Page 28 of The Noldrin Witch

Morgaine would have liked to confirm she meant it literally, but again she chose to be careful of what she revealed.

“It’s a saying, darling. What I mean is that the effort of making them becomes second nature over time. It all depends on which divinity chooses you as its conduit.”

“Divinity?” Elise asked with an interest that made Morgaine take a step back. The girl was hungry for knowledge, and Morgaine feared she might begin invoking every known deity on the spot, if only she knew how.

Thankfully, Elise noticed the reserve in Morgaine’s expression, for good judgment took hold of her soon enough.

“I apologize. I’m just thankful for the opportunity.”

“No one becomes a witch from one day to the next,” Morgaine warned. “It can take years of practice before the barrier between this world and the magical one grows thin enough for a divinity to notice you.”

“How long did it take for you?”

“It happened soon after I turned nineteen,” Morgaine sighed, the memory rising as if it had happened only yesterday. “Although I didn’t know until I was twenty,” she added. “I wreaked a bit of havoc along the way. Nothing major, but I would have liked to know why the world seemed to have a rather firm intention of pushing me away from where I didn’t belong. One has to look in enough mirrors to understand oneself.”

Elise’s brow furrowed, and Morgaine smiled.

“By mirrors, I mean people. The world reveals itself in deeper ways the more you understand others.”

Elise nodded, lips still parted, gazing at the fire beneath the cauldron as if Morgaine’s words had set some wicked little play in motion inside her head.

The poor girl looked as though she had just been entrusted with the truth of the ages. Morgaine chuckled and, not wishing to distress the already impressionable Elise any further, set about preparing the Beauty Potion.

The concoction was widely regarded as the chief source of fairness among high-ranking women. A secret passed only among those whose coin exceeded the modest capacity of a pouch. These fine ladies had enjoyed the benefits of smooth skin and youthful necks for generations. If only they knew the potion offered not a true lifting of the flesh but a polite distortion of what they saw in the mirror, they might have been less inclined to hand Morgaine their gold.

The creation of this miracle potion came to Morgaine after a sudden realization: women do not need more beauty, only worse mirrors. By her account, it was an act of benevolence toward anxious ladies who required little more than a pinch of confidence to enjoy the spoils their world already offered them. The happiest, of course, were the husbands. One need only observe that when women grow kinder to their reflection, the fellows find themselves living in a most agreeable peace, the sort of humbler satisfaction natural to their kind.

“How do you know how much of the ingredients to throw in?” Elise asked.

Morgaine’s thoughts snapped back to the task at hand. Without noticing, she had already dropped more Wormwood than the potion called for, but not wishing to appear careless in Elise’s eyes, she added more of the other ingredients as if it had all been calculated that way from the very start.

“As a witch, you develop a supreme sense to measure each ingredient,” Morgaine said, glancing sideways at Elise.

The girl nodded enthusiastically.

It was then that Morgaine added a drop of Spirits of Turpentine which produced a reaction so violent that even Elise, keen as she was, half considered making for the door in search of help.

After the fumes thinned to a light fog about the cauldron, Elise leaned in and watched with reverence as Morgaine bottled the elixir into one of her finest glass vials.

“No wonder you are so beautiful,” Elise gasped. “Is your fairness natural or the product of magic?”

If the remark had been meant to strike at the most sensitive corner of a witch’s ego, it landed true enough. Morgaine felt it at once, a warmth rising in her chest, and her view of Elise softened accordingly. In that moment, she decided the girl was nothing like Francella and allowed herself the small conclusion that Elise could be trusted and that she was a creature worth her mentorship.

“That is my best-kept secret, darling.”

Chapter 13

Elise was packing another dress for the trip. Morgaine had lent her a small chest for her belongings. This was the fifth dress she had stuffed into its narrow confines, and though at first glance Elise had not thought the thing capable of holding more than a pair of socks, the chest proved sufficient for a week’s wardrobe and even some shoes.

Wicked little things, these instruments of magic.

Elise held the cape the duke had given her. She considered stuffing it into the magic chest as well, but she did not care to have Kurt’s scent spread to all her clothes. It was already difficult enough to keep him out of her thoughts without inviting him along for the journey. It had been a week since she had seen him, and she had yet to find an excuse to return to Metz and give it back.

It would have to be after the festival.

Elise and Morgaine were bound for a town named Waldheim. The famed gathering was a woodland escapade that witches held at every change of season. This was the one for spring, and it was, in Morgaine’s words, an excuse to do as witches pleased. Elise was told it was called the First Bloom and that she could pack as lightly as she liked. She had her suspicions about Morgaine’s lack of packing, but she hadn’t dared to ask a thing, knowing full well that sometimes it was better to remain blissfully ignorant than to be frightened beforehand.

The closer Elise grew to Morgaine, the more fascinating she found the witch. It was a wonder to see a woman who carried herself as if rules did not apply to her. It was an even greater wonder how she had managed to avoid being stabbed for it.