Orelia made a sour face. She waited until Vade’s view of the stairs was blocked by the barmaid’s unruly hair, then she rushed down the steps and out the front door.
The brisk night air gave her a rejuvenated sense of freedom. For the first time since she’d accidentally bound herself to the broody fae, she was free of his eyesight and grouchy personality. Knowing she couldn’t stray more than half a mile before the spell’s tug gave away that she had snuck out was fine with her, especially since there was so much to see rightoutside the door.
Orelia picked her way through the crowd and returned to the scarf stand, smoothing her fingers over the sky-blue one that was still there. The merchant looked around, probably searching for Vade. When he realized she was alone, his shoulders relaxed. “Two silver, miss?”
She plucked out two pieces from Vade’s purse and handed them to the man. Orelia beamed as she placed the soft scarf around her neck.
She took her time working her way through the market, unable to take it all in. The fluid movements of the dancing women in feathered masks from earlier caught her eye. Their beaded clothing swayed with their bodies, barely covering their most private parts. Orelia stood there mesmerized for minutes, watching them move like eels through water, lips painted dark colors and eyelids covered in cosmetics.
The women wrapped themselves around each other, shaking the circular instruments that jingled, and when they had finished their dance and froze in a tapestry of beauty and femininity, Orelia clapped louder than anyone else watching.
People tossed coins inside the hat near their feet, and she dropped one in to show her appreciation. Orelia continued down the street, passing a few meat carts before something flashed. Gemstone necklaces sparkled in a stand to her right, immediately calling her over.
She admired an emerald the size of her pinky nail hanging on a gold chain.
“Like it?” a smooth voice said.
Orelia startled. She hadn’t noticed the woman standing under the canvas overhang, the top half of her face hidden in shadow. She had never seen someone so glamorously draped in jewelry. Her umber arms were lined in gold and silver bracelets, and her dress was made of sheer, ocean blue fabric wrapped around her body in a thin layer, accentuating her lean limbs. Long braids with interwoven silver rings rested over her small chest.
When the woman stepped into the lantern light, Orelia’s eyes went wide.
“You’re a witch,” she blurted out, taking in the Mark on her forehead. A silver half circle tattoo that hit its lowest point just above her brows. Silver teardrop shapes were inked into the bottom of the two lines, spaced evenly apart, almost touching her eyebrows.
The woman smiled a beautiful, warm smile. “So are you.” Her voice was sweet like honey, the color of her eyes.
Orelia cocked her head. “How do you know?”
The witch rested her elbows on top of her cart, and beneath the rings lining all her fingers, Orelia noticed her permanent healing tattoos.
“I can sense it. One of the benefits of being Marked.”
Orelia’s eyes apprehensively returned to her brow tattoo.
The witch chuckled. “Don’t worry. I won’t curse you.”
She cautiously approached the merchant’s stand. “But witches have to inflict curses to become Marked.”
“Do they?” The woman set her chin in her palm, grinning like she knew something Orelia didn’t. “You probably think I’m well-versed in necromancy, too.”
“Well . . .yes.” That’s what all of Morton’s books on witches said. Orelia had thumbed through them plenty of times learning all she could about her kind, but she’d never actually spoken to a devout witch before. “Aren’t you?”
“There are some witches who chose to dabble in dark magic, but it’s not a requirement to become Marked. It certainly happens, and is more common than not, so I don’t fault you for assuming.” She clicked her shell and barnacle-covered nails on the cart.
Orelia swore she saw something crawl out of one of the barnacles and slide into another. Intrigued, she stepped closer. “So, you’re not devout? You haven’t renounced the gods?” Morton’s tomes mentioned that when witches made the decision to officially renounce the gods, that’s when they received their tattoo. As an honor for their beliefs. Or rather, non-beliefs.
“Oh, I am,” the woman said.
Her brows scrunched. “I don’t understand. Wouldn’t that make you—”
“Evil and scary?” The woman cocked a brow with a thick gold ring hanging on the outer edge.
Before Orelia could respond, the witch resumed. “Devout means you have done something deemed worthy of being Marked. It can be an evil deed, like renouncing the gods and only worshiping the three devils, or something related to the natural gifts of our kind. You seem like someone who has made good use of our ability to heal others.”
“I worked as a healer in my hometown brothel.”
“Using our gift for good can earn you the tattoo.”
“But how? Does it just . . .appear?”
