Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  A memory flashed into his mind of the way Amy had looked when she had broken through the spell of Lady Margaret’s sorcerer. She had been frantic when the dagger had pierced his shoulder and his blood had run through her fingers. He remembered the warmth of her touch on his skin, the heat that had flowed from her hands into his shoulder. It hadn’t fully registered with him, though; he had only had eyes for the love that softened her face as she stroked his cheek. But then, as she had turned away—oh, how her expression had changed! Her eyes had glowed with murderous fury when she had confronted their tormentors.

  Her fierceness had left him staggered. For then he had known she would kill to protect him. And she had.

  His chest expanded on a deep, agonized breath. Guilt stabbed him anew and it hurt worse than the wizard’s dagger. What a fool he had been! Such a bloody, bloody fool!

  Meanwhile Mrs. Bourne proposed that they all go back to the house in order to read up on evil plants before they attempted to kill this particular specimen the next day.

  “Tomorrow?” Mr. Chapman asked. “Shouldn’t we whack it with a spade first?” His gaze flicked from the plant to the old oak tree and back again.

  “My dear man”—Mrs. Bourne gave him a kind but somewhat pitying look—“in cases such as this, when magic is involved, it is always best to not take any chances. Especially when it might not only cost you a perfectly good spade, but also your arm.” She sniffed. “Look at that little creeper. So full of evil.”

  They all stared at the plant, whose central stalk continued to move from side to side. Perhaps it did indeed know they were planning its destruction, because its leaves slithered to and fro, scattering the remains of the small animals buried underneath even more.

  “No,” Mrs. Bourne said decisively. “Today we are going to plan our counterspell, and tomorrow at first dawn we will kill that thing.”

  So they returned to the house, cold, wet and exhausted from their long search, but in a far happier mood than they had been that morning. For the very first time Fox allowed himself to hope.

  When he sat with Amy in the evening, her cool hand resting between his palms, he thought of how easily the Bournes had included his family in the planning of the spell—as if they had taken it for granted that they would and could all work together whether they had magical abilities or not. The Bournes had even called in Mr. Chapman to advise them on how best to kill regular weeds. At this point, the admiral had scribbled down notes as well—no doubt, come next spring he would attack the moss growing on his apple trees with strong lime water.

  “It’s most curious, is it not?” Sybilla later remarked to Fox. “How much care and effort putting together such a spell takes. Why, it’s almost like composing a song.”

  It seemed his family had easily accepted the existence of magic. But it goes against all common sense and rational thought! something inside Fox clamored even now.

  He looked down at where he had laced his fingers with Amy’s.

  He was a man not given to superstition or flights of fancy, one who didn’t believe in fairy tales. And yet…

  His thumb smoothed over the back of Amy’s small hand where her skin was as soft as eiderdown. Being with her had reminded him of a time when he believed that stones could hum. Vividly, he remembered how her dancing in the stone circle had filled him with wonder. Anything had seemed possible with her at his side.

  Fox leaned forward and brushed his mouth over her cheek. “Don’t leave me now, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I would be lost without you, and the world would be such an empty place.”

  It occurred to him that if it hadn’t been for the potion he would be sitting in his club right now, or spending an evening at Madame Suzette’s, slaking his lust in a meaningless encounter. What a shallow fellow he had been! He would have never pursued Amy, would have never made the effort to see beyond his annoyance and value her for the sweet, witty person she was. She might not fulfill the ideal of the polished, stylish debutante, but she was courageous and resourceful, kindhearted and talented in ways he had never imagined.

  If it hadn’t been for the potion, he would have continued his merry but empty bachelorhood or, perhaps, would have eventually relented and married a society debutante after all. They would have had a sparkling, sophisticated society marriage—and everybody knew what that meant! Fox grimaced. He would have never known the bliss he had found in Amy’s arms, would have never known that closeness of body and soul he had experienced with her.

  Yes, they were different—a man who put rational thought above all else, a woman who lived a fairy tale. The potion had pulled those superficial barriers down and had thus allowed them to find each other after all.

  With a sigh, Fox laid his head next to Amy’s on the pillow and his closed his eyes.

  Please, you must come back to me.

  ~*~

  The next morning they all assembled around the magical plant once more. Mr. Chapman brought a large, sturdy sickle, which he had sharpened the evening before, and his assistants carried water cans and buckets filled with concentrated lime water. Colin Bourne held two pouches of salt—one large, one small. It had been Mrs. Bourne’s idea to scratch Amy’s skin and mix a few drops of her blood into the salt to increase the powers of the spell she and her husband were about to invoke.

  Richard leaned over to whisper into Fox’s ear. “How curious. I always thought such things would require the full moon.”

  Fox shrugged. “Apparently not. Lady Margaret and her minions didn’t require the full moon, either, did they?” He watched how Bourne took the sickle and the smaller bag of salt. Mrs. Bourne, armed with a can of lime water and the larger bag, positioned herself near the plant, and gave her husband a nod.

  Taking a deep breath, Bourne turned. “And here it begins. If you would all take a step back, my lord, my ladies, gentlemen.”

  With measured steps he then circled the plant, dropping grains of salt onto the earth. His lips moved as he murmured under his breath, but the words remained unintelligible. Carefully, he drew a circle around the plant, his wife and himself, and when the last few grains of salt touched the earth to complete it, the round began to shimmer with blue light.

  Hissing, the plant shot forward as if to snap at Bourne. Yet he stood out of its reach and, unperturbed, lifted the sickle slowly with both hands. Rays of the winter sun caught and sparkled on the gray steel, and it seemed as if a gleaming star was lodged at the tip of the blade. The next moment, the sickle swung downward in a graceful, deadly arc. Yet instead of chopping off the main stalk, Bourne cut deep into the earth in order to hit the main root.

  A high-pitched wail made them all start. Faster than lightning, the main stalk shot forward and the black ball at its top unfurled to sink a row of sharp thorns into Bourne’s arm. He grunted with pain. Still, his free arm never wavered, and he drew the sickle out of the ground with one hand. The tip of the blade had blackened.

  Dark red liquid oozed up from the wound in the earth, and Mrs. Bourne quickly aimed a gush of lime water at it. Already the plant seemed to weaken: the stalk sagged; the leaves’ rustling decreased.

  While his wife steadily poured the water on the plant, Bourne raised the sickle once more, and this time he did cut through the main stalk. Another wail was abruptly cut off. The black ball fell away from Bourne’s arm. Although blood tripped from his wound to the earth, the hiss of the sickle swinging from side to side and cutting into leaves and roots never faltered. With each blow the blade turned blacker and blacker until, with a screech, the metal burst and splintered like dry wood.

  In unison the group of spectators gasped.

  The can of lime water spent, Mrs. Bourne put it aside and opened the bag of salt. Murmuring a spell under her breath, she sprinkled it liberally over the dying remains of the plant to stamp out all life. Under the influence of the salt and her spell, the dark leaves and roots withered away and turned into black slime that lay thick and oily on the earth. With a graceful wave of her hand, Mrs. Bo
urne brought her spell to an end. She looked at her husband, a small smile hovering around her mouth. “Done,” she said.

  With the tip of his boot, Bourne smudged the line of salt that described the border of the magic circle, and immediately the blue light expired. With a deep sigh he stepped out. “Well, now.” With the back of his hand he wiped his forehead. “The roots need to be dug up and burned together with all the earth. Afterwards, the whole area must be purified.”

  “What about Amy?” Fox pressed. “Will this help her?”

  Bourne lifted his shoulders, then grimaced in pain. “That remains to be seen.” He glanced at the now useless handle of the sickle in his hand, and frowned as if he had only now become aware that the tool had broken. With a shrug he threw it away.

  Mrs. Bourne went to her husband and, putting her hand on his shoulder, inspected his arm. “This wound needs to be cleaned and looked after. You should have chopped off that nasty little thing at the top first, after all.”

  “And have its blood splatter everywhere?” Bourne asked wryly.

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, you’re right. It would have ruined everybody’s coats. And these things are usually terribly difficult to remove from fabric. That would have been aggravating indeed.” She turned her attention back on the remains of the plant and on the surrounding area. “I am afraid the bushes are beyond saving, Mr. Chapman,” she addressed the head gardener. “And that poor old oak tree probably needs to be cut down as well. Everything else ought to be rubbed down with lime water and then we’ll have to wait and see how this turns out.”

  The group scattered: the gardeners went back to their work, while the Bournes, the Stapletons and the admiral returned to the house. Pip and Dick bubbled over with excitement about what they had witnessed, and asked the young Bournes a thousand questions.

  When they finally reached the house, a miracle awaited them: a maid came running, and called out breathlessly, “It’s Miss Bourne! She woke up! Indeed, she did! Right half an hour ago, she suddenly opened her eyes and sat up straight in her bed.”

  Richard, Bella, and Fox hurried upstairs after the Bournes. The sight that greeted them in the Rose Bedroom made Fox fall weak against the doorframe: the maid who was sitting with Amy was just giving her a sip of water. As they entered, Amy’s head turned slowly, ever so slowly. She caught sight of her aunt and uncle, and a hint of a smile flickered across her face.

  And then she saw him.

  Fox swallowed hard. “Amy,” he whispered. The next moment he was across the room and down on his knees next to the bed. Tears spilled past his cheeks as he took her hand and lowered his head over it in order to press a kiss onto her knuckles. “I am sorry. I am so sorry,” burst out of him. And overpowered by his feeling of unworthiness, he couldn’t meet her eye.

  Something touched his cheek. Amy’s finger, trailing over his skin in a feather-light caress.

  He raised his head and stared at her. His heart drummed so loudly against his ribs, he thought she must surely hear it. Desperately he searched her pansy-blue eyes, which had lost their usual brightness and looked wan and tired. What he saw there humbled him—and gave him hope.

  “Hello, Fox,” she murmured, and her lips curved into a soft, little smile. “It is so lovely to see you again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Even though she had wakened, Amy did not further improve. She remained weak and listless, and slept almost all day. Fox sat nearby most of the time, anxiously looking over her, counting every breath she took when she slept, softly talking to her in the few precious moments when she was awake. “I was such a fool,” he said to her one afternoon. “Such a proud, arrogant—”

  “Hush.” She put a weak finger against his lips and the corner of her eyes crinkled. “You thought I would suddenly sprout a beaked nose, grow a wart or two and start cackling in the most frightful fashion like a veritable fairy tale witch.”

  “Amy—” He threw her a helpless look.

  “Hush,” she repeated, her hand stroking across his cheek. “I understand.”

  He captured her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. She watched him, her eyes over-large in her small, thin face. “I couldn’t tell you,” she whispered. “It was awful…” Her eyes fell close. “When I knew and you didn’t. But you wouldn’t have believed me. Do you remember your lecture about common sense and rational thought when we first danced the waltz?”

  “That man was a pompous ass,” he growled.

  She gave a little laugh and blinked up at him. “How could I have asked you to believe in potions and evil magic?” she asked, serious once more. “And if by chance you had, what if it had broken the spell wrought by the potion and I had been sent back home? There would have been nobody to protect you all.”

  Leaning forward, Fox buried his face in her hair. “You did so much for my family.” Desperation at his own shortcomings sliced his heart. “I should have trusted you. I should have loved you better.”

  Her breathing deepened. When he lifted his head, she had already fallen asleep again.

  Most of the time Amy was too weak to talk, and so he took her book and read to her. He read to her how Alexandie, now worthy Markander’s wife, was abducted by the horrible Green Man, a wild, dark creature living in the depths of the forest, and how he struck Markander with a deep, unnatural sleep. Fox’s voice faltered as he came to this passage, but Amy’s hand slipped into his and her fingers weakly squeezed so that he would continue. Thus, he read on: how Martinus and Gidonius set out to free fair Alexandie, and how Martinus slayed the Green Man with the mighty, magical sword he had received from the King of Swedes, Ikerad. And Fox could not help remembering the sickle Amy’s uncle had used to kill the plant outside in the garden. It seemed fantastical, as if the characters of a book had stepped out of their story and into the real world. But would the story end happily in real life, too?

  The longer Fox sat at Amy’s bedside, the more he doubted it. No, she did not improve. Day after day he watched her closely, eager to catch the smallest improvement. So far, he had detected none.

  And worse: Amy’s family seemed doubtful, too, in regard to her recovery.

  One evening, they all met in the South Drawing Room. “It hasn’t helped her, has it?” Richard asked. “The gardeners have dug up all the roots of that plant, have burned both them and all the soiled earth, but it hasn’t helped.”

  Bourne sighed. “No, it hasn’t helped.” His voice sounded utterly weary. “We have given her additional healing potions and conventional medicine, but none of these have helped, either. The poison has saturated the land far beyond the reach of the roots of the plant…” His voice trailed away.

  Fox clamped his eyes tightly shut and bit his lower lip. He wanted to rant and rave against fate, wanted to weep and cry.

  For a moment they all sat in silence.

  “Surely there must be something,” Bella began hesitantly. “Is there anything that can be done?”

  Again silence reigned, a silence which rang horribly loud in Fox’s ears. His eyes snapped open. He sprang up from his seat. “There must be something!”

  “There might be.”

  All eyes turned to Colin Bourne, who exchanged a glance with his brother Devlin.

  “Well…” Devlin licked his lips. “We have talked about this, and… well…”

  One of the younger boys fidgeted on his seat, then leaned forward, excitement making his eyes sparkle. Fox recognized him as the one who had wanted to throw blue lightning at him. Flann, wasn’t it? “We should try to heal the land,” the boy blurted, “not Amy!”

  “Heal the land?” His father frowned.

  “It might be worth a try,” Colin argued. “So far we have only tried to heal Amy and it hasn’t helped her. You said it yourself, it’s the land that is poisoned.”

  “But, dear”—Mrs. Bourne clasped the arm of her husband—“how could we? We would need…”

  Devlin rubbed his neck. “Granted, it isn’t ideal. It’s neither Beltane
nor midsummer.” He shrugged. “But still, it might work.”

  His mother narrowed her eyes. “You really mean…” Abruptly, her head swiveled around, and she stared at Fox. “He would have to…”

  Her intense gaze made Fox uncomfortable. “What is it?”

  “He is so not ideal,” Flann of the blue light muttered. The next moment though, his expression and tone lightened. “What about sacrificing him? ‘The Holly King must die’ and all that?”

  Devlin reached out and slapped the back of his younger brother’s head. “You’re crackers! The next thing you’d know is Amy coming after you with a knife!”

  What a relief! Fox didn’t quite know whether to laugh or to cry.

  “No, we were speaking, of course, of…” Devlin cleared his throat, looked at Colin.

  The older brother gave a small grimace. “The Great Wedding,” he finally said.

  As one, all members of the Bourne family turned to gaze at Fox.

  “Er…” What was he supposed to say? “A wedding? How will a wedding help her? I will wed her, of course, if it will help.” Fox winced at his own awkward phrasing. “I’ll wed her in any case,” he hastened to add.

  This, however, didn’t have the expected effect. Instead, young Flann glowered at him. “He is a dunderhead,” he muttered darkly.

  “Shut up!” Devlin clipped him again.

  “Ouch!”

  “For heaven’s sake, will you two stop!” Mrs. Bourne snapped at her sons. “We’re not speaking of a conventional wedding,” she said, turning back to Fox, “but of a Great Wedding. Domangart of Alba describes the ritual in detail. It’s the… the…” She made a vague movement with her hand. “The union of the Lord and the Lady.” She gave him an expectant look.

  Fox blinked. “Who?”

  “Oh, dear.” She sighed. “I’m not explaining this properly.” And, prodding her husband: “Tell him.”

  ‘Well…” Bourne gave every appearance of a man who felt extremely uncomfortable in his skin. “In that ritual Amy performed, she became the Lady of the Land—in a manner of speaking, that is. Now, we believe the land might be healed if she had a companion.”