Chapter 28
A day later, I opened my eyes to the mildewy walls of the boarding house I had rented.
Judging from the waning sun, which painted my ceiling a burnished gold, it was nearing evening.
I had spent the entire day languishing on the hard, narrow bed, half-sleeping, half-waking, and wholly hating myself.
I pulled myself up to my elbows, the mattress giving an ungodly creak. I had no desire to report back to the palace and see Edmund’s terribly handsome face again. He wanted me to use my coercion magic on his father, and from his demeanor, so pleasant and confident, he really thought I would agree.
I blew the hair out of my eyes. I hadn’t bothered to braid it last night so it hung loose around my shoulders, frizzy and tangled. The back of my head was probably a matted mess.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I muttered to myself, knocking my head with my knuckles like Ma used to do when we misbehaved.
I had made an utter fool out of myself. I had fallen for Edmund’s charms, believed that he actually liked me, that he actually supported me.
But his worst crime of all was that he had proven Ma right.
I hated it when Ma was right.
My stomach growled pitifully as I pulled myself to my feet, the room spinning and my limbs aching.
I had no wish to go down and partake in the boarding house’s bland dinner of boiled string beans, stale bread, and some sort of dry, mysterious meat they served the other night, so I pulled on my boots, wrestled my hair into a braid, and headed down the street. A stroll would clear my mind.
I walked briskly to the inn across my old shop, the cold autumn air biting my cheeks, crushing the dried leaves beneath my heels with destructive force as if they were the source of all my bad luck.
When I entered, the inn enveloped me in the toasty scent of fresh bread and seasoned food, the atmosphere all chatter and warm candlelight.
I let my shoulders relax in this old familiarity and slid into my usual seat at the bar, ordering a simple meal of bread and beef stew.
The loaf was freshly baked, pillowy inside with a crackly crust on the outside.
Inhaling the fragrant spices of the stew, I tore out a chunk of bread, dunked it in, and shoveled the bite into my mouth.
The effect on my mood was instantaneous.
There was nothing better than a delicious meal on a terrible day.
My good mood, however, was cut short.
“Have you heard of the whole emissary ordeal?” A bearded man beside me asked his companion, prodding a newspaper article with a thick finger. “I knew those witches were diseased!”
I paused mid-chew.
“I don’t read the paper, Doug. What happened?”
“This just came out. Have a look!”
I glanced around and noticed a stack of newspapers to my right. Scooting over, I grabbed a copy and flipped it open to the page the bearded man was pointing at. My eyes bulged when I saw the title.
A Disease of Witches
For months the royal family has been preparing for the wedding between Crown Prince Bennett and Lady Narcissa Greenwood, distracting the populace from something insidious.
Ever since the end of the Non-Magic Age two years prior, Olderean policies, especially regarding businesses and commerce, have changed drastically to skew in favor of the new witch population, which has festered underground for almost three generations.
These policies have put a strain on Olderean citizens as the kingdom struggles to accommodate the greedy witches slowly taking over our land and our jobs.
There has even been a Witch Committee established in the palace, who have swayed the young royals in their favor.
It has come to our attention that our overly liberal crown prince has chosen an emissary to tour Witch Village, the place where witches have hidden for years.
(One would think after three generations of banishment, they would have come up with a better name.) The tour was an effort to warm the human populace to the ways of our magical counterparts.
However, our undercover reporter has come back with shocking news—Witch Village is as savage, immoral, and inhospitable as one may think, and vice is not the only thing that festers beneath the dirt.
The good-hearted emissary sent by the royals has fallen into a life-threatening fever and has yet to make a full recovery.
It was reported that Witch Village is a dilapidated place, with no light and an unforgiving terrain, not unlike a complex of holes dug by moles.
Is it a surprise that disease has festered as a result of their filth?
These outlaws have robbed upstanding Olderean citizens of their jobs, their homes, and their livelihoods. Do not let them rob us of our health too. Think of the children of Olderea!
Drive these witches out!
The food in my stomach soured as I read the article a second time, unable to believe this was describing the village.
A dilapidated complex of holes? Witches having diseases?
The only sickness we were privy to was weakness from staying underground for too long and the occasional food allergy!
An herbwitch could cure nearly any contagious disease with a potion.
And the Olderean children? What an absolute joke.
They only wanted an innocent front for their hatred.
My mind flashed to Prilla Lewis. That poisonous woman!
It had to be that awful group of hers. Ever since the high of last winter’s tour, I had been delusionally optimistic, thinking success was guaranteed for me.
Me, a witch nobody had ever heard of, going on a royal tour and sewing for the crown prince and princess-to-be the first month of coming aboveground.
What luck! But my career had only declined.
Prilla Lewis was going to pay for what she did to me and every other witch she had harmed.
I clenched my hands, crumpling the newsprint, as another unwelcome thought came to the forefront of my mind.
What if this was my fault? What if, in my selfishness and unwillingness to give Edmund a proper tour and do my duty as a Witch Committee member, I had allowed space for folks like The Crown to twist the narrative however they wished?
I forced my thoughts to quiet before I drowned in them. There wasn’t time for guilt or self-pity. It wouldn’t do to let this article spread—it was time to do my duty as a member of the Witch Committee.
Someone had to bring this to the crown prince’s attention.
***
I HAD NO MONEY LEFT to hire a horse chaise, so I decided to walk. The palace was not too far away; its white pointed spires could be seen through the roofs of the buildings and trees, a two mile trek at most.
The brisk exercise and cool evening were welcome as I stewed hot in my anger, scuffing the heels of my boots into the paved road, passing by street lamps and shops and the few carriages clip-clopping down the road.
Lost in thought, I turned a corner without looking, nearly running into a shadowed figure.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I stepped to the left, but the figure followed, blocking my path.
Illuminated by a single flickering street lamp, a ridiculously broad-shouldered man stood before me, the lower half of his rough face carpeted by a thick orange beard. His scalp was not so well-endowed, gleaming shiny and bald. He said nothing, even as our gazes met, his dark eyes cold.
“Who are you?” I asked warily.
The man pulled out a jagged knife from his belt.
I drew in a strangled gasp, stumbling back a step. The streets were deserted—I hadn’t noticed when it had gotten this silent. The only sign of life was a carriage parked on the opposite side of the road, though it was entirely unattended. No groom, no driver. The interior, too, was empty and dark.
There was no one here to save me.
The man advanced, raising his knife. I turned and ran for my life.
Something yanked the back of my skirt, hard. I fell to the pavement with bruising force. A large, meaty hand wrapped around my ankle and dragged me roughly backward.
I turned and kicked with my other foot, striking the man squarely in the sternum. He grunted and fell back, his knife hitting the ground with a clang. His grip on my ankle did not loosen.
“Let me go! What do you want? Money?” I struggled against his hold, but he was larger and stronger.
The man snarled.
Not money then.
I thrust my hand into the worn canvas of my satchel, passing over bits of fabric, the dress form, a spool of thread.
But I knew the slips of paper I was looking for were hidden too deep.
I had no way of finding them in time. I cursed.
The wickedest part of my magic was just out of reach when I needed it most.
As I was scrambling, the man dove to retrieve his dagger. He reared up to his knees, his jagged knife gleaming dully in the lamplight. Subconsciously, I wondered if this rough stranger was going to be the last person I saw in this life. His knife swung down in an arc. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Get away from her!” shouted a familiar voice.
The man hardly had time to look up before he was slammed sideways by a blur of purple and blond.
Maddox wrestled the man away from me to the ground. I watched in shock as the two scuffled on the street. The man was far larger than him, but Maddox put up a good fight, managing to lock the man’s arms behind his back and press him, immobile, against the cobblestones.
Without hesitation, I grabbed my satchel and slammed it hard over his bald head. The man collapsed in a rainstorm of thread spools, notebooks, pattern pieces, and a pair of fabric shears. He laid unmoving.
Maddox’s gaze met mine, his chest heaving. I had never been so happy to see him. “Good...teamwork,” he said between breaths.
I collapsed to the hard ground, my hands shaking. “You came back,” I said with a choked laugh. Being almost killed was no laughing matter, but I couldn’t help the somewhat deranged giggle that escaped my throat.