Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Under the full moon’s silvery glow, we trail behind Agatha’s sturdy silhouette along a narrow path inside the herb patch.
The autumn chill has left much of the vegetation dead and crunchy under our feet, yet the place still brims with an overgrowth of red-berried yew trees, oleander shrubs, and various herbs and root vegetables.
“This way. Do keep up,” Agatha warns as she clutches her starched apron.
In the farthest corner, a spriggy half-alive bush that doesn’t look special in the least sits overgrown and untrimmed, wedged between the hemlock and pennyroyal.
“This is it,” she says, taking a pair of scissors from her pocket.
“The Sea-Witch said it must bloom under the watchful eye of the Spirit Goddess,” Valora reminds her.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, tiring of the riddles.
Agatha smiles and hands me the gleaming shears. “Look up.”
I do as she bids, the little stars twinkling from their velvet blanket.
Valora gasps and points upward. “The Constellation of the Goddess.”
I let out a breath before snipping a handful of the herb and wrapping the sprigs in the handkerchief along with Valora’s hair. My heart beats faster—maybe we could complete this task after all.
“I won’t be sparing you anymore, so don’t be wastin’ that. Nobody will eat my cookin’ without enough flavorin’,” Agatha mumbles. “It’s bad enough we have to ration.”
We plant wet kisses on both sides of her surprised cheeks before rushing off.
* * *
Despite our best attempts, the night has grown late, and we’re no closer to opening the trunk.
Valora even retrieved the Eldertree Blacksmiths, who were probably weary of us by this point, but they also couldn’t do anything to open it, claiming they’d never seen such corrosion between metals.
Aware of how pointless this entire ordeal has become and fueled by overwhelming exhaustion, I yank one last time in futility. I fall back, landing with a jarring thud on my elbows before letting out a string of vulgar words that would’ve scandalized Madame Phyrne to an early grave.
Stretched on my bed, Valora snorts like a pig in her sleep.
I stare at the trunk. A suffocating outrage fills me when I think of how I won’t be able to complete this task after all—that Ashland will be vindicated in his assessment of me. An uncomfortable warmth heats around my ears, and I tug on the lock again because there’s nothing else I can do.
The metal sears against my palm.
With a startled gasp, I drop the lock, watching in awe as it melts straight through the corrosion—through the metal latch—bubbling and hissing. It drips down the trunk’s side, warping the metal and disintegrating part of the wood as it cools.
Power hums beneath my skin, and for a moment, I wonder if I should be terrified.
I violently shake Valora awake, causing her to let out another snorting gasp as her eyes spring open. “Wake up,” I say, my heart racing against my too-tight chest. “Come and look.”
She groggily squints in confusion. When she realizes what I’ve done, she jumps to her feet, her voice raspy.
“I knew, if given enough time, you’d figure it out…
but we’d better keep this to ourselves if we can.
Ash will have a conniption if he discovers you used magic to destroy his mother’s trunk. ”
“If he has a problem with it, then he can stay right where he is and enjoy the Sea-Witch’s forked tongue, for all I care.”
She chuckles conspiratorially before lifting the lid. Smoke and the lingering scent of burnt metal constrict my lungs. We waft the fumes through the open window before bringing the lit candelabrum closer—my stomach sinks.
The trunk sits empty.
“No, no, no!” I stomp my foot.
Valora’s eyebrows lift.
“There must be…” I trail off, examining every inch of the opened chest, running my fingers over the floral silk lining pinned to the interior. “Wait. Under here.” I poke at a minuscule hole in the fabric.
“We’ve already melted the trunk. Maybe we shouldn’t tear what’s left to shreds, too,” Valora cautions.
“There’s something in here.” I use my sharpened fingernail and rip the gash a smidge bigger. The threads make popping sounds. With the intention of asking for forgiveness later, I split the silk wide open. And just like I thought, a handful of yellowed missives drops out.
After carefully sorting through them on the bed, we are sorely disappointed to find that they contain only official correspondence from parties and fundraisers.
I tumble back onto my bed’s pillows, genuinely feeling at the end of my tether.
Sleep-deprived, I stare at the late queen’s elegant handwriting on a letter where she requests her husband to procure more food and fabric for the villagers.
I can’t help but wonder what type of woman she was or if she’d approve of how her son holds me captive against my will.
The full moon crests my window and shines through, illuminating the parchment in my hands—and that’s when I see it.
Between the lines, iridescent ink hides words of love.
“Valora!” I attempt to show her the letter. “Look what I found.” But once again, she is deep asleep, and all I can do is stare at the sparkling sentences a queen once wrote for her bonded husband:
My Beloved Gil,
No spell, no curse, no hate for what we are can break our bond.
Return from the Battle of the Borealla, and we’ll be waiting for you: your child and I.
The Oracle claims he’ll be a boy; I shall name him Gilderic, the same as you, because there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t remind me of the love I hold for you.
Come back to me.
Come back to us.
Ever your devoted lady wife,
Juliette
* * *
Slipping out of the castle by myself isn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had, but I can’t bring myself to wake Valora.
Not to mention, spending all evening with her has made the guards lax with my comings and goings, making it all the easier to leave.
And more than anything, I desperately want to see this task finished alone to prove to myself and everyone else that I can accomplish difficult things—that I’m more than just a failed queen and that I deserve some level of trust—even if I plan to use that trust to further my escape.
So I head to the docks on my own, where a grim-faced sailor on duty reluctantly agrees to ferry me to the Sea-Witch’s peninsula.
The journey is longer and colder than I remember. The spray mists my face as the rowboat cuts through the choppy waves, threatening to churn up Agatha’s fish pie. I try to ignore the unease building inside me. The sailor’s tense silence only amplifies my doubts about coming alone.
As we scrape ashore, I steady my nerves and get my bearings. The sailor’s eyes beg me to reconsider this madness. “I’ll stay with the boat,” he says firmly. “But I won’t be accompanying you.”
When I arrive at the peak of the peninsula, sweating and shivering from the climb, the Sea-Witch’s giggling laughter greets me before I even have a chance to knock.
Ashland sits at the same circular table, but now a steaming cup of what appears to be tea rests in his hands.
I glance around the witch’s cramped hut, noticing several cursed sailors inside.
Their glazed eyes move over trinkets and artifacts as they polish.
Every motion still appears involuntary, their faces eerily devoid of emotion.
One man dusts the same spot, not realizing he’s already cleaned it four times over. Another meticulously organizes an array of dried herbs and roots. The men are shadows of themselves, their wills bent entirely to the witch’s whims. I suppress a shiver at the unnatural sight.
“Did you bring everything I asked for?” The Sea-Witch extends a translucent hand, her veins black under her bony fingers.
I pass her the bundle of ingredients one by one. She receives them with an eager, almost hungry curl of her lips.
“Let’s see… the rosemary, still glistening with dew,” she muses as she inspects it. “A lock of virgin hair, exquisite…” She rubs Valora’s strands between her finger and thumb while examining them by candlelight.
She hums in sheer delight over each item, and for a fleeting moment, my heartbeat steadies. Then she unfolds the letter, and her expression curdles, souring the air in the room. “What nonsense is this?” she snarls, crumpling the missive.
I snatch it back from her, smoothing it out against my thigh. Ashland twists, grabs the letter from me, and quickly reads his mother’s handwriting, a strange expression crossing his tired face.
The witch hisses, “This is not a love letter. The girl thinks she can trick me—doesn’t she?
Doesn’t she?” She places her hands on Ashland’s shoulders, anchoring herself behind him, and whispers something in his ear with a hiss of her forked tongue.
The whispers in my mind join, clouding my thoughts.
She stares at me with her sunken, azure eyes.
At first, Ashland seems lost in a trance as she fawns over him, her streaked hair cascading over his body in rolling waves. But a subtle tension clicks in his jaw as she massages his shoulders.
That uncomfortable warmth returns. Paper crinkles as he turns away from her and folds the letter. I cross the space, placing my hand on his. “See the words through moonlight. You’ll find what she hid,” I implore him.
“You’re out of time, girly,” the witch croons. “The moon sets as the sun rises.” A periwinkle light breaks the horizon.
Without thinking, I clutch the tips of Ashland’s fingers, take his hand, and pull him through the hut and into the cliffside yard. The moon hasn’t fully dipped below the sea yet.
I snatch the letter from Ashland, open it, and show him the glowing iridescent handwriting. He reads at a flickering pace. A shadow grows across the paper—but there are no clouds tonight.
A beat of wings.
I pull my sword just as the black raven dives from the sky, aiming its sharp beak and talons straight for the late queen’s missive. Instinctively, I slice upward and make contact with the crunching bones of the bird. A clump of feathers and flesh drops to the ground.
I blink, shocked at what I’ve just done.
Ashland’s gaze rotates to me, to the raven’s carcass, and then to the witch who has followed us outside. He shoves the letter at her. “Complete the brew. Your agreement still binds you.”
The Sea-Witch’s eyebrows draw together, and she shoots me a dirty look before screeching, “Do you know how long it took to train that one?” She stomps toward me.
My heart leaps into my throat as I think she might attack me, but she abruptly turns on her heel and returns inside her home with a skip in her step.
We follow her through the door, and she sings, “Don’t think I forgot about our deal… ”
She tosses the three ingredients, handkerchief and all, into her bubbling cauldron. Lavender smoke fills the kitchen, escaping through the cracked windows. “Breathe it in, boys, and you’ll be set free. Or hold your breath, my little puppies, if you wish to stay with me forever…”
The men under her spell cough with each inhale, staggering through the door and into the yard. Ashland pushes me ahead of him, his body blocking the Sea-Witch from focusing on me in the chaos.
“Not so fast, Witch-King,” calls the witch from the dense haze.
Ashland stops us at the threshold and says to me in a low voice, “Go with the others. This will only take a minute.” Turning on his heel, he returns inside.
The sailors crawl on all fours, gagging and vomiting on the rippling grass as they return to normal.
I try to help them while we wait, but my eyes never leave the witch’s windows still fogged with lavender smoke.
Time seems to drag on until the front door opens and Ashland exits alone, black shadows dripping off him in large swaths.
He kicks out his leg in a strange, uncomfortable manner as his stride quickens to join us.
“Let’s go,” Ashland barks at the group before descending ahead of everyone on the path to the shore. He calls back over his shoulder toward me, “And clean that fucking sword—it stinks of raven’s blood. Once you’re done, I want it back in the armory where it belongs.”
Despite the roaring wind, I hear the sailors sniggering at their king’s waddling form as he cautiously takes each step down the cliff. One mutters, “I know I was out of it, but I definitely heard him trade a testicle for that antidote.”
Laughter echoes down the cliffside. Another snorts, “Psssh, if it had been me, I would’ve left y’all to rot.”