The Spellshop

Chapter Four

Kiela put off her trip to the village until sundown, by which time it was, of course, far too late to go anywhere and she was far too exhausted from all the work they’d done anyway. After eating half a jar of peaches and several fistfuls of pecans, she collapsed into the daybed and slept far more soundly than she ever had in the library. She didn’t even hear the owl outside.

At dawn, she woke to a tickle on her cheek.

“Don’t scream,” Caz said in her ear, “but he’s back.”

Her eyes popped open, and she shivered. She should have grabbed an extra blanket. She’d grown too used to the always-the-same warmth of the library. She’d forgotten it was cooler on Caltrey in the mornings, even in summer. “What?”

“Who,” Caz corrected. “Him.”

Him . . . Wait, did he mean their neighbor? Larran? Why was he back? She thought her scream had been enough of a hint that she didn’t like impromptu visitors, especially while she was asleep. Couldn’t he just leave them alone?

Sitting up, she peered out the window. It was still coated with grime. We’ll have to clean that, she thought, though she knew they had other priorities, such as food. Her stomach grumbled in agreement. Through the streaks of dirt, she saw their tall and broad neighbor striding away toward the path he and his scythe had created. It looked as if he’d come, seen they weren’t awake, and then left.

“At least he didn’t let himself in this time,” she said. Why had he come? Couldn’t he just stay in his own house and she’d stay in hers? Did she need to put up a fence or a large “Keep Out, No Trespassing” sign? She waited until he was out of sight before she got out of bed and padded to the door.

On the front step, before the mostly broken door, was a basket with several glazed cinnamon raisin buns, as well as three chicken eggs and a wedge of cheese. “Okay, well, that’s nice,” she said.

Fine. He was a nice, friendly neighbor who didn’t understand property lines.

She scooped up the basket and scurried back into the house, closing the door behind her. Sitting on a recently cleaned chair, she bit into one of the buns. Sugary sweetness exploded in her mouth, and she sighed through the bread. Closing her eyes, she savored every morsel. It was light, fluffy, sweet, and perfect. Had he made this? How? She added “baking” to the growing list of useful skills she didn’t possess.

Eagerly, she picked up the wedge of cheese and bit into it. Sharp, woody flavor filled her mouth, and she swayed a bit as she shoved more into her mouth. Cheese in the city was typically soft and bland, intended to be spread or melted, a side note to the main dish, but this . . . It demanded to be devoured.

After she’d polished off half the wedge, Kiela discovered a note in the basket:

Welcome home, it said.

She felt her stomach clench.

Home.

Was this home?

Kiela placed the note down and stared at the words. She couldn’t name all the emotions that the simple two-word note made her feel. Hopeful? Terrified? Sad? At least I’m not still hungry.

She contemplated the eggs. If she could start a fire in the wood-burning stove, then she could cook them and have protein inside her. It would be easier to face the village with protein.

How hard could it be to start a fire?

The revolutionaries hadn’t had any trouble doing it.

Remembering the smell of the smoke in the library, Kiela squatted in front of the stove without doing anything for a very long minute, then she shook herself and took the fire-starter off the little hook by the hearth.

“Um, do you know what you’re doing?” Caz asked.

“Theoretically.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

Kiela wasn’t sure she was either. “Do you want to light it?”

“Definitely not.”

She’d need fire to cook, and eventually they’d need it to warm the house. Winters this far north could be extremely cold. She remembered how beautiful the snow was, but she also remembered how the cold would seep down your throat and numb your fingertips. She’d nearly lost a toe to frostbite once. Snug inside the library, Kiela hadn’t had to think about that day in a long time, but she remembered how her father had blown on her toes to warm them and wrapped her in multiple sweaters. Her mother had scolded her for staying out so long and then had given her a book to read until they’d judged her recovered enough to play outside again. Previously frostbitten toes were more prone to frostbite, they’d said. She had to be careful.

She shook herself out of the memory. It wasn’t anywhere near winter, but still . . . This was a skill she thought she could master easily enough. There was already wood inside, as well as plenty of dried leaves that could serve as kindling. They must have blown down the chimney.

“Stay back,” Kiela warned, and Caz retreated to the far side of the room.

She struck the fire-starter. Happily, a spark jumped at her very first strike.

Easy, she thought. I can do this.

She lit the kindling, then closed the door of the stove. Stepping back, she listened in satisfaction as the fire within spread and crackled. She held her palm above the stovetop. It wasn’t hot yet, but it would be soon.

Wrinkling her nose, Kiela tried to ignore the scent of burning dust. It occurred to her that they should have cleaned out the inside of the stove before lighting a fire. It had just seemed that with the wood already in there . . . Oh, well, it would burn away. She just had to wait it out.

She turned back to the cabinets to locate the pan they’d found yesterday. Setting it on the stove, she left it alone to heat up. While she waited, she pumped water to wash her face, and she dressed in one of the sets of clothes that she’d brought from the city. It was a beige tunic-like outfit, with soft pants, perfect for scuttling around the library. Looking down at herself, she wasn’t certain it was town-appropriate. Or attractive. But then, who was she trying to impress? Certainly not her neighbor. She was hoping not to see him again. Even if the cinnamon bun had been delicious.

“Kiela?” Caz said.

“Hmm?”

“There’s smoke.”

“It’s the dust burning off,” Kiela said. But there did seem to be a haze in the room. A rather thick haze. Smoke was billowing out of the stove. She coughed as she inhaled a breath full of it, and instantly she was back in the canals, with the library burning above her and bodies in the water—

She shut off the memory and ran to the sink. Pumping water, she filled a jar.

Caz scuttled to the front of the house and pulled open the door with his tendrils. The smoke rolled outside, but all that Kiela could think was, Save the books! I have to save the books!

Kiela knelt in front of the stove and reached to open the door—

She stopped an inch from the handle as heat hit her palm. Searching frantically, she located a kitchen towel and used it to yank open the stove door.

Smoke poured out into her face, and she fell backward, coughing. She made herself lean forward and tossed water onto the fire. It sizzled and more smoke billowed.

Kiela ran back to the sink for more water.

Jar after jar.

At last, every ember was out.

Kiela stumbled out of the house. Hands on her knees, she tried to get a full, fresh breath. In her mind, she heard the screams from the city, and she imagined the books were screaming. That’s past, she told herself. Not now. You’re okay. That’s over.

Wasn’t it? Or was she going to feel this way every time she smelled smoke?

Beside her, Caz was shaking so hard that his leaves rustled. “That smell . . . I can’t . . .”

She laid her hand on one of his tendrils, and he wrapped a leaf around her wrist. They clung to each other like that for a long moment until her lungs felt full of fresh air.

“We can’t let that happen again,” Caz said fervently.

Kiela wasn’t certain if he was talking about the stove or the city. “It’ll air out now, if we leave the doors and windows open.”

“Maybe stick to cold food from now on?” he suggested.

“Until I figure out how to harvest, fish, hunt, or any of that, I am going to have to go into the village if I want any kind of food, hot or cold.” A house full of smoke seemed like a hint that she should go now, before she messed anything else up in her attempts to be self-sufficient.

Caz ruffled his leaves. “You’re going to leave me here?”

“Only because I thought you wouldn’t want to come with me. Do you?” Of course she didn’t want to go alone, but was it wise for him to come? She didn’t know what the villagers would be like, in particular how they’d react to a talking spider plant. Caz was . . . highly unusual. He was the result of a reckless librarian experimenting with an incomplete spell that she didn’t have permission to use. The librarian had been caught and punished—harshly, in Kiela’s opinion. Wanting to make an example of her, the emperor had ordered one of his sorcerers to transform her into wood. She’d been displayed amid other statues in the library’s famed North Reading Room. Afterward, alone, Caz had wandered the stacks until he’d found Kiela.

She still didn’t know why he’d chosen her, but he’d announced that he was her new assistant, replacing a boy with continually grubby hands who would not stop snacking on honey treats near the books—and that was that.

“Are there any goats in the village?” Caz asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Rabbits?” He shuddered. “Other herbivores?”

“Possibly?”

“Then I have an idea: How about you leave me here?”

Kiela smiled. “Good idea.” Then her smile faded. “Stay safe, Caz.”

“Come back soon,” he told her.

She fully intended to.

Bringing a sack (slightly worn but with a charming acorn-shaped button) she’d found, Kiela headed down the trail that her new neighbor, Larran, had sliced through the greenery. It was a perfect day: blue sky peeking between the trees, birds warbling to one another, a breeze from the sea that carried the fresh scent of salty air. Within the walls of the library, she’d forgotten the wonder of a summer breeze. She loved the way it caressed her cheeks, and the way the smells of the earth, the trees, and the sea filled her mouth, nose, and throat. By the time she’d walked a quarter of a mile, she’d convinced herself that this was an excellent idea, everything was going to be fine, and she shouldn’t worry.

But then the trail through the woods ended, and her path opened onto a cliff, and every single worry came crashing back into her like the waves on the rocks far below.

Ahead of her was the expanse of ocean, broad and blue and beautiful and intimidating. Below, at the base of the cliffs, was the village. Just as intimidating in its own picturesque way. A waterfall tumbled beside the village, and the mill’s waterwheel turned in the force of its fall. Catching the sunlight, the spray looked like a cascade of diamonds. She flashed back to being six years old, at the top of these cliffs, with her father beside her. He took her hand and helped her down the wind-battered stairs—

Ah yes, there were supposed to be stairs. She remembered now. Searching, she spotted them, behind a row of wild roses, and she also saw what had to be Larran’s house, beyond the base of the stairs on a rocky beach. She wondered if she’d been unfair to him. It wasn’t his fault she liked her privacy. Maybe now that he’d welcomed her, he’d give her some space.

A boat with a white sail floated just off the shore, and she saw the silhouette of a man standing on its bow. Larran? Possibly. Around him, in the water, were merhorses. The horse-fish were pawing at the waves as the man raised his arm in the air—some kind of signal.

In a herd, the merhorses galloped toward deeper water.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Kiela watched them as they swam farther out, toward the local fisherfolk in their boats. The fisherfolk greeted them with happy shouts and cheers that traveled over the water. Her parents hadn’t wanted this life for themselves or for her, but standing on the rose-framed cliff, looking over the sparkling ocean, she wondered what was so bad about it.

Gathering her courage, she picked her way down the wooden steps. Wind whipped her blue hair into her face and then vertically into the air, but she didn’t dare let go of the railing to push the strands behind her ears or to twist them into a braid like she would have in the library. She just let them blow, wild and free.

Halfway down, the wind pulling at her hair, she felt unglued, like a book whose pages had scattered on the floor. She couldn’t shake the sense that if she released the railing, she’d fly into the air like a bird . . . Which would be ridiculous, she told herself firmly.

The stairs twisted as they clung to the curve of the cliff, but none of the steps broke beneath her feet, and by the time she reached the bottom, her heart wasn’t hammering quite so hard, and she was able to take normal-size breaths. Glancing up, she wondered how she was going to climb up it again without either panicking or having delusions of flight. She reminded herself that she’d climbed bookshelf ladders and the flimsy spiral stairs in the library all the time without blinking an eye. But there wasn’t wind between the shelves, she thought.

Patting her hair, she tried to tame the flyaway strands, but they stayed a wild halo of blue. Inside the library, lit by lamps, her hair usually was a respectably staid shade of night-sky blue, but out here in the sunlight, it was an unruly sapphire.

Giving up on it, Kiela walked toward the village. It was strange overlaying the reality in front of her on top of her memories. In some respects, not much had changed: there was the mill, the school, the colorful houses along the cobblestone streets. But while memory was fuzzy, the details of the reality in front of her were sharp.

The bright-colored paint was peeling off the walls, and the roofs had been patched and repatched. Several of the houses had their windows boarded up, and there was clear evidence of storm damage that hadn’t been fixed: collapsed porches, churned-up cobblestones, broken trees that should have been hauled away. Only the thick storm shutters on doors and windows looked new, and many of them were rough and unpainted. Kiela frowned. She’d always thought of Caltrey as a prosperous, albeit tiny, village. But there were signs everywhere that the village had fallen on hard times. Children, playing in the street, looked thin. Their clothes flapped flag-like as they ran barefoot past her, rolling a hoop over the cobblestones with a stick.

Looking up, Kiela saw the winged cats on the rooftops, sunning themselves, but they too seemed thinner and rougher. One eyed her as it licked its fur. Its green-and-yellow feathers looked battered as if it had flown through a storm. Maybe it had. But why? She remembered those cats as always plump and pampered.

Seated on his front step, an old man watched her as she walked by. She tried to smile at him, but she was feeling such a jumble that she wasn’t sure what her face looked like. She hoped it wasn’t a grimace.

He grunted back at her, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

Kiela remembered the way to the grocer’s: up two streets, and then a right at the fountain, which was now dry. She remembered how much she used to love the statue of the mermaid at the center of the fountain. As a child, she’d felt as if the smiling mermaid were inviting her into the heart of town. Now, though, one of the mermaid’s arms had broken off, and she gazed out at the harbor with an expression that Kiela thought was more wistful than welcoming.

Staring at the fountain, she heard the faint sound of a harp. Someone, somewhere, was playing a complex tumble of notes that ran as pure as the fountain used to.

Following the harp music, she passed the dry fountain, expecting to find the grocer’s just around the corner, but in place of the shop she remembered with its wilty lettuce and oversalted lentil loaves, Kiela found a bakery. More accurately, she smelled it.

Unlike the rest of the village, which was a shabby shadow of what it should have been, the bakery was glorious. Scents of fresh bread and honey and cinnamon poured out of its open door and windows, and the islanders . . .

Everyone was here.

Or at least everyone who wasn’t working on the sea or on their farm or orchard. It looked to be mostly older islanders deep into their retirement, with faces worn from wind, sun, and time. And if she were being honest, it was less than a dozen people, but it felt like everyone. Six times the number of people she’d wanted to see.

I could come back later . . .

No. You’re already here. Buy what you need, and then you can leave.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the bakery. Outside on the cobblestones, tables with mismatched chairs were clustered in front of an open door and a wide window with a counter. One woman with crevasse-deep wrinkles and black-and-white-streaked hair had a lap harp on her knees. Like one of the librarians who’d worked on the fifth floor, she had two sets of arms. Very useful for shelving books and, apparently, just as useful for playing the cross-strung harp. She was plucking at the two sets of strings, creating both melody and harmony, an old sailor’s song that Kiela vaguely recognized. The falling notes of the harmony were the waves crashing on the sand, while the melody sang of the sailor’s love for the sea.

An elderly centaur woman was beside her, seated with her horse hindquarters on a broad bench. She wore a wide red dress and a matching red hat with a brim. Visible through the gaps in the dress, her horse body blended seamlessly with her human torso, black horse hair matching equally dark skin. Her woman’s head sported black hair that narrowed into a vertical strip running down her spine, exactly like a mane on a horse’s neck. She was drinking tea from a misshapen mug, blowing on it before she sipped. She lowered her drink when she saw Kiela and stared openly. She nudged her companion, who paused her harp-playing to stare too.

Kiela stared back.

She’d never seen the multi-armed harpist before, but the centaur lady looked familiar. Kiela couldn’t say how she knew her. All her memories of Caltrey focused on her parents. I must have known other villagers, though. Maybe her?

Several other men and women, mostly retired fisherfolk and farmers, were seated at tables, eating their breakfasts and chatting about the weather, the tea, their neighbors, and the sea. On the ground, an older bald man with silver scales instead of skin was playing a game with black and white stones with a boy who had tiny goat horns poking out of his hair.

All of them stopped and stared as Kiela approached the bakery. Without the harp music, the loudest sounds were the caws of seagulls, the clang of the buoy bells in the harbor, and the whispers of the strangers who wouldn’t stop staring at her.

This was a terrible idea. She should have come at a different time. Or not come at all. Or searched harder for the grocer’s. She wondered what had happened to the man and woman who had run the local grocery store. As she recalled, they weren’t the nicest people, but they did sell the essentials. Had they moved their shop elsewhere? I should look for it. But the wonderful smell kept her rooted in place. It was exactly like the delicious cinnamon bun that Larran had left for her.

“I’m . . . ah . . . looking to buy some provisions?” Kiela’s voice came out far too shaky and high, curling up at the end as if she was asking permission.

A woman bustled out of the bakery. She had an apron tied around her waist and a smudge of flour on her cheek. Like the boy playing on the ground, her body was covered in soft tawny fur, and she had dainty antlers poking out of her hair, though hers were more deerlike than goat. The baker flicked a dish towel at her other customers. “Hey, you lot, quit staring, you’re making her uncomfortable. Can’t you see she’s about ready to flee? Where are your manners? Haven’t you ever seen a new customer before?”

“Nope,” the boy with goat horns—son? Nephew? No relation?—said.

The baker smiled broadly at Kiela. “Welcome to Caltrey and to the best—”

“And only,” the harpist chimed in. Balancing her harp on her knee with one hand, she held up her teacup with one of her other three hands, and the centaur clinked the cup with her mug. They chortled like two old friends with a hundred in-jokes.

The baker ignored both of them. “—bakery on the entire island.” Throwing her arms open wide, she said, “I’m the owner and head baker, Bryn, and your first cinnamon bun is on the house!”

“I ate one for breakfast,” Kiela said. “It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Bryn beamed at her. “Ah, I like her already. Anyone with a taste for sugar and cinnamon is automatically someone I want to know.”

Gesturing with her tea, the centaur woman cried, “Ooh, I know her!”

“You think you know everyone,” her many-armed friend said.

“She’s the little girl up the hill, the one who always had her nose in a book. Binna Orobidan’s girl!” She whooped like she’d won a prize by identifying her. To Kiela, she said, “You look just like your mother.”

Kiela startled at the sound of her mother’s name. She knew she should have expected it—there were bound to be people on Caltrey who remembered her, and Kiela knew she did look similar, with the same sky-blue skin and jewel-blue hair. Same eye shape too. Her father’s nose, or so people had said. But still, it felt like lightning through her heart. “You knew my mother?”

“Binna and that dreamer husband of hers left for the south. City-bound.” The centaur flapped her hand as if this was utter foolishness. “Whatever happened to them? Are they here too?”

“I’m sorry, but no,” Kiela said. “They died.”

“Ah, what a pity. My condolences.”

One of the other islanders called, “Why’d you come back?” Unlike the centaur, her tone wasn’t friendly, and she was glowering so hard that her eyes vanished into wrinkles.

Taking a breath, Kiela went with the same line that had worked so well with Larran. “I’d had enough of the city.”

That won a few scattered nods, especially from the centaur.

The old man on the ground playing the game snorted, though. “We don’t need cityfolk here. Mark my words: she’ll just bring trouble.”

The four-armed woman whacked him on the top of his head with a napkin.

“Ow.”

“Didn’t you hear Eadie? She’s not cityfolk.”

The centaur, Eadie, said loudly, “She’s Binna’s girl. Just look at her.”

Everyone stared again, and it took every ounce of Kiela’s courage to stay standing in one spot and not pivot and race back to the steps and the overgrown cottage that was both familiar and unfamiliar—and, she reminded herself, currently smoke-filled, because she was incapable of getting a fire going well enough to feed herself. “I’m just looking to purchase a few supplies, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“On your way? You aren’t staying?” Bryn asked. She looked disappointed. “But you just arrived—you haven’t even tried a fish pastry. It’s my own recipe—the secret is to caramelize the onion and don’t skimp on the garlic.”

That wasn’t what Kiela had meant to say. She’d meant “on my way” as in back to the cottage where she could hide from all these staring, overly interested eyes. “I’m staying in the house. My family’s house. I only meant I’m not staying here, in town, in this spot.”

“You did come home,” Eadie said smugly. “Everyone always does.”

“Her parents didn’t,” the grumpy man said, which earned him another whack from the harpist. But a few of the others nodded with him, as if that was the expected fate of anyone who left Caltrey. She felt the urge to defend her parents and their choices. They’d only wanted a better life for their family. What was so wrong about that?

Bryn stepped forward and made shooing motions with her hands, as if scattering chickens in front of her. “That’s enough, all of you—you’re going to frighten her off.” Coming up to Kiela, the friendly baker hooked her arm through hers, which made Kiela want to flee even more. “Come with me, and I’ll get you set up with whatever you need.”

Guiding her inside, Bryn pointed to a flour-dusted stool and insisted Kiela make herself at home. Kiela perched awkwardly and wished she’d had a better option than coming to town. While Bryn bustled behind a counter filled with buns, rolls, and loaves, Kiela glanced out the open door and wondered if all the customers were gossiping about her. Probably. The harp music had started again, but she could hear voices murmuring beneath it.

“They don’t mean any harm,” Bryn said. “Don’t mind them.”

How could she not mind? But Kiela said, “It’s fine.” “Hmm, if you’d rather be offended, that’s okay too. We Caltreyans can be a lot: nosy, pushy, and opinionated—and that’s just me. Now, what do you need?”

Everything, she wanted to say.

She needed her library back. She needed her parents, even though it had been so many years. She needed to feel safe again. And she needed to have a purpose again. She needed to be needed—and to be wanted.

But what came out of her mouth was: “Food. Seeds. And maybe a chicken?”