Something brushed against my ankle and I looked down to see the coven’s inky black cat, Kipper. I reached down and stroked his back, running his tail through my fingers as his back arched, eliciting a satisfied purr.
I’d always had an affinity for animals; could sense what they felt and, even sometimes, hear their thoughts. Right now, Kipper thrummed with contentment and a pride I assumed was related to the dead mouse I’d seen on the step on my way in.
Rain pitter-pattered gently on the lead windows, and the scent of woodsmoke from the fire mingled with the lingering aromas from our evening meal. It should have been a perfect evening. But I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in the pit of my stomach that afternoon, after my conversation with the new sheriff at the market.
Fear and hatred of witches had been growing for a few years, fed by famine and poverty, and stoked by the king’s war; which had cost the country greatly, further intensifying the hardship as taxes were increased again and again to fund it. I had refused to admit it until now, even to myself, but I couldn’t deny it any longer. I was afraid. I remembered a time, long ago, when tensions had been just as high. When my magic hadn’t been enough to stop what was coming. I couldn’t lose all those I cared about again, I needed to protect my sisters in whatever way I could.
But how? Force them to disband the coven? Hide who they truly were and disappear amongst the commonfolk? I wouldn’t ask them to reject their true power; their birthright. Not when women with natural, elemental magic were not the threat. Men with money and status, who used their position to cause harm to others—they were the true threat.
The heat from the fire seared my skin, sweat beading on my upper lid and trickling down the back of my neck. I stood and jabbed the poker into the kindling, putting out the flames. Rose complained at first, but Lavender ushered her into the small bedroom the three of them shared. I usually slept in the main room, lying on a pile of furs and blankets in front of the dying embers on cold nights.
But I wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. I needed to run.
Once the others were safely tucked up in their beds, I pulled my cloak on, hood up to protect my hair from the rain, and left the cottage.
The desperate need to be free surged in my blood, the need to protect myself and escape from the growing danger. I strode into the forest and with a rush of warmth that rippled through my body, I shrank down and became a red fox, darting between the trees. Small creatures burst from the underbrush, fleeing from me, but I wasn’t there to hunt tonight. I kept moving, picking up speed, but it wasn’t enough. The bubble of anxiety in my chest only grew, I needed more. I transformed into a doe, my long legs carrying me further and faster. My ears twitched as the wind rushed through them, and I leapt over fallen tree trunks, not knowing or caring which direction I ran in. Only knowing that I needed to feel light and free.
Finally, I launched my body into the air and became a bird. A black raven, wings spread to catch the breeze. I soared, rising above the forest now, swimming in the star-studded inky black of the night sky.
And then I saw it. The castle. Kings Clipstone.
Its windows glowed like fireflies, like will-o’-the-wisps in the distance. Like a beacon, calling to me. I turned towards it, flapping my large wings and gaining speed as the grey facade rose up to meet me. I landed on a window ledge, looking into the castle at a large room teeming with people; raucous with music and laughter. They were having a party, even as the villagers starved and suffered.
I saw him then, the new High Sheriff. Sitting beside Prince John, smiling and nodding.Colluding. In that moment, I knew one thing and one thing only. I hated this new sheriff, and I would not sit back and watch while he destroyed my coven and slaughtered my kind.
If the sheriff thought he had seen war, he hadn’t seen anything yet.
5
STEFANO
“Wine, my lord?” Margery stood in front of me on the raised dais, holding a pitcher of red wine and gesturing to my goblet.
I’d been seated at the high table, right beside the prince, and every eye in the room was drawn to me, anticipation thick in the air. I felt like a king—a feeling I could get used to, given the chance.
I thanked Margery and turned back to Prince John. “As I was saying, I’m looking forward to the challenge. The only good witch is a dead witch, am I right, Your Highness?” I raised my refilled glass.
The prince let out a low, dark laugh. “Indeed. Ah, here she is now!” He stood and held up his own glass, the entire room quieting around us.
I followed the direction of his gaze and saw a young maiden in a dove-grey gown approaching the dais. Her pale hair flowed in waves to her waist, and a simple but elegant gold circlet sat nestled on her head. This was Prince John’s daughter; my future bride. I stood quickly, causing my chair legs to screech across the wooden floor in the sudden silence.
“Lady Gwyn-Marie, my darling daughter, come and join us.” Her father held out a hand and she took it, coming to stand on the prince’s other side, facing out at the gathered congregation. I took in the smiling, ale-warmed faces of our audience; the wealthy and influential landowners of the region. These were the people I needed to impress if I wanted to take power one day.
Once the prince’s daughter and I were married, I would be his heir. Prince John was already at an advanced age, and with no other legitimate children, and his wife, the queen and Lady Gwyn’s mother now deceased, there would be no one to challenge me for power. Even so, I would need loyal supporters, and donors.
I painted my best smile on as they looked up at us expectantly.
“I’m sure, by now, you will have heard we have a new High Sheriff of the Royal Forests.” A cheer went up in the crowd, and a wave of satisfaction shivered through me at the sound. Prince John gestured for them to quieten down with an indulgent chuckle. “For those of you who have not had the pleasure, I present to you Lord Stefano di Reinalto, your new protector from the scourge of witchcraft.” A roar erupted as the noblemen and women raised their glasses, wine sloshing over the sides, and shouted their approval. “I know you’ll make him feel welcome here. And to solidify the bond between our two families, I couldn’t be more delighted to announce the engagement of Lord di Reinalto and my daughter, Lady Gwyn-Marie.” He took my hand and joined it with Lady Gwyn’s in front of him, binding us together.
The response to this was a cacophony of noise, fists banging on tables, feet stamping on the flagstone floor, shouts and cheers from all corners of the great hall. I spotted Dominico sitting across from Edward and Peter, he waggled his eyebrows at mesuggestively when our eyes met and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
I looked over at my future bride and saw her smiling demurely at our audience, a faint blush in the apples of her cheeks. She had a pleasant face, round and angelic with large eyes and long, thick lashes. Her eyes caught mine and held them for a second before she looked away, her manners impeccable.
But all I saw in the ice blue of her gaze was duty and obedience. Nerves perhaps, but no warmth. Not even a hint of flirtation.
Wasn’t that exactly what I had wanted? A well-behaved wife who would keep our home and give me an army of sons? Looking into her eyes, I realised I’d hoped for something more. I had expected to feel nothing but tolerance, perhaps a sort of gratitude and respect for my wife. But I hadn’t expected her to feel the same way. I’d imagined her looking at me with adoration, even love, and there was nothing in Lady Gwyn’s expression that suggested the slightest romantic interest in me. The realisation was like a bucket of cold water had been tipped over me.
Perhaps her feelings would grow; we’d barely set eyes on each other after all, let alone had a single conversation. I realised now, I had assumed simply meeting me would elicit a sigh of relief from my betrothed; upon discovering her father hadn’t given her hand to a wealthy, fat and decrepit lord. I was youthful—only just into my fourth decade—and fit. I’d been described as handsome on more than one occasion, and the noblewomen in Sicily had seemed to covet my pitch-black curls. I was sure any sons of mine would be healthy and strapping lads.
