‘Those are on backwards, angel,’ Bisma said, helping Nori put them on correctly.
The girls did not go to town often, for it was not safe. The Unwanted Girls were treated like second-class citizens, if that. Many villagers regarded them like feral animals and avoided them as though they carried the plague. And so the younger girls especially were not allowed to go without an older one.
After sliding on her black boots and tying the laces tight, Bisma grabbed her leather purse, preparing to go. There was a slight chill in the autumn breeze, so she slipped on a thick cardigan as well, made of the softest yarn. This was her town cardigan; it was crow black. While Bisma adored all the wonderful colors of the Forest, when she went to town, she always wore dark colors as a sort of armor, to encourage the villagers to stay away.
‘Baji, I’m ready!’ Nori said, already having made quick work of putting on a sweater that looked too big for her.
‘Good job, sweet,’ Bisma said, pushing back Nori’s wild hair. They were all set to go. Leaving Deeba, Azalea walked them to the door of the treehouse, donning an innocent expression.
‘When am I allowed to go to town alone?’ Azalea asked, batting her eyelashes. ‘I’m almost thirteen. I think Luna went alone when she was thirteen.’
‘Nice try.’ Bisma gave her an unamused look. ‘You know you’re not allowed to go alone until you’refourteen, and you are currently only one month past twelve.’
‘That’s basically thirteen, which is basically fourteen!’ Azalea cried.
‘Your math skills leave something to be desired,’ Luna sang from the table, while Mei giggled.
‘Luna,’ Bisma said, fixing her with a stern glance. ‘Behave. And take care of the others. We’ll be back soon.’
With that, she ushered Nori toward the stairs. Nori jumped from the highest step, her squealing laughter filling the air. A branch reached out to catch her as she went hurtling toward the ground. Bisma met her at the bottom, then walked over to the garden to grab her cart.
When she didn’t have orders to drop off, she went to town with her pushcart. She had ordinary potions, like peppermint tea for upset stomachs, or elderberry syrup for a cold, or lavender essence for an antiseptic, or dried white willow bark to chew on to relieve pain—but what she was reallyknownfor was her poisons.
There were sleeping drops—made of valerian, a pink flower that Bisma used magic to grow for the wives who did not like their husband’s advances in the night. (And if those husbands happened to pass in the night, well, that was none of Bisma’s business.) Then there was itching powder made of nettle and sumac; a hogweed spray to cause potential blindness; monkshood to cause numbness; yew-berry jam to cause discreet death; and a variation of other such products that sold quite well to the women of the village.
Of course they had to be discreet. Bisma had been notorious as ‘the Unwanted Witch’ or ‘garden-wench’ ever since she was ten and made her first potion—or, well,poisonmight be more accurate.
There were few witches in their area, and even fewer skilled ones, but Bisma was a truly gifted witch, her talents further cultivated by the Forest. She had always been talented at gardening, able to grow things from the earth with magic, like ripe fruits out of season, or herbs for cooking, or pretty flowers for her sisters.
But she became truly infamous when she was ten. Aged seven, Luna had just arrived in the Enchanted Forest and become an Unwanted Girl, and Bisma was excited to have a new sister.
Except little Luna never spoke. Whenever anyone approached her, she flinched as if injured and hastily stepped away. She seemed to be afraid of her own shadow.
It took Luna months to open up, and that was when Bisma learned that Luna had been abused by her father until it had become so unbearable that she had run away to the Enchanted Forest, prepared to face death rather than live in her own home another moment.
When Bisma learned this, she had been angry—angrier than she’d ever been. And she would only grow angrier.
One day in town, a villager spat at Luna. ‘Shame on you!’ the old woman said. ‘Running away, sullying your family name!’
Luna covered her mouth with both her hands to stop from crying out; her body shook with the force of repressed sobs.
‘Don’t you know why she ran away?!’ ten-year-old Bisma cried, standing in front of Luna. ‘Her father hurt her!’
But the villager did not care, nor did she listen. With a final disgusted glance, the old woman walked away.
Luna quietly cried. Bisma fumed.
Their baji whisked them away, scolding Bisma for lashing out. ‘You could have been hurt,’ Baji had said, her voice afraid.
But Bisma wasn’t afraid; she was angry.
Another visit to town brought them face to face with Luna’s father. He was a broad, short man with a mustache and dark eyes the same color as Luna’s. Luna froze in front of him, her breath a gasp, but her father walked straight passed her like she wasn’t even there.
‘If he was kind to me,’ Luna whispered to Bisma that night, as they lay together in Luna’s bed, ‘I would go home. So long as he didn’t hurt me again, I would go home.’
‘No, Luna, this is your home now,’ Bisma said, hating to see Luna upset. She wanted to hold her sister, but Luna did not like to be touched.
A wretched feeling was growing and twisting like a vine within Bisma, sharp and prickly. No matter how she tossed and turned in bed, the feeling would not relent. Sleep refused to come. It was as if her insides were riddled with the sharpest thorns.
