Chapter 18
Something just scared her once
The waxing crescent moon shone down against the canopy of the forest, carving silver-edged knives out of bare branches and taloned claws from the few remaining browned leaves. Gwen ran a hand along the edge of her cloak, drawing it closer about her shoulders, and tried not to shiver.
There was a difference, she thought, between summer moons and winter moons.
One particular summer moon lingered vividly in her mind.
It had beckoned them onward the night she and Isobelle had crept out to the old lightning-touched oak near Ellsdale and hid under the shelter of a blackberry briar to watch the witches gather.
The moon then had been soft and full, flirting with the racing clouds and bathing the landscape in generous light.
This moon was sharp and cold, as remote as some cruel, indifferent goddess. The points of each thin horn stabbed through the night sky, just bright enough that the dark of the moon seemed a trick of the eye, visible only if she looked away.
This moon had teeth.
Isobelle stood murmuring praise and comfort into Princess Buttercup’s pricked ears.
They were in a puddle of moonlight, the mare’s neck arched prettily as she bent her head to listen to her mistress’s voice, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof as if to say, I’m still uneasy, don’t stop what you’re doing.
Achilles bent his head and thrust his whiskery nose against Gwen’s shoulder hard enough to stagger her a pace. She eyed him askance and whispered, ‘Don’t you dare. If you start acting like that spoiled creature, I’ll disown you.’
Achilles grumbled and turned his head to lip, without much hope, at some frost-wilted shrubbery.
‘Quit making fun of my horse,’ said Isobelle, raising her voice enough for Gwen to hear her. ‘She’s not a bad horse. Something just scared her once, that’s all.’
Gwen’s throat tightened, and she turned to check the straps on her chainmail, the buckle of her sword belt. Had she really sunk so low as to be jealous of a horse?
Get a grip on yourself, she told herself firmly.
She could count on her fingers the number of times she and Isobelle had spoken to each other since the morning. The most notable was when preparing to depart for the forest, and Tabitha’s ritual, and they’d both emerged from their rooms at the same time.
Isobelle had stepped out wearing a most spectacular gown, expertly tailored and slit to allow for riding, but no less stunning than what she would wear to a ball.
A deep, midnight indigo, embroidered with silver thread that winked and twinkled in the meagre light, tailored tightly around the bodice and featuring a neckline that Gwen would’ve baulked at, if she’d been asked to wear it.
She found she did not mind the neckline so very much, however, seeing Isobelle in it.
Isobelle had topped off her look with a delicate waterfall braid that pulled all her golden hair onto one side and let it ripple down with wavy abandon, and over it all, a diaphanous hooded cloak of silk, meticulously dyed the same subtle variety of hues as the via lactea in its scattered, milky band across the heavens.
Gwen had emerged wearing her comfiest, hole-iest trousers and her chainmail.
They’d paused in the hallway of the inn, staring at one another in mutual astonishment, and blurted in unison, ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’
For a heartbeat, Gwen had forgotten her anger and hurt, and had just been a girl absolutely dazzled by the one she loved. For that moment, she’d felt all right. Then she’d remembered and turned away.
Now, as Gwen unbuckled and rebuckled her sword belt to give her hands a task, she eyed Isobelle somewhat enviously. She could not help but imagine how that silk would feel if she dared reach out to touch her.
She hated it – hated that wanting Isobelle now felt like pain.
A twig snapped nearby and Gwen derailed her thoughts with ruthless efficiency, her hand going to the hilt of her new sword.
Tabitha emerged from the shadows. She had taken no special pains with her own appearance – Gwen assumed spell-casting was as matter-of-fact to her as going fishing or brushing her hair – but her eyes were intent.
‘Everything is ready,’ she said quietly. ‘Follow me.’
They left the horses, Buttercup tied firmly to a sturdy tree – even Isobelle would not leave that creature untethered – and Achilles lording his freedom over the mare.
The light of the fire Tabitha had lit became visible at once through the trees, and beckoned them towards a clearing where the components of the spell had been laid out.
Moonlight filtered down through a bare spot in the canopy left by the falling of an old oak.
Its moss-covered trunk formed a waist-high table, upon which were a few tallow candles, a cloudy glass jar with some sprigs of spiky green inside, and a cork set beside it.
There were some stones, an oil bottle, and a shallow bowl formed from a large abalone shell.
The silvery light of the moon sparkled on the water inside and coaxed rainbow highlights from the interior of the shell.
‘This kind of work is mostly about intention,’ Tabitha said, watching them as they took in the items she’d laid out.
‘There is a physical aspect, though, and I’ve done my best to modify that part.
Usually you’d use agrimony to reverse a spell.
We don’t want to return this curse to its sender, though – we want to locate its sender, so I’m using rosemary instead, for clarity. ’
Isobelle nodded enthusiastically, eyes shining – she looked like she’d been invited from the audience to join the players onstage, and couldn’t believe her luck.
‘Your written intention goes into the spell jar,’ Tabitha continued, producing a scrap of parchment from her pocket and folding it, either not noticing or ignoring the way Isobelle craned her neck to try to see what it said.
‘If all goes well, the water in the abalone shell will be ready to add to the jar at the end, and then we’ll have our spell. ’
Tabitha folded the note again and pushed it through the mouth of the jar.
Then she directed Gwen and Isobelle each to stand on a specific spot, so that when she took up her place by the fallen tree, they formed an equal-sided triangle.
At its centre, she had cleared the leaves in order to draw some sort of symbol in the dirt.
Tabitha continued, explaining the next steps of the spell. Gwen listened with only part of her attention, the rest fixed upon their surroundings.
As convenient as it would be to be able to wave a magic wand and offer up prayers to some goddess of witchcraft to grant them the exact piece of information they needed, Gwen was not convinced.
She’d yet to see any real proof that magic existed at all, though Gargery’s tales of the old sorceress’s powers had been chilling, and the behaviour of the townsfolk was …
odd. And there was that strange business with the sword that had moved by itself.
But the girls had not been quiet that morning as they discussed their plans for tonight, and both Rosamund the innkeeper and one of her staff had been in and out, refreshing the pot of porridge and bringing new hot water for tea.
In a small town like this, word would spread.
Gwen had no doubt that every person within five miles now knew they were planning on using magic to determine the identity of the troublemaker in Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea.
And while Gwen didn’t believe in magic, these people did. And it’d be a foolish villain indeed who didn’t intervene if they believed their dastardly plans were about to be exposed. The spell might very well reveal their enemy to them – just not in the way Tabitha and Isobelle expected.
There was a reason Gwen had dressed for action.
‘Gwen, are you listening?’ Tabitha’s voice sharpened.
Gwen blinked and let go of the hilt of her sword. ‘Yes. Er, no. What?’
Both of the other girls were looking at her.
Isobelle’s eyes were bright, her body practically quivering with excitement.
Though her face was still a little paler than usual and there were still shadows under her eyes from a night as sleepless as Gwen’s had been, she was all delight at getting to take part in a magical ritual.
Tabitha’s eyes were troubled, her expression difficult to read in the meagre light.
‘I was about to discuss the most important part of this working,’ Tabitha said.
‘As I mentioned before, magic can work in unpredictable ways. The best way I know to guide it towards what you actually want is by blocking off any other avenues it might take, like damming the branches of a creek to fill a specific pool. This is a truth spell, at its core. It seeks out deception.’
Gwen felt a flicker of uneasiness. ‘What are you getting at?’
Tabitha glanced between her and Isobelle.
‘We cannot have any secrets between us,’ she said softly.
‘Nor the two of you, with each other. The spell may become confused or divided, seeking out deception here instead of the deception we want to expose. Is there anything between you that either of you have been concealing?’
Isobelle’s delight vanished. Her smile remained in place, but her eyes hardened, and her body stiffened.
Gwen wondered if she was thinking about the letter she’d been concealing, and Gwen’s throat tightened.
Until a new thought occurred to Gwen, one far worse: what else could Isobelle be hiding from her?
Gwen swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Well, is there?’
Isobelle looked back at her, shuttering her expression tighter. ‘You tell me.’
Gwen recoiled and turned her head away. Her thoughts swarmed with memories of the dragon, and of the instant its mesmeric gaze had swallowed her and she’d chosen to let herself fall into its abyss. Of that moment of cowardice that was hers alone.
‘We’re good,’ she heard herself say to Tabitha, as if from a long distance. ‘Let’s do the thing.’