Chapter I.4
Chapter Four
One Month Before the Wedding, Continued
Miria stumbled out of the chapel, her head spinning too quickly for her to focus on walking, but her pulse pounding too hard for her feet to slow down.
Somehow she avoided tripping, but she didn’t stop moving until she reached the end of the chapel’s lane and the bustle of town demanded she pay attention to her surroundings.
How was such a rise in her father’s station possible?
A wish spell was powerful magic, to be sure, but all magic had its limits.
That Miria’s father could have wished himself from a poor woodcutter who could barely feed his children to Swiftdok’s Overseer?
It wasn’t possible, or so she would have thought.
Her memories of him had clouded with time, but before she’d put him out of her mind, she had fitted together some of his pieces and glued them into a picture with the bits her nana had filled in.
He’d been proud but poorly educated. He’d resented Miria—then Greta—for her birth killing his wife.
In the years before he sold her, drought and then floods had driven food prices high.
What few specific memories Miria had of him were not happy ones.
He was quick with punishments and completely lacking in affection except for the occasional praise he offered her brother.
Mostly, she remembered being scared of him and of always being found wanting.
Once, Miria recalled asking Hans why their father was angry all the time, and Hans responding, “Because he deserves better when he works just as hard as everyone else.”
Miria, to this day, could not argue with that, but she found it profoundly cruel that he’d taken that anger out on a small girl.
But then, when people could not hit a lord or a king or an unfair system, they inevitably reached for the nearby people who couldn’t defend themselves, didn’t they?
Her father was far from the only person in Swiftdok to do so, and Miria couldn’t conjure much sympathy for any of them.
So how did a man who felled trees for a living, a man who Miria wasn’t entirely sure could read—at least not when she’d known him—end up in charge of Swiftdok?
The Overseer was responsible for the day-to-day running of the town.
Maintenance, law and order, even tax collection were within his purview.
It was one of the highest government positions a man could rise to if he was not born to a noble family.
The Overseer was appointed by the province lord, in this case, Adaline’s uncle.
Lord Sigmun would not simply have handed the position to Garulf.
To even reach a high enough status that the lord would be aware of his existence, her father would have needed to climb over a hundred wealthier, more powerful men.
Then he would have needed to win the lord’s favor.
Miria did not recall her father possessing an abundance of charm any more than he’d possessed an abundance of coins. So how?
She took one deep breath, then another. The speed at which she’d exited the chapel had momentarily chased away her anger, but her confusion couldn’t hold it at bay for long. The how wasn’t important. What would she do about it—that was the important issue.
The fury burning in her veins was hotter than the stones beneath her feet at midsummer.
Her plan—to trade with Adaline’s future groom—had been swept away like the ashes of her old life.
Her father had traded his five-year-old daughter for power beyond anything Miria would have believed possible.
That, in the end, the trade had benefited her was irrelevant.
He had left her with the witch, not caring whether she lived or died, and no doubt assuming it would be the latter.
Her brother was scarcely less to blame. Yes, he’d been left too, another victim of their father’s heartlessness.
But Hans had obviously known more than he’d shared at the time.
He’d had a plan—one she’d improved upon—but not the will to ensure Miria’s safety.
He’d called for her, held out a hand as he’d run, and that was something—a memory Miria had held onto, believing it was the best Hans could have done at the time.
But she’d stopped lying to herself years ago.
He could have waited for his younger, slower sister.
Just for a moment. He could have come looking for her later, using the pebble trick again if he feared getting lost.
But Hans had done none of those things, and Miria had eventually learned why.
When Hans had reunited with their father, Garulf had laughed and laughed.
Hans’s escape from the witch had finally—truly—made their father proud.
Garulf had believed he and his clever son had outwitted the terror of the Shadow Wood, and Hans, basking in their father’s approval at last, had grown up content with what Miria’s sacrifice had bought him.
Together, her father and Hans had betrayed her in a way no child should ever be betrayed. They’d taken her love, her trust, and her home.
One thing was certain: They would not take the woman she loved, too.
Miria would do whatever it took to prevent that, and she would not play fair. There would be no trade to prevent Adaline’s marriage. There would be only vengeance. Once she was done, there would be nothing left, no family of hers, for Adaline to be forced to marry into.
Without realizing it, her feet had begun moving again, carrying her into town.
Miria jumped to the side as a cart rattled past at an unsafe speed, eliciting cries of alarm and annoyance.
When was the last time she’d been so much in the center of this madness?
Miria couldn’t remember, and she’d clearly forgotten much.
The air was thick with dissonant snippets of conversation, the clack of wheel axles, and barking dogs.
The smells were just as loud—bodies baking in the sun, fish frying over coals, horses being horses.
The violence of it all overwhelmed her senses, as accustomed as they were to the quiet harmony of the forest.
It was hard to believe she’d grown up in this and considered it normal. There was a reason the witch rarely left the woods; she preferred it there.
A couple attempts to obtain an answer to the question, “Where does the Overseer live?” finally resulted in directions.
Miria wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to see the new family home or what she might do when she arrived, but she headed up the hill to where the richest houses overlooked a quiet canal.
The streets calmed as the elevation rose. Miria’s mind drifted once more now that it was safe to do so, dreaming of curses she might inflict on her father and brother, and scheming of how she might pull them off.
Yali had warned her against using magic for evil.
All magic took something out of a witch, and it left a little something in return.
Magic used for good—to heal, to help, to protect—healed and protected the witch.
Magic used to harm or for other ill intentions had the opposite effect.
Any curse Miria cast on her family would blow back on her.
She had to consider whether those repercussions would be worth the price.
But also, if cursing her family helped Adaline, wasn’t that worth any price?
Miria’s hand tightened around the fence post in front of a three-story home along a quiet, winding street. The shutters were painted a soothing blue, and bright pink and purple flowers overflowed from the window boxes. Easily, three houses of the size she’d grown up in could fit on each floor.
No one appeared to be around, so Miria opened the gate and walked up the short path. If she were to curse her family, she would need something of theirs to use, and a stolen pansy or lobelia from a window box would not be sufficient. She needed to get inside.
Although Miria hadn’t planned on doing strenuous magic today, she had come prepared.
Even without hearing the woman at the funeral or seeing the notice posted at the chapel, she knew better than to risk being discovered.
In case of emergency, she always kept a few tricks upon herself.
This hardly counted as an emergency, but anger rarely made anyone rational—not even witches.
From the purse tied around her waist, Miria pulled out a blue chicken feather.
It was slightly crumpled from being stuffed in the purse, but it would do.
She pricked a finger on a pin, smeared the drop of blood on the feather, then blew on it to let it catch the breeze.
Before the feather could fall to the ground, she snatched it again and tucked it into the braid woven around her head.
When people looked at the chickens, they saw what they expected to see.
When they looked at her, they would also see what they expected to see.
Hopefully, inside the house, that would be nothing.
It wasn’t as good a camouflage as her forest cloak provided, but as long as she moved quietly, it should be enough.
The house’s side entrance was unlocked, and Miria crept into a dim, narrow hall.
It had to be a servants’ entrance, and the shock of her father being able to afford servants hit her anew.
Voices carried from her right, along with the scent of baking bread, so Miria stayed to the left.
Eventually she found herself in the front of the house, which was thankfully deserted, allowing her to gawk in peace.