5. THE MAGICIAN
IN THE MORNING when Rowan awoke, she sensed that the house was more full. There were extra noises, different smells. The duke must have arrived in the night, she realized. Market Day was Rowan’s favorite day of the week, and there was a bounce in her step as she dressed herself and went downstairs.
As she walked down the hall, she could hear the quiet muffle of voices behind closed doors. She wanted to stay and introduce herself, but her father had told her to head straight to market in the morning. When she passed his office, she thought she could hear her father raise his voice. That gave her pause, and she considered listening at the door, but she wasn’t a dishonest girl, and besides, she was eager to head out.
On Market Day, all the mountain folk of the smaller neighboring villages gathered in Nag’s End to sell their wares, and to buy and trade with others. It was always a festive time, and since it was the main opportunity for young people to socialize, the girls tended to fix their hair and the boys tended to wear their finest clothes, while their parents did their best to push them off in agreeable directions. But Rowan had no interest in courtship, so she never bothered to dress up for the day or to plait a purple ribbon into her hair to display her maidenhood, not even to dab smudge grass behind her ears, as was the custom among girls of a marriageable age.
When she headed out her door and through the gate, she could already hear the market in full swing. Mountain folk were enthusiastic, if not especially gifted, musicians, and the air always filled with song at their gatherings.
When she came upon the market, her eyes searched for Tom, as they always did, but he was nowhere. She made her way through the stalls, and waving to friends, she tried to be cheered by their goodwill, but something started to overcome her, a strange sense of foreboding. She told herself that it was all due to the growing darkness of the sky and the sudden chill that whipped through the air, but she knew that couldn’t be it. She felt very much as if she was being watched, and though she did her best to calm herself, she was growing increasingly uneasy as she moved through the stalls.
She leaned against a pole and tried to talk herself down from her bizarre flight of fancy. Surely no one could be watching her. She was not a girl whom people watched. But turning around, she noticed a woman staring at her from several stalls away, and quickly her fear turned to curiosity.
The woman was like none other she’d ever seen. Her skin was as dark as a winter storm, and her beauty alone would have caused her to stand out, but her height was so extreme as to be aberrant. She was taller than any man in Nag’s End, and her ebony hair was piled on top of her head like a crown, white feathers and jewels woven throughout. Her gown, blue as the sky and made from exotic finery, gave the impression of royalty. It hung on the woman’s frame as if it were made of cloud dust, falling from her high neck straight down to the dirt as if it had a life of its own. Yes, she looked very much like a queen, and for a moment, Rowan wondered if she might be part of the duke’s retinue. She stared at Rowan like she knew her, and Rowan cocked her head as if to ask if she should know her as well, but the woman shook her head and smiled. It was a sweet smile, an inviting smile, and Rowan realized that she very much wanted to speak with this woman, whoever she was. But just then, Mama Lune came to stand next to the beautiful queen.
Rowan’s father was certain that all witches were charlatans, and while Rowan agreed with him, she could not deny that there was something different about Mama Lune. No one knew how old she was, but physically she seemed to linger in the prime of her womanhood. Henry Rose attributed this peculiarity to some herb she must eat—something that grew deeper in the forest and which she fed on out of vanity. Whatever herbs the Greenwitches used, he reasoned, most likely could be used by a man with similar efficacy, but witches kept such secrets to themselves, using them as sources of power. Give Dr. Temper the same twigs and leaves, her father was fond of saying, and he could no doubt work magic as well.
Mama Lune slid her arm through the stranger’s. Pale, with deep red hair flowing wild to her waist, Mama Lune did not exactly conjure images of castles and courts. Her simple green dress and her threadbare slippers seemed out of place beside her friend’s finery, and yet there existed an obvious sorority between them. Suddenly Rowan realized what she ought to have guessed right away: the beautiful stranger was a Bluewitch.
As a child, Rowan had learned all she could about the different kinds of witches. Greywitches—often called metal witches because of their penchant for collecting and hoarding silver—had been wicked creatures. When they’d thrived, they’d been the scourge of the land, but the other kinds of witches—the surviving witches—were relatively harmless. There were Redwitches, who drew their power from passion, and Woodwitches, who lived like sprites in small forest colonies, and of course, Greenwitches were the healers. The Greenwitches often lived in the forest just outside a village, limning the space between the tame and the wild, always a short trip away from the birthing women and the quietly dying but far enough from prying eyes. Of all the witches, the Bluewitches had been Rowan’s favorite. Bluewitches were diviners, and water was their natural medium. Like water, they tended to ramble, wandering as the water beneath the ground did, ever flowing, ever moving. They were also known to be especially beautiful.
Rowan was certain that the lovely creature before her was a Bluewitch, and while the novelty of it excited her, she had to remind herself that the woman was still a witch, and witches functioned outside the laws of man. They followed their own religion, and their own codes, and the fact of it frightened Rowan.
The two women looked at each other and then seemed to make up their minds. Before they took even a step, Rowan knew they were coming to talk to her, and deciding she most definitely didn’t want to talk to them, she turned and started back through the crowds, moving at a pace that was neither customary nor polite. Turning her head, she saw that the two women were gliding along behind her—the crowd parting for them as people called out greetings to the Greenwitch and her enchanting friend.
Rowan’s breath caught, and she fought the sensation that was slowly creeping up her legs, grasping at her heart, starting to squeeze. She looked over her shoulder again. They were only a few paces behind her, walking with that light and steady gait. Rowan knew she needed to escape them, and she plunged through the crowd. And then she felt a finger brush her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see green lacquered nails, and she knew that the hand belonged to Mama Lune. She ought to turn. It was rude not to do so, but her father had spent her entire life warning her about this woman. Alone, she found herself without her armor. She could feel the witch’s teeth trained on her, and she could barely breathe.
An arm caught her from the side, and she let out a yelp. She looked up to see Tom, his gentle face awash with concern.
“Ro, are you okay? You look scared to death.”
Rowan felt a material soft as bog moss brush against her, and out of the corner of her eye she could tell that it was sky blue. She could feel the two women pass her by, and then there with Tom holding her arm, she was brave enough to steal a glance.
They’d started off on the path that led through the forest to Mama Lune’s house, their colorful gowns sweeping behind them. The Bluewitch stopped for a moment and seemed to be consulting a tree in the most peculiar way. Nodding, she came to a decision and snapped a small branch from the young tree—a dowsing rod, for those were the tools of a Bluewitch’s trade—and, as if sensing Rowan, the Bluewitch turned and smiled, then looped her arm through Mama Lune’s again, and they continued on their path. Soon they disappeared into the heart of the woods, as if the forest had swallowed them whole.
“Are you okay, Ro?” Tom asked again, shaking her gently, his voice concerned.
She blinked as if to clear her head, and looked up at him. “I’m fine. I just … something weird happened, or I don’t really know what happened, I guess.”
Tom took her shoulders in his hands. “Do you
need to sit down?”
“No,” she said, slowly returning to normal. “No, I’m fine. Really I am.” And then, looking at his heavy winter coat, she laughed. “Haven’t you packed that thing away for the season? We’re not in the midst of a blizzard, Tom.”
“Your problem is you’re not dressed warmly enough,” he teased. “The skies have taken a turn, and you chose not to heed it because you prefer yourself in your autumn cloak.”
“At least I don’t look like I’m being swallowed alive by a dog.”
“It’s called foresight, Rowan. I saw the signs of an approaching storm, and I went up to the attic and got out my heavy coat. I’d only just packed it away after the trek up to …” Rowan knew he was about to say “after the trek to Beggar’s Drift,” but he winced and cut himself short.
“Tom,” Rowan said, pretending she hadn’t noticed his discomfort, “do you know who that woman was, the one with Mama Lune?”
Tom shook his head. “A Bluewitch, looked like.”
“She looks like royalty or something.”
“She must have come for a visit.”
Rowan nodded. It was common, she knew, for witches to visit one another, sometimes staying on for protracted lengths of time. A few years back, Mama Lune had been visited by a round bean of a woman called Mama Saltana. She had a taste for liquor and would spend full days at the tavern, laughing loudly, her stringy blond hair resting in her beer.
“Do you ever talk to her, Tom, to Mama Lune?” Rowan asked.
“Sure, sometimes. She comes round to the inn when travelers are too sick for Dr. Temper to help them.”
“What’s she like?”
“A little cold, maybe. Likes to keep her distance from the villagers, but knows her herbs. When Jude had the fever last year, when we thought we might lose him, Mama Lune saved his life.”
“I remember that. He was terribly ill.”
“We thought for sure he’d die. Dr. Temper even prepared us for it, but Mama Lune came and stayed with him, treating him round the clock with plasters and tinctures and potions, and soon enough, he was on the mend. Jude knows her better than most, I think. Seemed to me they kind of bonded while he was ill.”
Rowan looked out into the woods again. “It’s curious. I had a strange feeling that they wanted to speak with me. I’m probably just being silly.”
“Not silly,” he said, throwing his arm around her shoulder. “I think you’re wonderful. By the way, Jude said you came by last night.”
“Oh,” she gasped. She’d nearly forgotten. “I’ve spoken with Fiona Eira, and she’s agreed to meet with you.”
Tom’s face went blank, and he removed his arm from Rowan’s shoulder. He stared at her like he was afraid she might be lying. “You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” she said, her voice growing quiet. “I spoke with her yesterday afternoon. She wants to meet you along the path between your houses in only a few hours’ time.”
“Already?” he laughed. “You must be joking. That was too easy.”
Rowan did her best to smile. “You can pay me back when I fall madly in love.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll be sure to.” His expression turned solemn. “Rowan, is everything all right? You seem upset.”
“No,” she said, looking away. “I’m not upset. I’m still thinking about the witches is all.”
“Oh, Rowan, I can’t tell you what you’ve done for me.” He took her hands in his own, smiling brightly. “Thank you, my friend. You are a goddess, a queen.”
As he held Rowan’s hands, she was surprised by the ambivalence in her heart. “Well,” she said, removing herself from his grasp. “Please, don’t make a fool of yourself. She is my cousin, after all.”
Just then, she caught sight of Jude strolling toward them, his cocky head held a touch too high, a jaunty step to his stride, and she let out a sigh. When he met them, he gave Rowan a playful grin.
“Hi, Ro,” he said, but she only stared back at him, refusing to answer. “Mind if I borrow my brother for a minute?”
She nodded, and Tom slapped her on the back and gave her a conspiratorial wink. The two boys set off together toward the inn, and Rowan watched them go. She turned and started on the path home, her heart heavy.
Tom was right—it was growing colder, and it seemed to Rowan that the sky might open up at any moment, but near the eastern outcropping of the Black Forest, she witnessed the sun making its final stand. Streaming through the pines in defiant shafts of light, it seemed almost to animate the snow cover in sudden, sparkling waves. Rowan was smiling at its persistence as she rounded the last bend on the way to her house when something caught her attention. Near the ground, in the eye of a tree, was what looked like a bird fashioned out of bright blue paper. Kneeling down, she retrieved it. It was indeed a piece of blue paper intricately folded to create a beautiful bird. So surprised was she by the oddity that she nearly replaced it in the trunk of the tree, thinking that someone had left it there for some purpose, and who was she to interfere? But something deep inside her called out, and she knew that the bird was meant for her, and that she ought to examine it further.
Sliding a finger under its beak, she flipped it open to find a message written inside.
Someday you come see me, mmm?
I have something you want.
Blessed be,
Mama Tetri
Unnerved, Rowan refolded the paper and placed it back into the tree. Yes, Mama Tetri was probably the Bluewitch, but she couldn’t be sure the note was meant for her. It was probably some kind of trick that witches played. Leave something like that—a lure, really—in the woods and wait to see who bites. Then, when the poor imbecile shows up at the door, besotted and asking for love spells, the witch makes him pay through the nose. But Rowan was smarter than that. She gave the bird one final look and set off around the last bend to her home.
Tom tried to prepare, but he didn’t know if he was going to be able to speak to such a beautiful girl without making a fool of himself. He wasn’t accustomed to fear, but now he was on the edge of trembling with it. He wondered if it might be better to arrive later, to make sure she was there before he was, so that he might not look so eager. Such thoughts were foreign to him, and he found them unsettling.
Attributing his insecurities to his breakfast sitting wrong in his belly, Tom shook them off and set out. He took the scenic path that ran along the edge of the forest, moving with long, deliberate strides, unable to calm himself.
He saw her before she saw him. She was sitting on a tree stump, her red cloak pulled tight around her body, hood up and covering her hair. He walked over to her and extended his hand. But she didn’t take it.
“Hi,” she said, looking up at him with eyes that might have been carved from a dark and ancient wood. “My name’s Fiona Eira.”
“Yes,” he said, trying to look away from her, trying not to stare, but finding himself unable not to. “I’m Tom. My parents run the inn.”
“I know,” she said, and when a smile spread across her lips, Tom was reminded of raspberry jam smeared on a white tablecloth.
“You do?”
“Yes, I’ve wanted to meet you since I saw you in the square,” she said, a blush rushing to her cheeks. “You know my cousin, then,” she added, standing up and beginning to walk. Tom fell into step alongside her.
“She’s my oldest friend,” Tom said. “My best friend.”
“That must be nice. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a friend who’s a boy.”
“You haven’t? I’d imagine you’d have lots of friends.”
“No boys,” she said, cringing. “The boys in my village were horrid. Not like you at all.”
“Well, you don’t know me yet. I might be horrid as well.”
She laughed and shook her head. “No. You’re special. I can tell.”
He noticed she was beginning to shiver. “Are you cold? Would you like my coat?”
He was in the process of taking it off when
something fell from the pocket. Quick as a cat, she crouched down and snatched it up from the snow. It was the strange coin he’d found on the mountain. He’d forgotten about it completely, and seeing it again gave him a bad feeling.
“I’m not cold,” she said, staring in wonder at the glinting object in her hand. “What is this? It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I found it up on the mountain,” Tom answered. “But I forgot about it. I put it in my pocket and packed my coat away up in the attic. I should probably give it to my father.”
“Oh no, please,” she said, stepping away from him, eyes wide. “Must you? I’d love to have it myself. I can make it into a necklace. I had to give away all of mine.”
Tom felt himself sway beneath the power of her beauty. “Do you really like it?”
“I do. I really do.” She smiled, and her eyes seemed to glitter as she gazed at him.
Tom blushed. “Well, if your heart is set on it, I suppose you can have it.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, her lips seeming to grow more full as she spoke. He found himself suddenly dizzy from their beauty.
She pulled a red ribbon from her hair, and concentrating, she slipped it between two of the coin’s center spokes.
“Will you tie it around my neck?” she asked, and as she handed him the coin, something passed between them, and both were certain they felt a strange kind of connection—a bond. She smiled at him and then turned around. Gently lifting her hair, he laced the red ribbon around her neck and tied it with careful fingers. The deed done, she turned back around, beaming, and looked up at him with the eyes of a fawn.
“Beautiful,” he said. And it was.
Before Tom could realize what was happening, she put her lips to his cheek and quickly gave him a kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then slowly walked away.
The Glass Casket Page 7
