I hope to learn about curses in this book, and I open it intending to search the front index for the right section, but the cover drops open and the pages flip as if they have a mind of their own. A shiver courses through me since there’s no breeze, no rational explanation for this.
More mysterious magic? Bitterburn must want me to see this.
Taking it as a sign, I examine the illustration. It shows a lovely young woman in a garden with flowers blooming all around her. This sketch is fascinating because I’ve never seen a witch depicted in a way that wasn’t horrifying, like some withered crone with a basket full of poison apples.
I read the opposite page. When a witch moves to a new residence, the first thing she must do is ward her surroundings. I skim further, noting the process for laying wards, but it sounds complicated, so I turn the page. Your kitchen garden will produce much faster with only a few drops of your blood. Perform this charm to ward off pests and keep your produce safe from harm. It also serves to bind the land to you. If the weather is not favorable, you can extend the growing season thus.
I have everything I need to do this. It’s probably pointless, but an internal whisper encourages me, gaining volume until I memorize both charms and head for the kitchen to gather supplies. I have no idea how I’ll explain this impulse to Njål, but thankfully I don’t encounter him. Excitement carries me through the kitchen to the side garden, opposite the door that leads to the exterior courtyard. At the back of the yard, there’s a row of empty skeps where bees used to flit in and out. The beekeeper would have harvested both wax and honey. This must have been a lovely place once, a sanctuary for the staff. Suddenly I can see how it was with flowers planted and a small garden beyond the reach of the baron and baroness, who never would have come to the kitchen, let alone the servant’s yard.
I blink and that fleeting glimpse is gone. Once more, I’m standing in a desolate, frozen garden, about to perform two charms because I have too much time on my hands. First, I walk the perimeter in measured strides, just as the book laid out. In doing so, I’m marking my territory, and as I go, I scatter a mixture of ash from the kitchen hearth, feathers from my pillow, and locks of my hair.
“From here to there and there to here, my will is clear. I claim what’s mine and own it well. Let none unmake this simple spell.” A childish rhyme but as I finish the words and empty my basket, energy gathers, buzzing strong enough to raise the hair on my arms.
Am I imagining this or did something truly happen?
Cautious now, I move to the bare patch of ground that I know used to be the kitchen garden. The certainty is unshakable, granted to me through extraordinary means. I don’t hesitate, slicing my fingertip with the paring knife I produce from the pocket of my work dress. Then I move along each ancient furrow speaking the next incantation, sprinkling droplets of my blood as I walk.
“With blood I shield and blood I bind. To the elements you will pay no mind. Deep your roots and deep your love, bring forth your bounty up above.”
I wait, as though vegetables will spring forth immediately. The ground remains barren, cold dirt bereft of life when I finish. My finger is wounded, and I’ve given my blood to the ground, for what little it’s worth. Maybe I did imagine the spark before, a result of an overactive imagination. Just because my stepmother found me strange and cautioned me with the witch finders, it doesn’t mean I have any secret power.
Sighing, I kick at a clod of earth and . . . it’s not frozen. Not like the ground in the ice statue courtyard. Startled, I kneel and collect a palm full of soil. Loose, ready for planting. That’s not normal at any time of year, but certainly not in late fall approaching winter. Though I’m not much for science, I know things swell in the heat and contract with cold. I learned that watching Owen in the smithy.
I can’t decide if that means my charm is taking effect or not, but I hurry into the kitchen just in case. There are a variety of jars filled with seeds and some aren’t even labeled. Before I can change my mind, I go out and plant a variety of them in the garden. At worst, I’ve wasted a little time and effort. I’ve raised herbs before, grown in small pots in the kitchen, so I’m aware that it takes a couple of weeks for seeds to germinate.
In the meantime, there’s no gain in standing here wondering. It’s not quite time for me to start cooking yet, so I return to the library. My books are where I left them, the witch book still open to the page that contains the charms I cast. If it turns out that they worked, I might try another. Until then, I’m done meddling in such matters.
I open the history book and begin to read. Bitterburn was built as a bastion against the frost giants in the north. Though their numbers were not great, their titanic strength meant they could destroy a town with a few warriors. In the year 1013 AC, King Ethred the Ill-Prepared seized the land from
