Chapter I.3
Chapter Three
One Month Before the Wedding
The young witch perched on a rowan branch at the edge of the cemetery.
To the north, a flock of blackbirds coasted on an air current, lazily following the river toward the white-capped mountains that separated the port town of Swiftdok from Waere’s capital.
Miria had never been to the capital, but she imagined it was much like the town behind her—two- and three-story buildings of cheerfully painted wood and plaster beneath the monotonous dusky orange of their clay-tiled roofs.
Only the capital, she assumed, would be grander and filthier.
Mostly grander, she hoped. Since that was where her heart was kept.
Miria longed to join the birds on their journey, but she had never flown that far, didn’t know if she could, and was fairly certain that regardless, it wouldn’t be wise to try.
So instead, she watched the feathery storm glide silently across the mottled gray sky, beautiful in its freedom.
And, given the news she’d received this morning, perhaps ominous as well.
The feeling settled in her gut like a warning, but no.
Miria shook off the idea that the birds were a portent before it could take hold.
She had already received her ill news, and besides, omens weren’t nearly as common as most people believed.
Her nana had taught her to never waste her time searching for them or to put much stock in any she found.
Not that such instruction had ever stopped Miria from wishing for signs.
Maybe it was a weakness in her, but she longed to believe, deep in her heart, that there were unseen forces pushing everyone toward fates both well-earned and justly deserved.
If the number of robins on a tree branch at the equinox or the color of the dawn sky on your birthday were sent to foretell a greater truth, then why could there not also be a guiding hand giving everyone a rightful shove?
According to her nana, that was another foolish notion. To be a witch was to be the one who shoved. Which was why, even now, when pushing and shoving felt like an impossible endeavor, Miria had left her woods in an attempt to change fate. She was too stubborn not to.
Stubbornness would only get her so far, though.
Witches were mortal and not at all omnipotent.
If they were, no tiny casket would be waiting to return its inhabitant to the earth below her.
No sounds of women’s tears would be drowning out the birdsong.
No freshly turned dirt would be filling the air with the rich scent of decay.
Unable to avert her gaze any longer, Miria glanced toward the funeral below, sorry for the gathered crowds’ pain and for her mission causing her to intrude on it.
It was a small group who had assembled, as possibly befit a small casket, consisting mainly of women and a few older children.
No doubt it was whoever could be spared from their daily tasks to support a grieving family, and no more.
Confident that she was hidden from view and that no one was looking in her direction in the first place, Miria landed gently on the grass and returned to her natural form.
Wings became arms; talons turned to feet.
Wild black curls replaced snowy white feathers.
It would have been simpler to walk into town, but sometimes flying—seeing the world from so far above—helped put her emotions into perspective.
But not today. The sparrow carrying Adaline’s letter from the capitol had arrived while Miria was making her morning tea, and she had scarcely thought of anything else since.
Adaline’s normally pretty handwriting had been shaky, the ink blotchy with either barely suppressed grief or rage or, knowing Adaline, some combination of both.
I’m to be married to the Overseer’s son at midsummer. Do you know anything of him? I met him only once that year. Can you—
Adaline had let the sentence go unfinished, probably not wanting to ask for help. Either all those lessons being stuffed into Adaline’s head about what it was to be a lady—sweet, biddable, unimposing—were getting through to her or she simply thought the situation was too hopeless to even bother.
Or, she despised needing help. That was also possible with Adaline.
She was as stubborn and uncontainable as Miria, or she had been the last time they’d seen each other.
But that was nearly two years ago. It was hard to tell what effect her family’s admonishments were having on her behavior without constantly spying, and Miria wouldn’t do that, no matter how strong the temptation.
Ultimately, the reason for Adaline’s reticence was meaningless. Miria was a witch, and so she would do what witches always do. She would push back on fate like she could single-handedly alter the course of the mighty Swift River.
Miria pulled the glass-like red bead she kept strung around her neck from where it was tucked under her bodice and ran her fingers over it.
The heat of old anger washed across her skin—sharp and dangerous.
Her nana had taught her there was power in that, but Miria didn’t wear the charm for power.
She wore it because reliving the anger reminded her of who she was.
Adaline hadn’t needed to ask, because of course Miria would help. She would change Adaline’s fate.
All it took was a single beaver to muck up a current and flood a farm, after all.
The first step was discovering who the Overseer’s son was so she could study him.
It was common enough knowledge in town that the witch had cures for illnesses, spells to let you speak to the dead, charms to bring you luck, and more.
All Miria had to do was figure out what he desired most and entice him with a trade.
Magic for a broken engagement to a woman he didn’t know.
He would walk away assuming he got the better end of that deal.
It had seemed like an easy task this morning at breakfast, but Miria hadn’t lived in town since she was five, and her visits, though they occurred more often than the townsfolk believed—mainly because people believed they never happened at all—had not yielded that information.
One thing Miria did know, however, was that all marriage announcements had to be posted at the town chapel.
Surely, that was her best bet, and that was how she had found herself a sad witness to a child’s funeral, one of the few events that could distract her, temporarily, from her own problem.
Miria tucked the anger-filled charm back into her bodice and touched a second bead around her wrist. This one was a milky pink that a casual glance might mistake for a lump of quartz, and she kept it close to her skin at all times.
Its magic was a constant soothing presence that way, but the feelings it filled her with were more potent still when she purposely touched it.
Its sensation, though also warm, could not have been more dissimilar to the first charm.
This was the warmth of holding hands, of soft lips, and a heartbeat blooming like a rose in her chest. While Miria wore the red charm to remember herself, she wore this one to remember Adaline.
The feelings refocused Miria, and she checked herself over quickly.
With her hair braided tightly around her head and the rest of her dressed unremarkably in plain skirts and an equally uninspired bodice, no one would glance at her and see a witch.
Her rough hands and lightly freckled, sun-touched skin marked her only as any woman who worked—a fishmonger, a weaver, a brewer.
Even a woodcutter’s daughter. Nevertheless, she retrieved a couple drops of dew she’d collected that morning from a vial in her purse, and she touched them to her face, a bit of magic to disguise her features, just in case there was one among the mourners who might recognize her.
Far be it from her to ruin the ruse they all clung to—that the witch never ventured into town. That if they stayed far away from the Shadow Wood Forest, they were safe.
While Miria rarely left the woods, she nonetheless knew that safety was a convenient illusion for them.
The most dangerous place was often home.
The woods were wild and the woods were free, and that carried risk.
But it was behind painted facades and locked doors, in the eyes of those you were supposed to be able to trust, where true evil lurked.
Stories told otherwise, of course, whether they were the ones in plays and books or the ones people told each other.
Once, Miria had believed those stories herself, including the ones poured into her ears at the chapel.
But the thing about stories was that they were never just stories—were they?
You had to watch who told the stories and ask yourself why they did.
Stories could be filled with truths, but just as often, they were filled with lies.
Hitching up her skirt, Miria stepped out onto the dirt path leading from the cemetery to the chapel, her boots kicking up dust as she walked.
In the woods, she could have hidden herself, but in town it was more difficult.
Fortunately, the short, bald man, who Miria guessed was the priest based on his vestments, had arrived to provide a distraction.
With him was another woman Miria didn’t recognize.
She was tall—and not just in comparison to the slight-statured priest—but it wasn’t her height that drew the eye.
It was the way she carried herself, with a self-assurance that spoke of wealth, if not power.
For a moment, Miria wondered if the woman was related to Adaline.
Adaline’s uncle was the Lord of Gawfrid, the province that enveloped Swiftdok, and his manor was a great sprawling estate that sat on a hill above the town—and Adaline was tall herself.