Chapter 20
I returned to the house and Maddox walked on—back to Beatrice’s, I presumed. It felt terrible, leaving things off that way. I cursed myself for not thinking before I spoke. Somehow I didn’t think my comment would cut him so deeply.
Just when I passed the parlor, Christabella ran downstairs in a flurry of yellow skirts. Sonny followed at her heels.
“Gigi! There’s been news,” Christabella said, somewhat out of breath, as if she’d been racing through the neighborhood.
“Manuel Greenwood passed away,” I said, dropping my satchel to the floor. “He was the weather witch in charge of light. And his wife refuses to continue her work and take his place.”
“That’s what we heard too,” Christabella said. “Wow. We just came back from visiting the west weather tower. You’re almost as quick as Ma.”
Sonny stuck his head over her shoulder. “Rumors have it that Maude murdered him herself.”
Not unlikely. She didn’t seem too torn up about her husband.
“It’s a good thing there are still weather witches,” Christabella said. “We still have air flow and temperature control.”
“So what about light?” I said. “Otherwise we’re just in a well-ventilated pit.”
It was uncomfortable being down here without a sky and a sun, even if they weren’t real to begin with.
Christabella shrugged. “No one has stepped up. It’s a big job for untrained witches.”
Ma came down as well, frowning at our little gathering under the stairs as if we weren't allowed to congregate without her. “You’re well suited to be a light weather witch, Christabella. And Giselle, perhaps you can volunteer as well.”
This was out of nowhere. “I don’t think my skill set is suited for weather simulation,” I said.
“Nonsense. We’re one of the founding families of Witch Village. Even your grandmother played the role of a weather witch for a short time. We live under the First Oak. It only makes sense for us to step up in a time of need,” Ma said.
My eyes rolled. I couldn’t help it when Ma went off on completely unfounded pride. Grandma was the one who helped found Witch Village. She deserved the pride, the credit. We just happened to be related to her. And Ma didn’t even like Grandma half the time.
“No,” I said.
Ma set her jaw. “No?”
“I’m going to rest.” I walked past Ma to the stairs. She grabbed my sleeve, holding tight even as I made a move to extricate myself.
She glared at me with a furrowed brow. “Where did you go this morning?”
“I went to find out about the weather,” I said evenly.
“If you’re idle, our neighbors have mending to be done. I’ll tell them you can help.”
“I don’t want to—”
“I don’t like you traipsing around with that human boy,” she snapped. “Your place is here. It always has been and it always will be.”
My frustration mounted. “No it isn’t Ma!”
“You have a duty to this place. To your family. When did you become so selfish?”
I clenched my jaw. Everything I did just had to be for someone else. The one time I did something for myself, I was painted as the villain. Ma didn’t understand what I was feeling. She never did.
“I’m too old to be manhandled,” I said, wrenching my arm away.
There was a fire in her eyes now. It was a look she gave me frequently during childhood. Like she hated me for not being the daughter she wanted. I ran up the rest of the stairs, biting back tears until I reached my room and shut the door.
***
THE NEXT DAY, I WAS awoken by whispered murmurs outside my window. Squinting, I pushed aside the curtains and peered down. Behind a bush of lavender, I spotted Christabella’s bright dress and braids and a familiar dirty linen shirt.
“I’m tired of meeting in secret and not hearing from you for weeks at a time. I miss you,” Alexander said, his voice faint.
“I miss you too,” came Chrissy’s soft reply. “Why don’t I tell Ma I need something from the fields and we can meet at your place?”
“I have extended family staying over. They came unannounced yesterday. How about we meet in the village square?”
“There’s no reason for me to be at the village square! Stepping out of the house isn’t easy for me. Ma always asks where I’m going. She’s been extra protective since the blackout.”
“Then tell her you’re seeing me. Tell her we’re engaged.”
“Not so loud please,” Christabella pleaded.
Alexander made an exasperated noise. “Why can’t you just tell her the truth, Chrissy?”
“Why do you keep pressuring me?” Christabella asked, her voice wavering and frustrated, like she was on the verge of tears. “You don’t understand!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Alexander said, a note of panic in his voice as Christabella began to sniffle.
I stepped away from the window when he murmured something in a more intimate tone, my brows raised. A clandestine meeting right in the backyard? Rookie mistake. Ma’s room was quite literally right above them.
After dressing, I headed down to the kitchen to make tea, but was interrupted by a rapid knock from the front door.
I hesitated. It could be Beatrice with updates about Edmund.
Or Maddox, if he had forgiven me. Or one of our neighbors asking about the sewing Ma had volunteered me for.
She had made do on her threat last night, telling our entire street that I was free to do their mending, and I, to my immense frustration, had accepted when our neighbors expressed their gratitude.
It turned out I had a limited amount of no’s in my arsenal when it came to Ma.
Taking a breath, I answered the door. To my relief, Beatrice stood at the threshold, wrapped in her usual brown shawl.
After a brief greeting, she informed me that Edmund’s ankle had healed completely, but his fever had not yet broken. He had vomited up the broth she had given him yesterday, then had fallen back into a restless slumber.
“That’s terrible!” I exclaimed. “How is he now?”
Beatrice sighed. “In a more stable state. But my old bones need a break and I reckon that guard of yours needs one too. I thought I’d call you to watch over the invalid for the rest of the day. Here’s the key to the shack.” She withdrew a brass key from her pocket and handed it to me.
Ma’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Who are you chatting with, Giselle? Talula needs her table runner fixed for the Harvest. She can’t present her roast without it.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” I said irritably, quickly lacing up my boots as Beatrice let herself in. “I’ll work on it when I’m out.”
“Out? Where can you possibly be going?” Ma said, her footsteps coming down the stairs.
“A walk. Beatrice is here to visit!” I sang, slipping out the door before either adult could protest. I was glad guests were Ma’s weakness. She couldn’t simply leave them unattended.
Rows of witchlights were strung outside, illuminating the cottages and trees in yellows and oranges as I followed the path down to Beatrice’s shack. When I approached, I was surprised to see the door of the building ajar.
I pushed it open. It creaked on its hinges, but no one was within save for Edmund’s sleeping form. The air smelled like herbs and dust. I stepped inside and set down my things. There was a small green armchair and a low table that hadn’t been there before.
A rattling came from outside. I panicked, hoping it wasn’t a nosey witch who would stick their head in out of curiosity. I went to close the shack door, but a pale hand pushed it back open. I jumped back with a yelp.
“Oh.” Maddox stood at the threshold, pushing a strand of blond hair out of his face. A small wagon was behind him, filled with familiar luggage. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I said.
“I went to get our things from Alexander’s,” Maddox said after an awkward pause.
I stepped aside so he could drag the wagon in, though there was hardly enough room. He managed to angle it just so, then closed the shack door behind him. Unable to come up with anything to say, I went to the wagon and began unloading Edmund’s suitcases.
“Beatrice told me to watch Edmund for the rest of the day,” I said. “Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been here all this time.”
Maddox shrugged. “I’m supposed to be guarding him, remember? Besides, there’s nowhere else to go.”
We fell into silence, and though it wasn’t a comfortable one, it was at least a productive one.
Maddox unloaded the rest of the luggage and pushed the wagon outside.
I pumped some water for Edmund, checked his temperature, and rearranged his blankets.
After a while, I settled myself on the armchair by his bedside and pulled out Talula’s table runner.
It was an intricate, lacey thing of crocheted leaves and flowers.
I was no genius when it came to crochet, but I knew enough to fix the scalloped border that had begun to unravel.
I tucked my knees underneath my chin and stuck a crochet hook into the edge, looping over the white yarn I was working with. Maddox reentered. The room flared brighter as he lit another lamp and set it beside me on the low table.
I continued crocheting. Yarn over, pull through. Yarn over, pull through. The motions were near hypnotic.
Maddox sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled out a sheath of wrinkled papers. The click of glass against wood drew me out of my haze.
“What are you writing?” I asked as he dipped a pen into the ink well he had just set down.
“My novel.”
I looked down at the sheaf of papers in front of him, all covered in dense handwriting. Neat, to my surprise, although I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a nobleman’s son.
The scratching of pen on paper ensued.
“You’re actually doing that?” I said, setting down my crochet hook.
Maddox’s pen stilled. “I said I would.”
I didn’t think you’d actually do it, was on the tip of my tongue. I pressed my lips together but he must’ve caught my meaning anyway.
“You’re not the only one who can accomplish things, Giselle,” he said without taking his eyes off the paper.
I blinked. “I never said I was.”
Maddox set down his pen. “Sometimes the way you speak to me...I feel like you think I’m stupid.”
My neck felt warm. “I don’t—”
“Forget it.” He set his pen to the page again and a stream of words flowed from the metal tip.
The room went silent, though I couldn’t go straight back to crocheting. Not after his words. Heat spread from my neck to my cheeks, and I couldn’t quite figure out whether it was anger or shame. Perhaps discomfiture. Perhaps all three.
We had never argued like this before. The barbs we exchanged previously had all been harmless—the words sharp without any meaning. Though my indignation flashed at the accusations he was throwing at me, a part of me knew that I had unfairly dismissed him on more than one occasion.
A groan came from Edmund’s bed. I stood immediately, discarding my work, and knelt at his bedside to press a hand to his forehead. His temperature felt normal.
“Giselle?” he murmured. He opened his eyes, granting me a sliver of his brilliant blue irises, his face pale and lips dry. “How long have I been sick?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was in his right mind.
“About three days,” I said. “Your ankle is healed, but you had a nasty fever. How do you feel?”
“Better.” Edmund turned his head toward me, his brows furrowed. “Where am I?”
I looked around the shack with some embarrassment. The armchair had certainly made it cozier, but the storage shelves and the dingy furniture was hard to explain. “You’re safe,” I said instead, patting his hand. “A few more days and you’ll be as right as rain.”
“Very well.” Edmund mustered a smile. “Have you been the angel taking care of me all this time?”
I blushed, not quite sure what to say to that oddly sweet question. Maddox pushed me aside and slapped a sopping wet rag onto Edmund’s forehead. “That angel would be me.” Maddox held up a glass. “Water? You look parched.”