Chapter II.18
Chapter Eighteen
Six Months Before the Wedding
Miria and Adaline had both counted on Adaline’s family visiting her uncle again the following summer, but a tear-stained letter from Adaline had arrived in the spring, telling Miria they were going to be traveling abroad instead.
Reading between the lines, it was clear Adaline’s parents were beginning to look in earnest for suitable and advantageous matches for Adaline’s future husband.
But since Adaline never spoke of it, Miria didn’t either.
The next summer passed into winter, and Miria barely enjoyed it before it did.
Without Adaline’s personal form of sunshine to brighten her days, Miria felt as much a golem as Tuli or Aza, going about her duties without complaint or joy.
Though, that was probably not fair to the golems, who Miria was still convinced thought and felt more than they were capable of letting on.
Tuli, for example, had an uncanny knack for trimming the flowering hedges and bringing Miria the cuttings on days when she was feeling especially despondent.
Adaline’s letters never stopped, regardless of where she was.
Through them, Miria learned that her mother had finally put her foot down and forbidden Adaline from sword and archery practice.
The number of dances and social engagements she was forced to endure had increased, and though dances had once been a source of entertainment and joy for Adaline, she lamented that they now came with expectations of her spending time conversing with men in whom she had little interest—and whose interest in her made her most uncomfortable.
The M-word was first broached in a letter Adaline sent on a particularly sunny but bitterly cold winter day. Miria found the bird waiting for her when she returned to the cottage after picking up some supplies in town.
Yali was counting out pine needles for a healing potion in front of the fire. She never opened or read any of the letters from Adaline, but she did always seem surprised when one arrived.
Miria set down her satchel and took the letter eagerly, only the years of good manners drilled into her head by Nana making her reach for some seeds to feed the letter’s feathered carrier before she broke the wax seal.
The sparrow pecked away contentedly at its meal, warming itself by the fire, but Miria felt anything but content reading Adaline’s latest words.
“Are you all right?” Yali asked.
Miria sighed. “I’m fine, but Adaline sounds miserable. I wish there was something I could do.”
“You are a witch,” her nana said. And Miria heard the rest of the reminder as clearly as she smelled the pine needles. It is a witch’s calling to push.
But push what in this case? Adaline was a lady and several days’ journey away in a place Miria had never been. She could not—would not—leave her nana, especially in the winter, and even if she left … It wasn’t as though Miria could marry Adaline, was it?
“I cannot push against the whole country, the whole church, and win,” Miria said.
“No, but do not doubt the impact of small pushes when timed correctly. Even a single beaver can alter the course of a mighty river if their dam is placed just so.”
Miria began unloading her satchel. A bag of pepper corns. Two new needles. Such tiny items worth their weight in gold or magic. “I would not know where to begin to place such a dam.”
“That only suggests the time is not yet right to build one. Come child, it is not like you to be so gloomy.”
It wasn’t, and Miria tried to shake off the mood.
It should have been easier with the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the snow outside, plus the crackling fire and warmth in here.
But it wasn’t only Adaline’s letter that weighed on Miria’s heart.
The colder months were not being kind to her nana.
She seemed to grow weaker with each full moon.
Yali herself did not seem upset by this, albeit frustrated at times, but Miria’s heart ached with what she knew was inevitable.
And then there was the news from town, which did not help.
“There’s apparently a wasting illness taking children’s lives,” Miria said, settling in the other chair before the hearth.
“Strange, isn’t it, that we’ve had few entreaties for help all winter?
At first, I thought it must be the weather keeping folks in town, but the more I heard people talk of it today, the more it sounds as though it’s been going on for the last couple of years.
Shouldn’t we do something, even if we’re not asked?
Look into at least? Try to find a cure?”
Yali rested a soft but firm hand on Miria’s own.
“You are young and full of vigor and heart. I know you want to help, but if no one has come to us, there might be a reason. Illnesses are cyclical, and so is fear. And fear is dangerous. We cannot save everyone, nor is it our duty to try. We do what we can, but we must protect ourselves, too. If we poke our heads out too much, even with the intention of helping, we might find someone swinging an ax in our direction, and then where will we be when needed? We are convenient people to blame for others’ problems. Despite your noble friend, you are still only a woman and an outcast.”
Miria lightly squeezed her nana’s fingers. The older woman’s skin felt dangerously thin beneath her own. “I know you are right, but it does upset me.”
“Of course it does. You would not be here if it did not.”
Miria let the topic drop. Yali was right about one thing—she could not save everyone, and she had enough worries about the two people she cared about most. For Adaline, she hoped her letters provided comfort or an outlet for Adaline’s feelings, and she bided her time, wishing that one day she might be able to do more.
For Yali, she could—and did—do more, ensuring her nana was always comfortable and that she got plenty of rest. Miria prepared her favorite foods, invited her witch friends over as often as she could, and generally did her best to prove to Yali that she was smart and strong and responsible.
That one day, she would be entirely capable of carrying on the legacy that had been gifted to her.
If she cried sometimes while she slept, no one else needed to know.
When Yali died in the spring, Azalea returned to the earth along with her.
She lost not one family member, but two.
But the other witches came without needing to be called, and they ensured Miria did not have to endure the pain alone.
Some were her nana’s friends that Miria knew only by name, but others were witches she’d met before.
Sarel came, and another witch, Nalki, who’d also been present at Miria’s initiation.
They cooked and cleaned, and they helped Miria bury her nana in the spot Yali had requested.
They sat with Miria and told her tales about Yali (some new, some well-loved), and they collected her tears and strung them on a chain that sparkled like the morning dew.
The tears were beautiful, they said, because Miria’s love for her nana was beautiful.
When Miria drew her thumb across them, her favorite memories of Yali were as clear in her head as the tears themselves.
They made her cry harder, but they also made her smile.
For thirteen days, someone stayed with Miria at all times.
For thirteen days, they mourned together and welcomed more witches whom Miria had never before met but who had come to pay their respects.
They brought more food and gifts of little spells, and invitations to visit that Miria could respond to when she felt up to it.
Then life had to return to normal, or something like it.
After thirteen days, Miria was without human company for the first time in her life.
She tucked the crystal memories away, checked on how the other women had packed up Yali’s personal belongings, and fed the chickens.
The garden and the spring repairs kept her too busy to wonder what was going on in town, but Adaline’s letters couldn’t let her forget everything beyond the cottage.
Miria hoped her friend would be able to visit again this summer, but it was a hope she couldn’t spend much time dwelling on. The old witch in the woods was gone, and the young witch had very powerful shoes to fill.