3. Turn and Face the Strange #2
“It’s not magic—they’re simply twigs.” We traversed the leaf-ridden trail toward the field just outside the city stone. “Though, what happens if someone, or something, tries to harm you… I wouldn’t call that magic, I’d call that a natural consequence of angering a witch.”
Prism giggled. “All of Willowspire should be grateful you are not allowed to spread your dark wings, sister. I fear none of us would survive you if ever your abilities were untethered by Asunder’s law.”
“Yes, an untrained nobody little witch from the tiny, haunted and hunted Provence of Willowspire will bring the wicked empire to its knees with her twig sigils. You caught me. But first, let’s get you married so you and Birch can ride off into the sunset on a floppy saddle and unbrushed and untrained horse. ”
“Be nice.” Prism grinned. “Oh, everyone’s here.
” She squeezed my arm as we stood on the outskirts of the makeshift aisle of torches and vines.
A fire raged at the end as townsfolk gathered on either side.
Across the fire was the giant circular tree stump, remnants of a great willow, cut by Asunder’s forces.
I’d seen drawings of the mighty tree from which our Provence received its name; however, the stump was now just a large scar of heartache.
A reminder of our powerless submission—a place to offer the wedding rite.
Charm noticed us as she waited by the willow grave and offered a small smile.
Charm was a kind and gentle high priestess, though despite her compassion, a sense of sorrow loomed over her.
She’d never spoken about what she’d seen or endured as one of the few witches to witness the fall of Willowspire—but I knew the knowledge plagued her.
Bishop Quarry took his spot in front of the stump, which sat just along the tree line, as the bonfire raged beyond the scar of our lost willow.
The setting sun washed us all in deep orange.
I scanned the crowd for Birch before Prism pulled my attention.
“This is it. When I step down off the willow, I’ll be Prism Malefic no more. ”
“Prism… what is this guy’s last name again?”
“Viper.”
I bit my tongue.
“Be nice .”
“Ugh, but he makes it so hard.” The deep orange of the sunset began its subtle fade to purple.
“This is your last chance. Are you sure you want to marry Mr. Viper with his baby soft hands?” Of course I knew of the Viper brothers—the whole town relied on their farm and them leading the weekly hunts.
I’d wished Prism had fallen for a plainer, gentler family than theirs.
Especially with how cruel the oldest brother, Adder Viper, had always behaved toward me and anyone he encountered.
Our head hunter was also the town’s head asshole.
My sister’s dimples buttoned her perfectly round face as she kissed my cheek. “I’m sure about him. I love you, Rumor.”
“I love you, Prism.” My chest ached and despite the urge to pick her up and run away and lock her in the cabin forever…
I walked away and took my seat on a quilt in the grass.
I wondered if Matri would be proud of me or annoyed that I didn’t scare baby-hands off sooner.
I wondered if my mother would be crying into her embroidered handkerchief by now.
Cloyingly sweet rose perfume infiltrated my senses as I was joined on my quilt by the last in the Provence to be wed—Amity Patch.
“Hello, Rumor. I must say the blue ribbons in Prism’s hair look a lot like the ones I wore for my ceremony.
” She giggled. “I’m not implying you copied me, just an observation. ”
“Keen observation, Amity. Where’s Mr. Patch?”
“Oh, he’s over on the men’s side somewhere.
” Everything stilled as the sun sank lower.
The strawberry blonde town busybody looked over her shoulder thoughtfully.
“You know, I have a friend in Boar’s Hallow.
She tells me that their lords supply the town with fresh fruits for every wedding rite and they attend them all as guests of honor. ”
“Is that so?” I answered, not attempting to feign interest. Amity was exhausting, and I dreaded any mindless chatter she routinely supplied.
Clicking her tongue, she glanced behind us at the faraway, gloomy castle that sat like a spear jutting out of the gutted swine that was our bleeding town. “Do you suppose they died? Could that be why they never come around. Maybe the estate sits empty.”
“If that were true, then they’d have been replaced—and I don’t believe they can die.
No, don’t pay our lords any benefit of the doubt, Ams. The Blackthorne Boys, whoever they are, have abandoned us and left us for dead.
And guess what? No one cares, no one is coming to save us, and we’ll all eventually perish like our parents before us. ”
Amity’s words choked in her throat as she beheld me with dread. I derived way too much satisfaction from inspiring that look in people. “Shh, it’s starting,” I hushed as an excuse to ignore her.
Burgundy Mayflower, a fellow witch, leaned back on her quilt and tapped my knee. “Prism looks beautiful.”
“She does,” I agreed just as Charm began to sing.
The high priestess’ voice betrayed the depths of her soul and strength of the magic within.
Charm was a siren on dry land. The melody was one I recognized from wedding rites of the past, with words in a language long gone, but a sentiment the same.
A girl becoming a woman, a boy becoming a man, autumn turns to winter, something-something-something.
Prism glided down the aisle like the last beam of sunset.
The whole town collectively awed and emotion pulled at my throat.
I supposed she was more like a daughter to me than a sister.
I’d raised her. After our parents died, it was me rubbing calendula salve on her scraped knees.
It was me comforting her in the middle of the night if she had a nightmare.
My job was to keep her fed and healthy, and I had; I’d done it.
Birch may not deserve her, but she’d chosen him on her own.
My little sister was her own woman now, and I guessed that was something to be proud of.
Some sort of finish line I’d crossed, though this ceremony didn’t feel like a win—it felt like a death.
Prism reached the bishop and took his hand as he helped her onto the large willow stump. Burgundy leaned in to whisper. “The graves are multiplying on the hollowed ground of black thorns.”
I blinked a few times, feeling the night chill prick the hairs on the back of my neck. “What?” That was a weird thing to say, and even stranger timing, especially for Burgundy.
My sister smiled, turning her back to the forest and outstretching her arms. The bishop’s words came into focus as I tried to brush off the witch’s peculiar remark.
“… as it is written for some thousand years. The maiden who seeks love should be chosen by man or divine.”
Charm then recited a poem in that lyrical way of hers that sounded like a song.
Maiden be brave
Magic calls
Maiden be strong
Magic must answer
To be wed, to be in white
To choose man… or monster.
Another unseasonably cold chill pricked my arms.
Burgundy held her knees and rocked back and forth. “The black thorn graves. The black thorn graves.”
Amity rubbed the witch’s shoulder. “Honey, are you okay? Did it just get freezing cold, or is that just me?”
Bishop Quarry called out, “May the one for this maiden come forward and claim her.”
Prism held her arms out, her white dress fluttering in the breeze.
Each face of the men across the way met the scan of my gaze.
Moments passed, and my sister’s smile began to fade.
“Where’s Birch?” Amity asked in a low whisper.
“My mother told me about what happened to Fable Woolworth at her rite…you know… the last girl to be taken.”
I opened my mouth to respond when a low howl echoed across the field. The women around me gasped, and the air grew frigid, smoking in front of our faces. Another howl.
I stood, tripping over Burgundy, who was still rocking back and forth, chanting about thorns. The men stirred and then something large snapped in the distance. Another thud sounded. Something huge was making its way through the forest.
Pulling myself up, I pushed forward through the panicking crowd, running toward Prism. Someone screamed behind me as more branches broke. Still standing with her arms outstretched, tears streaked my sister’s perfect face. “I’ve got you! I claim her!” I shouted, lunging forward.
But it was too late.
Two enormous, inky black arms reached from the darkness of the tree line and wrapped around my sister’s middle. Pulling her backward, she let out a sorrowful shriek of terror.
Then I was reminded of why my mysterious burial wasn’t my worst affliction. The left side of my face began to pound in pain. It was back for me.
The spider.
Agony shot through my temple, veining down my face and shattering my jaw with pain. Women screamed, men shouted, Charm ran to catch me as I fell, and my vision faded into an unconscious haze.
My sister had been taken.
My sister had been taken by a monster.
Not just any monster.
A wither .