TWO
brYNDIS ASHGLO
Deadly nightshade, also known as Belladonna, should be handled with utmost care as it is one of the deadliest plants in existence. It is associated with the word “silence” since it is believed that the gods themselves created this plant to silence their enemies for all eternity.
The Herbal Healer’s handbook, by Agnes O’Connel
“Gods! What happened here?” Declan gasps over my shoulder.
“What a shame. I know how much you liked those flowers.” His hands rest on the sides of my shoulders but fail to give me strength.
The creature’s laughter echoes in my mind, reverberating down to my bones.
“I saw a patch of yellow ones not too far from here.” He tries to comfort me, flexing his fingers against my skin.
To him, I’m a foolish girl in need of her favourite flowers to decorate her bedroom.
He’d never been inside my room, so he wouldn’t know that these flowers have never been on display.
He doesn’t know what they’re called, nor does he know that possessing them would single me out as a threat, a witch.
If only he knew those flowers are the only things able to silence the thing crawling beneath my skin.
Declan would probably condemn me along with everyone else if he knew.
I wouldn’t blame him; he’s too straight-cut, too honest and good.
Declan is too brilliant to be burdened by my secrets, and I fear I’ve already tainted him enough.
It’s not the howling wind blowing through the trees that raises the hair on my arms. Nor is it my waterlogged boots.
Dread has dug its talons into me. With my secret patch of nightshade gone, I’ll undoubtedly lose my mind the way my mother did, driven mad by magic, same as all the witches in our family.
Nightshade is as lethal as it is beautiful.
Ten drops of it brewed as tea will draw an adult man into an endless sleep.
In lower dosages, it numbs enough to ward off restlessness, a lingering pain, or even a witch’s madness setting in.
In essence, it’s an escape from this life and its afflictions.
It had helped to extend my mother’s time with me, for which, I’ll always be grateful.
Nightshade is my only hope, but now all hope is gone.
“You’re right. The yellow ones will look just as nice.” I force a smile as nausea creeps up my throat. I hate yellow. I hate that it’s our family’s signet colour. I hate that it’s cheerful and happy. And I hate the fact that I can’t like those flowers for his sake.
“Come,” he whispers, returning my smile and taking my hand in his.
Pressing my cheek to his shoulder, I inhale his scent.
Pine needles, sandlewood, and a tinge of sweat.
Moments ago, he told me he was leaving Bouldermoore to become Prince Eamon’s valet, a position his father had pleaded for on Declan’s behalf.
I can still see the smear of mud splattered across Declan’s face, the evidence of my fury after he delivered the news and walked away.
I swallow my amusement as I recall the flare of his nostrils when he turned to face me, mud clumped against the back of his head.
I’ll miss him fiercely. It’s unfortunate that his family despises people like me about as much as they do a contagious disease, as if the creature inside me can attach itself to them.
As if it is my choice to be the way I am.
A witch. The label feels surreal still, even though I’ve silently worn it for most of my life.
I stare up at him in envy of his carefree grin. “I…”
A deep and heavy gong echoes through the woods. The watcher’s bell. Birds fly from the trees, scattering aimlessly into the night. In all twenty-five years of my life, I’ve only ever heard tales of it being rung. The last time was the day of the great massacre, long before I was born.
I look toward our home and the slippery path that led us here, then back to Declan, my heart racing.
Gong, gong.
Declan’s face pales.
Gong, gong.
I run before I think things through. Before I devise a plan of any sort.
My legs are numb and unsteady, like they belong to someone else entirely.
Declan is right behind me. The rustling of leaves makes it clear.
His presence fuels the scraps of courage I cling to…
To run faster… To breathe more deeply… To face whatever awaits us.
My foot slips, and I fall. My breath leaves me with an ungraceful grunt as my fingers splay beneath me, digging into the wet dirt.
Unable to find purchase, I slide down the muddy slope a few feet before Declan’s fingers wrap around my arm, tugging me back onto my feet.
My palm burns as a fresh cut blooms, and my wrist aches from the impact, but there is no time to stop for assessment, not of my injuries, nor the situation.
Declan may be our finest soldier’s only son, and a capable soldier in his own right, but he hasn’t seen battle.
He doesn’t know bloodshed, but neither do I.
Training in the courtyard, patrols, and second-hand knowledge isn’t enough.
Images of flames and tortured screams flood my mind, ingrained in me through my mother’s tales of the massacre.
Most children are told whimsical tales at bedtime, but I received versions that were morbid and grim.
“Truth is dreadful,” my mother would say, “best not be surprised by it.” My chest tightens with panic.
Is that what we’ll find? Is that what’s waiting for us in our town?
My lungs burn, but I refuse to give in to the pain, even as white-hot tears streak my cheeks.
Cold, exertion, and dust have been my three triggers for as long as I can remember, the chains that tighten around my chest, the bramble shoved down my throat.
I push on, keeping up with Declan but urging my legs to carry me faster. I will not be afraid.
We reach the edge of the woods in record time, and I can barely breathe. “Wait!” Declan commands in a tone that freezes my boots to the cold, wet ground. “Never charge blindly. One more step and we are out in the open.”
He’s right. Of course, he’s right. I nod, trying to control the rise and fall of my chest and the wild pounding of my heart.
Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Deep breaths.
Reaching into my satchel for the glass cylinder holding my medicine, I find it missing.
It had contained my brew of honey, nettle, ginger, and poppy, my remedy to ease the pain of my shortcomings, but it must have fallen out.
Dammit! I take in the meadow stretching out before us.
Tall grass sways in the wind, silver in the moonlight.
Past the meadow, the tall and thick wall awaits us.
It was constructed to keep us safe, to keep us in and The Others out.
Yet I feel I may suffocate within its confines.
Commanding voices fill the night. Even though I can’t make out the words, I can visualise the chaos waiting on the other side, and I swallow my building anxiety. The creature’s sharp-toothed smile broadens as my throat goes dry.
Waiting for Declan to confirm whether it’s safe to cross the meadow is pure torture. We need to keep going. His family is on the other side, possibly needing his help. My family… Laoise…
“Walls can’t keep out what’s already inside,” the creature mocks.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Unlike before, a golden glow of light now looms over the manor.
Every lantern and torch possible is alight in the courtyard.
Every candle and oil-dipped wick within the manor and every home are burning brightly.
There’s no way we can enter without being seen.
Not now. Not when every man within those walls is on high alert.
“Let’s go.” Declan nods toward the furrow and the wrought iron grid that runs across it.
“Whatever happens,” I whisper, not needing to face him to confirm that he hears me. His posture tenses immediately, shifting the energy between us.
“I knew this was a bloody bad idea. We should’ve never come.” His tone is clipped, but I know him well enough to understand that he’s only trying to hide what he fears deep down. “The coast is clear. Run!” He shoves me forward, but my feet stay rooted to the spot.
“What about you?” My eyes widen as I look back at him and the red rowan berries stitched to the collar of his jacket, but he doesn’t look at me. The artistic son of a soldier now resembles a warrior himself, his shoulders drawn back and his jaw set with self-control.
His palm flattens against the small of my back, lingering long enough to send heat racing across my skin.
“Right behind you, now go!” His fingers curl against the soft cotton fabric of my dress, echoing the words he spoke in the forest: “I need to go so that I can come back a made man and ask for your hand.” Without further warning, he urges me forward, and I run.
My feet slip on the grass as my dress drags and twists above my ankles, catching on the shrubs and slowing me down.
Mud and water have soaked through my cloak, adding extra weight.
I’m too slow, much slower than I would have been if I had better footing; much slower than I would have been if I was allowed to wear trousers, like him.
I’m out of breath when I reach the wall, crashing into the cold, wet stone with my palms shielding me from injury.
Declan has me by my elbow before I register that he’s next to me, my crimson handprints painting my father’s great wall.
Declan’s grip is tight, and I know it’ll leave marks on my skin, but it doesn’t bother me; it’s the least of my worries.
The town is in danger. The nightshade is gone.
Declan is leaving… What is the harm of a few bruises in comparison.