She turns to the fire with a knowing glint in her eyes. Aurora tilts her head slightly and I swear I see a tongue of flame mirror the gesture as I climb up to the loft.
Before I sleep, I retrieve a small sewing kit from what was Grandma’s satchel. Running my fingers over the rainbow of threads, I select one as pale as her hair, another as black as her eyes. With them, I stitch the shape of a ring witha pale moonstone flanked by crescents into the red cloak to commemorate our meeting.
The night passes without issue, despite my waking up twice to make sure Aurora is still there—that I didn’t dream the night’s surreal events. In the morning I wake when the stars are still burning the sky. I know every creaky board and slick rung of the ladder, so I’m able to descend and quietly gather my things without Aurora so much as stirring.
I take my leather satchel off its peg, adjusting it around the pin of my cloak. Opening the hutch, I relieve its shelf of bundles of sticks, dried flowers, herbs, and fruits, carefully placing them into the satchel. Then I take the silver chime in hand and slowly remove the silken cord off the door latch.
The sun has not yet crested the horizon and I am off to market.
The closest township is almost a two-hour walk away. The market is held each morning on the town green and goes until all the goods are sold. So departing early is crucial if I don’t want to be left with table scraps and empty pots for dinner. If I can, I like to make it right when the stalls are opening and the farmers and tradespeople are setting out their wares. All the choices I could want are mine and I’m not bothered too much… It doesn’t matter that I’ve lived here my entire life; being the town witch tends to attract stares.
I savor the slowly lifting fog off the tall grasses and give thanks to the last of the crickets and owls that are tucking in for the day. Perhaps that is what Aurora is: the spirit of an owl. She is quite noble like one. I imagine her natural form is that of a snowy, feathered creature. Regal and stoic.
Do wolves hunt owls? I suppose they could. Or perhaps there’s a rivalry beyond their animal forms.
What if she is the ancient spirit of the wolf that first gave lykin their powers? The thought nearly has me tripping over myfeet. No…such a creature wouldn’t be at odds with the lykin, would they? I continue musing throughout my walk. Every theory seems as plausible and unlikely as the last.
The sun greets me as I arrive in town, shining off the roofs still glossy with dew. The market folk know me well and are surprised to see me again so soon. I usually make this walk only once every month. I give them enigmatic, half explanations about “needing more supplies,” and “not having enough essential material.” They are not lies. Nor is it my fault that the townsfolk presume me to be doing something more with the sweet corn and beans than putting them in a pot.
I do not pay with silver or gold. Money is a tricky thing—ill will clings to it more than the dirt in the stamped grooves of the coin. Instead, I pay in the bundles I’ve prepared. Most know already to hang the strung bunch of sticks and flowers over their door and burn it with the next full moon. Even though everyone saw me so recently, they’re all eager to receive the little blessings of protection that will ward off the evils of the world—lykin included. For when the bundles burn every new moon, the smoke rises from their chimneys and sweeps across the hills to the forests. The ash sinks into the ground, and the barriers I maintain on this land are renewed once more.
Knowing I’ll be gone for a bit longer than normal, I tell them how to make their blessings last longer. Hopefully the townsfolk will listen and will keep safe without me for a few weeks. One or two ask for an extra blessing—a small embroidery on the baker’s favorite apron and the cobbler’s shoe. It’s a good thing I brought my weaver kit so I can accommodate, since I get quite good gifts for these. Aurora will need a decent pair of boots for our journey.
It’s late afternoon when I finally begin to make my way back. I hum to myself, delighting in the warmer summer weather. I nearly have crested one of the last hills before home when the smell of smoke fills my nose.
It is a distinct aroma—woodsmoke, clear and pure. But there’s something else in it. A stinging that makes my eyes water.
For a moment, I am back before my grandma’s pyre. A fire so bright it nearly steals all the light from the sky. There’s a sharp buzzing in the air that is magic escaping its worldly tethers.
Dread fills me. I know in my gut with horrible, sinking certainty what has transpired. Yet, I begin to run, as if I can somehow outpace this fate. It cannot be real. I refuse to hold this truth in my mind alone. My eyes must share the burden.
I crest the top of the hill, breezing past the thin, lonely trees that extend out from the dark forest of the lykin. There, in the distance, is my home—the home of my ancestors, the home I was born in, grew up in, and inherited. The only home I have ever known.
And it is ablaze.
CHAPTER 3
I starein shock for a single breath. My soul leaves my body. The sounds of the world vanish and there’s nothing but the sharp inhale of air through my nose.
Suppressing the scream, I begin running down the hill. The boots I bartered for from the cobbler are rolling alongside my frantic feet. I am nearly at the house when the walls give in with a series of cracks and a resounding snap that feels as if my spine itself has broken in two. The roof collapses, tumbling down. A wave of heat staggers me.
“Aurora? Aurora!” I scream, wondering if I am now beholding a second funeral pyre. She said she was immortal, didn’t she? So she should have been able to get out, right? How did this even happen? Folost should have— “Folost!”
I round the crumpled building, calling out to the spirits that are, were,arebound to me. The entities I was responsible for. Who were entrusted to me to keep them safe.
“Mary, Folost, Aurora…” I stagger and half collapse at the edge of the burning remnants of my home. It feels as if I am the one who is ablaze; my skin is poked through and consumed by fire. The magic that was built into the very foundation of our home evaporates into the late afternoon air with a sigh.My lineage and legacy—what Grandma entrusted to me—all in flames. “Grandma…” I choke out. “Grandma!”
Burying my face into my hands, I weep. The well out back is too small. The stream is too far. And even if they were not, what could be done? The house is little more than cinders and, with it, so is everything I had once held dear.
Were I an older witch, a stronger one in a different time, I would’ve been able to summon the water to me. Or perhaps I would’ve had a spirit of winds or rain bound to me that could bring a storm. But I have none of these things.
Still, I lift my hands and hold my palm to the fire; the other grabs for a stitched shape of a flame on my cloak. “Folost, please, lend me your strength.” I will the blaze to heed my commands.
But no magic comes. Even with a small spirit of flame and whatever power of Aurora’s that’s within me to magnify, I can’t command the blaze. So all I can do is try to quench the fire with my angry tears.
It is dusk when the fire finally begins to exhaust itself. The ground was too wet for the flames to jump to the grasses. The trees were too far. All that remains is a smoldering square of blackened earth. Tiny flames still greedily consuming the last remnants. One flame rises higher than the rest, like a last gasp, mocking me.
But then it does it again. The same way and in the same spot.
