Regina Rising

by Wendy Toliver

  “To the marketplace,” Giles’s coachman cried as he cracked the whip. I gave the front door one last look as we rolled away, half expecting my mother to appear and say she’d changed her mind. The greater the distance between the carriage and my house, the more at ease I felt.

  Almost an hour later, as we crossed a bridge and got our first glimpse of the market stands and carts, I was struck by an array of wonderful smells—those of smoked pork and mutton, freshly baked bread, and buttery beans. My stomach growled as if it had been days since I’d filled it.

  The coachman steered the carriage over to the side of the road, where Claire and I stepped out and began making our way to the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. On the outskirts, a crippled man sat hunched on a tree stump, plucking out a joyful tune on a mandolin. I paused by his hat—a floppy black one with an assortment of patches—and tossed in a coin, which made the faintest clink. Without missing a note, he glanced up and gave me a crinkly wink and a gap-toothed grin.

  Claire, who’d kept walking onward, came back to retrieve me, taking my arm in hers. “We must stick together,” she said, sounding more like a mother to her child than a girl to her friend.

  We meandered through the crowds of merchants and village children, occasionally sidestepping a skinny cat or a wayward hen. From time to time, Claire turned to look behind us. There was something about her—a distant, misty look in her eyes and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead—that worried me. “Claire, is somebody following us?” I asked, making her stop.

  She wrung her hands. “What? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Are you feeling well?”

  She straightened her arms at her sides and blinked. “I sometimes get nervous in crowds, that’s all. Oh, look. That must be the bread my uncle asked me to get for him.”

  A rotund man with a pointy beak of a nose hustled and bustled about as he peddled his bread. I joined Claire in the queue. When it was her turn to be helped, a boy with stringy red hair zipped by, snatching a loaf as he went. The baker ran after him at uncanny speed, given the size of his stomach. Realizing the baker was gaining on him, the boy threw the loaf in the opposite direction. A dozen meters away, the loaf lay discarded in the dirt. Not a second later, a pair of little girls picked it up and fled into a thicket.

  I heard a squeal and looked up. The baker had pegged the redheaded urchin against the side of a stage where a juggler was performing. Or had been performing, as the juggler squealed some more and jumped off the stage, knocking a burly bearded man in the audience on the head with one of his wooden clubs. The bearded man wound up his arm and punched the juggler right in the gut, which sent the scrawny man careening into a gaggle of old ladies, one of whom had a calf on a rope. Punches were thrown and shouts and curses filled the air, and the newly freed calf scurried this way and that, trying to escape the chaos.

  Meanwhile, the baker held the young thief by the scruff of his neck, giving him quite a beating. Between wallops, the boy whimpered and sobbed and promised he’d never steal again. But the baker kept pounding on him. Unable to watch a second longer, I stepped forward, but Claire held out her arm, restricting me. “What are you doing, Regina?”

  When I looked at her, I noticed she again had that strange faraway look in her eye. “I have to stop him,” I said. “He’s hurting that boy. Maybe if I offer to pay for the bread, the baker will leave him alone.”

  “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” Claire narrowed her eyes and lifted her right hand. Mashing her lips together, she made a low guttural noise. I was so puzzled by my friend’s bizarre behavior, I didn’t notice what had happened until one of the old ladies screamed, “Fire!” The bedlam instantly stopped, and everybody turned to see what the woman was yelling about.

  The baker’s boots were on fire! I looked between him and Claire as he hollered and hopped about, and she stood by me, glassy-eyed, until it finally dawned on me that she’d set his feet on fire.

  Claire had magic?

  The baker bounced over to a trough, scaring off the calf, which had been drinking from it. In one smooth movement, he leapt into the water, alternately praising the gods and cursing.

  “Claire? How…How did you do that?” I asked when I found my voice.

  By then, the villagers had begun eyeing those around them with overt curiosity. “Witch, show yourself!” someone demanded from the far side of the stage.

  I grabbed my friend’s arm and headed back in the direction of the bridge, where Giles’s carriage would be waiting to bring us home. The unmanned bread stand came into view just in time for us to witness the redheaded boy swipe two more loaves and then scamper off, with a slight limp and the beginning of what would surely become a deep purple shiner.

  “He’ll continue to steal, but I have a feeling the baker won’t be tempted to beat little boys anymore,” Claire said once the carriage began rolling along the road, homebound.

  I ignored that. “Why didn’t you tell me you had magic?” I demanded instead.

  Before Claire could respond, the carriage jostled to a halt. She hung her head out the window to ask the coachman, “What is going on? Why have we stopped?”

  A moment later, he answered from the perch, “Apologies, Miss Claire. An old woman was in the way, chasing after a calf. We’re all clear now, though.”

  “Very good,” she said, and the horses commenced trotting down the road.

  My patience was no match for my curiosity. “I can’t believe you’ve had magic all this time and you never told me.”

  She cast her eyes downward. “I merely dabble in it from time to time.”

  “Dabble in it?” I repeated incredulously. “You set a man’s boots aflame!”

  She blinked several times. “I suppose I did.”

  “And yet, why didn’t you use it when the blind witch attacked us?”

  “The blind witch?” She twirled a strand of hair. “Oh. I really don’t know.”

  “You didn’t think of it?” I asked.

  She swallowed and her gaze met mine. “I guess I didn’t know if my magic would have had any impact.”

  Again, Claire was being too modest. However, if she didn’t have enough power on her own, surely the pair of us would be a force to be reckoned with. Unable to check myself, I reached across the bench and took her hands in mine. Hers felt chilly, despite the agreeable weather. “You must teach me your magic,” I said, my voice transparent with desperation.

  “As you wish,” she said. “Come over to my uncle’s tomorrow.”

  I blinked. That hadn’t been difficult. Claire wasn’t the least bit reluctant. “Thank you, Claire,” I said, fearing what I was about to say might sabotage my chances. However, I wouldn’t feel right about taking her up on her generous offer without warning her. I took a deep breath and forged on. “My mother will not want me to learn. If she finds out you’ve agreed to teach me, she…” I flexed my jaw, not really knowing how to finish. “Let’s just say she would not be amused.”

  “That’s why we’ll be careful. She’ll never find out about the lessons, because she’ll never know I have magic. I’m very good at keeping it a secret.”

  I felt giddy as the carriage swept past the orchard and up my drive, delivering me to my house. Now Claire and I had a secret between us, and it was a big one. I thanked the coachman and gave the horses each a gentle rub on their velvet-soft muzzles before heading inside.

  “I’ve never been up here,” I said as Claire and I climbed a narrow, winding staircase within her uncle’s house. I’d scarcely slept the night before, as I was too wound up about learning magic. I’d ducked around my parents and the servants all day to keep them from noticing anything different about me. Soon Claire and I stood before a small arched door with a brass doorknob, and I held the candle up as steadily as possible so Claire could better see the keyhole. The lock gave a satisfying click and the door yawned open, screeching like a mad alley cat.

  “This is where I come when I want to be alone,” Claire sai
d, her voice echoing against the stone walls.

  Overhead, a moth fluttered recklessly along the rafters that peaked to form the pinnacle of Giles’s house. “As you can see, my uncle stores Aunt Louise’s belongings up here. Things he couldn’t bear to get rid of—and yet, he never comes here, because seeing them brings him too much grief.”

  “I remember her,” I said. “She’d accompany your uncle on his doctor visits and bring along her needlepoint and songs to entertain and cheer the patients’ worried families. Whenever a woman gave birth to a baby girl, she’d give them a generous gift of hair ribbons. Everybody adored her.”

  One winter night, Louise went into labor. Giles had delivered many babies before, and he was thrilled to be bringing his own child into the world. However, there were complications. Somehow, his own wife died in childbirth, and their baby was stillborn. I’d never forget the snowy day we all dressed in black and gathered at the cemetery to bury both her and their infant boy in a single coffin. I didn’t know if Giles had ever forgiven himself.

  I lit a candelabrum on an old bureau, shedding more light and casting shadows on the furniture, shelves, pots, and chairs arranged on the wooden planked floor. I lifted a large tan cloth covering to reveal a precious wooden crib, carved with little bears and trees. Inside it was nothing but a folded blanket, its edges embroidered with matching bears. Shaking my head, I draped the cloth back over the baby bed. Next I opened the curtains on the lone window, trying to brighten not only the room, but the mood.

  “My aunt Louise liked to write, and she kept journals.” Claire gestured at a tall, narrow bookcase that held a dozen or so volumes. “Many of them are empty, so sometimes I come up here and write stories in them.”

  I ran my fingers along a row of leather-bound spines. “What kind of stories?” I couldn’t help wondering if any of them were about me.

  She shrugged. “I wrote one the day we picked the apple from your orchard.”

  “Really? How does it go?” I asked.

  She rolled her shoulders back and stood tall. “When a sailor would take off on a lengthy journey, his beloved would give him the first apple of the harvest. As long as their love remained pure as starlight, the apple would stay as perfect as when she’d first picked it. Then, upon the sailor’s safe return, they would cut into the apple together, and its seeds would be in the shape of a star.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s lovely, Claire. Very romantic.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I’m glad you like it.” She dusted off and arranged a small table and two chairs. “Are you ready to learn magic, Regina?” she asked, gesturing at the empty seat across from her.

  “Am I ever!” I exclaimed as I sat.

  She reached for my hands and turned them palms up. Her eyes slowly shifted side to side, and she swallowed. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and told me to do the same. I did as instructed. “Clear your mind, Regina. All you should see is darkness. All you should hear is my voice.”

  “All right,” I agreed.

  “No, don’t speak. I need you to concentrate on my voice, not yours.”

  “Oh, my apologies.”

  “Regina!” She sighed. “I will tell you when it’s all right for you to talk.”

  I pantomimed squeezing my lips shut. I heard her take another deep breath: inhale, exhale. “Now, picture the sea at nighttime,” she said. “Inky black water and waves capped in midnight blue. The full moon is a deep yellow, with gray clouds overlaying it like gauze.”

  After a brief pause, she continued. “The moon is turning orange. Now it is red. The redness pours into the ocean and bleeds into the sky. Everything you see is red: the sea, sky, and moon. Keep your eyes closed. I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer out loud and in full honesty. Regina, what emotion are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Well, anger, I suppose.”

  “Anger is a very powerful emotion,” Claire said, sounding pleased. “We can definitely work with that. I want you to concentrate on that feeling. Since this is your first lesson, I want you to remember something that recently happened that made you angry. If possible, focus on something you’re still mad about. Nod when you’re ready to proceed.”

  Memories swarmed my mind, a vast majority of which centered on my mother. Most recently, three days ago, when she’d sent me to my room and bolted the door.

  “Picture it in detail,” Claire said.

  I closed my eyes tighter, and I felt a hint of a smile tugging on my lips as I recalled what a beautiful morning it had been.

  I’d just had an exhilarating ride on Rocinante. But my horse and I weren’t the only ones in a good mood. When I’d gone down to the stables early that morning, I’d caught Jesse humming as he mucked the stalls. Even the birds and butterflies seemed to be in good spirits as they fluttered and coasted about in the blue sky, celebrating the sunniest morning of the season so far.

  Rocinante was galloping back to the stables when I veered off into the thick of the orchard and brought him to a halt. Leaning back in the saddle and placing my hands on his haunches, I tilted my head toward the sky and breathed in the sweetness of the dewy apple blossoms.

  When I first spotted a red apple dangling from one of the highest branches, I blinked to make sure it wasn’t a mirage caused by gazing into the direct sunlight. However, even after rubbing my eyes and guiding Rocinante a few steps to the side, it remained. Never had the orchard produced a single fruit in the springtime, let alone a ripe one. The way I figured it, the lone apple was a good three months early.

  I had to have it.

  I slid out of the saddle and tried to climb the tree, but the lowest branch was too high. After some trial and error, I stood in the saddle, which put me within fingertips’ reach of the apple. Struggling to balance, I stretched higher and smiled when I grazed it.

  I heard my mother call, “Regina! What in the land are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

  Cursing her for seeing me and myself for not having checked to make sure she was nowhere around, I carefully lowered myself down and sat sidesaddle. “Nothing, Mother. I was trying a new trick.”

  “A new trick? Did it not occur to you that you could have fallen and broken your neck? My magic can do many things, but it cannot bring you back from the dead.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Mother. But as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.” I made an effort not to allow my gaze to drift to the apple. If I couldn’t pick it right then, perhaps I could return for it later.

  “What was that?” she asked, inclining her head like she hadn’t heard me, even though she had the senses of a hawk.

  “I’m truly sorry, Mother,” I said, trying my best to sound like I meant it.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Go to your room and think about how you’re not to ‘try new tricks’ ever again,” she said, as if I were a child.

  Rocinante pawed at the earth. “I’ll go, but first let me take him back to the stables.”

  “I will make sure your horse gets back to the stables. Now, go.” She raised her hand, and using magic, tethered Rocinante to one of the trees. Poor Rocinante stomped and threw back his head, the whites of his eyes showing. To make matters worse, she’d given him hardly any wiggle room.

  “Go to your room,” my mother repeated. As I made my way back to the house, growing more furious with each step, I glanced back at Rocinante. Why was she punishing him? He’d done nothing wrong. If anything, he’d held steady so that I didn’t fall. Rocinante would never do anything to hurt me.

  My mother’s words replayed in my mind: Go to your room.

  How dare she. I was sixteen, not six! Even if she had caught me riding in perfect form on the sidesaddle, she still would have found something to criticize. Nothing I did was ever enough for her.

  I flung open the front door and stormed into the foyer. Solomon stood in the corner, moving only to close the door quietly yet firmly in my wake.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied my father pla
ying chess with Giles in the smoking room. I knew he saw me, too. He raised his head, but he did not stand. He just sat there, holding the queen piece in midair. It was as if time stood still, except for the anger flooding through me.

  “Open your eyes, Regina.” Claire’s soft voice brought me out of my memory. I’d been so consumed by it that I’d forgotten where I was and whom I was with. I felt exhausted, physically and mentally.

  “Slowly stand up.”

  Though my legs trembled, I did so.

  “Good.” Claire rose and walked around the table, stopping behind me. “Focus on the candles. Use that feeling of anger and extinguish them,” she commanded, pointing at the seven dancing flames atop the old, dusty bureau.

  It didn’t work.

  I quickly exhaled and then inhaled.

  The flames flickered insolently. Would it be enough to direct my anger to the candles, since they weren’t cooperating? But that was more frustration than anger, I thought.

  “Visualize the candles being blown out one by one,” Claire urged.

  I envisioned it. Clenching my eyelids closed, I tried harder. Confidence filled me, coursing through my veins. The anger heated my blood and I felt it pass down my arms and out of my open palms.

  The flame on the left side of the candelabrum seemed to dim, and I almost cheered with joy. However, my celebration would have been premature, for when I blinked to make sure, it was still lit. Had it been my imagination, my hope, playing tricks on me? I glanced down at my hands. There was no purple smoke like my mother made. No smoke at all.

  When Claire looked at me, her eyes were wide.

  “Don’t pity me,” I said softly.

  “I don’t,” she replied. “I just…I don’t understand why it’s not working. Perhaps you simply need more practice.” She pursed her lips and blew out the candle on the left.

  “Yes, practice. I’m sure that’s it,” I said, rolling the crisp fabric of my blouse between my thumb and forefinger. On second thought, perhaps Claire’s instruction was missing something important. Still, I didn’t want to insult her by suggesting she was a less than adequate teacher, so I asked, “Is this how your first magic lesson went?”