CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the morning, they dressed Sabina in flowers. Anya cut five supple, green, blossom-draped branches from the rowan tree. As recompense for taking so much, she left three of her walnut cakes, a bit of hair pulled from her braid, and the bones of the quail they had eaten last night.
“Protect her like you did me, mother tree,” Anya petitioned under her breath as she knotted a branch into a bracelet. So I don’t have to.
They spent an hour stripping and weaving, making protective talismans of the tree’s gift – something Johanna had taught her, but not so different from the daisy chains she’d made in Sperling Park with her governess as a girl.
They placed the vernal jewelry around Sabina’s wrists, her ankles, her neck.
Sabina, tight-lipped and puffy-eyed, looked annoyed at having to knot the leaves and wood, but said nothing all morning. At least, until Perrine nestled a crown of white flowers into her hair. “This is ridiculous,” she pouted. “I look like a maiden prepped for sacrifice.”
“You are,” Anya said bluntly. “The forest has marked you.”
Sabina’s brow furrowed. “Marked me?”
“It’s on your trail and won’t leave off until it has you. Those flowers are the only thing keeping you safe. Even being near you puts us at risk. You’re lucky we don’t leave you behind.”
“You look quite charming,” Perrine put in, and Anya shot her an annoyed look. Perrine shrugged. “She does.”
“Why don’t you, then?” Sabina said, ignoring Perrine but faintly flushing.
“Don’t tempt me,” Anya returned. She already planned on abandoning Sabina at the first opportunity.
Last night was the first opportunity. The perfect opportunity. All she would have needed to do was stay still, lie quiet in that dampening dark, that swallowing sleep.
At the thought, which did not seem entirely her own, she shuddered. Perhaps…less sleep, from now on.
Regardless, she needed to create another opportunity, and quick. As they packed up and set off for the Warbler, the falcon circling overhead, Anya considered her options for inconspicuously getting free of the wizard – and, unfortunately, of Perrine.
It was hard to concentrate against the glaring morning light. She squinted, feeling almost as if she had a wicked hangover, though she’d barely touched Perrine’s brandy.
It must be the lack of sleep. She’d been up all night watching over Sabina. She never heard the mysterious crying, but from the whimpers that came from under the rowan intermittently throughout the night, she wondered if Sabina still did.
A not-small part of her felt a grim satisfaction at the violet-eyed wizard’s torment. Sabina had not meant to frighten Anya so badly with her poisoned tea – her cruelty was petty and impulsive, not malicious.
But when Sabina’s spell had changed her tongue, she had been gripped by a shocking fear, almost as painful, in its way, as the invisible vines that writhed through her, the thorns that pierced the pores of her bones.
When she felt her mouth becoming foreign to her, she had been certain it was Mira’s curse taking hold, cutting free her teeth and replacing her human tongue with a long, slim proboscis.
No, Sabina hadn’t intended that. But she had cast the spell.
And what had happened to the spell? Could a spellscribe turn a person’s body so completely against them? Anya didn’t think so.
And what of Mira’s magic? She needed no pen, no blood, no glyphs to curse Anya. What did the witch know that the wizards, with their books and their towers, didn’t?
Without warning, a snaking pain slithered up her spine, then split her head. Her eyes burned; her ears rang. She fell to her knees, pressing her hands over her ears, then her burning eyes, then back over her ears. Faintly, she felt, more than heard, a strangled cry coming from her throat.
When it passed – and it did pass – Perrine was crouched before her, her strong hands on her shoulders. In Anya’s distress, the falcon had returned and sat on Perrine’s shoulder. Sabina stood at a distance, arms folded over her chest and her forehead wrinkled.
“Anya,” Perrine said, helping her upright. “Tell me what is wrong.”
Anya took a shaking breath. No lie would come to her lips. “Mira of the Mire has paid me a visit.”
Perrine’s eyes widened. Her hands fell from Anya’s shoulders, as if Anya’s curse was contagious. “You’ve angered the witch?”
“A witch?” Sabina looked between them. “What witch?”
“You know to stay well away from Bosquet Mire,” Perrine scolded, eyeing Anya up and down. Anya felt the urge to pat her skin for extra legs.
She pulled her braid over her shoulder instead. “I went nowhere near it.” She hesitated. “I…I may have stalked and killed her familiar.”
“Oh, Anya,” Perrine said sadly. Anya did not think she imagined her taking a step away.
“It was destroying a farmer’s entire flock of hens. It was miles away from Bosquet Mire. I needed the money.” And none of that mattered.
“What are you going to do?”
“I–” Though she ached to, she still couldn’t bring herself to tell Perrine about the curse or what the phoenix would mean to her. Especially not when Perrine acted as though her touch was pestilent. “I have time before the curse takes hold. I’m still working it out.”
“A curse?” Sabina repeated.
“Nothing can break one of her curses but the condition she set,” Perrine explained.
Anya said a silent prayer she would not pry about that condition.
“The caster is known for being particularly…cruel.” Perrine ran a hand through her feathery hair.
“I’ve never heard of her giving someone time to wriggle out of one. ”
Alarmed, Anya racked her brain for something to throw Perrine off that trail.
But it was Sabina who spoke next. “Can I help?”
Anya was startled, both by her offer and by the solemnity of her voice.
“She could do something for the pain, perhaps,” Perrine suggested, brightening. In Gescany, magic was strictly regulated; in Preule, it was altogether outlawed. Perrine understood its limitations even less than Anya, and sought what seemed a logical solution. So did Sabina.
They both wanted to help her. But would they if they knew she could not help them? Her throat closed. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you dress yourself in rowan?” Sabina asked, lifting her own flowered wrists. She wore a thoughtful frown.
Perrine answered for her. “Rowan can protect, but not expel.”
“Hold on. Mira,” Sabina repeated. “Not as in the Countess Mirabelle Corveau.”
Anya frowned. “Who?”
“Why Anya, didn’t your governess teach you your history?”
Not Miss Degen any longer, Anya noted. Winded, she leaned against a tree for support. “If you have a point, I’d love to hear it.”
“Mirabelle Corveau. Like you, she performed a mysterious disappearing act. Long ago, though. Decades, when Edgard was very young. A wealthy countess, one of his favorites. Quite the firebrand, evidently. Despite her great beauty, her ideas didn’t win her many friends in court.
They say,” Sabina leaned closer, now she’d got to the juicy bit, “every autumn when she came to ?bender, she tried to persuade Sangfeder to enroll her as the first woman spellscribe. Being the king’s favorite let her get away with a great many scandals that would send most women into disgrace.
But the academy had always refused to admit women.
Besides, her idea of magic was too unwieldy, too wild.
Dangerous. I wish the books would describe it – they never do, do they?
Wouldn’t want anyone getting ideas, I suppose. ”
“The witch,” Anya urged.
Sabina huffed a sigh. “They refused, of course, and threatened to have her locked up in an asylum if she didn’t let up.
The city was in an uproar; Edgard caved to the pressure and discarded her.
So, one night, in the dead of winter, she broke into the school, stole some of their books, and repaired to her manor, never to be seen again.
Some say she bewitched one of the Master Scribes into helping her.
Some say she bewitched Edgard, but in that case I’d think she’d have been a bit more successful, wouldn’t you? ”
Anya nodded tightly, hoping she would get to the point.
“They’ve put much tighter security in place since then, as you can imagine.
They never did recover those books. They say her estate was swallowed by the forest, but some say you can still find it on a starless night.
” She lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“That part’s not in the history books. More whispered in the women’s dorm at Sangfeder, tittering about love spells and the like. ”
“You can find it, alright,” Perrine said. “And you’ll pay for it if you do. Anyone who gets too close finds that out the hard way.”
“Rumor says,” Sabina continued, relishing her audience, “her lair is a lavish estate built upon an ancient wetland. Despite the constant flooding, she keeps regal, regimented gardens – though few have seen them, for even to creep up to the iron fence to steal a glimpse risks the witch’s wrath.
I’ve always thought she must have an entire army of servants to keep them so pristine. ”
Perrine turned to Anya. “Bosquet Mire. It must be the very same.”
“Mirabelle Corveau was refused admittance to Sangfeder,” said Anya. “But women have been admitted to the school for ages, haven’t they?”
“Not really. The first woman spellscribe, Antonia Fellner, earned her license only sixty-one years ago,” Sabina recited.
“Older women can be quite resentful. Great Aunt Midge certainly never let me hear the end of it. I told her there was no age restriction on applying, but damn if she’d listen to me. ”
Anya held that in common with Great Aunt Midge, losing focus on Sabina as she concentrated on something the spellscribe had said. Sixty-one years. The witch – Countess Mirabelle, if that was indeed who she was – didn’t look a day over thirty.