I sat on the stool before my vanity awkwardly.Maddox followed, his footsteps creaking the floorboards.I figured he must be the first male person to step inside, outside of Pa and Sonny.I handed him a wooden comb and a bottle of hair oil.“Don’t create tangles.”
“I won’t.”Maddox threw me a pointed look in the mirror and swept my hair behind me, raking the comb through the stubborn ends and working his way to the top.
I stole another look at him in the mirror.His brows were knit in concentration as he coated his palms in oil and distributed it evenly through my lengths.The faint, earthy scent of castor oil permeated the room.The space was quiet enough that the smallest of sounds seemed unbearably loud.My breathing.The swish of my hair.The clack of the comb on the vanity as Maddox reached over me to set it down.
He ran his fingers from my temple to the back of my head, gathering a section of hair at my crown.I couldn’t quite control the shiver that ran down my spine at the sensation.
I cleared my throat.“Where did you learn to do this, anyway?”I was glad I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.
Maddox added more sections of hair as he continued.“I used to groom my horse’s mane as a boy,” he said sheepishly.“It was one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Really?”I grinned, imagining little Maddox braiding a pony’s mane.“There were no dolls to play with?”
“There were plenty, but they were for Narcissa so I wasn’t allowed to touch them.”Maddox held out a hand.“Ribbon.”
I obliged him and handed over a length of silk ribbon.He knelt to tie off my braid, then whipped it over my shoulder none too gently.“There, done.”
I inspected his work, patting the sides of my head.“You braided too tight.I look like an egg.”
He stood up.“You look fine.”
Then, as if he were in the habit of doing so every day, he smoothed back the wisps of hair at the nape of my neck.Just as briefly as the touch came, it was gone.
Maddox swung his hands behind him, clearing his throat.“Uh, we should get going.”
He was out the door before I could attempt to speak.
***
WITCH VILLAGE SQUAREwas as large as a palace ballroom, featuring a decorative fountain in the center of a wide expanse of flat, brick-paved ground—a rarity, as most of the village was set on a hill, the houses and roads spiraling up like a dollop of whipped cream.The square was a few levels below the peak of the village, where my house and the First Oak sat.
When Maddox and I arrived with Ma’s pies in tow, I craned my neck upward in surprise.Tall wooden pillars were set up around the perimeter of the village square.Between them hung strings of witchlight lanterns, all glowing in autumnal shades of yellow, orange, magenta, and red.Smaller lights danced and floated between them like fireflies.Beyond, the night sky was a soft, velvety shade of indigo, speckled with stars.
“The sky’s back,” I said, surprised.
“It was back yesterday,” Maddox said.“Christabella said the weather apprentices only managed to relight the night sky.They need a more experienced weather witch for daytime.”
“Who else?Manuel Greenwood didn’t have an apprentice before he keeled over, did he?”I grumbled.It seemed like this weather problem was here to stay, unless a weather apprentice managed to learn everything there was to know to become a master.
Maddox set the pies down on a nearby table covered with a gingham runner.“Maybe if I still had my magic, I could be one,” he said, a forlorn expression on his face.
I had almost forgotten Maddox was technically a witch, given his lineage.“I’m not sure if that occupation would suit you,” I said.“You’ll be stuck down here without any horses to ride.”
He shrugged a shoulder and surveyed the village square, where everyone was arriving with arms laden with food and gifts and decor.A witch levitated a giant orange pumpkin to a table, where it served as a centerpiece between two candelabras.The turnout was decidedly sparser than the last Harvest, seeing as many witches had chosen to go aboveground over the past few months.“I still wonder what it could’ve been like,” Maddox admitted, “if my father had stayed.”
“Well, you probably wouldn’t have existed,” I said matter-of-factly.Maddox’s mother was as human as they came—if Captain Greenwood didn’t go aboveground he wouldn’t have met her.
Maddox made a face.“You know what I mean.If Father hadn’t decided to take my magic away and decided to raise me like a witch, like Narcissa, I’d have a different life.”He tilted his head up.“I guess this is as close as I’ll get to that.”
I thought back to Ma’s insistence that a witch was more than their magic, that experience made a witch.I had insisted that a witch was only their magic.Maddox had neither experience nor magic—but wasn’t he a witch in his blood?
I sighed, losing the fight in my head.Who was to say what made a witch, when the lines were so blurred?
Across the square, on the other side of the fountain, Edmund seemed to be right at home, chatting and laughing with a group of elderly witches.They seemed to find him charming enough, though the moment he turned away, their smiles fell and they whispered among themselves.
A few witch children tailed him, shy and curious, darting around his feet.Edmund chuckled at them.Perhaps he found the little apple-cheeked munchkins endearing, but I knew better.Witch children loved to prank each other with jinxes.If they got too comfortable with him, they might try the same—even though he was human and couldn’t reciprocate, and would likely find a wart jinx more terrifying than funny.
I would have to stand by and supervise.
