A Witch’s Guide to Love and Deception

Chapter 1

Sonya Tahir, Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Fairendelle, stood in a dark corner outside the castle’s walls and chopped off her hair.

The scissors were much more practical than the small dagger she had in her bag.

With its carved marble hilt and the miserably blunt blade, the dagger was more decorative than anything else.

Her father, King Roshan, worried she’d nick herself on it and so he ensured the blade always remained dulled.

‘Why not teach me how to use it instead?’ Sonya had once asked, not out of insolence, but out of genuine curiosity. It seemed the more practical route.

The king had huffed and puffed. He was a tall and stout man with ruddy cheeks and a thick mustache, the black hair of which had long turned gray.

‘You are far too delicate, meri bachi,’ he had replied. My little girl. He then gave a glance to Sonya’s three elder brothers, and they’d all nodded in agreement.

‘Quite right, Baba, quite right,’ they had responded in a unified chorus.

Perhaps her father was right, and Sonya was far too delicate. As she cut off her dark hair, her arm muscles ached. With a sigh, she dropped her hand, resting for a moment before returning to her hacking.

Sonya was famed for the black tresses that fell to her waist, thick and long, which was precisely why they needed to go. She continued chopping, listening to the sound of the shears moving. She knew the cut was uneven, but she had no care for vanity and needed to be quick.

Moonlight shone from above, dimmed by the cloudy sky. Light rain fell from the clouds, picking up in intensity. Good, Sonya told herself, even as she got wet. The rain will cover my tracks.

Sonya finished cutting her hair and watched as strands drifted in the wind. The sight of the hair in her clenched fist made a sob rise in her throat. In all the portraits of the mother she’d never met, the late Queen Zoya’s hair was long and dark like Sonya’s.

Her hair had been long her entire life, sixteen years. Even as a child, her braid fell down her back.

Now, with the hair cut above her shoulders, her head felt so much lighter but the black locks were heavy in her hands. Sonya looked around, searching for a spot to hide them. She was at the lowest level of the towering castle, in a quiet corner outside the staff accommodation.

The rain came down more quickly, and Sonya dashed over to the bushes. She kicked aside some dirt and went to her knees, burying the hair deep in the ground, where it wouldn’t be found. She scrambled to cover the hair with more dirt and saw, with disdain, that some of it had got on her dress.

She was wearing a maid’s uniform. It was much simpler than anything she had ever worn; it felt strange not to have the fabric of a floor-length gown swishing around her feet.

This dress fell down to her calves and was made of a basic linen.

The corset laced in the front for practicality, and she wore an apron on top.

At least the tailoring was well done. She could recognize the masterful hand of a stitch-witch.

Sonya rubbed some of the dirt onto her face, chafing at the feeling.

It was necessary, she reminded herself. A shiver ran down her spine; it was early April, the beginning of spring and not quite warm out yet.

She clutched her bag, which had very little: she had taken some bits from the kitchen, and a few coins.

While Sonya was a princess, she did not have access to the fortune of the crown—not like her brothers did.

She had taken these coins from her eldest brother Shahmir’s room, where she often noticed he would carelessly leave them lying about.

Of course, no one would dare risk stealing from the future king.

On the other hand, Sonya never had any money because everything she ever needed or wanted was immediately procured for her and she very rarely left the castle grounds.

And now, Sonya was running away.

She couldn’t stay at the castle for another moment.

Taking a deep breath, Sonya walked along the side of the castle in the quiet night to reach a pathway, from where she walked down to the exit of the castle grounds.

Her heart began beating fast as she approached the soldiers guarding the gates.

In the cold, her body began quivering, and she held her arms to stop the shaking.

Sonya kept her gaze down, letting some of her short hair fall in front of her dirtied face.

She kept her pace natural; she could not run.

She needed to pass without notice as she grew closer and closer to the soldiers in their silver armor.

As the clouds shifted, moonlight was cast over the soldiers, and their swords glinted in the light.

Sonya’s heart pounded. Then the moment arrived; she was at the gates.

Holding her breath, she walked past the guards.

They didn’t even give her a second glance, clearly convinced she was nothing more than a simple maid. Sonya quickened her pace, and it was only after she was out of sight of the soldiers that she allowed herself to relax ever so slightly.

Sonya knew too that no one would expect her to run away. Not the princess who hardly ever left her tall tower, let alone the castle grounds. While she had been apprehensive, she wasn’t nearly as frightened as she thought she would be.

She kept walking, heading towards Castletown. She had hardly made it onto the busy streets when she heard the distant sound of horses neighing, followed by the telltale sound of clinking armor.

She gasped, a tremor running through her body. Surely they hadn’t already caught on to her? Fear beat through her and she began running.

It was late, but the town was teeming with life. Sonya caught fragments of impressions through the rain as she made her way deeper into the town: carriages and people, slick cobblestone steps, the echo of laughter. She was out of breath, her vision blurring from fatigue and the rainfall.

Sonya paused to catch her breath, then was shoved. ‘Oh!’ she said, but the group of men walking past didn’t even hear her startled cry.

She looked around, eyes wide. She had never seen this many people before in her life. All sorts of people! She would have been awed if she wasn’t so afraid.

Sonya was used to the castle and its wide halls, everyone clearing a path for her. This part of Castletown, however, was the opposite. The streets were busy, making them feel narrow and cramped.

Feeling small, Sonya tried to take in deep breaths of cool evening air, pushing away the feeling of being suffocated in the tight space. She continued walking, trying to blend into the crowd and not look too astounded by all the new sights.

Because Castletown was home to the king’s seat, it was the richest town in the province of Crownley. As such, it was in good shape, the roads and pathways neat and clean, and the people walking around or stepping out of carriages were dressed in finery. Sonya wondered what other towns were like.

She kept going, deeper into town. She was still too close to the castle; the soldiers would find her easily if her escape became known.

She needed to reach the Outskirts, the poorer neighborhood on the edge of Castletown.

It was the last place she wanted to go, but it was also the last place the soldiers would look for her.

Sonya wasn’t very good with directions, but as long as she continued going south, she would make it to the Outskirts. Quickening her pace, she weaved her way out of the busy town square. The rain came down harder, soaking her through. Freezing, she wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

The uniform wasn’t doing much to keep her warm. She wished she had a shawl, but they were all of them heirlooms, obvious as jewels with their fine embroidery and expensive fabric. She needed to blend in, not stand out. Her boots, too, were uncomfortable, slightly too big.

Over a month ago, Sonya had asked her maid, Elspeth, for her uniform.

Elspeth had red hair and a face full of freckles; she could not be more different in appearance than Sonya, with her rich brown skin and crow-black hair, but they were the same height, just a few inches above five feet, and of similar build, even though Elspeth was four years older.

‘Bring me your spare uniform,’ Sonya had said. ‘I’d like to study the stitching.’

Her maid, Elspeth, had been confused, wrinkling her nose.

Elspeth always asked too many questions, but Sonya didn’t mind.

She liked Elspeth’s chattering. Even though Elspeth was Sonya’s maid, Sonya liked to think that Elspeth was the closest thing she had to a friend.

As such, Sonya knew she could get Elspeth to do things other maids might not.

‘But why should you like to study the stitching of a maid’s uniform, my lady?’ Elspeth asked.

‘I wish to see that the standards are being upheld,’ Sonya responded, the response ready. ‘That the tailors aren’t cutting any corners.’

Elspeth laughed. ‘Well, our uniforms aren’t made by the same stitch-witches who make your gowns or the princes’ suits,’ she said. ‘The uniforms are made by apprentices.’

‘Still, I should like to study one,’ Sonya replied.

‘Alright,’ Elspeth had replied, with a shrug. No one would ever suspect Sonya of anything; she was sixteen and of delicate health. She had no friends save for the staff, who were basically paid to be kind to her. Sonya knew they took pity on her; she took pity on herself.

The next day, Elspeth brought her spare uniform: it was a chestnut-brown linen, simple and fuss-free, with a round neckline and long sleeves that could be easily rolled up.

A few days later, Sonya told Elspeth she had misplaced the uniform and had a new one made for her.

In truth, Sonya had hidden the uniform away.

A week after that, Sonya had purposefully spilled food all over Elspeth’s lace-up boots. She made quite the show of being sorry and immediately called to have a new pair made, making Elspeth remove the old pair even as Elspeth protested.

‘My lady, this is nothing,’ Elspeth said. ‘These shoes have seen far worse in the Outskirts.’

‘I insist,’ Sonya replied. ‘Leave the shoes. I’ll have them thrown out.’

But Sonya found them, cleaned them, and kept them hidden alongside the uniform. While she and Elspeth were around the same size, the shoes were a little big.

They were soft and worn in, but Sonya’s footing kept slipping. The rain-slicked ground didn’t help.

The path only grew more difficult as the cobblestone beneath her feet turned to mud. She was scared to be leaving the warmth and light of Castletown as she neared the forest. The path was marked, so she couldn’t get lost; even so, the forest was dark and quiet. She could hardly see a thing.

Sonya had left the scissors behind, but she held onto the dagger that had been strapped to her side. It wouldn’t do much, but it made her feel better to hold it in her hand. It may not have been sharp, but it looked frightening.

Clutching the dagger tightly, Sonya continued. It was about an hour’s walk to the Outskirts, and she was already exhausted, but fear of the forest kept her feet moving. Every little noise made her jump, and she moved as fast as she could.

Not for the first time, Sonya wished she was a witch.

Any type of witch. There were some witches who excelled at cooking (kitchen-witches); some who were masters of stories (quill-witches); others who were good with animals (shepherd-witches); and so forth.

The most powerful witches were chosen to serve on the king’s council.

Her father and brothers were all witches.

Her oldest brother, Shahmir, was a garden-witch like their father, so his room was full of plants and herbs. There was always something in bloom. The second prince, Irfan, was a shepherd-witch; he was spectacular with animals. There was always some kitten or bird or puppy Irfan was taking care of.

Then, lastly, there was Mustafa, who was a quill-witch. He was a master of stories; there were always ink-stains on his fingers and folded papers in his pockets, ready for notes to be jotted down every time he had an idea.

The type of magic one received was hereditary, but it also could be random, showing in whatever the person had an affinity for. Even though there were no shepherd-witches in the Tahir family, Irfan was a shepherd-witch for he loved animals deeply.

But magic did not always pass to everyone. Which was how, in a family of witches, Sonya had no magic. There was something wrong with her.

It was another reason she did not wish to be married. She could not let a stranger get that close. She was afraid her future husband would only be disappointed in her lack of novelty.

Sonya pushed the thought away and kept walking, until the darkness of the forest finally gave way to reveal the lights of a town ahead of her. It must be the Outskirts; what else could it be?

She took in the sight from higher ground: cobblestone streets between buildings squashed close together. The faint sound of carriages and people drifted towards her, and though her legs were sore, she felt relief.

Sonya released a long breath. She had escaped—she was free.

But the solace quickly morphed to trepidation.

Now what?