Under Her Spell Page 5

  Isabella cast about at the villagers miserably. She, of all people, knew how things were connected, had been taught since she was small that all of the threads of the universe came together in all people at all times. Perhaps the effects of Emily’s absence weren’t visible, but there were effects. She had never been to a Solstice celebration that felt imperfect. Even the simple ones that she herself had done, with no other, had been fine and lovely, merely because she brought all of her heart to the longest night of the year.

  But, here and now in Benevolence, this celebration began imperfectly. It did not bode well with Isabella. It was a glimmer of what might come.

  She swallowed her misgivings as much as she could and looked up at the tree in the center of the town square, marveled at how the branches shone. For in the very center of the town the great pine towered, stately and glittering over the assembled villagers. Gingerbread cookies and popcorn garland covered it, lacing its branches with finery like the ruffled edges of a petticoat.

  Miss Peacock, in her vibrant bird form, was helping Miss Wren hang up the last of the garlands. Mr. Crow rose on black wings from the crowd and began to set the shining silver bells suspended on the branches to ringing with his sharp beak. It was such a strange sight, that enormous crow fluttering about and ringing the Solstice bells. Isabella smiled up at the tree, smiled at the Changers, and she began to gather the ribbons for her spell from each one of them. But as she set about her work, half her heart delighted at the sight of crow and tree and gathered people; the other half was cautious, worried.

  Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up.

  Once she had all of the ribbons in hand, she knotted them together, one great spiral in her palms that curled in upon itself like a shell. She tapped the ribbons with her fingertips, closed her eyes as she thought, hard and fierce, about the spell's intention. Magic curled up from under the soles of her boots and came into the ribbon. There. It was done, the beginnings of the spell itself set.

  All that was left to do was to place the spell. So Isabella went to the edge of the town and set the curl of ribbons, magic shimmering over the fabric like the iridescence of a fish's scales, in the snowdrift by the first house in town.

  Isabella wavered there a moment, uncertain. The villagers had begun to drift toward the town hall, stamping the snow off their boots and taking up great mugs of cider and tea to stave off the cold of the evening. There would be great revels, once they were warm again, once the spell was cast. Isabella saw Mrs. Goose beckon her from the town hall steps, and she waved her on. Just a minute, I’ll be right in. Tentatively, she poked the ribbons with her foot. The magic shifted. She crouched down, put her hands over the ribbons; the spell felt fine...she supposed. But she wasn’t exactly certain how a weaving spell should feel. Right now, it lay poised in the drift, emanating magic that felt like a cross between a potion and a hex, and she wasn’t at all sure if—

  “Come on, Isabella!” called Lacey, waving at her from the center of the town. “You’ll catch your death!”

  Surely it was all right. Isabella rose, dusted off her mittens. Mrs. Goose had told her ten thousand times if she’d told her once: this was all just a formality. She began down the street, excited for the warmth of the town hall, grinning back at Lacey’s smile as she linked arms with her new friend.

  And the spell sat on the edge of town, pulsing and incomplete.

  ---

  The children were beginning to hang the fresh gingerbread ornaments on the smaller tree in the town hall when Isabella felt it—a pricking, as if someone tapped her between her shoulder blades with a pointed finger. She straightened, unsettled, lowering her mug of tea. She turned, but there was no one behind her.

  She felt it again as the town hall door swung open, banging against the wall, Mr. Robin standing on the steps, panting and red-faced, his scarf falling around his shoulders in a disheveled slash of red.

  “At the edge of town,” he pointed outward, his hand shaking, his teeth bared. He tried to catch his breath as Isabella's heart sunk into her stomach.

  No, no...something had gone terribly wrong.

  Mr. Robin's face was as red as his scarf as he spat out, his pointing finger shaking with fury: “She's there, and she's tampering with the spell. Miss Deer.”

  There was a great roar, and as Isabella’s heart broke into shattered, jagged pieces, she was swept up with the rest of the crowd, up and out of the town hall and down the snowy street to where Mr. Ox stood, arms at his sides, his hands balled into enormous fists.

  He stared down Emily, who held a handful of ribbons in her fingers, eyes wide and unblinking, jaw set.

  “She’s tampering with the spell!”

  “Just like him.”

  “Grab her!”

  The voices were shrill, anger edging them to a sharpness that made Isabella want to cover her ears, shut them out. She was pressed between bodies, rising on her tiptoes, trying to see Emily standing, so calm, so straight, holding the spell in her hands.

  In a single, terrible heartbeat, Isabella threaded it all together:

  Emily was good at weaving spells.

  It must be so obvious to anyone with magical training that Isabella had left the spell unfinished.

  In Emily’s hands, Isabella could see: the spell was almost woven complete.

  She was finishing Isabella’s spell.

  “Wait, please,” Isabella cried, trying to push through the bodies, trying to reach Emily and the terrible, towering form of Mr. Ox. “Please,” Isabella cried out again, trying, trying, as Mr. Ox took Emily’s arm with a hard hand, the ribbons fluttering to the snow at her feet.

  It happened too quickly. One moment, the Changer stood, bending away from Mr. Ox; the next, a white doe leaped nimbly out of his grasp, twisting in midair to land on three hooves, slipping in the snow, then righting and running into the wood.

  A collective scream of fury rose from the villagers, and then they were after her.

  A bear, a wolf, a cat, a crow, an ox tore through the woods, hunting the white doe.

  Oh, no. Oh, no. Through her tears, Isabella ran after them, too, stumbling and unseeing in her haste, tripping over a log and then a small drift. She rose each time, spitting out snow, running, running. Branches tore at her shoulders, her shawl, and she left the shawl behind, tangled in a thorny bush, breath pounding in her lungs, heart roaring the blood through her, so that all she could hear was the drumbeat of her body, the despair in her heart.

  They were going to catch Emily.

  Isabella knew mobs. She knew what they were capable of.

  This. This was all her fault.

  She followed the tracks when she lost sight of the beasts, and she ran what seemed like forever, until her feet were too heavy to lift, until her lungs burned too brightly to take in another breath. She ran still.

  And when Isabella thought she had come to the end of her strength, when she could run no further, there...there was a dip in the forest floor. And down and in that little valley in the wood was where the chase had finally stopped.

  Emily stood there in the very center of the valley's bowl, a slim white doe rendered almost invisible by the glittering snow, her right foreleg raised, as if she wanted to leap away...but could not. The Changer's sides heaved, panting, as she stood strong, her head high, her nostrils flaring...for she was surrounded and caught in a cage of beasts. The bear, the wolf, the cat, the crow, and the ox were bars in a round prison, staring at the Changer in their midst with expressions that, even in their animal forms, were akin to disgust.

  Emily was trapped.

  Isabella raced down the hill on her last bit of strength and ran between Miss Cat and Mr. Ox. The Changers were not expecting her, or—if they'd scented or heard her—they made no indication of this as they dispassionately watched her fall at Emily’s feet. The snow stung Isabella's bare hands as she pushed off the ground, and she rose to her knees, her arms outstretched, breath roaring through her.

  “Don’t touch
her,” she whispered, chest heaving, hair in her eyes, her arms spread wide and Emily at her back.

  Mr. Ox shifted to his human shape, eyes wild. The animal part of him simply seemed to melt away, and then the great, hulking man stood where the ox had a heartbeat before. He clasped his hands into fists again, practically roared: “Get away, Isabella. You don’t understand,” he told her, growling out the words with a thick tongue.

  “I understand,” said Isabella, shaking. It was the cold, not fear, but it made her appear weak, and she cursed it. She struggled up from her knees, foot caught in the edge of her skirts. She stumbled a little, but she still managed to rise. “Don’t touch her,” she repeated, and her voice came out in a growl, too, which fairly surprised everyone.

  But the surprise did not last.

  “We’ve put up with her for long enough,” hissed Miss Cat. She was in woman form, but her teeth were still long, sharper than usual, her eyes still slitted like a cat's. Isabella shuddered at the feral grimace on Miss Cat's face, but stood as firmly as she could, still keeping her arms wide. She felt Emily tense behind her but did not dare a glance back over her shoulder. Isabella's nose ran from the searing cold air, and her arms shook, and her eyes teared from the hair in them, but she did not move a muscle.

  “You do realize,” said Miss Cat, almost purring, “that if you side with the betrayer, you are a betrayer, too.”

  The others moved uneasily, looked to Miss Cat, but she stared at Isabella, eyes unblinking, mouth turned up at the corners over wickedly sharp teeth.

  “She was fixing the spell,” said Isabella quickly, coughing. “I made a mistake when I built it...she wasn’t dismantling the spell; she was fixing it.”

  Miss Wolf shook her lupine head. “We don’t know that,” she said around sharp fangs in her wolf’s mouth.

  “No, please listen,” said Isabella, even as Miss Cat took a step forward, and as Isabella took a step back. Her shoulder brushed against Emily's arm, and for a moment, she wondered if this was really how her life would end, or if this was the beginning of the end.

  But there was a subtle shift on the edge of the clearing; you wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t a witch. Isabella cocked her head, eyes suddenly seeing clearly—there was, in that single heartbeat, a ray of hope...if she could just pull it off.

  Isabella took Emily’s arm, threaded her own through it, as if they were walking, elegant and stately in their best clothes along a well-manicured park lane, and then her beautiful broom came darting through the air from between the trees.

  Alice sat on the bristles of the broom, puffed up, teeth bared, and hissing as loud as a teakettle. It made for quite a strange scene to see the little cat flying the broom all by herself, all puffed up and angry, but it was also the most welcoming thing Isabella had ever witnessed.

  The witch stepped forward quickly, tugging Emily after her, and in a single heartbeat, the broom scooped them both up without the least bit of grace.

  Alice, used to flying the broom to her mistress to get her out of mischief, easily pulled the broom upright then, ricocheting the thing out from the circle of astonished strangers and up, up, up into the brilliantly cold and clear night sky.

  They were saved.

  “Oh, Alice,” said Isabella over and over and over again, peppering the top of her Familiar’s head with grateful kisses. Alice spoke not a word (though she somewhat de-fluffed at this, and there was a soft rumble of a purr from back in her throat). Behind Isabella, Emily held on for dear life, gripping the witch so tightly about her waist that it was difficult to draw a breath. But the way that the Changer was pressed so tightly against her?

  Isabella really couldn't complain about that. Even though they'd just been through a fairly tense situation, Isabella was still a woman who found Emily quite attractive. And flying through the air with the Changer gripping her tightly...

  Well, there were certainly worse ways to spend a Solstice night.

  Alice flew the broom through the cold air until she nosed the handle of it down, down...and it was then that Isabella felt land beneath her boots once more.

  They were at the very top of the mountain.

  This high, it seemed that if Isabella reached up, she could scoop a handful of stars from the sky. But Isabella did not reach up—rather, she stared woodenly at the heavens, eyes unfocused, even as Alice rubbed against her legs, as Emily stood beside her.

  “I got your satchel,” said Alice quietly. “It’s on the end of the broomstick.” And then: “It’s all right, Isabella,” said her Familiar soothingly. “We're all right...we got away.”

  Isabella sighed and rubbed her arms, warming them against the chill as she chanced a glance at Emily. The Changer stood, staring at the witch, lips parted, eyes wild.

  For a long moment, all three were silent in the hushed chill.

  “Why did you do it?” Emily finally whispered, stepping forward. Isabella felt the Changer reach up, touch her arm, fingers curving, warm and soft, over her skin until she held the witch's arm with a supreme gentleness. Her brow furrowed as she watched Isabella. “You didn’t have to help me,” she murmured.

  Isabella smiled, laughed a little, realizing it was a bit inappropriate that she did so, but she was unable to help it. “I think the right question is: why did you help me?” the witch asked, voice high and shaky.

  “Your spell was almost right,” said Emily with a soft, uncomfortable shrug. “It just needed a little push to be perfect.”

  “You were trying to help the village that despises you,” said Isabella flatly.

  “That makes me very stupid, doesn’t it?” And the Changer actually smiled, then sobered, wrapping her fingers tighter about the witch’s arm. “You’re shaking so hard...you must be so very cold up here. Please come inside.”

  “Inside...?” Isabella turned, then paused. A shack stood against a boulder, right at the edge of the summit. It looked cobbled together by rusty nails and faith alone, boards building walls that were at odd angles to the peaked roof. The entire thing looked akin to a small heap of garbage and nothing more.

  “This is your home?” asked Isabella, hugging herself. Her teeth chattered—she couldn’t stop them—and her wet skirt hung against her legs, biting the skin.

  “Yes,” said Emily simply, and with a hand at the small of the witch's back, she ushered Isabella in, holding the door open until both Isabella and Alice were safely inside. She bolted the lock behind her, the dirty iron snapping shut with finality.

  The hovel was very bare bones—there was a pile of furs in the corner, and a little fire pit in the center of the place...but aside from that, there wasn't much else to see. The floor was littered with pine needles, and it was soft beneath Isabella's aching feet.

  “What if...” Isabella’s teeth chattered almost too hard for her to speak. “What if they come for us? Find us? The Changers,” she said, gesturing with a shaking hand in the general direction of “down the mountain.”

  “They will not come tonight,” said Emily, throwing off her furs, kneeling at the edge of her little fire pit. The embers glowered brighter as she blew on them, throwing tinder on the small blaze. “They’re afraid of the Wolf of Winter,” said the Changer, drawing off her shabby coat, too. “They won’t stray far from the village tonight of all nights. They would have headed back soon, if they hadn’t caught me.” Stripped down to her white shift and pantaloons, Emily spread her hands, furs and coat on one arm. “Get out of those things; you’re soaked through.”

  Isabella blanched, licking her lips. Of all of her romantic hopes and daydreams and wishes, this didn’t even come close.

  Emily shook her head. “You have to warm up. You’ll get frostbite, worse...”

  Isabella could have wept she was so cold, and she did, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she stripped off her dress, her petticoats, her undergarments, and Emily threw the furs about her, drew her close to the fire. The witch stared at the blaze as it roared to life. She was so cold, so s
hocked, she felt faint.

  Gradually, warmth returned to her limbs, a tingle came and went, and when Emily asked her if she might like a little coffee, she agreed. Isabella had always stayed awake on Solstice night to welcome the sun back in the morning, but this was the strangest night she’d ever passed. She said as much to the Changer as she watched her over the steaming cup of coffee Emily handed her.

  Emily looked into the fire, her eyes reflecting the shifting flame. “Do you regret it?” she asked, words so soft that Isabella had to strain to hear her.

  “Regret...?” asked Isabella, then shook her head. “I regret nothing in my life,” she confided in the Changer. “And, after all, what would there be to regret?”

  Emily stared at her, eyes wide, and Isabella shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t understand,” said the witch quickly. “It’s not like this is the first town I was ever run out of.”

  “This makes the fourth!” said Alice cheerfully from the other side of the fire.

  “We’re old pros, really,” said Isabella, smiling a little. “The mob didn’t even have pitchforks this time!”

  Emily stared for a moment longer, then visibly relaxed, shoulders down, mouth open.

  Isabella was surprised—but not terribly—when her hand moved, almost of its own accord, to cover the Changer’s clasped fingers. “I guess Benevolence wasn’t right for me,” she said shyly. “But I’m very glad I came.”

  Emily stared at her for a long moment, and her bright eyes were absolutely unreadable. So much passed over her face, so many emotions. She gulped down air, and then her voice shook: “You don’t know...” She started, but she paused, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes suddenly, her mouth a tight line. “You can’t know,” she tried again, and her hands fell into her lap before she reached up, taking Isabella’s fingers, threading her own through them, “how long I’ve waited for something good to happen to me.”