“I doubt that.” A bored sigh escapes me as a plate of butterbrot catches my eye. I reach for a slice, not realizing how starved I am, only to have my hand slapped with a wooden spoon.
“What is this?” Her voice reaches an octave short of explosion. She points the spoon handle at my arm, jabbing at my bloodstained sleeve. “Have you been fighting?”
Before I can make something up, she is in a full rant, sending the rest of the kitchen staff scurrying out of her way. “Don’t let your father see this. You know as well as I do he doesn’t condone fighting. You’re supposed to be respectable.”
This is Cook’s usual speech—how I am an Electorate in training. I am a member of Eltz’s regal Guard. I have no business exploring what lies beyond our land, no reason to venture out and show the world the man I am becoming, or try to prove anything else. Who I am should be plenty enough proof to anyone wishing to inquire.
“Well?” she asks, not taking silence for an answer. “Where were you?”
“I went to the village today. I was bored.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Cook is not in a good mood this evening. I shove a piece of the bread into my mouth and wipe my lips against my sleeve, earning myself another glare.
She clucks her tongue against her teeth as she inspects my arm, and I am silent, watching to see if I somehow missed a mark on my skin. Was the light in the forest dim enough that I only
believed
Rune had healed me? Cook finds nothing that will explain the blood, and she drops my arm in disgust.
“Someone else’s, then? You’d better clean up and change your shirt. And be quick about it; your father is waiting for you.”
“Is he…?”
“Angry with you?” Her eyes widen. “I would say he is, and mind you to be respectful for once. He’s had some bad news.” She begins to sniffle. “We all have.”
The other servants avoid my eyes. Cook is on the verge of crying. She can be emotional; she can be overbearing, but breaking down in front of everyone is not like her, and my stomach sinks, wondering what I missed today while I was off in the village. I can’t help thinking that my family has grown one less, and I peer around the corner into the neighboring room to see my father at the table with his head in his hands.
How he will handle another death in our family? How will it be with just the two of us now? I’m his only heir, his only company. Will it heal what’s fallen apart between us, or drive a deeper wedge?
“Father,” I say softly, approaching the table. The Weisswurst on his plate is untouched. It looks cold, and I wonder if he has been waiting for a son he thought would never return. He looks up at me, finally. I see how the lines around his eyes have deepened. I see the slump of his shoulders, and how he doesn’t bother to hide it.
I kneel at his feet. “Is she…?”
My father pushes his chair out, and before I can rise, his hand comes crashing across my face. My eyes sting with the force of his slap.
“How dare you not call for me when the bishop arrived.”
“Father, I didn’t want to disturb you. I only thought…”
“You have no right to think, especially when it comes to business that is mine, not yours. You are not Electorate yet, merely a boy pretending to fill shoes that are much too large.”
His words are cruel, lashing harder than the strike across my face. Words cannot describe the look in his eyes, yet I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I know I made a terrible mistake when I chose not to tell him of the bishop’s visit. Even later, when I had the chance to, I didn’t, wanting to let the bishop’s words sit with me to try and understand what it was he was really telling me. I was surprised to learn the bishop believes a witch is at work, how he thinks it will cause the other half of society to fall. Does my father believe this as well? That is why I couldn’t go to him. I have no idea what my father thinks, or what he wishes to hide from me.
I step away, out of his reach. “I was only thinking of sparing you one less concern. I planned on telling you about it at dinner tonight.”
“For which you are late.” The look on my father’s face disturbs me. This is not the face of a man mourning a dead wife. My assumptions have been wrong.
He takes his finger and points, with an exaggerated flip, at my coat. “Burn these outside. Pyrmont is gone, and I don’t want Eltz to be next. For all I know, you could have picked up every disease known to man in that despicable village.”
“Despicable?” He’s never spoken of Württemberg, or any other village for that matter, as despicable. “How do you know where I’ve been?”
My father looks at me and my cheek stings in anticipation of his hand.
“I make it a point to know
everything
. That’s what it means to be Electorate—something you are far from understanding, it appears. I’m sure the people of Württemberg didn’t appreciate your visit as much as you’d like to think they did. Can you imagine, the Electorate’s son bringing contagion to their homes? Did you ever think what this could do to the alliances we’ve made?”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t have.” But it’s a possibility that I could be a carrier. I took it upon myself to step inside the small, rundown home of Anna and her mother. The inside was filthy. But I am certain the news of Plague hadn’t spread yet. If it had, the entire village would have been hiding behind closed doors, not mulling around the streets.
“We are closer to Pyrmont than the village,” my father says. “We are at a greater risk than they are. You don’t think ahead, my son. You never have.”
My father turns away from me, leaving me with angry words that bite and kick from the outside in.
“The Prince Bishop has been at the cathedral all day, praying for the souls that have fallen to this pestilence. He’s in need of a messenger to spread word of the epidemic to Württemberg to warn them. Since it seems to be a place you’re suddenly fond of, I’ve sent word that you will be his messenger.”
I remember the bishop’s carriage. If the town was already contagious, would the bishop chance being there? And what of the witch bottle? Is the bishop taking his own precautions?
“You have no choice but to honor me and do as I say. You will return to the village tomorrow, deliver the message, and leave immediately. And then you will promise me not to visit there again.”
I stare down at my boots, knowing I cannot disobey him. Not now. “Yes, Father.”
He tosses his napkin across the platter of untouched food and turns to leave. “One more thing.” He faces me with a measured expression. “The bishop wishes to pray for your soul and a swift journey tomorrow. I suggest you repay the favor and pray tonight.”
I draw a sharp breath into my lungs. “You know I don’t pray, father.”
“Then pray for your stepmother, and pray for us, that we make it through this dark time. Pray for your safety and quick return. The bishop believes the epidemic will spread to the village more quickly than we think. He seems to believe there is a distinct possibility it will bypass Eltz altogether.”
The bishop’s words are nonsense, but I can’t reveal that to my father, who is more faithful than I am. The bishop believes the church saves souls only if they are noble and worthy. What of the others? Who calculates the worth of their souls? Must they be wealthy and high-born to deserve that chance?
Perhaps returning to Württemberg will prove to be worthwhile, because there I will be among those who have souls whose worth is in doubt, and I wonder if I will find mine among them.
Chapter 16
Rune
I
am far from the boundaries of my home, but I am not far away enough yet, and though my muscles burn for rest, I will not stop.
“Please, Sacred Mother, please give me the strength to keep on.”
I follow the stream weaving along the ground. It widens and narrows in places I have trouble following, twisting away from my feet as I shuffle behind its course, sometimes disappearing altogether. When that happens, I panic. I force myself to stand still and will it to come back to me. It always listens.
Until now.
The stream has vanished. It has faded into the deep, dark ground, and I cannot find where it surfaces again. I drop to my hands and knees, clawing at the earth, feeling the damp moss to see if my fingers drip with excess moisture. Perhaps the water has gone too far under for me to follow. Perhaps I am truly on my own. It hurts to pull myself to my feet, but I manage, and stand peering into the thick copse of trees that surrounds me, listening for the sound of trickling water. There is nothing but silence.
The forest is so dreadfully dark here as I pace, but I can see the large circular arc my footsteps have traced. It reminds me of the circle Matilde cast the night she told me about my mother. She asked the elements to guard me. Will they still do so, or have they left me?
I create a starting point with my eye, then begin walking to the left of it.
Widdershins
. The last thing I need is negative energy entering the circle. When I am through, I step inside, tracing a line in the dirt to close myself within.
I have nothing to offer the Sacred Mother, but hope the acorn will do. I pull it from the bag, placing it on a rock in the center of the circle, in a sliver of pale moonlight that cuts between the branches. I doubt very much the little acorn will do anything substantial, but if it is meant to nourish then I figure it might be of some value to give it up.
From my pocket, I pull out the remaining treasures I’d found by the cottage. I hold the little brown button up to the sky. “This is all I have to offer you—please accept it. May this button bind me to the earth and keep me steady. May this spoon carve a path for me to find safety.”
I don’t know what else to say, and fear I am not doing a very good job at my first witch circle. My voice sounds silly and trite. I feel very foolish holding the button and spoon. Even the acorn looks pathetic as I peer down at it from between my extended arms.
I am a witch, I am a witch, I am a witch
, I think to myself.
I wait a few moments. Nothing happens. There is no spark of light. No feeling of tremendous warmth like the other night when Matilde invoked Fire. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. Fire spoke to me that night, but I have no fire here, and no means to make one. Defeated, I settle myself to the ground, sulking.
“The Sacred Mother won’t help me,” I whisper out loud, hearing how my voice grates against the night. It echoes and surrounds me like a pulse that is much too loud for the stillness. “She’s turned away from me.”
You will never be alone, daughter of mine…
I am tempted to answer her, but that would mean I am accepting her, and I can’t yet. I’ve grown up fearing her, much like I still do. When the air circles and stirs behind me, I know it’s her. Dry leaves take flight and gather around me, rising into a tower, then falling to the ground just outside the circle. Even the wind will not enter it. I must have done something wrong.
“Why won’t you let me be?” I ask into the darkness. “Why must it be
now
that you follow me?”
You need me, daughter…
“I will never need you.”
Ah, but you do…
The walk has been so terribly exhausting and lonely—it’s no wonder I am fighting with the voices inside my head. Strange—after living in the forest my entire life, it is here, alone, that my senses have become heightened. I can hear and feel more keenly than I ever have before. This is no longer the Black Forest I know. This is a strange new world waiting to engulf me, and I don’t know if I am ready for it.
I kick at the ground and break the circle.
The tree boughs above me reach for one another, creating a thick impenetrable fence much denser than the hedge near the village. There is no wind, and I should be curious how the trees move without it, but I am sore. I am weary. It seems my legs will no longer cooperate with the rest of my body. Then there is a sound at my feet, and I am stunned to find the little stream has returned. It is no wider than my arm, and barely a trickle that seems content enough to disappear beneath the thick root of a tree just a few yards in front of me. I look behind me at my makeshift altar. The button and spoon are gone. Even the acorn.
Tired, I look up and rub my eyes. The wide trunk is gnarled in such a way it appears to have steps carved into it. I know I am seeing things that are not quite real or explainable, but I am in the Black Forest, and I have just made a bargain with the Sacred Mother. I am a witch.
I mutter a thank you to remain in the Mother’s good graces and climb the trunk to a strange, flat platform made of wide branches. It is layered with fine needles that are soft to the touch, not prickly or pointy, and I settle myself upon them, resting within the crook of the great tree. Here I am completely hidden from the ground below, if someone were to come looking for me. I pray that if someone is searching, they’ll assume I died in the fire that consumed the cottage. Where else would I be? Realistically, would a girl my age run off into the forest at nightfall?
This forest
? And would anyone really come after me?
My hand reaches out to separate the boughs, and I peek out into the vast darkness. Nothing that resembles a lantern or torch comes my way—nothing bobbing with light, no shouts from trackers. I am safe. For now. But for how long, I have no idea.
And then the tears come in waves, beginning in my chest, heaving their way up to my throat where they become stuck. I curl in on myself, missing Matilde, seeing her execution as vividly in my mind as if I were in the square watching it all over again. “I am a terrible girl,” I say to myself. I half-hope I fall out of the tree. I half-hope the villagers come find me and whisk me away.
I deserve nothing less.
Chapter 17
Laurentz
L
ast evening, after my father left the table, I wandered outside. I found myself at the mouth of the forest, looking intently on the ground for moss. All I could find were dead pine needles, brown lichen, and wild fern. At one point during the night I sat up in my bed and stared at my arm. I know the thorns had scraped it. I’d felt their sting. There’d been blood to prove it, yet there is no mark. It leaves me without explanation. Was the moss’ cure medicinal, or was it more than that? Was this the work of a witch, such as the bishop had warned me of? Had I indeed been bewitched by Rune?