Page 2

“Have her bring the payment by tomorrow night.” I dropped a spoonful of Mother’s herbs into the cleanest spotted cup I could find and poured the boiling water over them. An earthy smell rose with the steam as I handed her the cup. She shakily grabbed hold, causing some of the remedy to slosh over the rim and splatter her threadbare shawl.

My task completed, I ached to leave, but as usual she couldn't resist a listening ear, however unwilling the victim of her rambles was. “People keep urging me to stop buying from you, tell me to purchase from the apothecary instead where the herbs are untouched by magic.” She sipped the grainy liquid, now a putrid green. “They call you a witch and say you do magic.”

I gritted my teeth as I glanced at my unassuming hands. In the shadowy light they appeared entirely ordinary, with no remaining traces of the magic they’d recently performed.

“But I always tell them—magic or not, nothing soothes my aches and pains like that witch's herbs.” She grinned toothlessly.

“I don't grow them,” I said, my heart in my throat. “It’s my mother who—”

Her raspy cackle pierced the dusty air. “Ah, the phantom mother no one has ever seen. Poor orphan girl.”

She patted my arm and I recoiled from her bony fingers. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting.

"There are such rumors swirling around about you. Can you really do magic, girlie?”

My stomach jolted and I was sure even her near-deaf ears could hear my pounding heart. “Magic doesn't exist.”

“Humph, just as I thought, everyone is getting their apron strings in a twist over nothing. You can’t go anywhere without encountering superstitious nonsense. In my day, folks paid no heed to such gibberish. Even Charlotte’s head is full of gossipy rubbish. Why, just the other day she went on about a ridiculous story involving you and a fire you supposedly caused…”

Only half listening, I sidled to her nearest bookshelf, packed to the brim with the “superstitious nonsense” she claimed to abhor. Whenever forced to come here, I always tried to sneak a peek at the village’s largest selection of books on legends in hopes of discovering more information about my abnormality. Caught up in her story, the old lady didn’t notice as I started searching.

“I told Charlotte she’s been hoodwinked by such rumors,” she continued, her speech slurring. “Herbs from your imaginary mother’s garden are the only remedies for my aching back; whether or not they’re magical doesn’t concern me. After all, the legends claim magic is responsible for many wonderful things—the changing of seasons, our crops, healing…”

Supernatural legends had always been part of my village. All dealt with magic in one form or another—tales of enchantresses and wizards, fables which explained the workings of nature, even stories about beings who resided in the sky and created our dreams.

The tiresome rambling blessedly paused, and soon soft, nasally snores punctuated the silence. Finally, the old bitty was asleep.

I’d yearned for a closer look at these books from the moment the old lady became Mother’s only devoted customer for her frequent ailments. I’d spent hours perusing the shelves in the bookshop downstairs for any legends on magic. The small tidbits of information I’d gleaned over the years were all vague, secondhand accounts pieced together by those without the remotest comprehension of the art of magic. But this private collection still remained mostly unexplored.

The drapes were drawn, so I borrowed the lantern resting on the end table and lifted it to better see the faded titles. These volumes appeared different than the ones I’d already browsed countless times. Many were written in foreign languages, some so ancient they hadn’t been spoken for hundreds of years. I pulled a few out whose crumbling spines rendered their titles unreadable, but a quick glance at their contents revealed none were what I needed.

Time slipped away as I rummaged amongst the shelves, but nothing new had materialized since last week’s visit. Perhaps no magic guide existed; surely anything of that nature had long since been destroyed during the witch hunt two centuries ago. I was just about to give up ever finding anything that would help me unlock the mysteries of my powers when I spotted a volume blending into the shadowy shelf, as if hiding from prying eyes. I leaned closer to make out the title.

The Study of Magic Use Within Legends. I grinned. Perfect. I soundlessly slid the book from the shelf and cracked it open, but my heart quickly sank as I thumbed through the yellowing pages.

The first section was a recorded history of magical use in the surrounding villages, particularly of witches who had been captured. A chapter on how to discern witches followed—purple eyes and lilac hair were not listed, but its absence did little to alleviate my constant fear concerning my abnormal appearance. The next section provided a list of foolproof safety measures villagers could use to protect themselves from curses, all of which were ridiculous, particularly the habitual carrying of a stone—plucked from a river flowing east during a full moon—in the right pocket.

I continued skimming. Surelysomethingin here would prove useful. Was I really the only possessor of magic who’d ever lived in this town? Didn’t they have a section onhowa witch used their powers? But there was nothing—no “how to” sections, no interviews with a witch prior to her execution, no discovered letters written from a witch to an apprentice, no observations from witnesses who’d caught a witch performing magic. This was nothing more than a useless tome compiled by people with a magic phobia.

Just as I was about to return the book to its shelf, a sentence in Chapter Seven: “Witches’ Wiles and Ways” leapt off the page:It is believed all witches possess a magical source, which they draw upon to perform their spells. I flipped to the next page in hopes of elaboration, but that was it. I gnawed my lip. Magical source? What did that mean? And how could I get one?

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. I froze, my heartbeat quickening. Murmurs drifted from the stairwell. I stuffed the book into my bag just as the intruders reached the landing.

Charlotte had returned, accompanied by Alice. Their cheerful conversation immediately ceased when they noticed me hovering near the old lady’s shelves.

“What are you doing here?” Charlotte shakily demanded. “Why are you rummaging through our books?”

The book I’d snatched burned guiltily in my bag. “Your grandmother asked me to get a book down for her.”

Charlotte glanced at the old lady, still snoozing in her chair. “Did you steal anything?”

The old lady jolted awake with a curse. She blinked drowsily before squinting towards the stairway and smiling. “You’re home, dear. Girlie here just dropped off some of her herbs for my back. You know how that crick of mine has been acting up lately.”

Charlotte’s suspicious frown warned me that a confrontation loomed ahead; now was the time to escape. But halfway to the safety of the stairwell I spotted it: a marigold-yellow dream floating right behind Charlotte’s head. Now several hours old, it was faded and small and definitely not worth viewing, especially in front of witnesses. I tore my gaze away, but its presence tickled my constantly simmering curiosity: what was the dream about?

“Did you drink what she gave you?” Charlotte seized the old lady’s empty tea cup and examined it, as if searching for leftover traces of poison. “I’ve told you over and over not to buy any of her herbs. They’re not safe.”

“Hogwash,” the old lady tittered. “They’re the only thing that soothes my aching back.”