Under Her Spell

by Bridget Essex

  “Quiet time,” Pye snorted. “Have you met Samantha and Harmony?”

  “Whatever you do to relax is entirely up to you, darlings. It’s just been all too much, the play and then the ghost… As for me, I am going to make myself a piping cup of tea, pull out that hot little book and read it to death.” Bridey grinned, turning at the corridor. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

  “I guess I could study the oracular projections of reading bird hearts again,” sighed Tabby for a long moment. “But I think that I don’t quite agree with using bird hearts for oracular projections, so I think I’m going to write a paper to my advanced correspondence course and tell them so.”

  “Sounds sexy,” said Pye with a sideways smirk. A single glance from Tabby, and she raised her hands again in placation. “I’m going to go do, you know, actual sexy things.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder at Emily and Isabella. “And you two?”

  Emily’s face was drawn as she gazed at Pye. She said not a word, but Isabella threaded her fingers into Emily’s hand. “We’ll see you in a few hours,” she promised Pye, who shrugged, and together Tabby and Pye walked away.

  Isabella and Emily found the stairs and began to climb them.

  “What did that mean? What just happened?” asked Emily when they reached the landing. “With your aunt. I haven’t known her for very long, but she didn’t seem to be acting quite herself to me.”

  “Stranger and stranger,” Isabella sighed, opening the door to their room. She crossed to the bowl and pitcher and poured herself a little of the cool water, splashing her face with it. Her nerves were jangling, her skin was crawling, and she was too warm. She felt…odd.

  Emily sat down on the bed with a sigh, elbows on her knees, gazing up at the witch. They hadn’t had a moment to just be, the two of them together without any pressing thoughts, since they first arrived here. But now a pressing thought still swung heavily between them, born on the breath of a ghost.

  Isabella watched Emily, the way that she straightened then, stretching overhead, the curves of her body moving in the afternoon sunshine that poured through the windows, stained glass and clear panes, causing her face to be marked by cobalt and sapphire and seafoam. The Changer glanced up at her, eyes hooded and dark as she caught the witch’s gaze.

  Then Emily stood slowly, shrugging out of the cloak she’d worn in the abbey below (it was quite cold in the stone building). The fabric fell from her shoulders, down upon the bed. She cocked her head, the feather-soft brown hair falling into one eye roguishly. Like a special kind of clockwork, Isabella’s heart began to beat faster.

  There were no words as the witch crossed the space between them to stand before the Changer. No words as she reached up and undid the clasp on her own cloak, letting it fall with a sigh to the floor. She reached out questioningly, softly, to curl her fingers over the curve above Emily’s right hip, letting them rest against the warm cloth there. And then her other hand, above the other hip, felt her almost-hot skin, her muscles beneath, the there-ness and softness that was Emily. As she made each movement, the Changer did not protest, only breathed, watching her with those dark eyes that Isabella could not read, the emotion and depth of them hidden to her as Emily took a single step forward, closing the space between them as she cupped her hands at Isabella’s jaw and chin, drawing her face up. And the Changer kissed her fiercely.

  Every day, since they had come together, and sometimes several times a day, poor Alice was confined to the out of doors or the dry goods store (which was why Eliza Goose had gotten so fond of the Familiar). Alice called them her “torture hours,” but it was certainly not torture, what Emily and Isabella found for themselves to do on lazy winter days when the snow made a trip down to the town impossible. Yesterday had been the first day since they’d been together that heated explorations of one another were not undertaken. Isabella was no fool; she knew that the intensity of such a regimen would wane when they had things to do and lives to lead, and when the snow wasn’t piled up past the roof (on some days!) outside. But she had gotten used to the rhythm of tasting and touching and kissing, and she’d missed it like an ache yesterday. It was a good reminder that spring was coming, that gardens would need to be planted and there would be evenings when they could barely lift their heads from exhaustion, let alone make love to one another.

  But spring wasn’t here. Not yet.

  And the cold of the abbey needed warming.

  It was strange how, in these moments, the tiny lovely things of the world would sharpen themselves to Isabella, then fade away altogether. Like how the roses beside the pitcher smelled so good in the small room, or how the sunshine angled through the windows, or how soft the blanket was beneath her as Emily raised her skirts and pushed her down gently upon the bed. And then everything else faded away like magic, her heart quickening, their breath coming faster as the Changer pressed her down and moved over her like stars over earth, Isabella gazing up into her eyes, so intense, so dark, like deep water. The way Emily looked down at the witch, the way she bent to brush her mouth along the hollow of Isabella’s collarbones, now visible as the Changer teased the edges and collar of her dress down, down, sent a wave of heat through the witch, and a gasp escaped her as she wrapped her legs about Emily, her arms about her shoulders, arching her head back and back…

  As if she was plunged into cold water, Isabella gasped again, stiffened as the shimmering form of white came into view. They both sat up, the witch and the Changer, tousled, staring at the ghost that stood at the foot of their bed, eyes wide and watching.

  “What are you doing?” Isabella said before she realized that probably the ghost couldn’t even hear her, and she certainly couldn’t have understood that she was interrupting at a very inopportune time. But what was the ghost doing, as she took a step forward, raising her hands, pointing to the two of them and then spreading her palms, beseeching? As the otherworldly winds blew about the ghost's hair and clothes softly, softly, Isabella realized that this was the same ghost from last night. She had the same eyes, the same mouth, as she whispered words that neither of them could hear.

  Emily stared at the ghost, buttoning her dress back up with shaking hands. “We’re trying to help you,” she murmured softly, slowly. “Are you Giene?”

  Against all odds, the ghost somehow understood her, and as both witch and Changer watched, the ghost shook her head slowly. She raised her hands again, begging, then turned to glance at the little altar in the corner of the room. The ghost transformed, in shimmering light, into her bird shape now, and with one too-quick motion, snatched up one of the roses from the pitcher. She struggled with its weight, then flew directly toward one of the stained glass windows. She disappeared at the last moment, and the rose fell to the floor, petals everywhere.

  Emily stood, picking up her cloak from the floor and fastening it about her neck. Isabella sighed and slumped back against the bed, not really certain where to put all of these newly awoken feelings.

  “She came to us again,” Emily whispered, gazing down at the witch with wide eyes. “Is this what ghosts do? Is this normal?”

  “No,” said Isabella, chin pillowed in her hand with a sigh.

  Not even close.

  ---

  Things had been interrupted, and they stayed interrupted, as the witch and Changer straightened themselves up and went and knocked on doors until Tabby and Bridey and a very disgruntled and interrupted Pye joined them for yet another round of tea in the dining hall.

  If Emily had thought Isabella consumed vast quantities of tea, she simply had not met other witches yet.

  “I’m just not sure what to do,” said Isabella, shaking her head. “It’s obvious that the ghost really is seeking us out. But why? And she said she’s not Giene—”

  “I think that everyone realizes exactly how to get to the bottom of this,” said Tabby, folding her arms smugly as she leaned against the back of her chair. When the witches and Emily gazed at her with brows raised, obviously not reali
zing at all, Tabby sat up a bit straighter, perplexed. “Don’t you see? The only way to get through to her and communicate with her and discover why she’s so darn tortured is to hold a séance!”

  Isabella and Bridey were kind enough not to laugh, but Pye was under no such moral obligations. She burst into laughter that lasted about a minute until, wheezing, she stopped to inhale a great breath.

  “You’ve got to be joking! Tabby, you’ve never been able to create a séance to save your life. They let you graduate because you took another elective! You’re terrible at it!”

  “Well, I’m sure other witches gathered here would disagree with you,” said Tabby with a huff. Bridey bit her lip and gazed at the ceiling to hide her smile, and Isabella gazed at her hands. They had both been in the oracular classes with Tabby. They remembered what had happened the many multiple times Tabby had tried to bring in ghosts.

  Isabella had always felt desperately sorry for that poor pony that had probably never been the same after it was invoked in the center of the séance circle instead of said ghost.

  But Isabella and Bridey and Pye had never done séances, and as Emily leaned forward, a hopeful look painting her features, Isabella knew the fate was sealed.

  “We could try in the library…” she said, trailing off as Pye shot her the dirtiest look in all of the kingdoms.

  “You can’t possibly be serious, Isabella. What if she invokes a dragon this time? Do you remember what Miss Toniqual said? On pain of very bad things happening, Tabby should never be allowed to perform a séance again!”

  “May I point out that this was five years ago?” said Tabby, rising nervously and twisting her hands, “and I’ve been practicing since then. Can no one ever get better at something?”

  “Not you with this,” said Pye flatly.

  As they traversed to the library, Isabella watched how Tabby carried herself, her nose up, her head held high, her witch’s briefcase that she carried everywhere swinging at her side. She was pretty brave for attempting spells that had almost gotten her banned from the Magicmaker Academy when she performed them to spectacular failure. Tabby had always inspired Isabella in that way. Isabella was terrible at many bits of magic, too, but whereas the witch just sort of kept limping along on the mediocre knowledge she’d acquired, Tabby hadn’t settled for that. She kept trying. It was admirable.

  And terrifying. But mostly admirable.

  There were too many witches in the library, so Isabella traversed to the far back wall and the little wooden door there. “It’s a contemplative room. And a study room,” she told Emily, knocking at the door.

  “Yeah. I used to go in here with girls to contemplate quite a bit, back in the day,” said Pye with a wink.

  “Not that much has changed, actually,” said Bridey with a brow raised. “Like yesterday, for example…”

  Pye’s grin was wide enough to split her face.

  The room was small and empty without any windows, but Isabella brought in a candle, and together the women sat down at the small, round table.

  “All right!” said Tabby, pushing her witch's hat far back on her head. She moved the candlestick this way and that on the table until she was fairly certain it was in the direct center, then held out both of her hands, to Isabella on the left and Bridey on the right.

  “Always loved the touchy-feely crap part of this the most,” sighed Pye, taking Emily’s hand and Bridey's. Isabella glanced up, surprised. Pye and Emily sat next to one another stiffly, but Emily was more interested in the proceedings on the table than in her neighbor.

  “I want us all to close our eyes,” said Tabby, voice dropping about an octave.

  “This isn’t going to work,” said Pye helpfully, but Tabby cleared her throat again, and Pye went silent.

  “I know there are many ghosts in the abbey, but we’re looking for one in particular today, spirits,” said Tabby in that peculiar singsong voice she used when she began a séance. “Everyone, concentrate on bringing a sphere of light into the center before us, in the candle flame, all right?”

  She’d hardly gotten the words out of her mouth when there was a flash of light behind Isabella’s closed eyes. She opened them, then, and stared open-mouthed at the ghost that floated above the table, suspended above the candle flame as if she’d been there all along. The ghost was looking squarely at her and Emily, but mostly at Emily.

  “Speak to us, spirit,” said Tabby gently.

  And the ghost opened her mouth and whispered, her voice feather-soft, “Please help me.”

  “What can we do to help you?” Emily whispered eagerly, leaning forward, not breaking her eye contact with the ghost.

  The ghost hovered for a long moment, sinking lower so that she could face Emily and Isabella better. Her eyes were wide, and—impossibly—she was weeping, though only ghosts of tears, tracing themselves down her see-through cheeks.

  “My love, Giene… She is gone from me forever.”

  “Your love,” Isabella repeated, breathing out. So the ghost was not Giene; her lover was.

  “She was my world,” said the ghost softly, slowly, then reached out with her filmy fingers, bringing them alongside Isabella and Emily’s heads.

  There was a flash of light…

  ---

  “Giene!”

  The knight who strode forward had long blonde hair swept back from her shoulders, her armor glinting in the too-bright sunshine, the sword affixed to her back in its scabbard too heavy for an average mortal to lift. But she wasn’t average. She was a hero.

  “Bryn,” whispered the knight, sweeping up the woman in her arms and pressing her down to give her a deep, lingering kiss. The woman wore the intricate braids and cobalt headdress of the priestesses of Lunarose.

  “I have a terrible feeling… I’m afraid,” the priestess, Bryn, whispered. Bryn’s eyes were wide and blue and gazed up at the knight with trepidation. “I’ve read the oracles, and they say that this battle will be unlike the others. Fiercer. Bloodier."

  The knight’s armor, though shining, was scuffed, her sword dripping with blood, blood leaking out of the scabbard against the newly fallen snow making a river, now, the world crumbling to blackness.

  “I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. You are all…” The knight couldn't speak, couldn't finish, for she was weeping, tears falling against the upturned face of the priestess, who reached up her arms, bringing the knight’s lovely face within reach. Kissing her deeply.

  Beyond the almost-finished abbey, the stone and glassworkers gathered along its walls, was the army—waiting.

  I will do everything in my power…

  The scene changed.

  This was the last night, and Bryn knew it. There was such heavy foreboding in her heart, but they both recognized the likelihood that the army would come and take the abbey, that everything they’d both worked for might be defiled and destroyed. The priestesses had their orders. They knew what to do if the marauders came in. And they would die.

  But tonight… Tonight, all was quiet and soft and lovely. Giene was in her room, in Bryn's arms, and for tonight, the lovers came together, their hearts aching but beating so fast, kisses exchanged, skin tasted and touched and worshiped.

  Two halves of a whole.

  “You are my world,” Giene whispered, bending over her bride in supplication. In wonder. In adoration.

  Bryn had never seen anything so beautiful as when Giene reached down and kissed her, so Bryn always kept her eyes open; her sweetheart was too lovely not to watch.

  It changed again...

  Bryn, the priestess, walked the high pathways far above the earth, alone at the edge of the abbey, along the cliff face of the sea.

  She could see the ocean, far below, could feel its power, its constancy.

  The army was vanquished. Lunarose was safe.

  But Giene was dead. She'd died defending the abbey, defending everything they'd held dear. Bryn was alive because Giene had saved her. But Bryn couldn't live without h
er. She couldn't bear it.

  Bryn leapt, and for half a heartbeat, she was flying again.

  But then she fell.

  ---

  Isabella gasped, her breath catching in her throat as the ghost ceased to touch her. Emily, too, her eyes wide, panting, turned to gaze at Isabella.

  And above them, the ghost of Bryn looked down at them both sadly. Trapped forever in anguish because the love of her life gave her life to save the abbey.

  To save her.

  “What…just happened?” asked Pye, staring at the both of them with wide eyes. “Tabby, get that ghost out of here—”

  “No, no, it’s all right,” Isabella managed, shaking her head. “She was just…showing us what happened to her.”

  “She could…do that?” asked Tabby nervously, biting her lip. “They never told us that ghosts could do that.”

  Here, now, Bryn gazed at the witch and the Changer still, holding out her hands to them, imploring. “Please help me,” she whispered again, voice soft. Desperate. “Two halves of a whole.”

  “How can we help you?” asked Emily. “Please tell us what you need…”

  The ghost, sighing, became more fragmented, fading away to nothingness. Before she disappeared entirely, she whispered a single word that remained in the room for a long heartbeat: “Giene.”

  And she was gone.

  “Excuse me. Spirit?” said Tabby, clearing her throat. “I didn’t dismiss you—”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Tabby,” said Pye, dropping Emily and Bridey's hands.

  “What did she show you?” asked Bridey, leaning forward.

  With a deep breath, Isabella explained, as best she could, about the two lovers—one a knight, one a priestess—and how the knight had somehow saved the abbey but died in the process, and how the priestess couldn’t live without her and had thrown herself into the sea.

  “That’s terrible,” Tabby breathed out. “Oh, my goddess…that poor woman.”