Page 1 of The Witch’s Fate (The Lunaterra Chronicles #13)

IDALIS

S ome say it’s dreadful, but I love my life.

My days in the meadow usually take on a similar shape.

In the summertime, I rise early in the morning because the land rises early.

The song of the birds is my wake-up call.

That’s the best time of day to tend my garden beds.

Weeding in the heat of the afternoon is asking to become ill from too much sun, even if you do have magic. The morning sun is much better.

When I’m finished, I might walk to the small pond at the edge of the forest closest to my house and bathe.

Then I have a bite to eat and bake bread, and finish any work left from the day before.

With a flick of my hand the pages turn, and I read a bit in the warmth of the sun.

Though I’ve already read my small collection of books many times over, a new book every so often comes my way and I enjoy the studies as much as the adventures.

New spells come to me, and I refine them as much as I can before I write them down for anyone else to see.

My grimoire is full of scribbles, but the papers I submit are proper and complete.

Although I substitute some concoctions so no one may reverse the much-needed remedies.

My magic is powerful and yet, so often, I feel at peace in the quiet and lonesome. I look forward to long days of a gentle breeze and a divine sunset.

It’s not quite summer yet, but it has been a warm spring, and I look forward to what is coming…no matter how unfortunate others claim my life to be. They know not of what a sanctuary it has become, they know only of why the powerful witch lives by herself and why no others join me.

There is almost no chill in the wind anymore as I go about my late spring routine, yearning for more warmth and the life it brings. Soon it will be high summer, with the crickets singing in the grasses of the field and late sunsets and those early, early mornings.

In the wintertime, I go to see if I’ve received any letters when the suns are highest. I don’t care for the cold much but thankfully the winter is the shortest of seasons where I reside.

Now, in the spring, I wait until the warmest part of the day is fading into late afternoon before I cross the field to the box where letters manifest themselves.

A courier from the closest village leaves mail for me in a faraway land.

A spell I cast years ago allows the letters to find themselves here.

They call me a recluse, but I consider myself careful.

After what happened, I take no risks, and my life is all I’ve ever wanted… mostly.

The ground beneath my feet is warm as I cross the field barefoot.

The tall grass tickles my ankles and my thin linen dress drags behind me.

Surely it will be dirty at its hem from the travels, but I love the way it feels, the way the wind blows back the sheer material.

It reminds me of other times when I danced with my sisters under the full moon. Sisters who are no more.

When I’m tending to the gardens, I wear a straw hat to hide from the rays, but I take it off and let it swing from my fingers on my walk. A simple flick and the hat twirls beside me following the path I gave it.

The box is at the edge where the field meets the trees.

A crossroads was needed, and nature provided it for me only a mile or so from my cottage.

It’s near the path that leads to the clearing but not across it.

My house is visible from this part of the path, but only at a distance, and if you’re not looking, you probably won’t notice.

No one ventures here though. Not for years.

Not since my request to Chamberlain Colson.

I’m grateful it was granted, but had it not been, I would have cast a shadow and hid there.

I turn my back on that small glimpse of my home, its thatched roof, wisteria growing up the side of the chimney, and light blue shutters accenting a dark blue door, and then approach the letter box.

Even from a distance, the Canterbury bells and roses are visible, and if I focus and allow the noise to quiet beside me, I can vaguely scent the florals.

Sweet and light and providing a decadence most do not know they should wish for.

The box itself is sturdy, made of thick planks and four logs with a door in the upper half wide enough to fit the rare parcel that might come and not much else.

It took me weeks to build it, the magic was particular for such a long-distance physical manifestation.

Still I cast protective spells whenever I think of it.

The wooden door opens with a faint creak, and I peer inside, my heart skipping a beat.

There are three letters inside. Chills run down my arm and I know not why. My breath catches as if it is meaningful. Hesitantly, I pick them from the box.

Two of them are on cheap parchment—the kind any manner of people could acquire. Those who send wishes for me to aid them with magic and spells usually reuse each sheet and send letters on a narrow strip of parchment, and two of the letters are just that.

The third?—

Well, I doubt it is a letter at all, unless it’s a letter regarding something very important, simply because of the envelope.

The envelope is made of thick, creamy paper. There is a certain sheen to it even in the dim letter box. It has a smudge or two from being handled but still appears expensive and thoughtful. From here, I can see the ornate script writing on the front, though I can’t read it.

I straighten up and look in every direction around me. As far down the path as I can see. Across the field to my house. All around, then again.

There’s no one there, although I cannot shake this feeling about me.

Memories of a different time flicker in the back of my mind.

A time when letters such as this did not bring about so much unease.

A time when laughter joined the songs of the birds in the early morning. A time much different from this.

Yet now, though I cannot hear anyone nearby enough to see me, I feel watched.

I feel as though someone might be lying in wait to see how I react to the sight of this envelope.

What would they get out of such information?

What would they get out of knowing that I blinked at it, then blinked again, then finally double-checked to make sure the woods around me were empty?

Closing my eyes, I envision a bright white light encircling my home, growing broader and broader, encompassing the field, the path, and where I stand now.

I whisper, “I wish to be left in peace.” The light is pure; it protects me and there are no obstructions.

Letting out a breath, I invite the calm air to soothe what has come over me.

There is only me. Myself and the letter—which seems to be growing larger by the second.

With a final jerk of my hand, I pull out the envelope.

The writing on the front is elegant calligraphy, and my name is much smaller than the words that announce who it is from.

This must be an invitation. The calligraphy announces that this was sent from Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte.

I close the letter box and move back out of the trees, slipping the letters into the cream linen pocket purse tied around my waist. It’s slightly darker than the dress I wear, which is long and has wide sleeves that drape down my wrist. Nervously, I play with the hem as I venture back home.

The invitation drags toward the earth, weighing me down.

I know I cannot possibly be made to walk slower by a single envelope, but it certainly feels that way.

I focus my attention on the land around me as I cross the meadow, my dress brushing over the tops of new spring wildflowers and grasses that have already grown tall from the spring rains.

My cottage sits alone in a dip of the meadow on the other side from the letter box—not too close to the trees, but not so far from them that it feels too exposed.

Like me, the cottage is alone. For company, it has my small well and outdoor oven and the firepit, as well as my garden plots.

I added a small bench last summer. Although I believe I’ve only sat on it once and no one sat beside me.

I merely enjoy the idea of company and the aesthetic of such things so that those who have passed and yet have not passed may feel welcomed.

I detour to the garden beds, putting the invitation firmly out of my mind for the moment.

One power I’ve developed so well I barely have to try to conceptualize is growing edibles from a seed with ease.

Fruits and vegetables, whether from bushes, plants or trees.

It is no bother. At the closest garden bed, I kneel at the side of the tilled soil and brush my fingers over it, searching for the presence of seeds hidden below.

It’s been some time since I’ve tended this section.

It’s only a few moments before I find a seed, its life and future concentrated in a tiny patch in the earth.

Then I close my eyes and imagine setting that life free from its small vessel. I imagine what the seed—the small piece of the whole, in this case—will become.

What it will become is a sweet potato. I feel it growing under my fingers, pushing the soil around it as it grows, until finally I can stick my fingers into the soft dirt and pull it out. The soil falls delicately, revealing the plump morsel for me to take.

That is the feeling of life. Of sustenance. It will do nicely for my supper.

Once I’ve brushed the dirt from the potato, I head inside. A bird calls as I pull open the door and enter; my gaze takes a few moments to adjust to the dimmer light inside.