Chapter 2
The raven dreamed of being able to speak with a human tongue, and in the dream, he remembered.
Striding through the halls of his castle, he met the young woman who pulled an arrow from his shoulder. Her thick mahogany hair was braided away from her face, her pretty hazel eyes solemn.
That was what he was missing. His crown.
He was a prince—nay, a king now. Or would have been, if not for the River Witch’s interference. She had cursed him as a boy for a cruel trick he’d played. The moment his crown touched his head, he was transformed into a raven.
He supposed it could have been worse. She could have made him a rat.
You must help me find it, he told the girl in the dream, but the healer only looked confused and said, I have to go back.
She was already gone.
Despite the growing agony of resisting the magic that compelled him to return to the River Witch’s hidden grove, the raven settled into the healer’s embrace and sank into unconsciousness.
“How fares your patient this morning?” Mum asks the next morning. She has already been up for an hour to weed the garden before the sun gets too hot. This time of year, despite winter’s approach, the days can still get quite warm.
“Alive and crabby.” The raven glares at me with beady eyes. “He’s probably hungry.”
“How do you know it’s a male?”
“Just a guess. Unlike other birds, ravens don’t have sex-differentiated markings.” This specimen seems to be on the larger side, but it’s not as though I can hold him next to others of his species to compare. “He seems like one.”
I don’t tell her about the dream I had, where I saw him as a man. I couldn’t explain how I knew it was the raven. Dream logic, I suppose. My mother’s warning about commingled blood must have gotten into my head.
“Don’t let him distract you from your chores,” she warns.
“I won’t.”
My feathered companion proves to be an excellent listener. I describe to him the various uses of the herbs and plants we cultivate. Fenugreek for new mothers. Wild carrot for those who don’t wish to become mothers. Foxglove for heart conditions.
“This one is where I went wrong,” I tell him, pointing to a patch of witchesbane.
The bird tilts his head to look at me. “I killed a man, years ago. He came to me for help. Instead, in my overconfidence and inexperience, I mistakenly mixed this into his tonic. I didn’t mean to do it.
The villagers, though...” I trail off. “They don’t trust me.
I don’t think they ever will, and I can hardly blame them. ”
Sitting on my knees in the garden dirt with the sun beaming down on my face, I let myself feel the full force of my regret.
Most of the time, I try to keep it locked away, but bottling up emotions only poisons your soul.
My grief is nothing compared to his family’s—a flimsy, selfish thing.
Yet I was raised to be a healer. I believed I was good at it.
Despite how much I have learned in the past seven years, I have less confidence in my abilities than ever.
What will I do once my mother is too old to support us, if I can’t take over for her?
None of the village boys want to court me.
Marriage is out of the question. I feel frozen in time, unable to make amends for my mistake.
Unable to move on. A part of me died that day, too.
The raven hops into my lap, flapping his one working wing. The other is bound around his back with a strip of cloth. Gently, I stroke his head, marveling at the glossy feathers.
“We should wash up for lunch,” I tell him.
I slip one hand beneath his feet and transfer him to my shoulder where he rides to the well to draw water.
The chain clinks as I turn the crank. I pull the heavy bucket onto the rim and bend over it to clean the dirt from my hands and face—and glimpse a man’s shadow standing behind me.
Startled, I whirl. The raven flaps wildly. His claws dig into my flesh as he tries to keep his balance. I accidentally knock the pail into the well with a loud clatter.
A deep exhale forces its way out of my lungs.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” I ask, but he only cocks his head and gives me a beady stare of disapproval.
“I swear there was someone right behind me. I’m sure it was the same man from my dream even though I couldn’t quite see his face.
” I trail off, then add thoughtfully, “I had the impression that he was quite handsome.”
The raven preens his feathers with a smug expression. I shake my head. Birds can’t be smug. I’m imagining things.
“Soup’s getting cold,” Mum calls from the house, startling me for a second time in as many minutes. I quickly draw another bucket of water and finish scrubbing the grime from my hands and face.
“I’m imagining things,” I mutter to the raven. Yet a lingering sense of unease stays with me for the rest of the day.
“What are you going to call him?” Mum asks that evening when we’re getting ready for bed. My mother brushes my russet hair, a soothing exercise. I did hers first. This has been our nightly ritual since I was a little girl.
The matching silver mirror and hairbrush set was a gift from her parents.
I liked to hold the heavy glass and examine my reflection: wide eyes of no particular color, a mix of green and brown with flecks of gold, a combination that most call hazel.
Full lips and a small chin. Ordinary nose.
Ordinary hair. While my appearance isn’t wholly off-putting, no poet would compose sonnets about me, either.
“Nothing,” I say.
“You’re not going to give him a name?”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis.
“Why not? You named the snake.” She makes a face. “Slithernoodle was quite a mouthful.”
“I was nine,” I remind her dryly. She loves to bring up Slithernoodle. I haven’t given names to the animals I heal in years, but she always asks about it if I keep one for more than a few days.
“You named the mouse, too.”
“I was thirteen, Muffy was a pet until the owl ate her.” Which was my fault. I hadn’t figured out that the owl had recovered enough to hunt. She hopped across the floor and before I could react, poor unsuspecting Muffy was on her way down the owl’s gullet.
I cried for weeks.
I get attached too easily, and therefore I have learned to guard my heart. I want to help, but in my eagerness, I once made a fatal error and killed a man. I confine my efforts to helping animals and yet do not give them names.
The fae are right about one thing. There is power in a name. Bestowing one is an act of love and ownership. Even a parent naming a child is a promise to raise that baby as best they can.
When my mother’s time comes, I’ll have no one left. I’ll be alone in the world.
I shake off the morbid thought and adjust the hand mirror.
The raven hops along the rail at the foot of the bed.
“He’s spry for one who was a crow skewer two days ago,” Mum remarks. “He seems quite taken with you.”
“That’s because I give him table scraps.” I turn the mirror to see our avian guest without moving my head, but instead of a raven, I see the tall man I dreamed about last night looming over my bed. The same one I saw behind my reflection in the well water earlier.
Startled, I fumble the hand mirror. It crashes to the floor and shatters.
Silence fills the air. My mother’s sharp inhalation cuts me to the quick.
“I—I’m sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t,” she says softly. “We can try to have the glass replaced.”
Tears prick my eyes. There isn’t a glazier within fifty miles of our village. A replacement would cost more money than we could earn in a year.
She sweeps up the shards with dry eyes while I sniffle and wipe my cheeks. “It’s only a mirror, Weena. I wish it hadn’t been you that broke it. The last thing you need is another seven years of bad luck.”
That night, I again dream of the tall, mysterious man. I am walking through an abandoned castle. Moonlight streams through the shattered roof. I’m looking for something, but I don’t know what it is.
Did you find it? the man says.
Find what? I ask. I don’t know what I’m searching for. His brow furrows. His eyes are deep in shadow. Again, I can’t discern their color or shape. His nose is sharp and thin like a beak. His hair is long and black. I think he’s handsome, but I can’t quite tell. Frisson skates along my neck.
He isn’t an immediate threat, but he is impatient. There is arrogance in the way he carries himself. He is...intriguing. What would he do to me if I can’t locate whatever this thing is? Can he do anything in this strange dreamscape?
I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m looking for, I say in this unfamiliar dream speech.
I told you. I need my crown.
You didn’t, actually. Why are you following me? I can’t conceal my crossness.
You’re the one who took me captive, Weena.
I jolt awake with a start.
The raven tucked into the crook of my arm watches me with one eye half-open. He preens his feathers and settles back to sleep.
“Of all the embarrassing nicknames for a complete stranger to adopt,” I grumble, and try to follow suit.