EIGHTEEN #3
Animal remnants are scattered between the stacks of ancient tomes in varying states of preservation—some jarred, others skinned and diagrammed.
I know enough of black magic to spot the evidence of her interest—newts and salamanders, eyes of frogs, bat wings sheered of their delicate wool.
All ingredients commonly coveted for dark spellwork.
My revulsion heightens when I spot human bones piled in a corner.
I can only wonder if some of these victims had been the hunters that had gone missing.
Thank God I didn’t drink that coffee, I think with a shudder.
At the back of the kitchen—a dark, rustic space filled with earthenware pots and dried herbs hanging from the rafters—we find a terracotta basin and a water pump.
Despite the disheveled state of the main room, it’s clean enough, with only a little weathering at the edges.
It will take time to warm the water over the fire to a temperature that isn’t bone-chilling, but it will do.
I’m so relieved, I loose an embarrassing little squeak of relief.
Dante is quick to point out the basin is wide enough to accommodate both of us at once—to which I promptly shove him into the pantry as I pass him by.
While the first pot of water is heating, my gaze catches on a tattered curtain partitioning the main room from the rest of the first floor.
Without a look at the building from the outside, it’s impossible to know the true scope of the home.
I push past the curtain, holding out an oil lamp to illuminate the shadowed alcove.
Here, there’s another half-moon table, littered with parchment and inkwells.
Most of the papers seem to be ongoing correspondence with someone I gather is another witch.
I scan the letters, finding pockets of gossip, advice for herb harvesting, and fears of persecution rising in coastal Tuscan cities.
I frown a little, hoping that her friend won’t come scouring Terralta when further letters cease to arrive.
The next parchment I see makes my heart skip a beat.
It’s a map of Terralta and the surrounding lands, meticulously traced by hand.
Given the delicate, yellowed nature of the paper, I estimate it has to be over two-hundred years old.
Possibly more. Immediately, I spot our general location, and move northward, toward Verona.
There’s a bit of fine print etched outside the city—precisely where Dante’s map indicated Callistia’s grove would be.
I place the oil lamp close by, sweeping it up carefully for a closer look.
“Dante, come here! You must see what—”
My words choke off into a strangled yelp. Beneath the map lies a pale, tiny body. I jump back, half-expecting it to attack. In seconds, it becomes clear that the creature is dead.
Swallowing, I approach again. It takes me a moment to register that I’m looking at a fairy.
Given what reclusive beings they are, and native to only the deepest forests, I’ve never seen one with my own eyes, and in its current state, it looks scarcely recognizable.
Its wings are shredded, reduced to bloody stumps at its back.
I recognize the shimmering shards like crumbs near its body, and realize with a sickening jolt that those were the iridescent bits in the vial the witch claimed would cure vampirism.
Trembling, I brush a finger to its delicate arm—as though there might be a foggy chance I could still rouse it. The body is ice cold, but decay has not set in yet. I have a feeling this fairy was alive no less than a day ago.
“What is it?”
I’m vaguely aware of Dante entering behind me, the back of my neck prickling at his presence without even laying eyes on him.
His steps come to a short stop beside me when he sees what I’m looking at.
I don’t know why it bothers me so. This fairy isn’t human, but there is something so fragile and helpless about its form, curled up as though in perpetual agony…
It freezes me. I feel like I can stand here forever, wishing to force color back into this creature’s face.
Dante says nothing—though I hear his intake of breath as he spots the fairy. I’m tempted to glance at him, wondering if he’s mourning the creature in his own way. If he’s even capable of such kindness.
Without a word, he reaches over, pulling a rag off the desk to drape it over the body, delicately concealing it from sight. His hand winds around my waist, and I allow him to pull me away, back to the hearth.
“What have you found?” he asks.
His deep voice gives me an anchor to focus on. I pass the map to him, watching his brows pull together as he traces a finger over the exact path I had done. Our path north.
“You know I hate to admit when you’re right,” I say. “But Dante… I think we’re going to find her.”
I push the poor fairy from my mind and focus on him instead—how his eyes widen when he reads the text finely etched above the city of Verona.
The year of Our Lord 1275—Callistia’s Grove.