Chapter 24
On the morning of the Harvest, my wrist was aching so badly that I could barely pick up the crochet hook.
It was a shame because I had made incredible progress with the dress.
Most of the bodice had been covered by frothy lace pieces.
I only needed to do the sleeves, then the parts that rained down the skirt from the waist like flowering vines.
A loud knock sounded from my door.
“Bring the pies on your way down. They’re cooling on the counter,” Ma said brusquely.
I only grunted in response. I was still attempting to crochet, determined to finish the lace work today, even as my arm screamed in protest.
They say beauty is pain; so is making beautiful things.
After another hour or so when I finally stood to stretch, my stomach was tight with hunger.
This was how it was, being lost in my work; hours would fly by and I would forget to eat or move.
I hadn’t been this absorbed since sewing for the winter tour, which I took as a good sign—a promise that this dress would be my greatest yet.
I went to open the door, intending to head to the kitchen, and was surprised to see another figure at the threshold.
Maddox held up a steaming mug. “I brought you tea.”
It had been several days since we’d spoken one-on-one. He seemed to prefer Christabella’s company over mine. They were always bent over piles of paper together—Maddox’s manuscript I presumed. I was only a little sulky that he was more comfortable sharing its contents with Chrissy than with me.
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for it before I realized my wrist was out of order. I switched to my left hand and took a sip. Strongly brewed without a hint of milk or sugar. I stole a look at Maddox over the rim, surprised he knew how I liked my tea.
“It’s almost time to go,” he said, flicking his gaze over my loose, bedraggled hair. “Are you ready?”
I shook my head, quickly raking my fingers across my scalp. “How’s Edmund?”
“He’s gone with Mrs. Phula and Christabella to the village square already.”
“And you haven’t followed him? You’re his guard.”
“Your mother is a better guard than I could be,” Maddox said with a snort. “And scarier.”
I tossed my hair behind my shoulders. I usually kept it in a braid, but I couldn’t even manage a series of chain stitches, much less braid my own thick, long, and very unruly hair.
Usually Ma barged in to help me dress, but seeing as she let me have some semblance of privacy lately, I had no one to help with my hair.
“I can help,” Maddox said.
I startled, wondering if I had muttered my thoughts aloud.
He looked back at me with an earnest expression. “Your hair. Sit.”
I sat on the stool before my vanity awkwardly. Maddox followed, his footsteps creaking the floorboards. I figured he must be the first male person to step inside, outside of Pa and Sonny. I handed him a wooden comb and a bottle of hair oil. “Don’t create tangles.”
“I won’t.” Maddox threw me a pointed look in the mirror and swept my hair behind me, raking the comb through the stubborn ends and working his way to the top.
I stole another look at him in the mirror.
His brows were knit in concentration as he coated his palms in oil and distributed it evenly through my lengths.
The faint, earthy scent of castor oil permeated the room.
The space was quiet enough that the smallest of sounds seemed unbearably loud.
My breathing. The swish of my hair. The clack of the comb on the vanity as Maddox reached over me to set it down.
He ran his fingers from my temple to the back of my head, gathering a section of hair at my crown. I couldn’t quite control the shiver that ran down my spine at the sensation.
I cleared my throat. “Where did you learn to do this, anyway?” I was glad I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.
Maddox added more sections of hair as he continued. “I used to groom my horse’s mane as a boy,” he said sheepishly. “It was one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Really?” I grinned, imagining little Maddox braiding a pony’s mane. “There were no dolls to play with?”
“There were plenty, but they were for Narcissa so I wasn’t allowed to touch them.” Maddox held out a hand. “Ribbon.”
I obliged him and handed over a length of silk ribbon. He knelt to tie off my braid, then whipped it over my shoulder none too gently. “There, done.”
I inspected his work, patting the sides of my head. “You braided too tight. I look like an egg.”
He stood up. “You look fine.”
Then, as if he were in the habit of doing so every day, he smoothed back the wisps of hair at the nape of my neck. Just as briefly as the touch came, it was gone.
Maddox swung his hands behind him, clearing his throat. “Uh, we should get going.”
He was out the door before I could attempt to speak.
***
WITCH VILLAGE SQUARE was as large as a palace ballroom, featuring a decorative fountain in the center of a wide expanse of flat, brick-paved ground—a rarity, as most of the village was set on a hill, the houses and roads spiraling up like a dollop of whipped cream.
The square was a few levels below the peak of the village, where my house and the First Oak sat.
When Maddox and I arrived with Ma’s pies in tow, I craned my neck upward in surprise.
Tall wooden pillars were set up around the perimeter of the village square.
Between them hung strings of witchlight lanterns, all glowing in autumnal shades of yellow, orange, magenta, and red.
Smaller lights danced and floated between them like fireflies.
Beyond, the night sky was a soft, velvety shade of indigo, speckled with stars.
“The sky’s back,” I said, surprised.
“It was back yesterday,” Maddox said. “Christabella said the weather apprentices only managed to relight the night sky. They need a more experienced weather witch for daytime.”
“Who else? Manuel Greenwood didn’t have an apprentice before he keeled over, did he?” I grumbled. It seemed like this weather problem was here to stay, unless a weather apprentice managed to learn everything there was to know to become a master.
Maddox set the pies down on a nearby table covered with a gingham runner. “Maybe if I still had my magic, I could be one,” he said, a forlorn expression on his face.
I had almost forgotten Maddox was technically a witch, given his lineage. “I’m not sure if that occupation would suit you,” I said. “You’ll be stuck down here without any horses to ride.”
He shrugged a shoulder and surveyed the village square, where everyone was arriving with arms laden with food and gifts and decor.
A witch levitated a giant orange pumpkin to a table, where it served as a centerpiece between two candelabras.
The turnout was decidedly sparser than the last Harvest, seeing as many witches had chosen to go aboveground over the past few months.
“I still wonder what it could’ve been like,” Maddox admitted, “if my father had stayed.”
“Well, you probably wouldn’t have existed,” I said matter-of-factly. Maddox’s mother was as human as they came—if Captain Greenwood didn’t go aboveground he wouldn’t have met her.
Maddox made a face. “You know what I mean. If Father hadn’t decided to take my magic away and decided to raise me like a witch, like Narcissa, I’d have a different life.” He tilted his head up. “I guess this is as close as I’ll get to that.”
I thought back to Ma’s insistence that a witch was more than their magic, that experience made a witch. I had insisted that a witch was only their magic. Maddox had neither experience nor magic—but wasn’t he a witch in his blood?
I sighed, losing the fight in my head. Who was to say what made a witch, when the lines were so blurred?
Across the square, on the other side of the fountain, Edmund seemed to be right at home, chatting and laughing with a group of elderly witches. They seemed to find him charming enough, though the moment he turned away, their smiles fell and they whispered among themselves.
A few witch children tailed him, shy and curious, darting around his feet.
Edmund chuckled at them. Perhaps he found the little apple-cheeked munchkins endearing, but I knew better.
Witch children loved to prank each other with jinxes.
If they got too comfortable with him, they might try the same—even though he was human and couldn’t reciprocate, and would likely find a wart jinx more terrifying than funny.
I would have to stand by and supervise.
Maddox cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to him.
He tugged at his cravat as if it discomforted him, his gaze darting to the witch couples who had begun dancing to the music that drifted from a quartet of self-playing instruments floating above the fountain: a lute, a flute, a harp, and a tambourine.
“Giselle,” he began, “do you want to—?”
“Gigi, come dance with me!” Christabella burst out from behind the pie table in a flurry of orange skirts.
Her hair was braided into a crown, woven with red and orange oak leaves.
She wore a puff sleeved blouse and a burnt orange pinafore embroidered with burnished acorns and leaves.
It was the dress I had made for her last Harvest, before I left.
She grabbed my hands and made an effort to tug me to the fountain where more witch couples were gathering for the Harvest dance, but to no avail—I was as stubborn as a rock. There would be no dancing for me tonight. I had to keep an eye on my charge.
“Chrissy, why don’t you go to Alexander?” I asked, noting the boy in question loitering near the tables. He was throwing glances our way, as if wanting to approach but not knowing how.
Christabella huffed. “I don’t want to talk to him right now.”
I raised a brow. “You two are fighting?”
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. She swung my hands around. “Come, let’s dance!”
“I have to chaperone Edmund,” I said, extricating my hands.