The Witch Awakening (Book One of the Landers Saga)

by Karen Nilsen

  "You're not?"

  "No. Why would I?" He began to knead my back then, and the warmth crept through me, loosening my muscles until I could have fallen asleep against him, there on the cold granite of the fountain.

  "I don't know." I sniffled, having a hard time thinking while his hand was on me. "I thought . . . I thought men told each other things like that. Like it's a duty. You're obligated to tell my father I'm disgracing the family name."

  "How can you disgrace the family name when you're hiding that you‘re the artist?"

  "Good point."

  "Besides, anyone who can draw as well as you can shouldn't be a disgrace to any family."

  "Thank you. They're really not that good--I haven't been trained properly. But it's nice of you to say."

  His hand grew still on my back. "Are you doubting my taste?"

  "I didn't mean it like that."

  "Listen, if I say your drawings are good, then they're good. Let me see the rest of them."

  "You've seen them. I put them out."

  "No. The ones in the portfolio. I see the corner of one sticking out. Give it here."

  More than a little reluctant, I handed it over. The drawings I sold, the landscapes and the pretty flowers, I didn't care if anyone saw. The drawings in the portfolio--my storm scenes, my beloved faces in the bottle, my strange birds, my oak with the moon behind it--were the dark secrets the charcoal had released from the attics and cellars of my mind. They were for me, not anyone else. I watched him as he flipped through the pages, jittery inside when he paused over one of the sea cliffs in a squall. What was he thinking? I didn't know him, not really, not enough to read his face. He wasn't smiling, he wasn't frowning, his brow wasn't furrowed. Just a stolid concentration that narrowed his eyes. Oh no, he hated them. Well, if he did, it was his own fault, demanding to see them. Domineering sort. What right did he have, looking at my sketches in that detached way? I should snatch the portfolio away before he invaded any more of my secrets with his stranger's eyes . . . he glanced up then, giving me that intent scrutiny again.

  "I like these," he said in a tone that allowed no argument. “They don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before. They’re very original.”

  All my uncharitable thoughts evaporated. "Really?" I managed, finding it difficult to talk over the glad warmth rising inside.

  "Yes. Why don't you put these out?"

  "They don't sell. People think they're strange."

  "Well, I'd buy them," he said, as if that settled it.

  "I don't meet people like you everyday."

  "I'll take that as a compliment." He flipped open the portfolio again and examined the topmost sketch. "I don't suppose many appreciate such dark passion." Dark passion? Suddenly I remembered that I was a maid and had no right drawing things with any passion, especially a dark passion, and then showing them to a strange man. Dagmar would say it was positively immodest.

  "You're blushing," Merius observed.

  "Am I?"

  "Yes." Hesitant, he brushed a loose curl from my cheek. I felt the spark of his silver aura prickle my skin, and I shivered. "You blush pretty," he said softly. "You do everything pretty, I suspect."

  Trembling inside, I reached up and touched his fingers. Our hands intertwined, palm to palm, and I saw in his eyes that he had never been a stranger.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I stood before the mirror, dissatisfied. After a frantic half hour of trying on most of the frocks still packed in my trunk, I had finally settled on a lime green damask with a crisscrossed pattern of dark green velvet ribbon over the skirt. It was a lovely frock. Too lovely, considering the short, freckled me who wore it. Maybe if I put my hair up, I wouldn't look like a twelve-year-old trying on her mother's dress. I grabbed the pearl combs off my washstand and jammed them in my curls, skinning them back like I had seen Dagmar do a hundred times. The combs stayed in place--for almost two seconds. I let out a gusty sigh. The girl in the mirror was not cooperating, probably because I visited her so rarely. Dagmar and I didn't have lady's maids like most of the women at court, and although it wasn't a luxury I missed most of the time, it would be nice to have someone to mould my hair in the fancy shapes and curlicues that were so fashionable now. As I bent down to retrieve the combs, there was a tap on the connecting door between my chamber and Dagmar's.

  "Come in," I said.

  "Where have you been?" Dagmar demanded as she entered.

  "At the market. Do you think ribbons in my hair would look too silly? I can't get these combs to work."

  "You went to the market alone?"

  "Yes." I found a satin ribbon, but it was too shiny to match the frock. "You don't have a velvet ribbon, do you?"

  "Safire, never go unescorted to the market here."

  I rolled my eyes at the mirror. "Why not? We go to the Calcors market all the time without an escort."

  "This isn't Calcors. How many times do I have to tell you that?" Dagmar said.

  She came over and stood beside me, looking critically at my reflection as I tried the combs again. They tangled in my curls this time, snarling the strands.

  "Your hair's almost as impossible as you trying to fix it." She dragged the bench from the foot of the bed and set it before the mirror. "Here, sit." For once, I didn't question her.

  Her hands magically plucked the combs away. "You know, you have Mother's curls. You should do more with them," she remarked as she began to brush out the snarls.

  "My hair is too damned thick," I complained. "It's hot on my neck when I leave it down, but when I pin it up, it gives me a headache."

  "Quit whining. And don't swear either. A lot of women would kill for this hair."

  "As long as they don't kill me, they can have it."

  Dagmar flashed a rare smile in the mirror. "Come, little sister, don't tell me you have no vanity. Men look at hair like this. A lot."

  "Well, there is one man who's looked at it," I conceded.

  "Who? Peregrine?"

  I hunkered down on the bench, scowling. "No--you know I hate him."

  She tugged on my hair none too gently. "Sit up. I thought maybe seeing him in a different setting had made you reconsider."

  "An ass is still an ass, even in the king's stable. You know he-" I stopped. I couldn't tell her that Peregrine had threatened me with Father's debts. All she would do was worry and wring her hands, and she already worried enough. It wasn't as though she could do anything about it, anymore than I could. I bit my tongue. That scoundrel.

  "Do I know what?" Dagmar's hand paused over the combs.

  "Nothing. I hope there's a ball tonight," I continued brightly.

  "Not likely. It's the eve of a holy day."

  "Damn!"

  "Safire!"

  "I want to dance."

  "You won't get any partners, swearing like that," she said severely. "One would think you'd been raised on the docks."

  "Sorry," I muttered, not sounding sorry in the least. It wasn't like I had used one of Father's curse words, which would rival anything those parrots at the market could mimic. Would Merius mind if I said damn? I wondered as Dagmar sniffed and slid the combs in my hair. Somehow, I didn't think he would. He had walked me back from the market. It had been nice, the way he held my arm. He had kept his hold loose, his palm barely brushing my sleeve. His touch had been a constant but light presence, just enough to let me know he was there if I needed him.

  "There," Dagmar said then. "Look."

  My reflection slowly grinned at me. My sister had worked her usual wonder with a pair of combs. She had tamed my curls into a neat cascade from the top of my head, the sides smooth as polished copper. I twisted a curl, and it sprang from my fingers. I turned and impulsively hugged her. "Thank you--it's lovely."

  "I told you it would be. No need to get all weepy about it." But she hugged me back. "After all, I can't let you scandalize the king again just because you're hopeless with a hair brush."

  Chapter Six--Merius

  The ai
r of the hothouse slipped around me like a damp cloak, the green hands of the palms grazing my shoulders as I wandered up and down the rows of plants. I came here in the winter to read and write and escape Father‘s lectures on politics and swordplay. Located on the southern side of the palace, it was far warmer than the drafty library and had more natural light. Even now, so close to sunset, I could still see well enough to name each plant by its leaves, though my memory would have failed me if I had actually attempted such an exercise. The only thing I remembered from botany was the apothecary at home showing us how to brew poppy seed potion to dull pain. My cousin Eden had mixed up her own potion, which she then gave to Whitten and Selwyn. She had promised it would make them invincible like the king's assassins, but all it really did was make them sick. She had tried to give some to me as well, but I had refused, declaring I wouldn't drink any unless she took a sip first. Eden had yellow eyes like the picture of the demon in my mother's poetry book.

  "Can I do something for you, Merius?" the hothouse master asked, startling me out of my memory.

  I looked at the old man. "Do you have any orchids?"

  His forehead wrinkled. "Orchids? A few. I keep them locked in my private solarium."

  "Could I buy one?"

  "It'll cost you. Almost as much as a whole mandrake root."

  "That's all right." I jingled my coin pouch. "I'm willing to pay."

  "Very well then." He turned, his black robe swirling. "Follow me."

  His solarium was even more humid than the hothouse. I inhaled the earthy sweetness of growing things as I glanced around. There was a mess of trowels and dirt and pots on the tiled floor, several mossy pails of water along the inner wall, and a pile of books tottering on the corner of one shelf. "Surely you don't keep texts here?" I exclaimed.

  "No, of course not, they'd molder. I do quite a bit of my reading here, though--I find the warmth soothing to my old bones." He gave a dry chuckle. "I've seen you reading in the hothouse, though not, I suspect, for the same reason."

  "I find it easier to stay awake in the hothouse than in the library, especially when my father gives me a stack of those damned legal treatises to read. Excuse my language, sir."

  "Believe me, I've heard worse, and I'm sure you've said worse. Remember, I taught you, Merius."

  "I'm sorry."

  He chuckled again, leading me past a long shelf of bottles and a marble counter with many different mortars and pestles, all sizes. "You have a quick mind. Too quick. That's what I told Mordric after that incident with the glider on the parapet."

  "It flew. Until I crashed it into the river wall and broke my arm."

  "You're lucky you didn't break your head. How are you doing on the council?"

  I shrugged. "I don't do anything on the council except hold up my hand when my father tells me to."

  "Your razor tongue hasn’t dulled any, I see." He sighed. "Are you satisfied with the life of a courtier?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Does Mordric know that?"

  "More or less. There's not much to be done about it. I'm his only heir."

  "In the end, we must all bow to duty, though it seems a shame . . ." he trailed off. We had come to a wall of shelves, overflowing with greenery. "Now where did I put . . . ah, here they are, behind the SerVerin flowering jade." He clambered up on a stool and slid out a tray with several small clay planters on it. A slender stem, festooned with fat, lined leaves, shot up from each planter. At the ends of the stems were intricate, odd-petaled flowers of various colors. The tray swayed precariously as the master stepped off the stool, and I grabbed for it.

  "I think I want the purple one," I said, glancing over the orchids, which nodded at me in apparent agreement when he took the tray from my hands and set it on the counter.

  He dusted his hands on his robe. "A gold piece. These devils take a miracle to grow. You have to divide the roots and pray over them every day."

  I handed him the coin before I picked up the orchid. A heady scent floated in the air around it, like a woman in a ball gown. "Thank you, sir."

  "Unusual for someone to want one of these." His gaze lingered over the purple petals as if he regretted letting me have it.

  "She's an unusual girl."

  He lifted his brows. "Anyone I know?" It was a simple, three-word question, but at court, the simpler the question, the more careful one had to be answering it. He didn't mean just anyone, but only those of the high noble Houses.

  "I don't think so."

  "You know, Merius, life is full of walls. Be wary, lest you break more than your arm on the next one," he said.

  "Cowardice never won any battles," I retorted. "Thank you again, sir. And good night."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Moonlight flooded the library, pouring through the ceiling-high windows along the far wall like silver milk. I paused as the double doors whispered to a close behind me. Abandoned, as I had expected it would be at ten o'clock. Where was Safire? I glanced around at the shadowed recesses of the shelves. She was nowhere in sight. Maybe the steward had forgotten to deliver my message. Maybe he had thrown the note away and taken the orchid for his sweetheart. Maybe he had delivered the note, but my request had insulted her. After all, a young lady did not meet a man after dark in a strange library without a chaperone. Maybe . . .

  "Merius?"

  My eyes traveled up to the second-story balcony. "There you are."

  "Were you worried?" She hurried towards the spiral staircase, trailing one hand on the balcony railing. Her movements rustled, a provocative sound that made me wonder what she wore under her frock.

  "I didn't know if you liked orchids." A tickling started near the bottom of my rib cage.

  "Is that what the flower is called? I'd never seen one before. It's lovely, just the way I'd imagine purple would smell if it had a scent."

  "I'm glad you're here, Safire."

  She lowered her chin and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, suddenly shy, and although I couldn't tell for certain in the poor light, I thought she flushed. "Thank you. I-I have something for you as well."

  I met her at the bottom of the stairs, my hand sliding over the scaly snake's head carved on the end of the railing, the odd whim of some long dead king. My fingers closed over hers. She grew still for a moment as she had at the market earlier when I had touched her, the shadows of the stair steps above her cutting the moonlight into a blue triangle across her face. Then, slowly, her fingers curled around mine.

  In her other hand, she held a book and a scroll. "I hope you like it," she said as she held out the scroll.

  "Here, let's go over to the windows so I can look at it properly."

  As soon as we sat down on a window seat, so close together our legs touched, I took the scroll from her and unrolled it. It was her spooky sketch of the old one's path to the sea, the one that had attracted my gaze earlier. In the silvery-blue brilliance of the moon, the figures on the path seemed to move, stirring in the confines of their tragic myth. Far off, I heard an infant's wail, and I swallowed. "Thank you," I said finally.

  "I saw the way you looked at it before, like it spoke to you."

  "It does. Even more so by moonlight, it seems. The figures seem to move, even, it's so real."

  "Do you like it?"

  "I don't know if like is the right word. Like is a word for things you can forget. I can't forget this.“ I gave the sketch one last glance before I carefully rolled it up and set it aside.

  "You speak like a poet."

  I leaned against the window, pretending it was an accident when my hand brushed over her hair. "I write some verse on occasion," I said casually. Scribbling verse was not an acceptable occupation for noblemen, and it was my secret shame that I hadn't broken the habit yet. If I spoke of it at all, I made light of it, as though it was some jest I was playing on myself.

  "I want to read it." Although it might have been my hopeful imagination, I could have sworn she moved a hairsbreadth closer.

  "I'll
show it to you sometime, if I can find it. I haven't written in a while." Liar--I was such a rotten liar. I had reams of the stuff hidden in my wardrobe, not including the one about the king's funeral that I had finished at council today. That one was still folded in my pocket.

  She watched me closely, her eyes narrow. "Why are you ashamed of your writing?"

  "What?" I demanded.

  Now it was her turn to be flustered. "I'm-I'm sorry. I'm always saying things I shouldn't say."

  "No. No, it's all right. Just . . . how do you know that?"

  "I know a lot of things," she stammered, clutching her book.

  "Obviously." I raised my brows, remembering back to last night when she had said that uncanny thing about Father and mirrors. And people hardly ever knew when I was lying. Not even Father. "I think you're a witch."

  "Don't call me that."

  "Why not? You've cast a wicked spell on me." Hardly aware of the idiotic words coming off my tongue, I leaned forward, my hands suddenly on her shoulders. Her book fell to the floor with a thud as our mouths met. She gave a little sigh, and her lips parted under mine. All my muscles tensed as I tasted her. So this is what witch wine is like, all frothy and sweetly dark was my absurd thought before thought became impossible. All I could do was taste her and drink her and inhale her and touch her. Safire, Safire, Safire drummed the blood in my ears. Her hands clenched against my back, knotting my shirt. I buried my fingers in her hair, dislodging the combs as I kissed her eyelids, her cheekbones, her neck before I returned to her lips. Safire . . .

  She pulled away, her grip painful on my shoulders. "Merius," she gasped. "Merius, stop. Stop. We barely know each other . . ."

  I straightened, trying to catch my breath. Finally, I said, my voice hoarse, “Safire, if you insist I woo you according to convention, I‘ll do it gladly. I‘ll kiss your hand and nothing more for a year of Sundays, if that‘s what you want."