Page 5

Chapter Two

P resent Day

Serena could not believe her own rotten luck.

Of all days for the rabbits to invade, trample, and eviscerate her garden, it had to be today, right on the heels of one of the worst storms the village had seen this year. A storm that had almost uprooted her entire vegetable garden and done some minor damage to her roof.

She glared at the whiskered faces of the perpetrators feasting on her beautiful yellow blooms, the poor, ravaged flowers hanging from their greedy little mouths.

“The book said rabbits are repelled by marigolds,” she complained. “Either the author had never planted a flower in their life or you greedy little urchins will truly eat anything!”

The rabbits, not understanding human tongue, made no response, which only served to irritate her further. She tried to look as imposing as she could, hoping for just a little glimpse of rabbit shame at having ruined her precious flowers.

Unfortunately, even small woodland critters weren’t much impressed when the imposing figure in question yelling at them was a slight girl with long pink locks and thin round spectacles.

Throwing her hands up in the air, she stormed away, wishing the villagers of Glenn could see her now; the ‘witch’ of Primrose Cottage brought low by pink-nosed rabbits.

Stepping into her home, she took another turn around the lower floor, checking if the storm had created any leaks in the rooms. Luckily, everything was intact, and most importantly, there was no water damage in the study.

She was quite sure her aunt would have returned to haunt her if anything happened to her precious books.

Blinking away the tears that appeared in her eyes at the thought of Aunt Maeve, Serena focused her attention to the other issue at hand.

Her mother’s letter burnt a hole in her pocket, the terse yet polite words stinging like fresh cuts on wounds that had never gotten a chance to heal.

Serena Rose,

Your brother tells me you refuse to answer his letters or listen to reason. Please stop acting so stubborn and come home. It has been six months, there is nothing left for you to wrap up anymore. You know you cannot keep living there alone indefinitely. There’s a young man in the village—

That was where she had stopped reading. There were few things she liked less than her mother trying to marry her off to any man she considered even slightly eligible.

Having Mama trick her into meeting a few of them was exactly why she was not answering her family’s letters or following up on her promise to visit.

It wasn’t that the men themselves were horrible. They were for the most part decent looking, and apart from one—whose views on women healers was, to put it mildly, absolutely archaic—they were nice enough.

But Serena wanted love.

She wanted passion, she wanted to be swept off her feet.

She wanted a love that was worth dying for, a love that was based on friendship, and passion, and soul rendering romance.

Her entire childhood had been spent with her nose stuck in every fairytale book she could get her hands on, a habit that her aunt had encouraged as she grew well into her teens.

Sometimes she dreamt of him. A faceless stranger who was kind, charming and the perfect gentleman. One who would shower her with words of poetry and look at her with adoration in his eyes. They would meet and just know; it would be magical and electric and warm all at once.

And most of all she wanted someone who understood why she chose to stay here in this old cottage rather than go to the city like her brothers. Someone who understood that she wanted more than what her family did.

She looked around at her home, warm and cozy as it had been that night she had packed her bags and arrived on her aunt’s doorstep with a broken heart and a determined air.

There had been no questions to pry about the specifics of what had happened, and for that Serena had been grateful.

For two years, she had lived with her aunt, both of them basking in each other’s company.

Everything had been almost perfect, until that day she had found her aunt pale-faced in her bed, her eyes closed for the final time.

Trying not to fall apart at the memory, Serena sank into her favorite armchair by the fire.

The armchair that Aunt Maeve joked had a Serena-shaped indent in it because of the many hours she stayed there curled up with a book.

Chest aching with bittersweet love for her aunt, Serena drew a blanket around her shoulders, the heat of the fire making her even drowsier than usual.

It was not quite winter yet, but fall had spread its crimson wings, weaving a chill into the air. A soft drizzle started outside, the pitter-patter of the rain a cozy accompaniment to the fire crackling in the hearth.

Staring at the weaving flames, she played her favorite game of imagining the flames as elegant fire spirits, dancing to keep her hearth warm. Aunt Maeve used to say the fire always burnt brighter when Serena was around and while that was impossible, it never failed to make her smile regardless.

Her vision almost blurred due to the intensity of her gaze, as she imagined the fire spirits dancing a dance that was deadlier, more beautiful. A dance that would burn through firewood and the hearth, setting loose its heat until the fire devoured everything in its path.

And then, just for a second, she saw a figure in the flames.

A beautiful woman, tall and lithe with wildflowers in the fiery hair that fell to her feet. She looked right at Serena, and her lips stretched in a feline smile, beckoning her forward.

Serena cried out, her heart threatening to jump out of her chest.

In an instant the woman disappeared, leaving her to wonder if she had been hallucinating.

“For the last time, Mrs Claymore,” said Serena patiently. “You are not dying of the plague. There has not been a plague in this kingdom for the last one hundred years.”

The portly matron gave an affronted sniff.

“Well, your medicine hasn’t been making my affliction any better,” she complained.

“Have you been taking it every day, twice?”

“Well…not every day.”

She could feel a headache coming on. Normally, she was proud of her work, her tonics had cured many a villager of otherwise deadly ailments. Serena was also the only remaining healer in Glenn, a fact that meant they were desperate enough to come to her, despite viewing her with a wary gaze.

One of these villagers was Edith Claymore, who was one of her regular visitors. Edith was always convinced that she had contracted some deadly disease and this week it was a fatal strain of plague, which was really just the slightest of colds.

“How about this, you try taking the tonic the way I have asked you for two weeks. If it still does not work, I promise I will brew you something stronger.”

The older woman nodded stiffly, before getting up and marching out of her makeshift clinic in the town square without so much as a thank you or goodbye.

Serena didn’t take it personally though; morbid curiosity brought a lot of people to her practice, a practice that had grown exponentially when the town found itself without any alternatives.

A shadow fell across the table and she looked up to see the face of the one person in this village that did concern her.

Reverend Erikkson.

The new town preacher stood in front of her, his face the usual mask of cold piety.

“Reverend.” she said politely, “Can I help you with anything?”

“I just thought I would check in on how you are doing,” he said with his usual self important air, “It must be hard for you, a lone female living alone in that cottage.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Dreadfully sorry about your loss, your aunt was not a believer but I shall pray for her soul regardless.”

She did not like the insinuation that her aunt’s soul needed some kind of salvation.

They came from the city, these men with their religious tomes, and their pompous joyless countenances, fooling the villagers with their fancy speeches and talks of a higher purpose, trying to wring every drop they could from the village folks’ hard-earned money.

But Reverend Erikson was the worst. At first, she had dismissed him to be the same as any of the peacocks that strutted around town in their black robes, but she had quickly learnt that the reverend had a dangerous kind of charm that attracted an almost feverish kind of worship, especially amongst the lads.

Many a time she had passed by him in the town square surrounded by starry eyed youth who looked at him in awe and reverence as he droned on about the evils of temptresses who ensnared innocent men with their womanly wiles .

It would do her no good to make an enemy of the reverend however, so she chose to simply incline her head in the barest of nods, hoping her disinterest would make him leave.

It did not.

“You have such unique hair,” he murmured, the look in his eyes making her feel too exposed, “I wonder, how did you come about having such locks?”

“A fairy blessed me in the cradle,” she replied, trying to sound as blasé as she could.

“Careful, Miss Rose. Talk of fairies is dangerous in such troubled times. But do not worry, I’m sure if you repent now, God will forgive your witchcraft.”

“There is no witchcraft going on here, Reverend.”

“No?” he questioned, “Then how do you explain all these potions, the way your remedies work quicker than any healer I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s called being good at what you do.” remarked Serena, her heart thumping at the undercurrent of threat in his words.

If the Reverend decided to accuse her of magic and witchcraft, she would have no choice but to leave Glenn.

It was not a forgiving time in Lumina, and his words could easily invoke the ire of the villagers.

“Are you sure? If you would like to confess, I am always willing to lend an ear.”