by Lucia Ashta
His laugh startled me, although I saw his face, equally wicked and disturbing, prepare to release the sound. The savagery that rumbled through his laughter was impossible to ignore.
If someone from my old life—when I was Lady Clara—had to find me, why did it have to be Winston of all people?
Yet here he was. What I wanted didn’t make a difference. With him, it never had. My former fiancé had only seen me as his property, and that hadn’t changed.
It surprised me that he was doing magic and that he could have learned how to manipulate rope since we last saw him.
I recoiled from him, from all the taunting aggression that he stood for, but I had nowhere to recoil to. Impossibly, the ropes seemed to tighten even more.
Winston laughed again. Each fraction of sound elongated to grate against my nerves. “Struggling to breathe, are you?” He threw his head back in uproar, genuinely delighted at what few other humans would find joy in. Sadly, heavily, I could think of two others who would, and Winston might just know them.
“That’s what witches like you deserve.” Winston dismounted his horse and strode over to me, where he grabbed my horse’s reins. “Do you know that when they burn the witches in the fires—rightfully so, I might add—they usually die from lack of air? The fire consumes the air as it consumes them.”
He clucked. My nerves flared again. “Such a shame, really. That they should die before they feel the fire as much as they deserve. The despicable deserve to die despicably.”
I held his gaze as he spat at me.
“How dare you!” Marcelo roared from behind his shackles. I realized I’d never seen Marcelo truly angry before. Not even when Count Washur’s army attacked us was he this angry.
I tried to hold my composure, but I didn’t succeed. My nostrils flared and my jaw inched forward.
“How dare you treat a lady like this!” Marcelo said. “She’s a match to you in society, or have you forgotten that your parents found her worthy to be your wife? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“She isn’t my match in society, nor in any other way. She’s revolting. A disgusting aberration. She deserves everything I’ve planned for her. Every bit of it.”
Winston didn’t seem at all bothered by the obvious hypocrisy of his statements and actions. He was accusing me of performing magic and, therefore, becoming an aberration, yet he’d used magic to tie us.
“You’ll pay for this, Winston.” Marcelo’s eyes bulged in fury as he struggled against the bindings that constrained more than his body.
I held my tongue. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. How gentle Samuel could be so different than his older brother was baffling.
The spit was soaking into my dress. An outline of wetness encircled a splotch of frothy saliva marring my beautiful corn-silk blue dress, with its ample folds of taffeta, in a way that would outlast several washings.
I didn’t mean to—and I was surprised when it happened—but the water in Winston’s spit responded to me. Actually, it was more than that. The element of water didn’t just respond to me, it nudged me along, as if it were as eager as I was to put Winston in his place. I felt its eagerness. And I didn’t even have to wish for it to happen.
The saliva rose from my dress, leaving it impeccable. When the spit caught the sunlight, it sparkled as if it were something sophisticated. Even Winston’s hatred couldn’t conceal the beauty of the elements.
As I watched, entranced, uncertain whether I was making this happen or not, I was amazed at the beauty that existed in everything. The water continued to shine as if it were the primordial example of elemental purity.
Winston hadn’t moved, though the smirk on his face had lost some of its enthusiasm. The spit flew. It traversed the short distance between my skirts and his face. It touched him at the hairline before it dragged downward in a straight line across his forehead, nose, lips and chin. It pooled in the collar of his shirt against the pulsing concavity between his collarbones.
He stood frozen, as I’d been when I first saw him approaching behind Marcelo.
The water element’s power was evident. Humanity coexisted with the elements, but they were the more powerful ones. Always.
Winston wiped his hand down his face, cupped the spit, and then flung it to the ground. There, it disappeared, unimportant atop the dark dirt and rocks of the road. “That’s right. I was warned about you. You’ve become quite the magical little witch, haven’t you? Even though everyone thinks you’re dead. Is that one of your foolish magic tricks too? It doesn’t matter though, does it? I have you bound, and now you can’t do anything about it.” Winston took a step toward me and leaned his face closer. I could feel the heat of his breath and the foulness of his last meal. “I can do anything I want with you, can’t I? Your lover’s all bound up too.”
He ran a cold, clammy finger along the side of my face and down my chin; I held my head high in defiance. He ran it across my lips, and I pulled my head back, as far away from him as I could without moving my bound body. To hell with defiance. He was disgusting.
There was the laugh again, just as revolting as it had been the last few times. “I can do whatever, absolutely whatever, I want to you, Lady Clara, and you can’t do a thing about it. You can’t call on your magician lover or your high and noble papa. Out here, you’re mine, just like you’re supposed to be.”
What he said wasn’t exactly true though, and I flicked a glance at Marcelo. Winston threw his head back and roared in hideous enjoyment that didn’t sound like the laughter of normal people. He misinterpreted my look to Marcelo as one of desperation.
Behind Winston, Marcelo shook his head once and only slightly. But I knew what it meant. So did Sir Lancelot, who was trying very hard to seem invisible and doing a good job of it.
I didn’t do a single thing. I didn’t say a word. I allowed the pretense to continue even as my arms grew tingly and numb.
In an unnerving replay of our last encounter, we began the long march toward a new destination.
Now, Marcelo’s horse and mine were tied to Winston’s steed.
I didn’t know exactly where we were going, but I could guess.
Not a single one of the alternatives I considered were good ones.
Chapter 7
I’d feared that Winston would torture us with his foul words while we journeyed, but the unexpected silence was almost worse. It allowed my mind to wonder at the many confusing aspects of his sudden appearance.
How had he learned magic? The least threatening of the alternatives was that he’d found a random magician to teach him a few spells in exchange for payment. If Winston knew that binding magicians also bound their magic, it would make sense that one of the few spells he’d choose to learn would be one that secured a rope around us.
However, the effect of binding was a secret magicians guarded. It was unlikely that this was the scenario that had actually taken place.
I didn’t even want to think of the other possible sources of Winston’s magic out of fear that it might somehow make them true. We’d find out soon enough.
We were in the middle of a desolate stretch of land. The few buildings that dotted the road were sparse, inns and taverns for the traveler.
Marcelo was behind me, and any time I turned to look at him, Winston also turned to watch the interaction. There was no chance to discover Marcelo’s thoughts, and I ached to know how different they were from my own.
I was alone in this, at least for now, alone with thoughts of sadness, despair, and apathy. I didn’t even know what to feel. All I knew was that the day had already been much too long.
Not even Sir Lancelot would save me from myself. He kept his eyes firmly shut. Only once did I notice him snap them open to see the face of our captor. But he shut them again before Winston noticed, and Sir Lancelot kept them closed ever since in the ruse of deep sleep.
I wished my petite companion would offer me solace, but I knew I shouldn’t blame him. He was small. Winston could c
rush him even without magic.
We passed another green hillock awash with bright wildflowers. Then another tree, majestic in its stoicism, unmoved by the transitory nature of human life; a bird chirped among its branches, tucked away so I couldn’t find it. Another tree, another hill, another idyllic setting that would otherwise bring me great joy.
I looked over my shoulder again. My arms protested at the unkind movement, sending their complaints straight to my lower back. They were having enough of a problem trying to survive the unbearable pins and needles that ran up and down them without any significant motion on my part.
I needed to know why Marcelo wanted me to remain bound. Wouldn’t it be better if I broke free so we could be done with this ruse? Why spend another moment with this loathsome ruffian?
But Winston’s eyes followed mine, and so Marcelo gave away nothing.
I was forced into a choice: continue pretending that Winston had defeated me and allow him to take us wherever he intended, or stand up to him now and prevent his plans.
Certainly, Marcelo must have his reasons for deciding we should ride along. Maybe it was important not to reveal to Winston that I was an exceptional witch, who could unbind herself when others couldn’t. Winston was a dangerous man even before his new interest in learning magic. Perhaps it was too risky to expose this particular capability of mine, too great of an advantage to possess it as a secret.
I didn’t understand enough of magic, especially my unusual way of accessing it, to be able to foresee the ramifications of it. And so even though I didn’t comprehend why, I chose to honor Marcelo’s judgment. He possessed the experience to make a wiser decision than I was capable of.
I could only hope his decision was the right one.
I allowed myself to be one with the elements. I felt the five-petal knot humming peacefully at my heart center. Nothing about our present circumstances worried it. When I took the four basic elements and the still mysterious fifth into account, it was easier to forget any reason for concern.
And so I let it go for now. The clouds up ahead became a five-petal flower before transforming into a face I knew by heart. Gertrude’s face was only clear for a brief instant. Then it became something else—a six-fingered hand, perhaps.
But even for a second, I saw her. I closed my eyes to hold the sight of her and her trailing hair for a moment longer.
Chapter 8
By the time the third day of travel dawned, not even the ever-morphing clouds could distract me from the many indignities I’d suffered at Winston’s hands. I knew things could be worse, and knowing something about Winston’s temperament, I understood things could be much worse.
Winston guided us off the roadside to hide in the forest at nighttime. There, he gagged our mouths with foul rags, tied us to the trunks of trees much sturdier than us, our arms still tied behind us. It was impossible to find a comfortable position to sleep in, even if I could have slept through the cold of the spring nights. But I couldn’t. I alternated between sitting and lying as best I could, shivering, begging for the sun to rise again while exhaustion took further hold.
Winston appeared to keep watch of us even as he rested. In the dark, I’d suddenly experience the uncomfortable sensation of his eyes upon me, all throughout the night.
Even the horses appeared unable to relax. They were unusually skittish, just as I was. Every unidentified sound startled my nerves and set my heart to racing, even if the greatest danger to me was within plain sight, just one tree trunk away, between Marcelo and me.
Again I wondered why Marcelo would want us to continue the ruse that I couldn’t unbind myself. But I was still unfamiliar enough with magic that I didn’t dare attempt something to which I didn’t fully understand the consequences. Marcelo, who possessed far more experience and knowledge than I did, didn’t want me to reveal that I was unique even among witches.
Once the interminable night ended, astride our horses again, we watched the sun rise and color a glade. Elk walked, unusually exposed, through the clearing, undoubtedly heading home where they could disappear from the human world. The grasses swayed back and forth in a never-ending symphony that was no less beautiful for its poignant silence.
I ached from the effort of attempting to lose myself in the beauty that surrounded me, to pull myself away from the realities of captivity. I longed for the comfortable rides in the carriages of my youth, where my sisters and I played games to pass the time to our destinations.
Fatigue pulled at me as effectively as delirium. In fact, I wasn’t certain I could distinguish between the two anymore. I didn’t bother to look back at Marcelo another time. My entire body ached and my emotions were raw. I strained from concealing my anguish from Winston, but I refused to give him the pleasure of seeing what his actions did to me.
Right then I decided I’d free myself. I didn’t think I cared what Marcelo’s reason for the pretense was any longer. Just thinking how the rope could unwind itself from my arms was more poetic than any poem I could fathom. I salivated, my body’s signals confused and overwhelmed by the thought of physical freedom.
I closed my eyes, determined to untie the binds.
Hazily, through a dense mist of exhaustion, I reached for the elements that composed the rope. Every material, every substance, ultimately broke down into parts until only the elements remained.
I traced the fibers of the rope back to reeds that lined a pond filled with life. I smiled unconsciously, without giving my first smile in days permission to appear. I felt the water in the rope. Even more, I felt the earth within it. I sensed the sunshine that had nourished the reeds to their height and the breezes that had animated them.
Just through identifying its parts, the rope began to loosen. The ties budged only minimally, but enough to keep them from cutting into my skin where the fibers had already rubbed the flesh raw.
I knew the rope would give all I wanted it to. Despite my weariness, it’d respond to me. I could do it. All I had to do was think of them unwinding and they would.
I hadn’t even checked up ahead to see what Winston was doing before I closed my eyes to this magic. Over the last several days, beyond monitoring any attempt I made at communication with Marcelo, he’d scarcely looked to either side while we rode. He trained his sight forward, with an uncommon unwavering. It was unsettling as much as any other part of him was.
But whether I’d checked on our captor or not was irrelevant. I was disgusted and worn to the point of not caring. I didn’t care about Winston’s reaction. I didn’t care what he’d do or how I’d defend against it. I didn’t even care that I was more powerful than him and that I might lose control over my powers in my fatigue and consequent apathy.
I just didn’t care at all. All I could think of was getting free from these ropes.
So when Winston spoke, I was unprepared to hear his voice. I was even less prepared to hear him tell us we were almost there.
My eyes popped open and stared straight into the sun. Amid dots of color that clouded my vision, I saw a castle. Atop a hill, it was just as grand as Norland Manor or Irele Castle. But this was neither of those, and it wasn’t the Castle of Bundry either. Marcelo had described his childhood home as one that sat on the crest of a mountain overlooking the sea.
This could only be one place. The one theory I hadn’t wanted to explore. It didn’t matter that I didn’t give it the energy of my thoughts or fears, we were here just the same.
Had Marcelo known Winston was leading us here? And if so, why on earth hadn’t he allowed me to free us long before we reached the shadow of this darkness?
“Welcome to Washur, Lady Clara and Count Bundry.” Winston’s voice dripped with a nastiness far worse than sarcasm. “I’m quite certain the Count of Washur will be happy to see you.”
Sir Lancelot’s diminutive body began to tremble. He pursed his eyes shut even harder. But that wouldn’t keep out the wickedness we approached, and the pygmy owl knew it. He’d lived centuries—even if much of th
at time he’d existed in a painting—long enough to recognize true evil for what it was.
I wished I could put a hand on him to offer comfort. But I let thoughts of untying us go. Count Washur was an adversary far greater than what I was prepared for, and his shadow already reached us. I’d have to trust Marcelo and his unexplained wishes for our captivity.
I just prayed he knew what he was doing. Because Count Washur certainly did.
Chapter 9
The march toward Washur Castle felt oddly like a prisoner’s final walk down the gangplank of a pirate ship. I’d read vivid scenes of death by pirate in front of the hearth at Norland Manor, and our procession felt just as terminal. My nerves shook despite my exhaustion, and I was grateful that Winston still faced forward so he didn’t see my courageous resolve crumbling.
I hadn’t faced Count Washur in battle at Irele, but I knew enough about him to terrify me all the same. He was sufficiently skilled to steal Albacus’ life and Count Bundry’s sanity. Both of these now-dead magicians had far greater experience and ability than me.
I couldn’t help but wonder again why Marcelo had allowed Winston to bring me here. He knew I could break free, didn’t he? Or, I thought with mounting panic, had I not remembered to tell him? Had I misinterpreted his subtle motions? My heart began racing. Did he mean to reassure me with a faint wag of the head, thinking there was nothing either one of us could do, instead of telling me not to break free as I’d interpreted? My stomach squeezed. Oh god, could I have been this stupid?
I tried, but I couldn’t remember now. Had I told him I’d managed to unbind myself when his nephew kidnapped me, or hadn’t I? Desperation and regret tasted sour in my mouth.
Why did these thoughts only come to me now, when it was too late to do much about it? Even if I unbound myself at this point, Count Washur might already be watching our approach. It might be worse if I revealed a secret advantage I still retained, assuming Marcelo’s nephew hadn’t told Count Washur I was the only witch alive that could untie myself once bound. But why wouldn’t Marcelo’s nephew tell the Count? Of course he would.
