Page 55 of Song of the Hell Witch

Twenty-Eight

The knock came right when she needed it—until she realized it could be Puck and broke into a nervous sweat.

“Who is it?” she shouted at the door.

“Who do you want it to be?” Mari teased. “I bring apple wine … and friends.”

“Your best friend being one of them?”

“Come and gone. He’s out exploring the garden with his daughter.”

Come and gone? How did I not hear him?

He’s a thief, Pru. He’s always been stealthy.

In her bare feet, she bounded over to the door and cracked it open. There was Mari, holding two bottles of amber-colored wine—and Florence and Rita, cradling two loaves of bread and a cheese board, respectively.

She looked at Florence first. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to—”

“I’m not going to hold her death against you,” Florence said with a shrug. “Not forever, anyway. And what better way to chase away animosity than bread, cheese, and conversation?”

“Can’t argue with that.” Pru gave her the kindest smile she could muster in a half-fastened dress. “Come on in, just … can one of you help me with this?”

Rita pushed her way to the front of the line, gasping as she took in the sight of her.

Pru had chosen the silver dress with its taffeta skirt and burned-velvet overlay, something she never would have worn as Frederick’s wife.

It was everything she’d ever wanted in a dress, gorgeous and unique, but if she’d worn something like this to one of the Silk dinners or galas, it would only have stirred suspicion that much more.

The delicate velvet designs resembled the runes vagabonds often carried with them, echoes of their Druid ancestors and the means they’d used to commune with the Dark Mother’s spirits.

The gown’s bodice, covered in the same runes, fit snugly against her ribs but still gave her the ability to breathe with ease—though she wasn’t sure how true that would be once Rita got the buttons done.

Mari stood in the doorway, smiling all proud.

“What?” Pru asked as Rita tugged the bodice closed. Still breathing, she noted as the gorgon’s fingers climbed higher.

“You told us once that all you wanted was to wear fancy dresses and know you were important to people,” Mari said. “Do you remember that?”

She did. It was the night they’d celebrated her first birthday as a River Rat. Puck had asked her what she wanted most in the world, and that was what she’d said.

“Not sure about the second part, though,” she said as Rita finished with the buttons.

“All right, you’re fishing now.” Mari lifted the bottles into the air. “Let’s drink!”

For what felt like hours, they lost themselves in giggles, chatter, and cheese.

They talked about everything and nothing, about Rita’s assorted love affairs across three different continents, about Florence’s fascination with poisons and antidotes, about the adventures Mari and Pru had shared as children—and all the things Pru had missed after she’d left.

“Still never managed to run into anything that did it, though.” Mari was deep in her cups by then, her eyes cloudy with drink as she tilted her head back on the chaise.

Pru threaded her fingers through her friend’s thick, black curls, cursing herself.

She’d minded her own glass, careful not to spoil herself before dinner.

But Mari … “I never understood it. You spend a childhood being shamed for who you are, getting stoned and spat at and threatened and yet, hello! Here I am, Marigold Wood. Always the supporting actress, never the Hell Witch or heroine.”

“You think being a Hell Witch makes you more of heroine?” Pru snorted at her. “Mari, don’t be ridiculous.”

“ You’re ridiculous.”

“No, she’s not,” Florence said from her place on the armchair, where she and Rita sat practically knotted together.

“Everyone seems to think people with power are the important ones, but we’re just people .

We can be just as cowardly or brave as anyone else.

I guarantee you, you coming with me when I took Bea here saved her life.

You kept her calm. Sang her songs, told her stories.

All that kept her stable to get her to Naomi.

And that took serious courage, ’cause after what I did to Puck, I wouldn’t have traveled with me. But you did it. For that little girl.”

“Yeah, but I’d die for that little girl.” Mari took the last sip of her wine.

“Well, see then, that proves it.” Pru bent low and kissed the top of her forehead. “Heroine.”

Mari twisted her glass between her fingers. “I want it, though. You lot don’t know what it feels like, to want something so bad. To need it. ’Cause if it happened, then it would prove … it would …” Tears began to glisten in her eyes.

“You’ve got absolutely nothing to prove, you hear me?

” Pru’s heart was a bruise, each pulse more painful than the next.

She didn’t know what it would take to convince her friend that she owed the world nothing.

Or that thousands upon thousands of women, women fortunate enough to be born in the bodies they belonged in, never became Hell Witches— Daughters, Pru, we’re Spectabra Daughters —and that didn’t make them any less of a woman than she was.

“You are Marigold Wood. You always have been. And you always will be, whether you hear the tune or not. You can’t tell yourself the only way you’re going to be happy is when you change, because when isn’t guaranteed.

And trust me, being this way? It’s not everything you think it is. ”

“Say it louder so she really hears it.” Rita finished off her own glass. “You are a strong, beautiful woman, Mari. Don’t let anyone—yourself included—tell you different.”

The room fell into a cold silence that burrowed down into her bones.

Mari munched on the last of the cheese, a lump of Visage burriera infused with braceberry wine, tart and sweet.

Florence and Rita exchanged glances, and Pru wasn’t sure if they were thinking about abandoning her or contemplating a change in subject.

And then, finally, Mari cleared her throat. “Do you know what? I think I want to wear that wine-red dress tonight, Rita. The one Hetty wore the night she and Flossie killed those pirates who took out that fishing village.”

“Ah yes. What a time that was.” Smiling at the memory, Florence forced herself to stand. “Well, if we’re gonna get you into that thing, we probably need to head to the east wing. Won’t be long before Chef rings that dinner bell.”

“Who exactly cooks this dinner?” Pru asked, nervous that they would run into that Giselle character again—that she might poison Puck’s plate if given half a chance.

“Her name’s Millie,” Florence replied as she and Rita linked arms, preparing to head out the door. “Poor thing had a real brute of a husband. He cut her tongue out when she talked back to him, so she served him a poisoned pie and found her way here. Now she speaks through her food.”

“And she’s a sorceress with spices,” Rita added. “You’ll love everything, trust me!” She pointed to her own chest as she eyed Pru’s necklace. “Are you sure you want to wear that pendant, Pru? The gold clashes with the silver in the dress.”

Out of habit, Pru gripped the stone between her fingers, then smiled. “I never take it off.”

“Hm. Curious,” Rita said, but Mari, preparing to follow them out, gave her a wink.

Pru caught her hand before she reached the door. She wasn’t sure what to say, what to do. All she knew was that she couldn’t let her leave without saying or doing something , one last thing to make her understand she was perfect exactly the way she was.

She pulled her into a hug. Mari squeezed tight—the first real hug she’d given Pru since they’d found each other again.

They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to.

Mari pushed back from her, a grateful grin on her face.

The pain surrounding Pru’s heart dulled, and then the anxiety returned, and the hummingjay pulse with it.

Like she could feel it herself, Mari clasped Pru’s hand tight and pressed her forehead to hers.

“He’s gonna trip over himself, by the way.”

Pru cocked a brow. “Who says that’s my goal?”

“No one. But he fell in love with the awkward baby bird you were, so once he sees this absolute goddess, there’s a good chance his head spins right off his shoulders.”

She stared down at her feet, almost embarrassed by the compliment. “I’m not a goddess.”

“Look at me.” Mari hooked her finger under her chin and tilted her head up.

“You are a woman of Leora. And if you want me to believe everything you just said, then you have to believe what I’m saying.

We’re all goddesses.” With a flourish of her hand, she flicked Pru lightly on the nose. “We just have to remember.”

Dinner was a marvel. The Ladies had decorated the table with sprigs of evergreen trees, braceberries, and the red leaves the ghostwood trees shed in the first of autumn.

Apostletide was still a moon and a half away, but the halls felt cozy and festive, and Pru wondered if the Ladies were celebrating the seasonal transition the way her mother used to, asking for a blessing from the Dark Mother.

The chef had prepared some kind of tenderloin, glazed in brown sugar and vinegar, and the sweet tang warred pleasantly on Pru’s tongue. She was careful to cut her green beans before taking a bite and did her best not to shovel the wild garlic potatoes into her mouth.

Puck, on the other hand, ate more like a beast than a man, ignoring some of the more questioning looks from around the table.

Pru elbowed him in the side, and he glanced at her, confused.

“You look like a wolf digging into a stag,” she whispered, doing her best to make it sound playful rather than judgmental.

“And you look like a princess.” He set down the remnants of his last piece of tenderloin, which he’d taken to eating with his fingers. “Sorry. I’m just starving . And not like normal starving, like … it’s like there’s a hole in me, and I can’t get it filled.”