32. LET’S GO STORM THE CASTLE #2
The clearing was much as they’d left it – though it was cold, the ground powdered with a soft dusting of snow, the trees offered a degree of shelter from the wind.
The remains of the ritual they’d attempted with Tabitha still lay scattered about the place – the candles, the stones, the oil jar and the abalone bowl, the fading light glinting off its iridescent interior.
Isobelle set them out on the fallen oak tree as they had been arranged last time, and found the jar where it had rolled away.
She pulled out the rosemary Tabitha had pushed inside.
Unwrapping her handkerchief, she shook the crumbling pieces of the almost-certainly-agrimony out of it, and into the jar. Then she retrieved the folded paper.
A small part of her was delighted to have the chance to unfold Tabitha’s incantation, and see what magical words had been written there. But when she opened it up, the scribble was not so much mystic as it was mystifying.
‘Is her handwriting that bad?’ Gwen asked, as Isobelle turned the scrap of parchment upside down, to see if it made more sense that way. The lines looped and crisscrossed and refused to coalesce into any actual letters she could recognise.
‘No, it’s not … perhaps it’s another language?’ Isobelle’s voice rose in uncertain query. ‘Or another alphabet?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Gwen replied, raising her hands. ‘French is as far as I go.’
‘Never mind,’ Isobelle said firmly, retrieving her writing kit from Princess Buttercup’s saddle, and sidestepping the mare’s attempt to bite her quill. Brow furrowed in concentration, she crossed out Tabitha’s message, and on the other side she wrote:
I am rubber, and thou art glue;
Thy curses bounce off me, and stick right back to you.
Gwen, reading over her shoulder, gave a soft sound.
Isobelle cast her a sharp look over her shoulder. ‘What? Would you rather have a go?’
Gwen held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, wiping her grin off her face and assuming a look of intense innocence as she retreated to lean against a tree.
The ride here had clearly winded her, though Achilles had carried her with his usual care – Isobelle hoped she was up to what was coming next.
Whatever was coming next.
‘I don’t know how to draw the symbol Tabitha drew in the dirt,’ Isobelle said, glancing down at the scuffed space where it had been. ‘And it feels as though getting an occult symbol wrong is probably riskier than leaving it out, on balance.’
‘Mostly about intention,’ Gwen reminded her with a small smile. ‘And you certainly intend harder than anyone I’ve ever met.’
That drew a reluctant laugh from Isobelle.
‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,’ she said, retrieving the waterskin from where Rosamund had strapped it to Princess Buttercup’s saddle (how the woman had got any of Isobelle’s gear on her without losing a limb, she didn’t know) and taking a sip, then filling the abalone shell.
‘Last time we couldn’t pull this off even with a witch. ’
‘We have to try,’ Gwen replied. ‘If we can make it work – if we can fill that spell jar with something that will turn Bingleton’s curse back on him – then we’ll have our moment. Tie him up, let the Order deal with him; at the very least, get Tabitha out of there.’
‘Agreed.’ Isobelle handed Gwen the flint, so she could light the candles. ‘And you know I’m all for willing things into existence. We’ll soon find out whether that’s possible without a witch.’
Gwen fixed Isobelle with a long look that she couldn’t interpret, and then turned her attention to lighting the candles.
‘I believe you can do it,’ she said, attention on her task.
‘And the scrolls I was reading in bed were clear – anyone can work a spell, with practice and intention. Witchcraft is a practice, not a birthright. Intention matters – belief matters. I believe you can do it. And you’re good at believing things, always have been. ’
Gwen certainly seemed very firm, so Isobelle decided to wholeheartedly commit to the attempt. Gwen was right – belief always mattered, in any endeavour.
‘I wish we knew what went wrong last time,’ she said, turning the memory over in her head. Afterwards they’d been so busy looking for Tabitha, they hadn’t had a chance to reflect on it. But that brief, glorious golden glow that had been building inside her had certainly felt like magic.
Until some undisclosed secret had blocked it.
Is there anything between you that either of you have been concealing? Tabitha had asked.
We’re good, Gwen had replied.
But they hadn’t been. Gwen was still holding back.
Is it what Gwen hides from you about her nightmares? asked a small voice in Isobelle’s head. That was what she had asked Gwen last time they had stood in this place, and tried this spell, and she hadn’t answered. Had anything changed?
‘I think we’re ready,’ said Gwen, shielding the last candle with her hand until the flame properly took the wick. ‘Now, the real question – do you remember what we were chanting?’
‘Of course,’ said Isobelle airily, with at least seventy per cent confidence that she was right. She reached out for Gwen’s hands, flashed her dimples at the other girl for luck, and closed her eyes.
Isobelle began in a low voice, but after a few rounds, her tone strengthened.
Gwen joined in, her slightly lower voice weaving in with Isobelle’s, the two of them in a harmony that felt as natural as breathing.
Isobelle let herself sink into the sound of their voices joining together, the feeling of Gwen’s hands, warm against hers.
Within her, she felt an echo stirring of the golden glow she had felt last time. It felt like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, though she knew the moon was high above them. Like that quick tingle of joy that ran through her when she looked for Gwen in a crowd and found her.
It was happening. They were making magic.
Is it about to break again? asked a tiny voice in her head.
Hush, she told it. But it didn’t hush.
What about last time? Last time, you asked Gwen about her nightmares, and she never answered you. You know she’s keeping something from –
Abruptly the glow was gone, a wave of cold running through Isobelle, as if someone had poured a pitcher of water in through the top of her head, and it was running down to her fingers and toes.
Gwen made a surprised noise, dropping Isobelle’s hands and stepping back with a gasp.
Isobelle’s eyes snapped open. ‘Did you feel that too?’
Gwen nodded, eyes a little wild. ‘I felt something,’ she admitted. ‘And then—’
‘And then it stopped, like last time,’ Isobelle agreed. She dragged in a slow breath, trying to push away the awful feeling of the broken spell, and reached for Gwen’s hands again.
Gwen turned to check on the flickering candles, and then gazed beyond them to the horses. ‘Maybe we did need a mystical symbol on the ground.’
Isobelle, usually so willing to throw herself into a conversation and see if she could swim, waded out into the waters of this one as carefully as if a sea monster lay in wait.
‘Gwen,’ she said softly, and saw her champion swallow.
‘Last time, the spell failed because there were secrets between us. Some truth untold. I think there still is.’
Gwen simply shook her head, her eyes still on Achilles, refusing to look back at Isobelle.
Isobelle squeezed Gwen’s hands, and eased a touch closer. ‘So much has happened since then, but we’re still back where we were. It’s the nightmares, isn’t it? What is it you won’t tell me about that night you fought the dragon?’
Gwen shook her head once more, and this time the movement was a sharp jerk, as if she were trying to shake off an attack. ‘No,’ she murmured.
‘No?’ Isobelle echoed. ‘But, Gwen, you—’
‘No!’ Gwen’s gaze swung around to meet Isobelle’s now, and there was a pain in her eyes, a fear more animal than human. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘Isobelle, I can’t … no. I can’t open that door. I can’t do it.’
Can’t? echoed the little voice in Isobelle’s head. Or won’t? She squeezed Gwen’s hands, stepping in so their bodies fitted flush together. Gwen was trembling – it seemed as though she might bolt and disappear into the night.
Was this the fear spell at work, or was this Gwen’s own terror of whatever woke her from her dreams, bathed in sweat, breathing as hard as if she’d fought a battle?
It doesn’t matter.
The realisation settled over Isobelle slowly, bringing a blanket of calm with it. Gwen didn’t need her to press, didn’t need Isobelle to try to crack her open so she could see inside and find what needed fixing. Gwen needed Isobelle to trust her – that she would tell her when she could.
Isobelle rose up onto her toes, releasing Gwen’s hands so she could wind her arms around the other girl’s neck, pressing her cheek to Gwen’s, and letting their breathing synchronise.
There they stood, the candles burning down beside them, the only sounds a soft whicker from Princess Buttercup, the call of an owl as it set off on its nightly hunt. Slowly Gwen’s arms came up to wrap around Isobelle’s waist, and her body began to unwind.
The cold of the failed spell faded, replaced by Isobelle’s awareness of her own heartbeat, of Gwen’s, of their breath coming and going together. Of the fact that they were simply together – and what was said, or not said, didn’t matter tonight.
‘Isobelle,’ Gwen whispered, her lips against Isobelle’s ear.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Isobelle murmured in reply.
‘No, Isobelle – can you feel that?’
Isobelle’s eyes snapped open, widening in surprise. The heat of Gwen’s body against hers was changing.
The golden glow was back, growing between them.
With it came that sunshine warmth once more, the sense of certainty, of rightness, of safety that it had brought last time.
As Isobelle watched, still holding firm to Gwen, the air around them seemed to glimmer with energy. With magic, Isobelle thought.
Her lips curving into a smile, she slowly eased back from Gwen, running her fingertips down the other girl’s arms, until they could join hands, weaving their fingers together. The golden magic wrapped itself around their joined hands like a ribbon, as Isobelle met Gwen’s gaze.
With a tilt of her head, she indicated what they should do next.
Gwen released one of her hands, so they could walk over to the candlelit trunk of the oak tree.
With her free hand, Isobelle picked up the abalone shell, the golden light dancing across the rainbows on its interior.
She carefully poured the water into the spell jar, sending little fragments of dried agrimony dancing in the currents, soaking the scrap of parchment.
Gwen reached for the cork stopper, and pushed it into the jar. There was no telltale glow in the jar or ringing of mystical bells to tell of success – magic didn’t work that way. But Isobelle could feel the jar, humming in her mind with a new sense of anticipation and readiness.
She looked across at Gwen, pausing to drink in her beloved’s familiar features – the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the mossy green of her eyes, the curve of her lips.
I love you, she thought. We’ll have a conversation about that when all this is done.
But for now, she simply smiled, and Gwen – exhausted, loyal, determined, beautiful Gwen – grinned back.
‘Ready?’ she asked, a light in her eyes that Isobelle hadn’t seen in weeks.
Isobelle reached for the spell jar, readying herself for action. ‘Let’s go storm a castle.’
Gwen raised an eyebrow. ‘Technically, it’s a tower.’
Isobelle let her breath out in a whoosh and staggered a step. ‘Curse it, Gwen! It was such a good line! Did you have to ruin it?’
Gwen snorted and replaced her grin with an expression of utter contrition. ‘Apologies, my lady.’ Her eyes softened. ‘Let’s go storm the castle.’