“Is that some sort of joke?” Corrine demanded, her face heating. “Are you a friend of Madame Balestra’s? Has she told you all about Maribel’s lazy sister who never helped on the farm a day in her life?” She clenched her hands into fists, the tears pricking at her eyes as they attempted a valiant effort to return. “Did you have a good laugh?”
The amusement abruptly vanished from the crone’s face and she eyed Corrine with a hint of disapproval. “You’re a fine, healthy girl and you could do far more if you had a mind to.”
“You know nothing about me,” Corrine spat. “I—”
“You were a very sick babe, nearly died in your mother’s arms ‘ere you’d seen your first birthday. Ergotism from bad wheat. A tragic truth, to be certain.” The old crone took a firm step forward. “But you are no longer that child. You are a grown woman, and you are far stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
Corrine’s jaw dropped. Anger fought with shock for dominance as her mouth opened and closed several times without letting a sound escape. Ergotism, she’d said. How long had it been since anyone had named her illness by it’s scientific name, the word it seemed only the doctors used? It was far more common to hear the disease’s more colorful nomenclatures. Evil Fire. Demon’s Fire. A sickness that marked someone who practiced the dark arts. Nevermind she’d been a child. You’re never too young to be damned.
“Who are you?” she demanded finally.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a witch, my dear.” She sniffed, managing to look down her nose without even stretching to her full height. “A proper witch.”
It was Corrine’s turn to bark out a laugh. “Oh, are you now? Well you’re not a very good one. You haven’t said a thing that every busybody in this village hasn’t said at one time or another. And like all of them, you have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m as sick now as I ever was, only now I don’t have parents hovering over me and asking for prayers.”
The last sentence twisted her heart, a reminder that even her father doubted her now. Sometimes she wished she still had the physical signs of her illness that she’d had as a child. Something that she couldn’t be accused of faking.
“Malarkey. You’re more than capable of anything you put your mind to. You merely lack the courage.”
Anger bit at Corrine’s nerves like an army of fire ants. She thrust her burned hand out toward the witch, letting the light shimmering through the leaves dance over the shiny pink of her scarred flesh. “I have episodes that steal my mind and body, leave me vulnerable and more often than not in excruciating pain. Hallucinations take hold of me with such unrelenting strength that even falling with a hand in the fire isn’t enough to let me fight my way out of it.”
The memory of lying there, face against the floor at the perfect angle to watch her flesh burn in the embers of her own hearth, tried to take over. Sensory memories started to rise and she quickly shoved them back down with a shudder. She couldn’t relive that again. “It’s a wonder I haven’t woken up dead.”
The witch snorted. “Woken up dead. Clever girl. But those episodes aren’t a sickness, dear. And if you’ll let me, I can teach you to overcome them.”
“Overcome them?” Corrine shifted from one foot to the other, studying the witch more closely. Pieces of town gossip were coming back to her, snatches of conversations she’d heard on the few occasions she’d come into town. “You’re Mother Hazel.”
The witch bowed her head once in acknowledgement. “I am.”
“Well, thank you for the offer, but I’ve already got a mentor. Mother Briar. I don’t need your help.”
“Mother Briar,” the witch spat. “She has done nothing to earn that title. She’ll teach you no more than serves her, and you’d do well to be rid of her.”
“What is this, some sort of professional jealousy?” Corrine mused. “Do you often try to pilfer the students of other witches?” She crossed her arms. “No honor among crones, is that it?”
Mother Hazel opened her mouth as if to fire off a retort, but then pressed her lips into a thin line. Her brown eyes narrowed as she looked Corrine up and down, and it took Corrine more effort than she wanted to admit not to squirm under the intensity of the witch’s assessment. She gritted her teeth and stuck out her chin, forcing herself to meet the crone’s eyes.
“You have a great deal of strength,” the witch said finally. “You will find it soon. When you do, you will have a choice to make about what path you will travel. Choose wisely. Such choices are often only made once.”
“How delightfully cryptic,” Corrine said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Mother Hazel snorted, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Her hand vanished under her ragged cloak and withdrew a wrapped parcel. She held it out to Corrine. “Here.”
Corrine eyed the package, searching for some sign of its contents, wary of the possible tricks the witch might play. “What is it?”
“Bread. From the shop you visited moments ago.”
Corrine recoiled. “I want no part of that man’s wares.”
“Yes, for a moment I thought he felt the same way. I could have sworn he’d been rude to you—rude to a witch, can you imagine? However, I was ever so pleased when I spoke with him and he assured me that he would never do such a thing.”
There was something in the witch’s voice. A sort of…kinship? She met Corrine’s eyes and there was a kindness there now, an understanding. But that wasn’t all. There was a promise. Something in her eyes told Corrine “I’ve been where you are, and if you let me, I’ll help you get to where I am.”
The material of her cloak filled Corrine’s palms as she squeezed it, determined not to be swayed by pretty words and promises. “Nice try, old woman,” she muttered. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you won’t get it. I don’t need your help or your food.” She averted her eyes, stroking the silk of her gloves over and over. “I’ll send a servant to the shop later.”
“I see. Well, I’ll just leave this here then, perhaps some birds will find it.”
The witch placed the wrapped loaf of fresh bread on the ground and Corrine imagined she took great care not to let any dirt trickle under the wrapping. The scent of warm yeast and melted butter curled through the air to wrap around her nose like an affectionate cat and Corrine’s stomach tightened with sudden yearning. She quickly looked away as the witch stood.
“When you want to find me, I’ll be there.”
There was a surety in the witch’s voice. When, not if.
Corrine clenched her jaw, then whirled back to face her. “Is it part of being a witch to speak so—”
Corrine trailed off as she found she was alone. She ran her gaze over the surrounding trees, searching for some sign of the meddling witch, but saw nothing. No moving leaves, no figure forging a path through the frost-tinged brush. Nothing except the bread lying on the ground. Still covered. Still hot. Still smelling decadently of butter.
Forcing herself to wait five minutes to be certain the witch was truly gone was one of the hardest tasks Corrine had ever forced her mind to. She counted in her head, trying to distract her stomach from the baked goodness lying within reach, half-flying to it as soon as her self-imposed time limit was up. She held it to her with the same care one would cradle a newborn babe as she lowered her gaze and marched back to the farmhouse.
She kept her head down as she trudged past the workers building the new farmhouse and the recently hired help plowing the fields and tending the garden. Eye contact would only invite meaningless conversation and she’d already had enough of that.
She made it to her room without being accosted, breathing a sigh of relief as she bolted her door behind her. Clutching the loaf of bread to her chest, she focused her attention to the trunk on the floor at the foot of her bed. A feeling of security settled over her as she approached the trunk, the sight of the heavy wood and thick iron lock soothing her nearly as much as a new gown.
The lid opened soundlessly on well-oi
led hinges, but a knock at the door stilled her hand, startled her out of her thoughts.
“Corrine? Corrine, may I come in?”
Corrine cursed as the sound of her father’s worried voice broke into her room and she fumbled the loaf. The crusty surface of the bread cracked, spilling crumbs into the trunk. The bulk of the bread hit the edge of the chest, tumbled down into her skirts, and then rolled to the floor, leaving an accusing trail of crumbs. Her heart pounded, a thundering echo in her ears as she hurriedly retrieved the loaf and tucked it into her trunk. The smell of mold tickled her nose and she sneezed.
“Corrine?”
She quickly closed her trunk, locked it, and arranged pillows and blankets on top of it. She swept the crumbs under her bed as best she could with her hands, her heart pounding as she scanned the floor for any she’d missed. After she’d gotten rid of as much evidence as she could, she stood there staring at the trunk.
Her father was at her door, he would want to come in and check on her. What if he opened her trunk, found her food? Nausea rolled through her like a sickening wave. Hurry up, Corrine! The door isn’t locked, he’ll let himself in any second if you don’t say something! She quickly sat on the lid of the trunk, half falling as her knees gave out. The sound of the door opening sent her heart into her throat and she just managed to fold her hands in her lap before her father’s face peeked in.
“Corrine, are you all right?” he asked carefully.
Corrine shoved all thoughts of food from her mind. “Yes. Yes, of course, I was just…tidying up.”
Her father opened the door slowly, revealing more of his tired face inch by inch. Maribel had been gone for weeks, and every day of that absence was etched on her father’s haggard countenance. His hair stuck out in sharp tufts from where he’d tugged it, perhaps without even realizing it. Even his new clothes hung limply from his body, as if his flesh flinched away from the finery the monster’s money had bought him.
Her father’s bedraggled state sent a creeping tendril of dread through Corrine’s stomach. This was not a man that could take care of her. This was a man who was going to waste away to nothing and leave her alone and helpless. Without him, how long would it be until the strangers he’d hired turned on Corrine, using the fact that she was a witch to justify cheating her out of her home, her land, maybe her life?
“You’re upset.”
Her father stepped inside and Corrine managed to ignore the thoughts racing through her mind enough to notice he was holding his hat in his hands, worrying the smart, freshly delivered cap until it was barely recognizable. A throbbing beat began in her temples sending ripples of pain to settle in the back of her skull. He has more bad news then.
“How are you feeling? Really?” he asked, a pleading note in his voice.
Maribel, how could you leave me alone with this shadow of a man? She tightened her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to strangle her father for his weakness. “Exactly how you would expect me to feel. Scared, sick. Maribel is gone, a prisoner of some monster who’s keeping her for the gods know what reason. I’m left alone in this house with no one to notice if I keel over and crack my skull, no one to find me if I’m lying on the floor bleeding to death.” For the second time that day she had to fight off the memory of watching her own hand burn. She bit the inside of her cheek, focusing on that small pain, refusing to give in to the panic eating her alive.
Her father paled, his fingers tightening on his hat until they went white. “He said he would not harm her.”
“He might have lied.”
“I… I’ve been working, hiring more help. I was a good businessman once, I can be one again. I’ll buy her back from him—”
“Please tell me that is not your plan?” Corrine’s arms went limp at her sides, her lips parting. “You don’t seriously think you’ll pay for my sister with gold—buy her back from a lord who lives in a manor that could house half the village, who has enchanted chests full of treasure. Surely you cannot be that foolish?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, hardly able to look at her father. “Why can’t you just admit you’re too afraid to fight for her? Too afraid to even visit her.”
The fresh tears that shone in her father’s eyes stabbed at Corrine, reflecting her own furious visage back at her. Not for the first time, she looked at her reflection in her father’s eyes and didn’t like what she saw. Answering tears welled up in her own eyes. She was just so frightened. Surely he could see that? “Father,” she started, her voice gentler, more like a daughter than an accuser.
“I’ve tried to hire people to stay in here with you, but you won’t have them,” her father interrupted tersely. “After the new house is built, there will be quarters for the servants, but until then, if you are going to have company, you must agree to let them reside in your sister’s room.”
Corrine shot up from her seat. Servants in Maribel’s room, sleeping in her bed, touching her things? Never!
“Let them stay here? Here where I sleep—where I’m helpless? Are you truly that blind?” she gasped. She shook her head, searching her father’s face for some sign that he was truly as oblivious as he sounded. He blinked slowly, his eyes dull without a spark of enlightenment. She tightened her hands into fists, straining the fine silk of her gloves. “You have no idea, do you? No idea of how I’m treated by everyone outside this family. I’m a witch, Father. I can’t even buy a loaf of bread in the village, they won’t serve me. I’m lucky I’m not stoned to death for strolling down the road.”
“You should have taken the carriage,” her father mumbled.
“Should have taken the… What is wrong with you?” Corrine screamed, grasping her hair and tugging at it ruthlessly, using the pain to ground her emotions as they spiraled out of control. “I tell you they want to kill me and your response is to tell me I should have taken the carriage?” Stupid man, ignorant man, pathetic man, howcanyoupossiblybethisnaiveohsweetgoddessmaribelhowcouldyouleavemewithhimi’mgoingtodie. Her thoughts raced faster and faster until they blended into one solid sound buzzing in her head. Hysteria lit up inside her, painting frantic lights over her memories, creating nightmarish images in her mind’s eye. Her pulse struggled like a living thing trapped beneath her skin, desperate to get out.
Corrine ran her gloved hands over her skirt, concentrating on the supple material, the comforting constriction of it. Her insides were churning, acid eating at her stomach, bubbling up in an attempt to spill out her mouth. If she didn’t calm down, she would lose herself to another episode.
Deep breath, one, two, three, deep breath, one, two, three…
It took several long minutes, but finally Corrine thought she could speak without losing herself to hysterics.
“The horses are afraid of me,” she said slowly, careful to keep her voice calm. “I cannot take the carriage.”
Her father hung his head, misery etched into his features. “Corrine, I’m sorry. I … I don’t know what to do. I keep failing you, no matter what…” His voice hitched. “I wish your mother were still with us.”
“I don’t want to talk about Mother.” Corrine’s heart constricted into a tight, painful ball in her chest, the reaction she always had at the mention of her mother. The woman had died giving birth to her sister—her real sister, not the changeling her father believed was her sister. Corrine hadn’t realized what had happened until she was older, and by then Maribel was her sister, in every way that counted—she still was.
Still, what would her mother think if she knew that the fairies had claimed her last earthly act? What would her father think if he knew his precious Maribel was not his flesh and blood, that she was one of the fair folk, and his own daughter was off somewhere behind the veil with her fairy parents?
Perhaps he’d never know. Her father had been a fine businessman once, he had a head for math that was unrivaled, and a feeling for the market that bordered on prophetic. But when it came to people, he was completely, utterly hopeless. And as far as knowledge of the creatures beyo
nd the veil… He probably didn’t know what a changeling was.
Corrine certainly didn’t plan to tell him. Mother Briar was right, if her father didn’t have the sensitivity to magic that would let him feel how different Maribel was, then it was more likely that he would brush off Corrine’s claims as jealousy or some other such nonsense. Besides, revealing Maribel’s true nature would lead to questions. Questions about why Maribel seemed so human. Why she had no gifts. For those educated in the ways of the world beyond the veil, it would lead to questions about why her fairy parents had never checked in with her, never came to spy on their abandoned babe.
Corrine’s breathing came faster—too fast. Sweat broke out on her forehead and her hands trembled as if she were freezing. A tickle sprang to life at the back of her mind. Terror closed around her throat, digging unforgiving talons into her flesh until she couldn’t breathe.
“Corrine?”
Her father’s voice came from far away. Corrine tried to scream, but no sound would come out. Her body wouldn’t move, no words could squeeze past the constricting of her chest, her throat. Reality shattered around her like a broken mirror and she was falling, falling into the chaotic nightmare of another episode.
Everything around her changed. It was as though she were still viewing the world, but a different Dreamworld had been laid over top of it. Normal, everyday objects suddenly radiated with strange lights, shards of colors that poked out like multi-hued spines. Outside the window, the trees were full of clinging monsters, black-furred bodies hunched over as pale human-like hands gripped thick branches and pale faces with flat, slitted noses, long, pointed ears, and glistening, drool-coated teeth eyed her hungrily. She tried not to concentrate on the shadows, her lip trembling at the thought of what she knew she’d see there. Spindly forms twisted around like melted metal, fiery eyes and tense limbs, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
Her father’s face appeared in front of her. Corrine wanted to look away, tried to look away so she wouldn’t see her father through this horrifying lens of fantasy, but it was useless. Her body may as well have weighed a thousand pounds and been hammered to the floorboards beneath her. She could only stare at her father’s face, wet and lined with tears, his head bald in places where his hair had been torn out. She could barely make out his chest in her peripheral vision and what she saw there twisted something inside her.
All for a Rose Page 10
