In another world, another time, maybe. However, since the Dampening, all but the simplest of spells were nullified by the Border and its wards. Magic fell under an outright ban, even if the wards couldn’t reach it. The Crown made it an act of treason to practice even the simplest, smallest practical magics. But Hazel could pretend—that in itself wasn’t a crime. She didn’t have access to real magic, anyway. Her blood was ordinary—they called itpure,but she despised the term—which was a relief and certainly one less thing she had to worry about. Though she had to admit she didn’t understand the fuss about magic.
Hazel grabbed a shank of venison from the back table and, using her sharpest knife, removed the tendons and trimmed the sinew from the dark red muscle. It was a fresh kill; one shesuspected the hunter had harvested that same morning. Connall had likely tossed the man a few extra coins for his trouble. Though they rarely had extra coin to spare.
After the venison, she added leeks, potatoes, carrots, and the herbs she’d chopped, along with a dash of salt and some whole peppercorns for flavor. While the stew simmered, Hazel prepped a childhood staple: her late Nan’s sweetbread. It was a pillowy, buttery dough baked to perfection and topped with a cinnamon and sugar mixture.By dinner, the entire town is going to be lined up outside the door, begging for a plate.
Once everything was ready in the kitchen, Hazel stepped out back to toss some scraps aside in a crate for the farmers. Nothing went to waste if they could help it. Despite the seasons growing leaner and fewer farms continuing to raise livestock with each passing year, Farmer Albertsen still had a small hog farm just north of town, and his pigs loved food scraps of all kinds. He stopped by twice a week to pick them up.
She tried to ignore her satchel sitting in the corner beside the back door. To pretend it wasn’t practically beckoning her to open it and take another look at the strange powder within. She pushed past it, finding herself released from its grip once outside.
Hazel next turned her attention to the spits, where Connall had skewered two hares and five hens. Their skin was browning nicely and would be decadent and crispy by the midday meal. She stoked the fire with some kindling, letting her mind wander. Just before she turned to go back inside, Hazel caught a flash of orange out of the corner of her eye. She turned just in time to catch the end of a cat’s tail disappearing behind the old smokehouse.
Glancing at the spits, Hazel hoped the little beast would keep his paws to himself, however unlikely. Sighing, she shook her head and turned her back on the little scavenger she knew waswaiting for her to disappear. As she crossed the threshold, she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling climbing up her spine, as though she was being watched.
Her locket heated enough to garner her attention. She spared one more glance over her shoulder before going back inside, but no one was there.
THE BUTCHER AND THE BARMAID
Hazel spent the entire morning catching up on her responsibilities around the inn and tavern. And yet, despite her tardiness, she’d successfully prepped everything she and Pa would need to get a head start on their patrons, who’d since filtered in.
Mostly, she didn’t pay them any mind beyond taking their orders and serving food and drink. Day after day, the routine was the same–barring any special festivals or events. As such, it was easy to get sucked into her own subconscious.
As she stood behind the bar pouring a mug of mead for a gentleman, she spied a young mother with two rambunctious tots in the corner of the dining hall. The woman desperately tried to keep them out of the aisles, an impossible task.
Yet, despite how taxing it likely was to be looking after them, Hazel envied the little family. She wondered if the children knew how special it was to have such a doting mother. Something she had yearned for as long as she could remember.
Watching them reminded her of the stories Pa told her growing up, about how Hazel was her mother’s shadow as she cultivated her herbs in the garden. How her mother would sing to the saplings, encouraging them to grow, and how stubbornblossoms bloomed in the palm of her hand. And Hazel was there every step of the way, watching, learning.
It devastated Hazel that she could remember next to nothing of her mother. She sometimes wondered if none of it was true. Perhaps her mother would push through the front door of Briar & Rose any moment as though she’d never been gone.
She was jerked from her daydream by the splatter of mead onto the bar floor as it spilled over the counter’s edge. In her absentmindedness, Hazel overpoured the drink without realizing.
“Stupid, witless fool,” she muttered under her breath.
“Pardon?” a gruff man’s voice called as she pulled herself out of her trance.
She blinked at him, slack-jawed.
“Miss? Did you say something?” He hunched over a bowl of fragrant meat pie, poised to take a bite, as though she’d interrupted his meal. Meaty broth dripped from his spoon onto the bar top.
“Oh, gods. No, I’m sorry, sir.” She stumbled over the words and returned to the mess she’d made.Get it together, Hazel Grace.The bar. Her job. The customers. Pa would be in a fit of worry if he caught her in a daze at the bar and talking to herself, especially with so much work to be done.
While she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot on the bar top, Hazel smelled something burning.Bloody burning gods! You’re the one who prepped all of this, you twit… or did you forget already?She was beside herself with anger at her carelessness.
“The sweetbread!” she hollered to no one in particular. Hazel began doing everything and nothing at once, as though each of her limbs was at odds with the others on how to fix this problem.
When at last she reached the oven, smoke was pouring from behind its door. As she opened it, a black, sickly sweet cloudgreeted her as it billowed into her face. When the smoke cleared, only three charred braids remained.
Hazel had worked so hard to recreate the doughy delight from her late Nan’s own recipe. Unfortunately, this marked the third time she had completely burned them to an unrecognizable crisp. And now there was no time to try again, not before the dinner rush. She sighed, tossing the blackened, crumbling sweetbread into the scrap food bin.
“At least the animals will eat well, I guess.” She sighed. If nothing else, there was still stew and roast chicken to serve. Along with some rabbit.
She’d wanted to contribute something more, though, something the townsfolk would keep coming back for… something to remind them of warm hearthfires, cozying up with wool-lined boots, and easier times. Times when people were happy and neighbors weren’t turning each other in on the suspicion of practicing magic. When children and their mothers weren’t being stoned to death or beaten in the streets for suspected witchcraft. It didn’t happen often, but it didn’t need to. The threat of violence hung heavy in the air.
It was all hogwash anyway, the fuss about magic. No one in their town had seen so much as a lick of magic since the High King had banned its practice and sentenced all practitioners—mainly witches—to death.
The earliest years of the persecution had been harrowing, though if Hazel was honest, she had been too young to comprehend what was going on around her. Pa had protected her from experiencing too much of it and, until recently, things had calmed down.
There was a sixteen-year lull in the stonings, hangings, and pyres, and after the last one of record, the world had been set to rights for the first time in a long time. At least according to the King.
