I found it not entirely objectionable.
Maybe Iwasspecial.
Maybe I was safe here, whatever secrets my Witch kept. Maybe I could have what I wanted.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
Her eyes flicked up and a pink stain spread across her milk white face. ‘No. I did not expect you to be here.’
‘Well Iamhere,’ I said, mouth dry. ‘Might I be allowed to finish my bath?’
The Witch stared at me a moment longer, then with a flourish of skirts she stalked out and I sank back under the cooling water, this new knowledge large in my mind: the Witch wanted to look at me, and I wanted to be looked at.
b
After dinner that night I wrapped myself in a quilt and sat by my window looking at the snowy crop of trees that bordered the castle. I felt at a crossroads. I had been drawn back to the Witch for so many reasons: the duty my father lay upon my shoulders, fear of remaining trapped in my old home, curiosity about the truth behind the Witch. But I was not so blind to myself that I could not admit that at the heart of it was this simple truth: it was only with the Witch that I was needed. Today had made it undeniable that what I felt for the Witch was different to anything I had felt for anyone before. The Witch had saved me from my misery.
For better or worse, I belonged here, and I so desperately hoped that could mean something good.
And yet I could not escape the secrets that were woven around me. It was as though every time I let myself think I had made the right choice, I was stung by some lurking creature.
A thought came to me: if the Witch had not expected me to be in my room, why had she come?
The footsteps outside my door – I still did not understand what she did at night. But perhaps one thing was clear: I was being watched. This was her castle; there was nowhere that was mine alone. Nowhere I could hide. I thought of my visits to Edgar’s room and the key at the bottom of a drawer. My chest hollowed out. Perhaps she already knew I had broken my promise and pried.
Two paths lay ahead of me. I could dig and dig, and I might not like what I found.
Or I could let it lie. I could keep my promise.
For now.
XII
Winter gave small blessings: with ice in the window panes and heavy curtains drawn over every door against the creeping cold, the Witch left the chill of her desk and joined me by the fireplace, abandoning her ledgers more evenings than not to pick over my geological specimens,demanding to know the difference between igneous,sedimentary and metamorphic, running her fingertips over slate and granite and quartz. I savoured our moments together, the wry smile she gave when I spoke of my passions, the way she chewed her lip in concentration over the next move in a game. I liked how she would watch me when I wasn’t looking, and the care she took to have my desk stocked with paper and ink. I felt held in mind.
In turn I fussed at her to wear her cloak against the cold, and insisted she join me for a hand of Schafkopf, fanning the deck of cards between our bowed heads. One morning in late February, brittle with frost, we had brought them to her study after breakfast: a rematch after a particularly heated battle the night before in which I had emerged triumphant. My Witch that day looked sleepless and preoccupied in a moth-eaten black silk robe and her hair in a rats’ nest and I peppered her with jabs that perhaps she lost sleep over my victory.
Our peace was fractured by the sound of Wolf’s voice, shockingly loud. I had never heard Wolf raise her voice. The Witch and I were of one mind, moving towards the clamour.
When we drew near, I recognised a second voice.
‘Let me in! Where is she?’
A wild-haired woman was in the great hall tussling with Wolf; when she saw me, she broke free and came towards the stairs.
For a moment I was dumb with shock. This was impossible.
She shouldn’t be here. Shecouldn’tbe here.
I found my voice and cried out, ‘Frieda?’
Her hair had come loose from its tight bun and she no longer held herself with control, but I recognised Frieda Hässler immediately.
The Witch’s castle was not somewhere that allowed itself to be easily found. I didn’t understand how Frieda had done it. She had been all reserve and iron will when I had met her, now she looked to be unravelling at the seams, like a stretch of yarn losing its twist, turning from thread to raw wool.
I started down the worm-eaten stairs, and stopped just above the rotten step. I could not help but want a barrier between myself and Frieda.
She came to the foot of the stairs – Wolf followed but I shook my head at her.
