Click.
Well, I’d known that wasn’t likely going to pan out, but it had been worth a try. If I got desperate, I could always go in person.
Now I had nothing to do but sit around for Arlen, so I decided to take the opportunity to clean my house.
After stripping the bed and finally washing my sheets, I got to work in the bathroom, elbow deep in the toilet with nothing to think about but the job.
No matter how many times I went over the facts in my mind, I couldn’t find a way to rectify what I had to do. I didn’t want to bring her back where she’d likely be locked up again and tortured for the rest of her life. But I also didn’t want to die, especially based on the fantasy of a woman I’d built in my mind. Of a woman I hadn’t even met yet.
For all I knew, she really did do something spectacularly heinous to deserve all this, and she’d duped Morgana into thinking she was innocent.
Was that likely? No. But it was possible.
My whole house was free from dirt, the chemical scent of bleach replacing the stale stench of dust in the air. My laundry was all washed, folded, and put away, and there was still no news from Arlen.
Collapsing on the couch, my knee began to bounce as I looked around, desperate to find something else to do. Inactivity was a waste of time, especially with a deadly deadline closing in.
I took out my laptop to check Sage’s old MagikGraph account again in the Echo Archives. She’d made her profile when she was in high school, so I started going through her photos from her days here in Cindralis, and noticed she seemed to like taking walks up to the Temple of Hecara.
I liked it up there, too.
I checked the time. It’d been three hours since I’d hired Arlen. I had no new messages, and there was absolutely nothing else I could do on the computer or in my house at this point. I atea protein bar, grabbed my next dose of suppressant, and went for a walk myself.
Besides, sometimes fresh air helped me think.
I wandered my way through the winding streets of the witch city-state, my boots scuffing against the uneven, moss-cracked pavers. Lavender smoke wafted from chimneys, the floral haze mixing with the scent of trees from the forest. One of the many streams Cindralis was built around sang sweetly as it ran over rocks, threading its way alongside roads and houses.
I followed my way up the hillside towards the edge of the city and the Temple of Hecara, the stones worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. The buildings slowly faded into the surrounding forest of silver-barked trees, and tightly-packed market stalls lined the path.
Hundreds of years ago, they sold everything a pilgrim would need on a trip to the temple—candles for offerings, incense for prayers, and food for altars.
Today, they still sold everything a “pilgrim” would need on a trip to the temple—souvenirs.
True, devout worshipers of the gods were few and far between, but there were always tourists galore.
The goddess Hecara had a rabbit familiar, and so cute little cartoon bunnies adorned much of the cheap junk currently being hawked. Rabbit key chains, magnets, coffee mugs, T-shirts…
A baker had started selling “Made in Cindralis” carrot cakes here a few years ago, and the gimmick caught on quickly. Now there were at least five other stalls filled to the brim with perfectly packaged carrot-based sweets in neatly wrapped boxes.
The ultimate present for your family, friends, and co-workers.
The Temple of Hecara was slender and tall, with a lattice of wooden beams and walls made almost entirely of glass, lettingyou see the woods through the structure before you even stepped inside. It was a serene, natural space, made just as much for quiet contemplation as it was for worship.
A great statue of Hecara stood overlooking the space. Her face was calm and neutral, her long hair intricately braided and resting over her shoulder. A broom in one hand, the other holding the handle of a cauldron, while her familiar rabbit, Leveryn, sat on her shoulder.
I stood watching her in silence, my hands in my jacket pockets.
“Welcome to the Temple of Hecara, son of Ravaric. Is there something weighing on your mind?”
I turned around to find an old witch priestess behind me, wearing a plain green shift and a pointed hat. A small deer approached and stopped at her side.
“Yeah, I was wondering where I can get one of those candles,” I said, pointing to the altar.
The priestess didn’t move, and her face remained expressionless. I coughed nervously. “Sorry, is that not allowed?”
She moved with silent steps to a basket behind me on a small table, gesturing to where several dozen white, unlit candles rested. A donation box laid next to it.
“Oh, duh, my bad,” I chuckled.
