Page 8 of The Witch’s Fate (The Lunaterra Chronicles #13)

IDALIS

A ll I could find in the grimoire was that a storm of this magnitude comes when a soul attempts to evade fate. The knowledge clings to me and yet I cannot make sense of it. Surely, there must be something else. Or someone else who has brought this on.

Secure in my cottage, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the rain.

It’s a meditation of sorts. It calms my frayed nerves and gives me a sense of control.

At first, I try to pick out individual drops on the roof, then think about the pattern of the downpour, then concentrate instead on the inside of the cottage.

I whisper for it to tell me its secrets.

I’m only met with the pounding of the rain and its anger.

So I wait, listening and waiting and contemplating if I may have missed something.

There must be something…or someone that I have yet to discover.

My cottage is clean and warm and snug. I’m safe inside, and even safer because of the storm.

I am safe.

I breathe in deeply and out even slower, concentrating on the safety I’ve built instead of the loneliness of it.

If my coven still existed, we’d be settled in for the storm by now.

The rain is still much too loud for any real conversation, but there are other ways to communicate.

We could have written notes, or sat next to each other and worked on spells, or sewed, or cooked.

My elder sister would have harnessed the anger of the storm by collecting its water and at that thought, I nearly run for a jar to set it outside but I hesitate.

Something inside of me screams not to open the door. My intuition makes me pause.

For a while, I lose myself in memories. I can’t remember another storm as strong and sudden as this one, but it’s not as if the weather was always sunny and mild.

There was the snowstorm that kept us inside for a week straight, with bitter winds and drifts coming halfway up the door.

There was the spring freeze that turned the air so cold it hurt to breathe.

It was years and years ago. But I remember how I felt… at peace.

We’d all danced in a circle in the field, the wind in our hair, until the moons came up. Grateful for the change and the cycles.

Oh—I have so many happy memories. They all reassure the same: the storm will be over soon. In this world nothing lasts but everything moves on.

I tell myself that time passes slowly because I’m waiting for it to pass. I keep listening for the rain to let up.

The rain on the roof doesn’t soften. It doesn’t get quieter.

I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling.

It’s hard to see with so little light. The only real brightness comes from flashes of lightning.

Black clouds at this time of the afternoon just can’t last. It is past midday now, though I can’t tell exactly how long it’s been.

With a snap, I light the candles along the windowsill, and ten or so tea lights brighten the space.

The flames are small but dignified and useful.

I pass time with a meal of seasoned bread and soft cheeses and delicious jams, then I pay a lot of attention to the steps of brewing a fresh pot of tea.

It’s chamomile, to calm my nerves. The spoon stirs itself as I watch the ripple of the motion in the teacup.

It really does not take long to fiddle with the blend and boil the water and watch it steep, but I drag out as many of the steps as I can, then sip a cup of tea as slowly as I would if it was part of a ritual.

The storm still does not let up. The irritation and unsettled feelings it brings are unwelcome.

My heart beats faster at the idea that it might never let up, and the field might slowly fill with water and cover the cottage.

That will not happen, I promise myself sternly. There is too much earth around me. It will absorb the rain, and more flowers will bloom if the sun comes out.

When the sun comes back out. And when the sun comes back out, I will take my reply to Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte to the letter box along with the gift, and soon all will be well.

I trace the path to the royal palace in my mind, wandering over the path through the woods, which I know very well; over roads I know less well; and finally through the city that surrounds the palace.

I picture booths on the market streets where I once stopped to haggle over items with the rest of the coven.

I picture pubs and inns and shops decorated for the royal wedding.

I picture a bustling city with guests from all over the world gathering ahead of the ceremony and passing the time with dancing and games and conversation.

People will be up at all hours of the night.

There will always be someone talking. The excitement will grow until the day of the wedding, and then it will spill into the streets with nothing but joyous celebration.

In the stories they tell afterward, they will have been within arm’s reach of Princess Charlotte’s gown and close enough to hear the vows she and Prince Adom will speak to each other.

Mothers and fathers will tell their children stories of the day for years, and children will fall asleep hoping that one day they’ll be able to go to a royal wedding, too.

I get carried away with the vision of it and have to cough to clear my throat. Look at me—a few hours alone in a storm, safe in my cottage, and I’m having all kinds of feelings about a royal wedding that I do not want to attend.

Perhaps I should lie down and go to bed for the night. It must be toward evening. It is earlier than usual, that is true, but it is so dark that the time does not matter much.

If the storm isn’t going to let up, then the sound could send me to sleep. It’s not so different from the sea.

I have just committed to the idea when there is a knock at the door.

My body freezes, my legs as stiff as stone.

I’m in a half-crouch, stuck between sitting and standing, and my thoughts are filled with the rain.

Surely, I did not hear a knock. Surely, it was the rain or the wind—some element of the storm.

A piece of earth blown across the hills and slapped wetly on the door.

But that knock—that imagined knock, I only thought it was a knock—did not sound wet, like a piece of earth. My heart bucks and a fear I recognize all too well comes over me.

I do not move, other than my pounding heart. It was nothing. It was nothing, and I have nothing to fear.

Another knock comes.

This one is undeniable. Despite the rain, so loud on the roof that I can hardly hear my own breathing, and despite the wind, which howls past the cottage, that is unmistakably someone’s fist pounding at the door. My throat dries and tightens. Did I not cast the spell to not be seen?

I imagine the size of the fist it would take to make that sound, audible over the rain, and the strength someone would need to possess. Even to reach the cottage in the first place cannot have been easy.

Dread fills me, chilling me from head to toe. I wave a hand at the shutters out of an old habit, but they are firmly shut and latched so tight that even my panicked magic does not budge them.

Whoever is outside cannot get in…unless they have the strength to break down the door or punch through my protection spells and the walls itself.

More questions flood my mind, carrying on the wave of my dread.

Who would come here in the middle of a terrible storm?

Who in all the lands would think to knock on my door?

I know the rumors that are said about me in every village I have ever visited, because I have had a hand in starting those rumors.

On the few occasions that I’ve left the cottage and spent time in cities and villages since I lost my coven, I have made a point of asking a quiet question or two to someone in a tavern who looks like they are fond of travel.

I do not exaggerate much. I am true to the extent of my powers, which are considerable in comparison to someone who cannot wield magic. I am also true to my desire to be left alone.

I have heard there is a witch in Athica who lives by herself, I will say, keeping my voice low and checking over my shoulder as if I expect to be overheard.

I have heard she is powerful and angry. Have you heard of this witch?

She requires many miles of space around her cottage or else…

I let the person I am talking to fill in the blank of what or else might mean.

Gossip is a tried and true way to put information into the world. Travelers need some form of payment for their presence at an inn, and a neat piece of gossip is a way to form quick bonds with other people. I know these travelers.

And yet someone is here. In all the years no one has dared. Perhaps they know not where they are or who I am. A lost wanderer in the storm. Empathy overwhelms me but still I am wise to keep my guard up.

Cautiously, I finish standing up, shaking myself out of my frozen, indecisive state.

It is only a few steps to the kitchen, where the athame hangs from a hook, cradled in a leather sheath. I swing the sheath over my head and pull it into place on my shoulder, then draw the athame.

I am more grounded the moment my fingers close around the silver hilt. The blade is sharp and well-maintained, and I have practiced with it for years.

A deep exhale steadies me as I wave a hand at the grate. A roaring fire springs up, filling the cottage with flickering orange light. The flames leap higher and higher, throwing heat out of the grate as well, and the power settles me even more.

There. Armed with a blade and with my powers, I face the door as a third knock forces the wooden door to tremble.

With a few deep breaths, I approach the door, leaving a foot or two of space between myself and the thick wood. On the other side is a stranger.