Page 5 of The Witch’s Fate (The Lunaterra Chronicles #13)

IDALIS

A s goosebumps spread down my arms, I remind myself, the howl of a wolf is nothing to be distressed about.

I live alone, and that means the woodland animals have nothing to be distressed about, either.

The deer are free to roam. The wolves are free to howl.

It is an unsettling sound so close to the cottage, but only because it had come as a surprise.

There is something different, something that causes the feelings of earlier to come back stronger.

My sleep should not be so restless. My heart should not be as wayward as it is.

I am as safe as a person can be in my cottage. I have cast protective spells many times over. The walls and doors are sturdy, and the shutters are strong enough to survive even the heaviest of storms. Magic roams in every corner of my home. I am so divinely protected, I know this, and yet…

Yet I wake several times in the night and lie there, listening for the sound of someone approaching. As if I know that is what is coming although it has never happened in the years I’ve been here.

As the hours drift away, there is no sound of steps that come. No one approaches. No one comes close to Athica, let alone my cottage. They did not come close when my coven was alive, either, out of respect or superstition or both.

I almost wish they were not superstitious. I almost wish they were not afraid.

But perhaps what they believe about me keeps me safe.

I fall into a night terror of what happened before so fast and hard that I did not know it until it was too late. After that, I lie awake, staring into the dark and trying to convince my heart to settle down.

I drift off into an uneasy sleep that does not last. Even my trick of closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep does nothing. I resent it when the world starts to wake up around me, with the first bird calls of the morning echoing across from the forest.

“Fine,” I grumble finally. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell the sky is lightening through the slim gaps in the curtains.

That is the danger of knowing my home so well, I suppose.

I’m so attuned to every change that I cannot ignore the stirring of the morning.

Whether I’m ready or not, it is coming, and it is only making me feel worse to lie in bed and try to force sleep that will not come.

So I push off the covers and stretch, long and luxurious, then step out of the bed as if I planned to be up this early and I’m not annoyed about the poor sleep I barely got.

There is no rush—I’m not going anywhere—so I stir up the fire and brew a pot of tea.

I throw open the curtains and watch what I can see of the sunrise, gradually soaking the fields in rich greens dotted with pinks and purples and yellows.

Beautiful colors. They have brought me so much joy in the past. I try to take that same joy in them now, but I do not feel much of it.

My mind wanders back to the invitation and disappointing the prince.

I had thought the tea would bring me calm, but it doesn’t. I tap my foot on the floor and breathe deeply and stretch—all things that would usually relieve this restless feeling.

No matter how many times I attempt to ground myself, sipping my tea and looking pointedly at the beauty outside my window, the feelings do not disappear.

Whose spirit is this? I do not like to think of such things as hauntings. The spirits may come and go as they please. It might even be comforting if some of my sisters returned in a spirit form to visit me.

This does not feel like being visited by a loved one.

It feels like loneliness, and the loneliness only gets worse.

The cottage, which has always been snug and clean and well cared for, feels oddly empty around me.

I have felt like this at times over the years since I lost my coven, but I never felt quite so…

small. The world outside has never felt so huge, seeming to stretch away from me forever.

Anything could be out there.

That has always been true, hasn’t it? It dawns on me as if so obvious, the unsettling feeling is longing. A part of my soul longs for more.

And if I wished—truly wished— I could be out there, too, farther than I’ve ever gone before. In a land where no one has ever heard of my coven. In a brand-new life that pretends it is whole and never lost anyone.

It’s only a human thing to believe that there is something better on the other side of the forest or just beyond the next hill. That we could run far enough to leave behind the pain of our pasts. Maybe, after so much time alone, I’m willing to believe that any other life would be better.

“Not true,” I whisper to the flowers, with the hot cup of tea in both hands and the warmth of its steam tickling my nose. “Not true. Look at you.”

I go about my morning routine, washing my face and brushing my long thick brunette hair, all the while enchanting the day with unexpected blessings as I do each morning.

I weave my locks in a simple braid and finally, I chose a dark blue cotton sundress with a pleated skirt and thin straps. Blue, the color for calming in magic.

Eventually, I tie on my pocket purse and throw open the door, half-expecting to find someone on the other side.

There is no one there. Only the slight chill of the night battling the morning sun.

With feigned ease, I stride across the yard to my stone oven, casting a quick glance over the well and the bench.

They are the same as they were yesterday aside from a glistening layer of this morning’s dew.

My garden is damp, too, the soil soaking in the moisture before it can be burned away by the sun.

I do not know why I feel so lonely all of a sudden. Worse than lonely— alone . I skim my fingers over the soil and find a seed, then grow a hasty cucumber and another potato. I cannot jump to my feet fast enough after I pull them out of the ground.

A feeling at the back of my neck brings goosebumps down my spine. Breathlessly, I turn.

There is nothing. The fields are empty. The forest—as far as I can see—is empty.

Goosebumps prickle on my arms and the back of my neck. I square my shoulders and make a point of looking all around, letting my eyes linger on every piece of the land.

“See?” I say under my breath. “There’s nothing here. You did not sleep well, and that is all this is. The invitation is only an invitation.”

There is no answer, of course. Except for my beating heart proving that it does not believe my excuse.

I don’t run back to the cottage. I walk back with my head held high, pretending I do not feel so uneasy.

Pretending I am safe here, and that I do not mind the lifetime that stretches out before me without anyone to pass the time with except the villagers who write to me for spells.

That is enough for one person. It will be enough for me.

It is time to answer the invitation.

But first?—

I scrub the cucumber and potato and chop the cucumber into slices to have with tea later.

I find a place for the sweet potato in the kitchen.

I breathe slowly and deeply, easing myself into the next task.

I make a point to feel the calm of my home and the security of it all around me. The security that I have built.

When I’ve thought it over long enough, I find a glass pen and ink, then sit at my table and consider what to write.

There is no need to include many details.

Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte will likely not read my reply, since there are people who do those kinds of things for the royal household.

I bite my lip as I dip the tip of the pen in black ink, still feeling odd and lonely and somehow exposed, even though I’m safe in my cottage.

This reply is about thanking them for the invitation, first and foremost, so that’s how I start. I tell Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte how grateful I am to have received it, and though I must decline, I wish them all the happiness in the world.

Then I sign my name at the bottom and spend a minute or two looking at my signature.

Is it…enough? Pretty enough? Elegant enough? Respectful enough?

They know I am a solitary witch without a coven, who lives in Athica and has not been seen by most people in years.

And whoever opens this letter and marks off my name on the invitee list won’t be paying attention to my signature, so I fold it up and seal it with a bit of wax and a pressed flower I made last summer.

Somehow, the sight of that flower, pressed into the purple wax, makes the uncertain feeling even more intense. As if this is a mistake. I don’t often ignore my intuition, but venturing so far alone is simply not wise, no matter how curious I may be.

Without wanting to send off this message with loneliness clinging to the paper, with the snap of a finger I light a white chime candle in a brass candle holder. I concentrate on a spell to make sure there is no harm done—not even an uneasy feeling—in my denial.

“For the good of all and to the harm of none, my rejection will be met with understanding. My attendance is not required,” I say aloud, testing the words. “Their love remains admired. With all that’s meant to be, I’ll stay here with fate to see.”

I repeat the words again, using a fingertip to trace the invitation script into the candle. On the third repetition, the spell takes hold and flows through the candle and out through the flame.

The candle flame dances in the softness of my exhale, and as my spell covers the paper and the words I have written, contentedness smooths out the harsher edges of my loneliness and doubt.

I may have lost my coven. I may spend my days in a silence most people will hopefully never know.

But the candle is proof—I am never truly alone. Not as long as I have my magic.

With that spirit and energized by the sight of the candle burning happily away, I get up and start gathering items for a gift to send as well.