She smothered her resentment at his mistrustful attitude. After all, she’d seen him look that way at Katie once, and she wouldn’t harm a fly, while Charmaine was tempted to turn him into a frog every time they conversed. Lucky for Anson, she was a lowly witch and not a great sorceress with the lofty powers he often accused her of possessing.
“Do you have another pair of earrings to sell?” he asked, sounding disparaging. “If you do, I don’t want them. I haven’t sold the last pair yet. As it is I’m thinking I gave you too much for it.”
At least that’s what his words said, but his eyes accused her of cursing him into making a bad bargain, when in actuality he had paid less than a tenth of what those earnings were truly worth and he knew it.
“Anson, that’s not why I’m here, and I don’t have any coins left to return.”
“What do you want then?” The door began to close.
Charmaine spoke quickly. “A few months back you mentioned a woman named Dora. What was it you said about her?”
Anson’s look changed from suspicious to canny, and the opening widened a smidge. “What’s it worth to you?”
Charmaine sighed out her frustration. “I’m trying to jog my memory. A woman named Dora once dealt with my grandmother about a charm but the entry seems odd. You must understand how, in these difficult times, it’s important to know the people we deal with are trustworthy. I wondered if you’ve ever dealt with her. Did you?”
“Oh.” His eyes lit up. “Do I get a part of your sale if I recommend her?”
“No.”
The door began to close.
“But if she comes to me, she might stop by here again.”
The hesitation lasted all of three breaths. “She bought a silver pendant. Paid full price.” And the door slammed shut.
With a triumphant smile, Charmaine raced home. Now she remembered the conversation. Anson had been raving about a customer, Dora, who had paid for an expensive piece of jewelry, without haggling.
Better than the exorbitant price Anson likely pocketed for the sale, was the priceless information that Dora had purchased from him a silver locket. During Charmaine’s recent research into love spells in anticipation of Kord’s arrival, she had read that silver was a great vehicle to hold the heart of a love spell.
Silver was normally used for offerings to the Goddess Ilisa. It was assumed the goddess favored that metal, for whenever she manifested to her priestesses, she always wore a silver coronet.
Charmaine guessed a silver locket was buried inside Kord’s posy. If she could dig out the locket and destroy its contents, there was a chance the charm would be weakened. She would have run upstairs to fetch the posy but Kord had taken that with him, not trusting it into her care.
Without realizing it, by carrying the posy with him for all these months, he could have strengthened the love spell, giving the magic time to work its way deeper into his heart. No wonder he had said each day was worse than the one before. She shuddered at his ordeal, no longer resentful that he had imposed himself into her home. After all, it was her grandmother who had instigated this mess, so Charmaine owed it to him to do everything in her power to get him out of it.
Back in the workshop, she searched for the love spell book. She had to pinpoint the exact spell her grandmother used and be very familiar with each step of the spell casting. If indeed the goddess had been invoked, even one mistake in circumventing this spell could prove disastrous not only to herself but to the spell’s subject.
She pulled the book from the high shelf and hugged the thick volume with its worn brown leather binding.
“Please don’t let this kill him,” she pleaded with Ilisa, and hoped the goddess heard her. Then she got to work.
Love spells were particularly difficult because the spell, meant to be a gift, could so easily warp into a curse if it angered Ilisa. Crafting the spell required a unique talent for working with magic and a great eye for detail in weaving the intricate charm. No mistakes allowed.
Was that what had happened to her grandmother? Had she made a mistake? But that was implausible because her grandmother was an expert at weaving the most complex of spells.
More importantly, why had her grandmother even taken the chance? And why pay someone to purchase the locket? Why hadn’t she purchased it herself?
Anson was a notorious gossip. She might not have wanted Charmaine to find out about the purchase and ask awkward questions.
Charmaine paused in her reading, her thoughts whirling in an impossible direction. Could her grandmother have cast this spell on Kord to fall in love with her granddaughter? Then Charmaine laughed, delighted by that absurd concept.
First of all, her grandmother had been adamant that witches and love did not mix. Second, Charmaine had seen genuine loathing in Kord’s eyes whenever he looked at her.
A tiny, long-buried part of Charmaine sighed in disappointment at discarding that delicious possibility. She laughed again, self-mockingly. If Kord was meant to love her, how ironic. For now she was honor-bound to break the spell that could have given her her heart’s desire: a man to love who could genuinely love her back.
She sat at the worktable, absently running her hands along the book’s side. So, who was the lucky woman whom Kord had been spelled to love? If she could worm that important bit of information from him, more light could be spilled onto this mystery. And the other question that arose was, had her grandmother known that Kord would be an unwilling subject?
Charmaine shook her head, immediately discarding that possibility too. Her grandmother would never have cast the spell if she’d known Kord was already in love.
Could she have found out later? Upon her death, the love spell book had been beside her grandmother. Charmaine guessed the old woman had been reviewing the spell she’d cast at the moment of her demise. When the posy was triggered, had she sensed the backlash build? Had tried to escape and couldn’t?
Tears wet Charmaine’s cheeks. As she wiped them away, it dawned on her why her spells were misspelling. The backlash wasn’t over. The price for true love hindered hadn’t been paid in full yet.
“I’ll find a way to fix this, Grandmother,” she whispered. “For both our sakes.”
Inhaling the familiar scent of old parchment and faded ink, she set to work. The pages rustled as she carefully turned one after another in search of the spell used to entrap Kord.
****
The market was bare when Kord got there, it being too early for the merchants to set out their wares or for customers to arrive. He was glad, wanting a bit of quiet to sort out his conflicting thoughts and emotions.
As with most markets on Edensa, this one too was uniformly divided into four quadrants. Each corner of the division faced north, east, south, or west. In the market’s center, he found a fountain that spit and sputtered around a statue of the goddess Ilisa.
Kord slumped onto the fountain’s wide ledge and trailed his fingers on the water’s surface, disturbing the peaceful reflection of the deity with her crown of silver. Yesterday, while standing across from Charmaine’s shop, after discovering the woman he’d been spelled to love and the witch were one and the same, he’d asked Ilisa to destroy her. But Kord no longer wanted retribution. All he wanted was to be free. “If you can hear my words, Holy Ilisa, help me break this spell.”
A streak of sunlight struck the liquid surface, making it seem as if the goddess’s eyes glinted. Instinctively, Kord glanced up, but the statue was just a statue, made of dark-veined white marble, weathered smooth.
He laughed self-consciously and imagined the goddess asking him, Why? Why did he want the spell broken?
Yesterday, the answer had been clear. Today, his thoughts churned in a mire of mud. Harder to verbalize, but he tried.
“Even if I feel sorry for her, that doesn’t mean I should be tied to her for life. I’m a man. I should choose whom to love. And besides, she’s a witch!” That should be reason enough, but the answer seemed inadequate. So he fell bac
k on the lamest of excuses.
“A man is supposed to convince a woman to love him. That he’s worthy of her. He shouldn’t be herded like a goat, taken to market, and sold for the highest prize.”
Long palm leaves swayed in the wind, playing shadow games across Ilisa’s stony features, and Kord had the distinct impression the goddess laughed at him. Then a familiar scent wafted by.
He jumped up and swung around, convinced Charmaine had secretly followed him. A lilac tree imbued the chilly morning air with its delightful fragrance. He shook his head in disgust. First he talked to a statue and now he imagined things. Perhaps he’d come so close to breaking this spell it unnerved him.
Once free, would he still think of Ponce’s bewitching witch every time he caught a whiff of lilacs?
He had not given a thought to witches before this spell. Unlike his neighbors back in Camden, he’d never paid for a charm for good luck, good weather, or good crops. He had instead relied on hard work and ingenuity to ensure his farm’s success. At best, he’d viewed witches as a curiosity. At worst, dangerous people best avoided. Now he wondered if both of those assumptions were off the mark.
Charmaine seemed neither dangerous nor a curiosity. She was like any other woman. No, not like any other. She was strong of mind and kind of heart. She hadn’t screamed at finding a stranger in her home as he’d half expected. Neither had she tried to seduce him, as many a woman had attempted to after cornering him in a barn or behind a haystack.
She had kept a respectful distance and listened to his problems with genuine concern, despite not having been involved in the spell-making that virtually destroyed his life.
Or was his impression of her faulty because of the spell he was under? Did he see her as better than she truly was? He stood and paced around the fountain, unhappy at no longer being able to trust his judgment.
“Who are you, Charmaine of Ponce?”
Frustrated, he picked a stone and flung it into the fountain. Water splashed, spattering the statue’s skirt.
A piece of marble cracked off and plunked into the water, spraying his legs.
Kord swore, and backed away from the fountain. “Cursing me isn’t enough? You have to make me look as if I wet myself?”
People began to arrive then, and as they passed by, sent disapproving glances at his fists on hips, legs splayed, angry posture. Kord gave a huff of annoyance and moved into the sunshine, hoping that would dry him off and cool his temper.
Chatter rose as merchants readied for the day’s sales. Fish sellers positioned themselves in the northwest, basket weavers in the southwest, fruit and vegetable stands in the southeast, with pottery and rug sellers to the northeast.
If he lived nearby, this seemed a suitable place to bring his produce.
The scent of fresh bread, goat cheese, and mouth-watering jams and spreads soon drew his steps toward the market’s east end.
“How may I help you, kind sir?” the woman manning the flatbread stall asked. Her wide brown eyes studied him with avid curiosity.
“I’ll take bread, jam, and some of that cheese to feed two. Make that four, two with strawberry jam, two with fig jam,” he amended. After the lack of a meal last night, any food in his hands was not likely to last all the way to Charmaine’s shop.
“A pleasure to serve you,” the woman said.
While he waited, he glanced around. Though marbled waterways divided the market into the four quadrants, water was stagnant in the channels and weeds invaded the graveled pathways. Was this a symbol of the village’s general decay? That explained Charmaine’s lack of custom. Or was that due to her lack of talent?
“Has business been difficult since the war began?” he asked
“Oh, yes.” The woman indicated a crumbling arch nearby. “With so many of our men gone to the coast to fight the Windorn invaders, we women can barely care for our own properties adequately, let alone the public ones. We try to help each other, the children, and elders but that leaves much work left undone. Are you returned from the war, sir?”
“No.” At the dissatisfied look on her face at his short answer, he added, “I’m a farmer.” While she packed the rest of the food in palm leaves and tied them with string, he took a large bite of the first flatbread spread with melting butter, sweetened figs, and thick globs of pungent goat cheese.
“You’re not from around here,” the woman said.
“Camden.”
“A long way to travel. You have family here?”
“No.” He chewed through the length of her heavy sigh. “I’m here to see the local charmist. Do you know her? A witch named Charmaine.”
Although all three bundles were now ready to hand over, the woman hung onto to them, her eyes turning steely, as if she never intended to let him eat again.
Kord was glad he’d taken that first flatbread while he waited or he might have starved.
The woman, still carrying his purchases, came around the stall to face him. “Marta, Karla, come here,” she called to the women in the next stall.
A sturdy female and an older, bent woman ambled over.
“What’s the matter?” the old one asked.
“Says he’s here to deal with Charmaine. If you’re upset about one of her charms, she’s good about fixing any problems.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Kord said. Charmaine’s charms need fixing?
“She doesn’t have family anymore,” the flatbread seller said. “So, we look out for her. What is your business with Charmaine?”
Charmaine lived alone, no one helped fill her larder, and her clothes hung on her as if meant for a fuller figure. It seemed to Kord that these people hadn’t done such a great job of looking out for her so far. Besides, who befriended a witch?
“You’re friends of hers?” He infused his question with a heavy dollop of skepticism.
“We protect our own,” the sturdy one said. She folded her arms across her generous chest in a menacing fashion, eyes narrowed with challenge.
He carefully licked his hands clean and wiped them on his trews as he stepped back to give himself room to maneuver. Hoping to dispel their antagonism, he pointed to the food he’d purchased. “I’m bringing this for her breakfast. She’s working on a charm for me and I wanted to make sure she had enough to eat.”
“Oh!” The seller broke out into a wide smile that turned her from warrior to pacifist. “Why didn’t you say so?” She handed the food over, all friendly smiles. “She could certainly use fattening up.”
The old woman nodded. “Wait here, I’ve got bananas you can take.” She hurried away before he could object.
“And some chai. She’s probably not drunk anything but water for weeks, poor thing.” The sturdy one ran to fetch some.
Word soon spread that he took items for Charmaine and before he could stop it, people from nearby stalls loaded him with a large basket as if they outfitted an ass. As his burden grew, he wished he had an ass to carry everything.
“She’s very proud,” the stall owner whispered, leaning toward him conspiratorially. “Doesn’t like to accept help. So don’t tell her we gave this free of charge or she’d return it.”
“As you wish,” he said. So Charmaine did have strong principles. Now he’d broken through these people’s barriers, he decided to broach another thorny subject that had been jabbing his side. “What are her charms like? Do they work well?”
Suddenly, everyone had other places to look at and duties to attend to.
“Fine, fine. Now don’t let us keep you.” The flatbread seller returned to her stall, effectively hiding behind it.
Everyone wished him a cheerful goodbye.
Kord walked away weighed not only with produce, but a heavy feeling that Charmaine wasn’t up to the task he had set for her. If so, what was he to do?
Although the idea of succumbing to the spell and sleeping with Charmaine no longer appalled as it had a day ago, his pride still irked at being forced to bend to someone else’s bidding. However app
ealing that bidding became.
By the time he reached the charmist shop, he had finished a second flatbread bundle and half of a third one he’d planned to give Charmaine was gone.
He set his burden on the floor and excused his greed by recalling how hard he’d worked to lug that heavy basket across practically the entire village. He wiped his mouth of crumbs before knocking on Charmaine’s front door.
Footsteps approached, soft but purposeful. The door opened and Charmaine stared as if startled to see him.
His stomach did a flip-flop, as it had last night when she came upstairs looking sad and dejected. As it had this morning when he turned from the well and found her watching him with a pensive stare that accused him of not belonging in her backyard.
To hide his nervousness, he grabbed the last untouched bundle of toasty warm flatbread and thrust it into her hands. “For you.”
At her surprised look, he forgot all his instructions and said, “The people in the market asked me to give that to you. And the rest of this.”
He nudged the basket inside before she could refuse, which had the added benefit of blocking the doorway.
She seemed distracted, as if she hadn’t really been listening to him babbling at her. Wanting to disturb that absent look in her eyes, he added, “I hear you’re an expert at fixing spells gone wrong.” Go on, I dare you to deny it.
“I might have found a solution to your problem.”
Stunned, Kord stared at her, unable to take in her words. Last night, when she said she couldn’t break her grandmother’s spell, a part of him had quietly died. He’d felt a shell of a man, a plaything of the goddess, to be as easily picked up and toyed with, as discarded. Probably why he’d picked a fight at her fountain.
“What have you found?” His voice sounded alien, as if a stranger spoke.
“Come inside.” She patted the palm-leaf-wrapped package as she strode into the back room.
Just as he lifted the heavy basket, Justin ran between his legs and in through the open door. Probably smells food, the glutton.
He determined neither he nor the cat would take another bite until Charmaine had eaten her fill.
The Misspelled Charm Page 3
