Chapter II.12
Chapter Twelve
Two Years Before the Wedding
Miria was searching for mushrooms, which was, perhaps, one of the more boring and tedious magical tasks that she’d been forced to undertake in a while.
But there was one particular type of mushroom that only appeared around the full moons that occurred between the spring equinox and the summer solstice, and only after a warm rain, and—well, she happened to need it.
Not at this very moment, but Yali’s stores of it were running low, and once the window of opportunity passed, it was gone for a whole year.
Yali had planned to go foraging with her, but Miria could see she’d been tired, and so she’d encouraged her nana to do a task that required less walking and went alone.
Nana tired more easily these days, and as much as it saddened Miria, it frustrated Yali more.
Miria didn’t know how old Yali was, but she knew it was well over a century, and she suspected humans were not meant to live that long, not even witches who knew all sorts of magical ways to extend their lives.
As long as there was something Yali could do closer to the cottage, however, it was easy enough for Miria to gently persuade her to do that rather than whatever chores required physical exertion.
Gone were the days when her nana could spend several hours seated, teaching Miria how to read and do calculations, but the cottage—probably like all houses—required constant upkeep, and so did the garden and the chickens.
Miria was just glad she was around to tackle the bulk of the tiring work these days.
Even when the work was as dull as wandering the woods in search of rare mushrooms.
Had Yali been with her, allowing them to cover more ground, the task might have ended hours ago, but Miria finally struck fungi gold around the time her stomach started rumbling for lunch.
She’d packed some dried fish, but she ignored her annoying organ for long enough to fill her sack with the purple-and-orange mushrooms she needed.
Once she had a couple of pounds worth and was debating whether to eat now or return to the cottage, she realized the forest sounds had changed.
She wasn’t alone.
Miria was deep enough off the forest path that she hadn’t worried about running into human visitors.
She’d also lived here long enough to identify various bird calls, and she could pick out the difference in sounds between a squirrel or a mouse or a vole, never mind a larger creature like a deer or a boar.
Even if she wasn’t paying attention, it would be difficult for any of the forest’s normal inhabitants to sneak up on her.
But the sounds coming from the east definitely did not belong, nor were they familiar, and Miria placed a hand on the nearest tree, asking what it knew.
Trees did not communicate like humans, but this particular oak left her with the impression of two creatures, neither of whom appeared particularly threatening, at least not to a tree.
The snapping of twigs and underbrush grew louder and closer, and finally—grew more recognizable.
Although she could see nothing as yet, Miria was positive one of the creatures was a horse.
She slung her bag of mushrooms over her shoulder and headed uphill toward the noise.
The girl who’d once needed help protecting herself from a wild boar was long gone.
A horse—even if accompanied by a lone soldier—didn’t worry her.
To be safe, however, she wrapped her forest cloak around her shoulders.
The cloak was created from a beautiful patchwork of leaves—maple and oak and birch and more in every shade of green—and they were still as supple as the day Miria had collected them.
But the cloak’s real magic was that it could conceal her in the forest. When she wrapped it tightly and pulled up the hood, she faded from view like a caterpillar among the grass.
Yali had one just like it, and the day she’d taught Miria how to make her own had been almost as exciting as the day she’d begun teaching her how to create Tuli.
Concealed in this way, Miria walked until she found, as anticipated, a horse.
She didn’t know much about them and had never ridden one, but even she could tell this horse was beautiful—tall, pure white, and regal.
An equally expensive-looking saddle sat atop the horse’s shiny coat, bearing an unfamiliar crest stamped into the leather.
But that was all Miria noticed about the horse, because then a young woman appeared around its far side.
Of all the scenarios that had run through her head once she’d identified the sounds of a horse, that its companion would be a girl near her own age had never been one of them.
A lost woodsman, a guard or constable searching for someone, an unfortunate traveler—they were all men.
Women, especially young ones, did not go wandering the woods alone.
And if they were the sort who could afford a fancy horse and saddle, they especially did not do so.
Women like that did not work; they were sheltered and guarded.
If there ever had been guards or a guardian with this woman, however, they must have also been lost. The woman’s face was pinched with worry.
Withdrawing her cloak, Miria started forward, and the sound of the leaves crunching beneath her boots drew the woman’s attention.
She turned sharply, one hand reaching for the sword at her waist—yet another incongruity that Miria was only just noticing—and she gasped.
“Hello?” Miria said, although it came out more like a question than a statement. The sword was muddling her already confused thoughts.
The woman’s shoulders relaxed, which was as sure a sign as any that she did not immediately assume Miria was a witch. “Hello?”
Her accent marked her as someone who had not grown up in Swiftdok, but that wasn’t a surprise.
Perhaps wealthy women in other parts of the country didn’t behave like those in town?
Miria rather doubted that—Nana had told her that rich people everywhere were the same—but it would be some explanation for a number of inexplicable things that started with the horse and the sword and that ended with the gleaming gold buttons on the boots peeking out from beneath the woman’s skirts.
Her dress, overall, was simple and cut for riding, but what it lacked in lace and pearls it made up for in quality and elegance.
Perhaps the woman’s clothes didn’t need much adornments, Miria decided, given her oval face was so naturally pretty. Her chestnut brown hair was braided to the side, and her wide brown eyes were framed with thick lashes. Both her lips and cheeks were red with exercise or the sun.
Miria swallowed, suddenly wondering what she must look like in contrast—a girl (barely a woman herself) wearing nothing but an un-dyed linen tunic and a man’s leather leggings with a cloak of leaves draped over her shoulder.
She’d done her hair in two braids down her back this morning, but wispy black curls were already breaking free around her face, which was probably covered in a healthy layer of sweat or dirt.
Certainly, there was plenty of dirt beneath her fingernails.
Miria never thought much of her appearance except for when she needed to disguise it, but she doubted anyone would describe her as pretty, despite Nana saying she had eyes like emeralds.
A nana was supposed to say things like that.
Miria mentally shook herself. She had no idea why she was thinking about such silly things.
If this woman was offended by her appearance, that was not Miria’s problem.
She was not the one clearly lost in the woods, and as such, despite the other woman’s wealth or appearance, Miria had the upper hand.
Actually, that seemed like a good way to continue. It was her turn to speak, after all.
“Are you lost?” Miria asked.
The woman nodded. She appeared to be trying to put up a brave front, but her left hand gripped her horse’s reins tightly and her lip trembled.
“You’re a far way from the path,” Miria continued.
“Something spooked Pearl,” the woman said, shooting her horse an affectionate but exasperated expression. “By the time I got her under control, I had no idea where the path had gone.”
“Behind you, if this is the direction you’ve been walking in.”
“Thank you.” Some of the woman’s tension dissipated from her features, but then she bit her lip and seemed to assess Miria the same way Miria had been assessing her.
Miria curled her fingers into her palms, more aware of the dirt beneath her fingernails than she cared to be. “I’ve been foraging for mushrooms,” she said by way of explanation for an unasked but obvious question. “I’m Miria.”
“Oh, right. My manners. Forgive me.” The woman’s pink cheeks deepened in color. “My mother would kill me for being so rude, but she’d also kill me for being out here alone and getting lost and …” She shook herself and curtsied. “Lady Adaline of Waeremund.”
Miria nearly tripped over a tree root, and Miria never tripped over tree roots.
This woman was not simply wealthy, she was nobility.
The only noble family in the area belonged to the Lord of Gawfrid, which meant she must be a relation.
Miria should have guessed that was what the crest on her saddle meant.
“Um, I’m just Miria,” she repeated.
“That’s an unusual name,” Adaline said. “Are you not from around here?”
“I am. It’s a …” She stopped herself before she could say It’s a witch name.
What was a witch name anyway? Yali had told her Miria was a good name for a witch, but Miria had never questioned why.
She’d liked it, and so had gone along with it.
A new name for a new life. She made a mental note to ask her nana about the origin of witch names later.
“It’s a family name,” Miria said, figuring that was true enough.