Chapter III.29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Day of the Wedding, Continued
The manor’s north grounds had been given over for the wedding, showcasing opulence grander than anything Miria had ever seen before.
There were garlands of flowers and colorful streamers everywhere she turned.
The tables were laden with fine cloths and stacked high with delicacies she could not begin to guess at.
To take advantage of the fine weather, the marriage arch had been erected at the far end of the lawn, rather than in the manor chapel, and it was completely covered in roses.
A smaller table sat before it, holding the goblet of ceremonial wine and a censor of incense.
The only things finer than the decorations were the clothes worn by the guests themselves—silk and lace in a riot of color, jewels glittering in the sunlight, silver and gold gleaming in the ladies’ hair.
Miria was certain most of those gathered did not live in the area.
They were other nobility, invited to celebrate and be entertained.
Well, she would give them entertainment. Miria’s stomach swooped with the thought, but she would not be intimidated by wealth’s power when she had her own. Rosmilda had reminded her of that.
Everyone seemed to be arranging themselves in some sort of order, and Miria stood on her toes, trying to see why.
Moments later, the priest came into view, followed by her brother and father, both dressed in such a manner that no one would be able to tell they did not belong among the assembled men. Miria’s hands clenched at her side.
So far, despite dropping the invisibility spell, no one had paid her much mind.
There were few guards in the vicinity, and everyone’s attention was on each other.
Those in plain clothes or a servant’s livery were beneath their concern.
Miria might as well have blended in with the dogwood tree blooming behind her as she glared at her family.
“M’lady, there you are.” A red-faced, harried-looking woman darted along the side of the crowd. “M’lord was wondering …”
“M’lord should learn some patience.”
At the familiar voice, Miria snapped her head sideways. Rosmilda was ushering Adaline through a side door in the manor, Adaline’s mother trailing a few steps behind. Her gaze didn’t immediately turn Miria’s way, but Miria braced for it. Rosmilda’s voice was curt, and her lips were thin.
“We needed to make a last-minute alteration to Lady Adaline’s hair,” Rosmilda continued. “I trust her father wants her to be her best self for the ceremony.”
The woman, whoever she was, must not have been important enough for Rosmilda to charm, because her back stiffened, as though she took offense at being talked to this way. But Adaline’s mother made no move to correct Rosmilda’s tone.
Another in her thrall, Miria concluded.
As for Adaline, she did look breathtaking, her hair curled and pinned and studded with pearls and more tiny flowers.
Her dress was the same stunning blue embroidered silk that Miria had seen in her scrying, but Adaline was taking no joy in wearing it.
Her face was blank, be it from fear or apprehension.
Miria unclenched her hands and stepped out of the tree’s relative cover.
Rosmilda saw her the moment she moved, as though her vision was as keen as a cat’s, as though she’d been expecting Miria to show her face. Although after what Otto had witnessed, perhaps she had expected something.
“Guards!” Rosmilda yelled toward the nearest men and pointed at Miria. “Remove that woman. She’s a thief, not a guest.”
A thief? Clever. Calling her a witch would scare the men, and this gave them reason to steal her purse. Rosmilda would know Miria carried necessary supplies within it.
Miria had no time to hesitate. She ran from the confused men who’d been called into action. Guests at the edge of the crowd—those who’d heard the commotion—whipped their heads in her direction. Voices rumbled in alarm.
Miria silently cursed the garments that slowed her movements as she skirted the edge of the gathering. She needed to get closer to the altar, to the men and the priest. To those who had the power she did not—if only she got near enough to break the enchantment Rosmilda had put on them.
It didn’t take long for her to realize she wouldn’t make it that far. More guards were closing in, forming a perimeter around those in charge. Brandishing swords.
Admittedly, Miria had not thought through the practicalities of this part of her plan very well.
She’d been counting on Adaline raising her voice to assist, on whatever sway a lady of Adaline’s status would have among those present.
But if Adaline was trying, Miria couldn’t hear her over the shouting.
She could hear Rosmilda, however, urging the men on and, from the sound of it, getting closer.
To her left, the priest was blustering; to her right, Rosmilda was pushing her way through the throng of well-dressed guests who were mostly standing around in confusion, and some of whom did look very entertained.
All around her, guards crept in. Clearly none of them wanted to outright attack a presumably unarmed woman, but their reticence wouldn’t stop them for long.
Since getting close enough to Adaline’s father and uncle wasn’t proving feasible, Miria skipped ahead to the next part of her plan.
From her purse, she pulled out the pieces of bloodied parchment she’d stolen.
She wasn’t looking at Rosmilda, but at the men whose ears she was targeting.
Nonetheless, Miria swore she felt Rosmilda’s fury like a flame scorching her cheek.
“It’s not me who needs to be seized, it’s her.
” Miria pointed toward Rosmilda. “She’s the one who’s been behind all the children in town becoming sick and dying.
The wasting disease, the evil spirits—they’re hers.
You see!” Miria held up the parchment. “This is the blood of the sick children, found in her house. Look!”
In the moment of distraction, Miria managed to dart closer to the priest and thrust out the parchment, but he skittered away.
Coward. She placed the parchment on the altar.
“Do you need more proof? You see this necklace she gifted Lady Adaline? There is a charm on it, and I can prove it. She meant to bespell Lady Adaline.” Miria spun toward her brother, who stood near Adaline’s father and uncle. “Your bride, your daughter.”
She had people’s attention now. Miria could sense dozens of eyes boring into her. Words floated by her ears like insects on the breeze—confusion, fear. Accusations of witchcraft were not something made lightly. Even the guards had paused, though it may have simply been to watch the spectacle.
Their reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was that it bought Miria time. She reached into her purse, fingers grasping the spell she’d created yesterday to break Rosmilda’s enchantment.
What also mattered was that Rosmilda had pushed her way through the melee, through the fine men and women who weren’t sure whether to flee or laugh or turn on one of their hosts. And Adaline was behind her.
“Ad—” Miria caught herself, barely. “Lady Adaline, explain to them.”
But Lady Adaline only stared at Miria with the same blank expression she’d worn coming out of the manor, and suddenly Miria understood.
We needed to make a last-minute alteration to Lady Adaline’s hair.
Miria cursed to herself. When Rosmilda had caught Adaline with Miria’s note, she must have realized something was up.
She had been looking for Miria when she came outside, and before then, she must have found the charm Miria had woven into Adaline’s hair.
Nerves had powered Miria this far. Nerves and determination.
But her heart began to pound with something more like fear.
The uncertainty and worry she saw on the faces of the wedding guests was a pale imitation of the emotions flooding her veins.
She had no Adaline to strengthen her voice.
No sister witches to lend her their power. She was on her own.
She’d never been on her own before. Even after her nana had died, she’d had Tuli and a community of women to carry her through. She’d had the promise of Adaline’s heart.
Now she had no one but herself.
Miria swallowed and hoped that Adaline had been able to carry out the other part of her plan, that she’d been able to place the protective charms Miria had given her on Miria’s sisters so Rosmilda could no longer harm them.
The anti-enchantment spell felt like a rock in Miria’s hands. Adaline and her family could be no more than ten steps away, but the distance felt vast.
Miria started forward, and a new voice joined Rosmilda’s calls for the guard to grab her.
“Stop her, seize her. She has a spell in her hands!” Garulf raised his voice and tried to pull Lord Sigmun away. Did he know what was in Miria’s pouch, or was it just a scoundrel’s instinct for avoiding being caught?
“Put the bag down,” one of the guards yelled. Miria recognized him from her scrying, the younger one. He held is sword out, but his eyes were trained on Miria’s hands.
The guests were stumbling away. Miria could see the crowd writhing and shifting from the corner of her eye. The stench of fear was clouding out the scent of the incense and roses. Soon, she would have a clear path to the men if one of the guards didn’t obtain some courage and run her through first.
“She is the witch!” Garulf said, stating the obvious. “Get her.”
“Oh, yes, the witch.” Miria spit out the words, her temper flaring. “And you are the man who sold your daughter to the witch. Do you not recognize me, Father? Do you not think I know exactly the kind of man you are? Did she tell you?” Miria pointed in Rosmilda’s direction.
Someone gasped, the priest perhaps. Then something clattered to her left, and it was Hans knocking over an urn filled with rose blossoms. “It is you. Greta?”
Miria’s lip curled. There was a soft wonder in her brother’s face, something she could use, something she might need, but her temper was crackling like a fire, hard to reign in.
“That name no longer fits me. Do you know what they’ve done—this family of yours?
Are you fine with how they’ve used those around you, the lives they destroyed? ”
Hans opened his mouth, but he grappled with nothing but air. Her words had hit something inside of him, but Miria didn’t know what.
Nor did she have time to care. Rosmilda and Garulf were yelling again, and so was the rest of Adaline’s family, those whose strings were tied to Rosmilda’s dirty hands.
Perhaps it was the voice of Adaline’s father or uncle joining in that finally got the guards to move.
Suddenly, it felt as though Miria’s world was shrinking.
The last time she recalled such a claustrophobic terror was when she’d tried running from Yali all those years ago.
But these were not benign trees or tangled vines or recalcitrant roots.
They were grown men with swords, and Miria had only one move left.
She rushed forward, grateful for every lesson in swordsmanship Adaline had given her.
For though she held no blade, those lessons had taught her how to dodge the hands reaching out for her arms, just as the wily forest floor had taught her feet to be nimble.
Miria weaved through the men trying to catch her, leaning there, twisting here, her feet steady on the grass, and the distance between her and her targets closed as she raised the bag holding her spell.
There were more guards than she could avoid for long, though, and when a hand landed on her left arm, she flung the spell—a fine powder—toward Adaline’s family with her right, and with her magic, she called on the wind to do the rest.