” He shakes his head, and I understand his blush now. He is embarrassed, as a man, to admit a physical defeat. He cannot look me in the eye, so he stares at the wolfsbane. “The pain is so great that it clutches even to my bones. When I awake, everything within me feels…shattered.”
After a pause, I duck and find a mason jar down a low shelf, far behind a small curtain I made. I bring it up to him and slide it across the workbench. “Here you are.”
Colton flinches as he studies the black sludge inside the jar.
“Don’t let the look of it fool you…or the smell, either.” I tap the cloth lid, fastened with a piece of twine. “You shall want to bathe after you use it.”
“And how does one use that?”
“Cover the sore areas of your body and sleep in it. It’s normal to be light-headed afterwards, but that is the smell’s effect, not the brew. Three nights in a row should repair the damage.”
Colton stares at me, aghast. I almost think the expression of horror he wears humorous. “I cannot sleep in that.” He pushes it back to me. “Is that all you can offer?”
With a heavy sigh, I roam my gaze around the shelves. Then, it hits me.
Normally, I reserve this for the wealthier of my patrons. It takes months to extract a single dose. I find it in a wooden box underneath the worktable.
Colton eyes it curiously as I place the box on the bench and open it. Inside, there are some phials, but only one I reach for—a single phial with pink oil in it and crumbs of dried root.
“This.” I hand him the phial. “Same method—sleep with it on, though you should want to dab it, not spread it. Don’t be too generous with the amount you use at once.”
He brings it closer to his face. As he eyes a petal glittering in the oil, he asks, “What is that?”
“A petal from a dog-rose. It smells wonderful, so you can wear it any time of day you please.”
Colton nods then stuffs it in his belt-pouch, separate to the wolfsbane phial.
He looks at me.
Brows bunched, I study him—his curious gaze, the way he searches mine.
It is an awkward moment. His face is half-scowled, half-soft. It’s a handsome expression. Most in the village think him handsome, but he is so unapproachable and rude to most that girls don’t flirt with him, and they know him unavailable for marriage.
Colton is too busy for a family.
Ever since his dad left, his workload has …
I blink.
“The pain is so great that it clutches even to my bones. When I awake, everything within me feels … shattered.”
Colton stares back at me. Behind the veil, I see what he hides from me. My gift betrays itself at the worst of times and I see him for what he is. Yellow hues glitter in flecks among the brown of his eyes, and in the shadows I catch sight of memories unshared.
“One day, you will look too closely at the wrong one and you will have no one to blame but yourself when that one looks right back at you.”
Something shifts between us.
I clear my throat, but the sound is high-pitched and squeaky. The squeak of a frightened mouse springs to mind.
“Is…Is that all?” I ask with a forced smile.
Colton is quiet, he watches me. Rich soil and coal swarm together in his eyes, forming a pond like nothing I have ever seen.
He knows. He knows that I know. It’s all over my pink face, in my shifty eyes, and—he looks to my breasts again.
Now, I understand. He looks to them and my realisation is confirmed—Colton watches the bang of my pounding heartbeat against my skin. He sees in every thump at the crevice that I am afraid, that I have realised, that I know what he is.
Colton slowly lifts his hand and takes the lantern from the workbench. His gaze finds mine again, and he holds it for an eternal moment.
Then, he dips his head and leaves.
16.
A dark fog has settled in my head. It chokes all my thoughts before I can fully realise them. Still, even through the haze I lunge for the door and slam it shut behind him. My hands shake as I yank the panel down into its slot. I bolt both doors and close all the window shutters, but it feels as unsafe as it would if I left everything open.
My heart doesn’t stop in its race against me.
It pounds against my bones, as if it wants to break free of my cursed self. And that is what I am now, is it not? Cursed.
The wolf knows that I know…
A made witch, I am. A dead witch, I am soon to be.
To hell with the villagers. I set aside three whole phials to smear across my doors in the morn. To try it now would be too risky. It’s dark outside. Colton can turn before the full moon—enough, at least, to kill the widow. If he turns tonight…
I rush back to the workbench and plough through my work.
Wolfsbane is all that will protect me should he burst through my walls or doors. I have jars full of it, a cauldron brewing, and dozens of phials.
What I don’t have is silver.
A silver blade would be handy right now. Though, the blacksmith might be reluctant to sell me one—
A light tap comes at the rear door.
I snatch phials of wolfsbane. Some, I stuff into my skirt pockets, and I fit two between my breasts. Should the phials break, I will die before the sun rises. But if I have no weapons to use, I will die long before the sun rises.
The knock comes again, louder this time.
I peek around the drapes to the door, my breath a rattle of air.
Hand against the wall, I inch closer to the door with slow steps. Then, I close the small distance in a hurry and feel for the other’s energy. Colton surely hasn’t come for me so soon…
I don’t know what I am telling myself. He may come whenever he chooses, whenever he turns into the beast that he is.
Breath held, I listen for any giveaways on the other side of the door. A huff of hot breath, a low growl, a sniff of the air. I hear nothing but an impatient sound… a very human sound.
“Who is it?” I whisper at the crack between the door and pane. “Announce yourself.”
“It’s me, Red.” His hushed voice floods me with relief.
I rest my forehead on the door and let out a harsh breath.
“Should I freeze out here?” he asks. “For you, I might consider it.”
I unbolt the door and he slips through the small gap with ease.
