My good mood, however, was cut short.
“Have you heard of the whole emissary ordeal?”A bearded man beside me asked his companion, prodding a newspaper article with a thick finger.“I knew those witches were diseased!”
I paused mid-chew.
“I don’t read the paper, Doug.What happened?”
“This just came out.Have a look!”
I glanced around and noticed a stack of newspapers to my right.Scooting over, I grabbed a copy and flipped it open to the page the bearded man was pointing at.My eyes bulged when I saw the title.
A Disease of Witches
For months the royal family has been preparing for the wedding between Crown Prince Bennett and Lady Narcissa Greenwood, distracting the populace from something insidious.Ever since the end of the Non-Magic Age two years prior, Olderean policies, especially regarding businesses and commerce, have changed drastically to skew in favor of the new witch population, which has festered underground for almost three generations.These policies have put a strain on Olderean citizens as the kingdom struggles to accommodate the greedy witches slowly taking over our land and our jobs.There has even been a Witch Committee established in the palace, who have swayed the young royals in their favor.
It has come to our attention that our overly liberal crown prince has chosen an emissary to tour Witch Village, the place where witches have hidden for years.(One would think after three generations of banishment, they would have come up with a better name.)The tour was an effort to warm the human populace to the ways of our magical counterparts.However, our undercover reporter has come back with shocking news—Witch Village is as savage, immoral, and inhospitable as one may think, and vice is not the only thing that festers beneath the dirt.
The good-hearted emissary sent by the royals has fallen into a life-threatening fever and has yet to make a full recovery.It was reported that Witch Village is a dilapidated place, with no light and an unforgiving terrain, not unlike a complex of holes dug by moles.Is it a surprise that disease has festered as a result of their filth?
These outlaws have robbed upstanding Olderean citizens of their jobs, their homes, and their livelihoods.Do not let them rob us of our health too.Think of the children of Olderea!
Drive these witches out!
The food in my stomach soured as I read the article a second time, unable to believe this was describing the village.A dilapidated complex ofholes?Witches having diseases?The only sickness we were privy to was weakness from staying underground for too long and the occasional food allergy!An herbwitch could cure nearly any contagious disease with a potion.And the Olderean children?What an absolute joke.They only wanted an innocent front for their hatred.
My mind flashed to Prilla Lewis.That poisonous woman!It had to be that awful group of hers.Ever since the high of last winter’s tour, I had been delusionally optimistic, thinking success was guaranteed for me.Me, a witch nobody had ever heard of, going on a royal tour and sewing for the crown prince and princess-to-be the first month of coming aboveground.What luck!But my career had only declined.Prilla Lewis was going to pay for what she did to me and every other witch she had harmed.
I clenched my hands, crumpling the newsprint, as another unwelcome thought came to the forefront of my mind.What if this wasmyfault?What if, in my selfishness and unwillingness to give Edmund a proper tour and do my duty as a Witch Committee member, I had allowed space for folks like The Crown to twist the narrative however they wished?
I forced my thoughts to quiet before I drowned in them.There wasn’t time for guilt or self-pity.It wouldn’t do to let this article spread—it was time to do my duty as a member of the Witch Committee.
Someone had to bring this to the crown prince’s attention.
***
IHAD NO MONEY LEFTto hire a horse chaise, so I decided to walk.The palace was not too far away; its white pointed spires could be seen through the roofs of the buildings and trees, a two mile trek at most.
The brisk exercise and cool evening were welcome as I stewed hot in my anger, scuffing the heels of my boots into the paved road, passing by street lamps and shops and the few carriages clip-clopping down the road.Lost in thought, I turned a corner without looking, nearly running into a shadowed figure.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.I stepped to the left, but the figure followed, blocking my path.
Illuminated by a single flickering street lamp, a ridiculously broad-shouldered man stood before me, the lower half of his rough face carpeted by a thick orange beard.His scalp was not so well-endowed, gleaming shiny and bald.He said nothing, even as our gazes met, his dark eyes cold.
“Who are you?”I asked warily.
The man pulled out a jagged knife from his belt.
I drew in a strangled gasp, stumbling back a step.The streets were deserted—I hadn’t noticed when it had gotten this silent.The only sign of life was a carriage parked on the opposite side of the road, though it was entirely unattended.No groom, no driver.The interior, too, was empty and dark.
There was no one here to save me.
The man advanced, raising his knife.I turned and ran for my life.
Something yanked the back of my skirt, hard.I fell to the pavement with bruising force.A large, meaty hand wrapped around my ankle and dragged me roughly backward.
I turned and kicked with my other foot, striking the man squarely in the sternum.He grunted and fell back, his knife hitting the ground with a clang.His grip on my ankle did not loosen.
“Let me go!What do you want?Money?”I struggled against his hold, but he was larger and stronger.
