24
Garin
Forget Eden, I would bite the apple
if the colors of my lover were not there to furnish paradise
All the sweetest fruits would wither and rot
after I had tasted her plum-tinted lips
Even the bruises she collects
bloom tiny lilacs across her knees
And rainbows were not conceived
until her amethyst eyes glimmered in the sun to refract them.
Her body laid bare
shows pale flesh that pools over her hips
as if the morning sky had been folded and tucked against her form
So give me shame
Give me pain
Give me the curse of growing old
As long as you will give me her colors.
-Lilith, by Maya Caulfield
After watching for another minute, still unable to hear anything, the vampire tethered the grazing mare to a log buried halfway in the mud. Then, he sat on it.
The princess stirred in him the same contradictory twist of hunger and desire that he’d long ago felt for Adelaide. Stronger, even. But if he’d followed Lilac into the hut, he would’ve been tempted to ask Ophelia if she knew of Adelaide’s whereabouts; the witch community was especially tight-knit, and he assumed they at least knew of each other. To what end his digging might lead, he didn’t know. At all costs, he wished to avoid doing or discovering anything that would jeopardize what he had with Lilac.
And he’d lied. Nothing was more frightening than knowing he’d fallen for the human princess.
Almost nothing.
Groaning inwardly, he plucked a cat tail grown too heavy for its stalk and dunked it headfirst into the water, watching the ripples extend above the murkiness.
He’d spent countless nights wondering if the constellations would one day align, allowing his and Adelaide’s paths to cross. She would be in her mid to late seventies now. A small part of him hoped she might reveal herself to him, wherever she was in the world; he imagined their reunion—cradling her nimble, weathered hands in his eternally sturdy ones. He imagined explaining everything while they wept together—Adelaide for her long-dead family, and Garin for every ounce of destruction and pain he’d caused her.
On his darker days, when his hope would wane, he would pray that her absence wasn’t a sign that she was no longer alive, but rather, an indication that she simply harbored hate for him so strong that it surpassed any sliver of ardency left.
He was well aware he didn’t deserve her mercy. Perhaps she would keep her promise and kill him if he dared hunt her down—a notion that hadn’t exactly bothered him… before he’d met Lilac. Despite all he had done, what plagued his imagination for close to two centuries was the possibility that the woman he once loved, who had loved him back, might never forgive him.
That notion was the most terrifying of them all.
25
Upon entering, a cloud of musk and spice overwhelmed Lilac. The interior of the witch’s hut looked more an overstocked tea shop or a poorly organized herbal apothecary than a place of magic.
Behind a weathered oak desk against the wall sat a woman who paid the princess no mind. Absently tossing her long, black tresses over her shoulder, the witch remained fixated on a piece of parchment. It obscured most of her face as she held it against the firelight. Black painted nails on the opposite hand drummed impatiently against the wood.
Refusing to appear as intimidated as she felt, Lilac gritted her teeth and made her way to the upholstered chair in front of the desk. She had to turn sideways to maneuver between several short shelves, which housed an array of jars with things suspended in green liquid. Holding her breath as she passed, she tried her hardest not to peek at what they might exactly contain. Past the shelves, a dozen cloth-lined wicker baskets were strewn about upon a bearskin rug, each filled with a variety of mushrooms peeking out of their tops. Between a basket crammed with the sponged heads of black morels and another of scrumptiously creamy bulbs, a basket of the brilliant red mushrooms caught her eye.
“My fungi collection is off-limits, thank you very much.”
Jumping at the sound of her voice, Lilac hastily took a seat opposite the witch.
Without lifting her gaze, the woman muttered at the piece of paper while tracing over it with her pointer finger. The material of her black shawl shone iridescently as she moved her arms in the firelight.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she murmured. Her Parisian accent was thick as molasses. “If those imbecile Parliamentarians across the channel want to catch their Witch of Dover,” she seethed in a mock falsetto, “they’ll need to find a new caricaturist.”
With a huff of contempt, she tossed the paper away, and Lilac’s gaze followed it until it rested on the floor. A rough illustration of a severe woman with long hair and sharp eyebrows framing a round face stared back at her below thickly scrawled letters spelling out, Witch of Dover, Wanted Dead or Alive.
When Lilac looked back up, the witch was staring at her. The back of her neck prickled with heat, as the witch had been glaring her way from the poster, and in real life. Frozen, Lilac momentarily forgot what she was going to say. The witch’s eyes turned up at the corners, a swimming concoction of ochre and midnight so swirling that Lilac couldn’t tell where one color began and the other ended. Her eyelids were rimmed in soft gray, and gold specks of glitter ran halfway down her rosy cheeks, tapering off like the tails of tears.
Kestrel and Sable had made Ophelia sound like a haggish wench with an addiction problem. Though she very well could’ve been, the woman before her was far from any kind of hag. She couldn’t have been past her early-thirties at the most.
“Good evening. I—I’m Lilac.”
“I know who you are. I’ve been expecting you. Took long enough.” She procured a white mug from the cabinet behind her, then bent to pull a basket from beneath the desk and onto her lap.
“Why are you fidgeting?” Ophelia snapped over the basket lid, sniffing at a palmful of dried red herbs before dropping them into the mug.
Lilac stopped tapping her heel against the floor. “Nothing at all, I’m just… It’s only that I don’t have much time.”
“You’re right.” Wood scraped against wood as she scooted the chair back. “I do hope you’re not traveling on foot,” she said, standing and crossing the room to retrieve the kettle that had been hanging in the fireplace. “Or you’ll never make it back for your ceremony. And before you inquire, no I don’t do that portaling shit. I don’t know why mortals think our magic works that way.”
“I’ve got a horse, thanks,” she replied, purposefully leaving out Garin’s involvement. Anyway, I don’t mean to be rude at all, but I don’t think I’ll have time for any tea. Is the process—”
“This is the process. It’s already begun.” The dry herbs fizzled on contact with the scalding water. Then came a waft of fuchsia-colored steam, immediately followed by a loud bang and puff of red smoke.
Lilac realized she’d been watching the whole ordeal with her jaw slack. She closed her mouth and gulped. “You know why I’m here, then?”
“Please. What more could the princess want? What more, but to be freed?” She laughed darkly, and Lilac found the sound strangely pleasant. “And it was I who’s been expecting you. People pass through my cabin all the time with their ridiculous requests. Except now, of course… You’re a special case. Otherwise, I’m closed for business until you’re found,” she said, scathingly quoting in the air.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve refused to entertain any mortal in their frantic state of despair while your parents’ army infests the streets outside. Usually I wouldn’t care but it’s been bad for business, not to mention distracting, and therefore, unwelcome.” She pursed her lips, leaning back in her chair. “They’re searching for you. In case you didn’t know.”
“I’m aware.” Lilac’s cheeks reddened at Ophelia’s accusatory tone. “People come
to you, though?”
Ophelia rolled her eyes and nodded slowly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Her slender hands fanned over the piping mug, causing the cloud of thinning pink steam to disperse. “From time to time, you mortals need a little magic to nudge the humdrum of life in the direction of your favor. An offer of goods or funds in exchange for a spell or blessing. Most times, their issues are simple. Flourishing garden crops that won’t grow. Curing a cow who won’t produce milk. Making someone’s wife’s hair grow overnight. Men—their wishes are far more frivolous,” she added dryly. She pivoted to extract a burgundy decanter and crystal cup from the bottommost shelf of her cupboard.
Lilac observed in half awe, half annoyance as Ophelia worked meticulously, setting the glass down to fill it with a clear, bright green liquid. She bent to scrutinize the amount, then produced a small, silver spoon, upon which she placed two dazzling blue cubes. The last of her ingredients, apparently, was a pitcher of water. Ophelia held the spoon suspended above the green liquid and proceeded to trickle the water over the cubes, which had started to glow.
“Then—mind your jaw—there are situations that call for more nefarious solutions. For these, my customers present me with rarer curiosities. Ones that cost more or are much more dangerous to procure.”
“From the forest? Things from the Low Forest?” Lilac asked in a whisper before she could stop herself. The witch had obviously been there, given the strange collection of ingredients surrounding them.
Ophelia shrugged, but the glint in her ochre eyes answered for her. “From the places that provide a deadly challenge… or quite the adventure. But sometimes, it is necessary for me to gather such ingredients myself. This past winter, I was running low on eggshell powder. Not just any egg, you see, but one plucked from a Peregrine nest off the Dover cliff tops—often basked in lightning, those work best for my most potent enchantments,” she explained. “I nearly succeeded, but not before a wayward local spotted me. Hence that atrocity.”
Upset she’d been reminded of the illustration, Ophelia snatched the Wanted sign off the floor and calmly began ripping the parchment into shreds. “Fortunately, a kind philanthropist decided to donate to my cause recently, so I am well prepared to do your bidding—whatever the remedy may be.”
Lilac leaned forward, hung up on an earlier part of the conversation. “Curses? Like… an assassination?” She couldn’t help her curiosity, or the thoughts of Laurent—and Sinclair—that popped fleetingly into her mind.
Ophelia chuckled into her hand. “At the end of the day, your fickle villagers are the ones cursing each other. I’m merely a catalyst. And goodness gracious I don’t do murder,” she gasped, clutching the lace at her chest; Lilac couldn’t tell if she was being genuine. “It would be horrible for business. No, no, no. My involvement mostly concerns much simpler affairs. Fertility aid, love potions, and curse removal.”
Glancing pointedly at Lilac, she pushed the white mug forward. “It’s cooled enough to drink.” At the princess’s grimace, Ophelia waved a hand. “Well? Would you like my help or not?”
Lilac hesitantly leaned forward to sniff. Instead of lurching in disgust, her stomach growled. It smelled wonderful. “What is that?”
“Popping Scarletbloom. Well, the tea of its leaves, obviously,” Ophelia replied, almost proudly. “Most comparable to the tastes of jasmine and honey, and generally safe to consume. That is, if the drinker isn’t under any sort of enchantment.”
“Then why are you giving it to me?” Lilac demanded, pulling back from the mug. “We already know that’s the case. What’ll happen?”
“You’re so sure of yourself, for someone who has no idea how our magic works. This,” Ophelia snapped, tapping the mug, “is my protocol. By enchantment, I’m referring to any hex, blessing, jinx, or curse, so on and so forth.” She leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “If a person is enchanted, the Scarletbloom in their system will singe their eyebrows off. Don’t ask, that’s just what it does. If that’s the case, what we’ll need is a disenchantment ritual for you.”
“And if that’s not the case?” Lilac frowned, confused. But that was the case—couldn’t they skip the part about her eyebrows getting singed, and move on to the second step?
“All it means is that you’d receive a different kind of remedy,” Ophelia said lightly. “In a way, magic is no different than medicine. We have certain treatments for specific ailments; if you confuse them, consequences could be disastrous.”
“I’m not… sure I’m following.”
Ophelia gave an impatient snort. “If your Darkling tongue is the result of an enchantment—in your case, a curse—then, we strip the magic, yes? And if it is not the result of an enchantment, then we add magic to remedy your unwanted ability.”
“And by drinking this,” Lilac said, prodding the mug, “I become the queen with no eyebrows.” Maybe there was a potion for hair restoration.
“Drink up. Then, we’ll see.”
Cupping its warmth, Lilac sniffed nervously as she lifted the mug to her nose. Honeydew, and warmth. Clarity.
Whatever it led to, it smelled like magic and freedom.
As Lilac readied herself, straightening in the seat, Ophelia twirled something thin between her fingers. It was a short wooden stick with chunks of purple crystals crudely formed at one end. Humming to herself, she dipped it into the green liquid, stirring the crystals around.
“Is that part of it, too?” Lilac asked, eyeing the green concoction nervously. The sickly hue looked far less appealing.
“You must be joking. The cost of faerie’s sugar here is increasing by the year, and I don’t have a princess’ means to fund my indulgences.” Ophelia shrugged, lifting the glass to her lips and smacking them in satisfaction. The liquid glimmered in the firelight. “It’s a wormwood spirit—a specialty of the Low Forest. I prefer to save it for special occasions, and what better way to celebrate servicing the princess? Bottoms up.”
Lilac took a hesitant sip while Ophelia did the same. It was delicious. Before she knew it, she’d finished the entire thing in four gulps. Her stomach tingled hot, then cold. She slapped her palms over her eyebrows in panic, ready to smother any sudden flames.
But nothing happened. Nothing at all.
Ophelia’s lips spread into a grin. “Intriguing.”
“How long should it take?” Lilac demanded. Sick dread filled her stomach. “It’s delayed.”
“Its effects are immediate, You Highness.”
Ophelia studied her, tapping a single black fingernail against the side of her nose. “It’s likely one of those anomalies of nature. Like blond parents producing a dark-haired child.” She shrugged. “Nothing too unusual.”
“So, my Darkling Tongue… isn’t a curse?”
“No,” Ophelia answered, sounding mildly shocked herself. “Apparently not. You came out… not wrong, for that isn’t the word. Different.”
“No.” Lilac gripped the chair arms, unable to process the implications of what any of it meant. “I am not like you,” she spat harshly, unable to swallow the nauseating disbelief. “In any way. I’m human.”
“I never said you weren’t,” the witch replied dismissively. “As I said, an anomaly.” She leaned back once more to rummage in the cabinet behind her. The doors creaked wide open, and Lilac caught a glimpse of dozens of misshapen bottles filled with potions and powders.
Reeling, Lilac sat back and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Don’t go pouting now, princess,” Ophelia said, her voice echoing slightly into the bowels of the cabinet. “There’s still a cure. The tonic you require is actually much simpler than anything designed to remove another practitioner’s magic. Ah, there we go.” She turned back to Lilac, something tiny concealed in her palm. “Magic removal usually requires a disenchantment ritual—which, you were correct upon requesting, because, let’s face it, we’d believed you were cursed. But now we know, all you’ll need is this; easier for me, and quicker for you, I might
add.”
Ophelia unfurled her fingers to reveal a thumb-sized vial of swirling gold liquid, extending her arm across the table so Lilac could see. “In fact, I made a small batch recently. They’re handy to have in stock.”
“A batch?” Lilac inspected the vial. Although the witch held it perfectly still, the shimmering gold inside thrashed and swam, as if waiting to be released.
The witch nudged the cabinet doors open further to reveal a row of four identical vials suspended by a rack. “It’s probably my third or fourth most-requested tonic. It’s on the pricier end, sure. But you’d be surprised what folks are willing to part with when matters are desperate.”
Rage suddenly consumed Lilac. She hadn’t gone through everything—encountered ogres, korrigans, faced Sinclair, been drowned by Morgen, captured by vampires, and nearly imprisoned by the Fair Folk—all for some commoner’s cure.
“So, you mean to tell me,” she fired, palms prickling, her voice even raising, “that someone’s previously consulted you to remedy a Darkling Tongue?”
The witch blinked. “Not at all. You’re my only. But my customers come in all the time requesting to change certain traits. Traits they were born with. Things they dislike of themselves and wish to modify. For example, if a brown-haired lass fancied a man with an affinity for blondes. Very easy solution.” Ophelia tapped the side of the vial.
Born with?
“Yes, but that isn’t… I mean, I was expecting some sort of, I don’t know. Incantation. A ritual. An offering to the moon or something.” Something more solidifying, putting an end to her near-lifelong heartache. It couldn’t—shouldn’t— have been that easy.
Irritation flashed briefly across Ophelia’s moon-shaped face. “You’re upset because you feel I have contorted, reduced your circumstances to something trivial. But this is precisely what you’re looking for, is it not? A cure, a quick one, and by any means?”
Disenchanted Page 33
