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“DO ALL WITCHES LOOK like... you?” my cellmate asks. She gobbles down on a loaf of bread and slurps the water the guard provided for her.
I wasn’t given a meal. Not a morsel to alleviate the hunger pangs twisting my stomach to knots or a drop to quench my dry, hoarse throat. Isn’t it customary for a prisoner about to be executed to be served a final meal? Or does that only apply to humans?
“Are you deaf or something?” My cell mate has been pestering me since the Vicar left, asking me a boatload of questions to which I have no answers. Through a mouthful of bread, she repeats her question, but this time adds, “Are they all bald? I thought witches had golden locks like mine.”
My head snaps in her direction, concern bunching my brows together. “What do you mean, bald?”
Wiping her mouth, she says, “Are you sick or something? Can’t you, I don’t know, heal yourself?” She rakes a hand through her hair. “The bald look kind of works for you.” She squints at me, turns her head at odd angles.
Startled, I reach for my hair but find not a curl or a coil. I palm both sides of my head, fingers nearly burrowing in my scalp, searching for my hair. I gasp, “M-My hair. It’s gone.”
“And your eyebrows.” The mouse-voiced, annoying woman blurts out.
Curling into a ball, I cover my face with my hands and burst into tears. I’m bald. This is how the citizens of Yardenfeld will remember me: a bald, unsightly witch. My face will be plastered on every newspaper, immortalized in pictures for all eternity. They’ll surely use my image to scare misbehaving children with threats that the bald witch will have them for supper should they disobey their parents. I can only imagine the horrible possibilities.
Thoughts of my mum enter my already chaotic mind, mixed with the haunting image of Igbob’s melting flesh. His attempt to violate me. His dead body. I wonder if my mum hates me with every fiber of her being. Loathes me for murdering the man she was about to marry. Can she find it in her heart to forgive me?
Should I really care, though? She stood there while he attacked me and almost... he almost...
I curl into a tighter ball, hugging my legs to my chest. I’m not certain what time it is, but I’m praying death comes soon. That death is swift, easy, and painless. Death sounds promising in comparison to my challenging and pain-filled life. Death is more than welcome to take me away from my pitiful existence.
I welcome it with open arms.
“Here, kitty.” My cellmate makes clicking noises with her tongue. “What are you doing here, little guy?”
Gently rolling on my side, I am met with yellow cat eyes that lower to slits as the black cat seemingly glares at me from behind the steel bars. It’s the same cat who’s been following me around. The same cat I saw last night—Vahilda’s cat.
“What are you doing here?” I grumble at the feline.
His tail swishes left and right as he belches a white, fluffy material, like a dandelion blowball. The blowball dances in the air and swirls to my cellmate, who reaches for the floating seed.
“Make a wish,” a honey-smooth voice says from down the corridor. A clicking of high heels to stone reverberates through the prison. A deathly silent prison.
I hadn’t noticed the noise of all the prisoners pleading for freedom, and the guards threatening to beat them into an early demise had disappeared. I was too caught up in my own worries about death, about my mum and Igbob’s dead body, that nothing else mattered.
My cellmate’s head thumps against the floor with a bang, and loud snoring erupts from her tiny body.
Vahilda appears, dressed in all black from head to foot. Even her lips and eyeshadow are a deep obsidian color. Her hair is wrapped in a silk cloth that accentuates her cheekbones, lifting and sharpening them like knives. Her curly hair is bunched together like a bouquet of coils.
“Elyse,” she says, drums her fingers on the steel bar. “We meet again.”
“W-What are you doing here?” I climb to my feet but press a hand against my sore ribs. Gently padding my way to the bar, I fight against the hurt racking through me and lean my full weight against the cell door.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She smirks, reaches a hand to cup my cheek. “Elyse, I’m here to save you.”
“R-Really?”
“I didn’t come all this way for nothing.” She tsks at me, shakes her head as her eyes scan my bald head and says, “A witch must never cast a spell without the aid of a medium. In Parnissi, we use flowers. In other parts of the world, those of magical blood use wands or gemstones.”
“I... I didn’t know.” I cast my gaze to the prison floor, ashamed of my new, unexpected look. “I didn’t mean to... Igbob tried to...” my voice falls to nothing but a whisper.
“I know, Elyse.” My name carries a motherly weight on her lips. There is something about Vahilda that is warm and kind. And something... dark. But maybe that’s just the witchy energy she exudes. “Before I can free you,” she says as she rolls up her sleeve and shows me her tattoo. Upon closer inspection of the star-shaped drawing on her arm, I noticed that the star has numerous points, and interconnecting triangles with tiny, cursive writing within them.
Vahilda magically conjures a rose with her left hand and leans the flower stem through the gap between the bars. “Prick your finger on the thorn and tap that same finger in the center of the star.”
I hesitate, taking a single step back from her. I wish my knowledge about witches was more extensive than the little I do know about their kind. About my kind. Something about pricking my finger to draw blood is unnerving. Disgusting. Final. This whole thing feels like some sort of contractual agreement. Some sort of bond. If I don’t ask the right questions, then who knows what I’m in for. Can I really trust Vahilda? I know she intends to free me from my certain death, but, as with all contracts, there is a price to pay. A deal I must uphold.
“I don’t know.” I hide my hands behind my back and chew on my bottom lip with concern.
“What do you mean by that?” Vahilda lifts her chin and quirks a brow. “You’re about to die come nightfall, and I’m doing what your father asked of me—to save you. His daughter.”
“I-I know.” I shrink back a step more. I’m grateful, yes. The father that I never had the chance to know has sent Vahilda to save me. If I’d taken her offer yesterday, I wouldn’t be here. “But I don’t know if I fully trust you. That tattoo on your hand is some sort of contract, right?”
“Why, yes, it is.” Vahilda is honest with me, at least. She doesn’t even try to hide the fact, doesn’t even try to lie.
“What does it mean?”
“This contract allows me to bring you to Parnissi. Witches born outside of the magical world are forbidden to enter unless a witch or wizard brings them there.”
I lock eyes with her, searching for an untruth. She’s holding back something else; I can almost sense it in the way her face twitches. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”
“As much as you need my help—”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Don’t interrupt me while I am speaking.” Vahilda bares her teeth at me. “Have you no manners?”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“Venturing to Parnissi is not a free ride, Elyse,” she continues; the warmth that vanished seconds ago is back and brighter than ever. “As a witch, you must practice, practice, practice. And you must enter the Flower Trials. All witches and wizards of about your age participate in the flower trials whenever an Elite steps down from their seat at the council.”
“The Flower Trials?” I want to ask her more about this, about everything, because I can’t contain the buzz of excitement bubbling inside of me. I’ll learn how to use my magic. I’ll meet others who are just like me. I’ll have a fresh start. A new beginning. It’s exactly what I wanted. Well, minus the magic parts of it. But I’ve always dreamed of running away to a far-off land where no one knows my name.
“I’ll explain more once we’re in Parnissi.” Vahilda winces and grits her teeth. “We must hurry. My magic cannot be sustained for so long. With age comes lesser magical capabilities. And you, Elyse, are at that prime age where all things are possible. You have so much potential, so much untapped magic flooding through your veins. All I need for you is to do this one thing for me.” She stretches the thorny stem of the rose further into the cell, a pleading smile on her face.
Reaching for the stem, pointer finger outstretched, quivering, I ask, “What’s in it for you? Surely, you want something out of this, correct? The Flower Trials sound like a big ordeal. I assume that you’re going to train me, but at what cost?” My mind is scrambled with more questions and concerns, but for now, I believe I’m in the clear. I think I’ve asked her all the right questions...
Vahilda sighs a breathy sigh. It’s one that carries whatever weight has been on her shoulders, of which she rolls backward and relaxes. “For over a thousand years, since the inception of The Flower Trials, a wizard has always claimed the coveted spot of the Elite. Nineteen years ago, your father, Edwin, successfully completed the Flower Trials. I, however, did not. I came in second place. But there are no trophies for those who come second...,” she pauses, cranes her neck to her left and right, and mutters a curse under her breath.
The din of the prison slowly crawls back to life. Guards frantically bumble about what happened, about why they had fallen asleep on the clock. Prisoners begin to call for the guards, concern rising throughout about the lunch they’ve eaten and if it was laced with sleeping additives. Or poison.
Vahilda continues, but hurriedly so, “After Edwin’s death, I assumed that I’d be picked to become an Elite... I was wrong. The wizard who had surrendered his seat reclaimed it once more because he—as well as all other wizards—did not feel like a woman, a witch, deserved the title of Elite.” She thrusts her arm deeper between the bars, her shoulder squeezing through just enough to bring the stem of the rose closer to my finger. “You and I can change history, Elyse. We haven’t got much time.”
“Hey, you!” A guard screams.
Fear floods Vahilda brown eyes that beg me to take the offer.
A clattering of armor plating and unsheathed swords erupts from down the corridor. Steel-laden footsteps clang against the stone floors, birthing anxiety in Vahilda’s entire body. A stream of tears slips down the witch’s beautiful visage, a silent plea for my cooperation.
Pricking my finger on the thorn, I cringe from the slight stab of pain—blood pools on the tip of my finger, a crimson droplet that will seal my fate. Vahilda heaves a breath, quickly flourishes her right hand into the cell.
“Quickly, Elyse.” She shows me her tattoo. The black, inky drawing of the star glows with white. This beckoning white light promises freedom to a girl about to face her execution.
Tapping my bloodied finger in the center of Vahilda’s tattoo, it emits a wave of sparkling spirals of powdery pearl that wash over me. Floral aromas assault my nose in breathtakingly pure smells of a garden full of thriving plant life.
In the blink of an eye and a few meows from Vahilda’s cat, I am transported to a world alive with a prism of beautiful flowers. I stand firm atop a bed of lush, green grass, bare feet digging into the brown soil. A gust of warmed wind whips at my face, caressing my skin. A chill runs through me. I am speechless as I gawk dumbfoundedly at the flowery landscape around me. The sun, a bright orange ball of joy in the clear blue sky, shines a heavenly light on a town bustling with movement. A town alive with the thrum of magic in the air. A town filled with witches and wizards.
Parnissi is marvelous.