Undaunted, I turn my focus to the feral packs of children roaming the castle grounds. With a little food to bribe them, they’re happy to outdo each other with ever-more fantastical tales.
Oh, I get plenty of stories. Magical seals. Ghostly saints. Shape-shifting horses. Fighting giants. And fairies. So many fairies. Fairies stealing children. Fairies swapping babies. Fairies kidnapping pipers.
I try a new approach. I know enough not to broach the topic of sorcery outright, so I go at it sideways.
Over the next few days, I spend hours with the staff, learning every possible use of every plant in our garden. Because witches make potions, right?
I can’t say for sure. The only thing I learn is how to better understand the cook’s accent.
So much for taking matters into my own hands. After all my efforts, the only thing emptier than my hands is my stomach, which has suffered from all the bread and cheese I bartered away.
If only I could use that word: witchcraft. Someone here must know something. It’d only take one person to point me in the right direction.
Just as I’m about to give up, I find her.
I’m not even looking. I’m sneaking some salt from the pantry after-hours, anything to perk up Donag’s abysmal porridge.
After the cook leaves for the night, I double back through the garden to sneak in through the kitchen’s back door. Just as I reach for the latch, I hear a voice—low, rhythmic, chanting.
I freeze. I know that voice. Margie.
Candlelight flickers beneath the door. Rustling. The snap of tinder catching flame.
I hold my breath, straining to hear.
The repetition of her words. The steady hum of her voice. It sounds like an incantation.
I tiptoe closer and peer through the shutters.
I smile a slow, victorious grin. I knew it. I knew there was something off about Margie. The obsessive Bible quotations? The holier-than-thou act? Clearly all to hide the fact that she’s a witch.
I have to know what she’s saying.
I scan the yard, spot a garden pail, and flip it over. I step onto it and wait a moment, but it holds. I peer through the slats, my heart hammering.
The kitchen still smells of the evening’s stew, but underneath there’s something else—bitter herbs, something acrid burning. Shadows dance wildly as she moves, making her look taller, twisted. Her usually pinched face is soft with concentration. This is a different Margie, one who doesn’t exist in daylight.
She’s weaving colored threads around a small bundle of twigs, binding them into a tiny hand broom. She raises it high, shakes it, sweeps it down. Waves it over a burning candle.
Chanting, chanting, until her voice grows guttural.
I press my ear against the shutter, straining to understand. At last, I start to make out the words.
“I fear thee not
And wish ye gone
So with this wish
Ye will be done.”
I was right. It’s a spell.
Wish ye gone.Could I wish myself gone?
I commit the words to memory, leaning closer?—
Everything happens at once. The latch slips. The shutter bangs open, and my head plunges through the window. I yelp as the pail tips—feet sliding, chin cracking against the sill—and I tumble to the dirt.
