The weight of everything that had transpired pressed her down with a bit more force each day, leaving her feeling smaller and more alone by the minute.She should have spoken up, should have argued, should have insisted on a hearing before the high council.She should have donesomething.Authricia would have roared back like a lion, and Willow would have cited the rules of old magic with her singular serenity until the High Crone had capitulated ...but all she’d done was sputter.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the moon, to the Dark Mother, to the family tree of witches staring down at her broken branch in dismay.“I’m sorry I missed the sabbath.I’m sorry for everything.”She’d spent the May Day Beltane celebration alone and sobbing into her bathwater, still reeling from all that had transpired, from the High Crone’s words and her expulsion from the circle.
The high council cannot see how you can continue to be amongst our ranks.A witch who will not observe the sabbaths is not a witch at all.By refusing this, you are refusing our ways, and your position within this circle is forfeit.We have no choice but to cast you out.
Leaving the coven was hardly a punishment.It wasn’t as if she would miss the meetings: conversations she’d hovered on the outskirts of, never really included; jokes at which she laughed a beat too late, stilted small talk.She could ignore the fact that she fit in nowhere, but being stripped of her only identity—cut off from her mother, the aunts, the grandmother she’d never known and all of the grandmothers who’d come before—was untenable.The weight of all she had lost felt as though it had been carved from her body, taking her heart along as well, leaving her hollow and empty and worthless.Cast out.She’d not just been cast out of the coven — a piece of her very existence had been cleaved away, the fabric connecting her to all whom she’d loved torn to shreds.What was she, if she wasn’t a witch?That night had replayed in her mind a hundred thousand times since, a movie reel stuck on repeat that only she could see.Too shocked to speak in her own defense, she’d stood open-mouthed before the High Crone, struck mute by the untrue accusations, allowing herself to be swept out — from the circle, from the coven, from existence — with nary a peep.
She’d realized with a sinking heart the next morning that by wallowing in her misery, she’d caused the High Crone’s false words to ring with truth, for she’d not observed the sabbath, a mistake she’d not make again.They could strip her of title and push her from the coven, butnoneof that meant she wasn’t a witch.
“It doesn’t matter what they say.I’ll practice alone, I’ll not forget all that I’ve been taught.I’ll not forget you.I’ll ...I’m sorry.”Her tears overflowed at last, running down her face as she stared up at the moon, the same moon she’d worshipped beneath her entire life, the same moon she’d stood under beside the aunts, the same moon her mother had danced beneath.
What am I, if I’m not a witch?
A shadow on the ground subsumed her own, startling her focus on the sky above, but when she whirled to face the house, there was no one there.Ladybug stared up at the small attic window and the dim light emanating from within for a long moment before turning away slowly.She wondered if Anzan knew it was a sabbath night; if he was aware of the community-wide Midsummer celebration.He probably doesn’t, not if he’s new to everything here.You should have invited him.Turning her focus back to the sky, she sighed to find the cloud cover completely blotting the moon’s light, leaving her quite insensible to the figure at the attic window, its shadow non-existent in the dark grass, and continued her short ceremony before the rumble of thunder sent her scurrying to slip back into her robe and retreat safely indoors.
* * *
July
“Doesn’t that make younervous, having a strange man in the house?!Who knows what he could get up to!”
Ladybug felt her cheeks heat at the troll’s words, being sure to stay still as the stylist laughed, combing through her wet hair as the harpy beneath the dryer clucking her tongue.She’d been coming to this mixed-species salon for years, liking the fact that it was within walking distance of all of her errands, and happy enough with the results produced by Zulya, the fast-talking troll who always cut her hair.The salon trips were an exercise in pretending — pretending she heard all the troll said, even though her fast patter seemed to short-circuit something in Ladybug’s brain.She watched Zulya’s mouth move in the mirror and heard her speaking, but her ear only processed every third or fourth word, leaving the bulk of the conversation as a white noise she could barely follow.She pretended to laugh at the jokes she’d not caught, nodded when the scissors were not a danger, and made the appropriate humming vocalizations to show she was listening.Zulya would initiate conversation with her as soon she was led from the shampoo station, but she was rarely given space to respond or feel comfortable, couldn’t keep up with the troll woman’s fast patter or bawdy laugh, never knowing if she was the butt of the joke being made.The stylist’s attention would quickly shift to other patrons, other employees, anyone but Ladybug, until she was a silent spectator, watching the action around her.
There was another salon in town, well outside the business district, set up in a retrofitted Victorian, that catered to werewolves and shifters.She’d heard the rumor that the stylist-owner had received her start-up funding from her best clientele, as Sandi Hemming and her daughter-in-law grew tired of having to make the trip into Bridgeton for the woman’s services, but if the Brackenbridge’s long association with the Hemmings had taught her nothing else, it was that the residents of Cambric Creek loved to gossip, and the founding family was their favorite subject.Ladybug never paid it any mind.Jack Hemming, aside from being the most handsome man she’d ever seen, was one of the few people who set her at ease, never making her feel odd.The two or three times a year she sat in his office to go over her finances was spent chattering away — about his many sons, one of whom she’d known in school, the town’s seasonal calendar, and the gossip from Oldetowne, which she shared giddily.She would ask after his wife Sandi and admire the framed photos of his young grandson at the edge of the desk, and he would update her on Trapp, her former schoolmate, and what country his son Lowell had been living in last, and she would relay the news that there was a new car coming and going from Slade Manor, a nurse for the aged inhabitant, perhaps.If she babbled, he interjected and joined her.If she was silent, he asked her questions about the house and about how business was faring, drawing her out in a way that didn’t leave her tongue-tied and stammering.She would leave his Main Street office with flushed cheeks and a happy hum in her chest, having actually been an active participant in the conversation instead of feeling like it had taken place somewhere over her head, reminded that she was from an old family with deep community ties, reminded that she belonged.As a consequence, she seldom paid the town’s gossip about the Hemmings any mind, other than agreeing with the widely-held opinion that Jack’s oldest son Jackson would likely pick up the mayoral mantle that the family had held since the town’s founding in the next election, “putting the shine back on the family name”, according to his father.
That werewolf salon would probably be better suited to cut her hair, but they were always booked and completely new to her besides, and there was nothing that sent her nerves jangling like the prospect of brand new social settings, new people and new cliques, a new set of rules of which she’d never actually receive.A new gauntlet to run, and her running legs had about given up.She blinked in the mirror at the troll’s exclamation, not having given much thought to the fact that a strange male was now sleeping beneath her roof.
“Oh, n-no.I suppose not.He’s never done anything to make me nervous, he’s actually very quiet.Keeps to himself.”
“Sweetie, didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s the quiet ones you have to look for?”
Another burst of laughter, this time joined by the petite goblin who’d washed her hair.Ladybug forced out her own laughter, uncertain of what exactly the joke was.She’d been excited to have something to contribute to the conversation, announcing the news of her new tenant shortly after the cape had been wrapped around her neck and Zulya inquired what she’d been up to, but since then, the troll had made several comments Ladybug was certain were meant to be jokes, although she was uncertain of the target.The reaction of the other women in the salon had slowed her tongue, and she found herself holding back on describing Anzan’s unusual species to her audience, feeling oddly protective every time they brayed in laughter, certain they were doing so at her — and maybe his — expense.
“Well I hope you’ve worked out a showering schedule,” the troll went on, chortling.“Although I suppose that’s one way to become very well acquainted!”
Another joke, a rather crass one, she thought, stammering out that the attic apartment had its own bathroom facilities.When it was evident she didn’t have anything salacious to disclose, the troll’s attention wandered, turning first to the steel-haired harpy beneath the dryer and then to the new client being led to the shampoo bowl, and Ladybug went back to listening silently, as she did every other visit.
The brief conversation had given her pause as she made her way home.Anzan had never made her uncomfortable or fearful, even considering his great size difference.He’d remained as silent as ever, and as the days passed, she’d reconciled herself to the fact that he clearly had no desire to speak to her.Araneaens were considered dangerous, dangerous and secretive, and while the secretive soubriquet may have been fitting, he didn’t seem especially dangerous to her, no more than the towering ogre who delivered her mail, or the fire chief, a barrel-chested orc with gold-tipped tusks.She never saw him coming or going, never saw him leaving for work or coming home with shopping bags, she’d never even seen him outside getting fresh air.Anzan’s presence in the house was invisible and silent, but was still comforting, a slight balm on the disaster of the spring, and she was quite content to continue on as they’d been, which was clearly his preference as well.
Her musings were challenged the instant she returned home.She’d not seen her little feline friend in some days, even though the food bowl she dutifully put out in the garden was always licked clean.Rounding into the garden, she stopped short with a gasp, not expecting to see the long, many-legged shadow of her tenant moving against the ground behind the garden shed.
“Anzan?Is-is that you?”she called out, realizing the shadow had gone utterly motionless.You probably startled him.She waited for him to come around from the shed, but no movement was forthcoming, and she was very nearly able to convince herself she’d simply imagined his shadow.“I-I’m just looking for my cat.Well, it’s notmycat, she lives in the garden, but I take care of her.I haven’t seen her in a few days ...”
“The feline is prowling on the property to the left.She likes waiting for prey in the long grass beyond the trees..”
His voice had lost a bit of the reediness it had possessed in the Spring, stronger and deeper, causing a curious swoop low in her belly.Doesn’t that make you nervous, having a strange man in the house?She imagined all of the reasons why someone in her position might be nervous to have a strange male in their home: footfalls outside her bedroom door, a near-stranger pressing a little too closely at the kitchen counter, the aforementioned shower disaster.Fire flooded her cheeks, envisioning herself wrapped in a towel that was far smaller than any she actually owned, flush against the hallway as the big araneaen pressed her to the corridor wall, his sparse dark hair dripping.She supposed the thought should have caused her distress, should have panicked her over the situation ...but instead she took a step closer, ears heating.There’s a shower in the attic,she reminded herself, and Anzan didn’t come downstairs, never giving her cause to fret over him attempting something untoward.Cause or opportunity?
“I have watched her hunt, she’s quite accomplished.She brings great honor to your name in her efforts.”
His voice was serious and steadfast, without any hint of levity, and Ladybug smiled in response before wincing at his meaning, the image in her head of the araneaen squeezing past her barely-clad form being replaced with the less intriguing thought of the mangled bodies of songbirds littering the garden path, as they had last summer.
“A bit too much honor.I had to take down the bird feeders because it was giving her too much of an advantage.”
“Would you like me to bring her back for you?I’m happy to do anything you wish.”
It was the longest conversation they’d ever had, she realized, and still he lurked in the shadow of shed, not coming out to face her.The dark shape of him on the ground had dipped, and Ladybug remembered the way he’d lowered himself subserviently before her on the sidewalk the day he’d moved in.The notion of him being willing to go off tramping through the unkempt grass at the back of Slade Minor was alarming, for she didn’t want him to do himself an injury, but also for the riot of butterflies it set off in her chest.She’d never had a man of any species offer to do her bidding, and the idea of having one at her beck and call was rather appealing.
“No, it-it’s quite alright.I’m sure she prefers it over there, it’s a much nicer house.”Her stilted laughter cut off at his next words.
