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“I’D LIKE TO APOLOGIZE for my outburst.” Vahilda tends to both my legs by dabbing a wet cloth speckled with green balm that smells godawful on my wounds. She wrings the fabric out in the sink, turns the faucet knobs to warm, and wets it once more. This time, she skips adding the slushy, nasty-smelling salve in a small jar on the table, and smoothes the cloth down one leg then the other. “It was wrong of me to speak to you in such an awful way.
I’ve never been on the receiving end of an apology before. I’m usually the one giving apologies out to those who would never return the favor. My mum, whose insensitivity knows no end, would rather kick the bucket before admitting her guilt. Vahilda, though more motherly than my mum, has a sweetness to her that I can’t deny. She may be an angry witch at times, but that anger was brought upon by my carelessness.
“I should be the one apologizing.” I cringe from the applied pressure as Vahilda wipes my legs with lukewarm water. “I had no idea magic could be so... bewitching.”
Vahilda sniggers, cheeks dimpled. “I understand. I was once that girl long ago. Smitten by the magic I created. But instead of using a sunflower, I was tasked with harnessing the power of lightning by way of bindweed.”
I repeat the name of the flower under my breath. I’ll have to do some research on bindweed. I have never heard of it before.
“My father—your grandfather—tasked me with lighting the sky on fire.”
“And how did that go?” I brace for some sort of horrific end to the story.
Vahilda is at the sink again, wringing the cloth out. She leans against the steel washbasin and sighs through her teeth. “I created a storm that lasted for three days and three nights. It was... horrific. The roads were flooded with water and food supplies; cattle were washed away into oblivion. Every witch and wizard in Parnissi wanted my head. I was only seven at the time, and I was scared for my life.”
I know that fear all too well. I’m reminded of the prison, of the doomsday clock counting down the hours and minutes until my fate. Luckily, Vahilda came to save me. With those thoughts in mind, I ask, “Who saved you?”
She tilts her head, puzzled for a beat. Then she nods in understanding. “Your father. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed to have such a solid grasp on magic. The ins and outs. The dos and don’ts.” The witch presses a hand over her heart and shuts her eyes. “Would you like to guess what type of flower he used to reverse the storm?”
The extent of my knowledge about magic and flowers is not at the level she may think it should be. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve learned everything I can in one sitting. “I’m sorry,” I say, ashamed. “I don’t.”
“I’ll give you a hint.” Vahilda taps her chin. “What’s something fancy men wear?”
“Um... expensive shoes?”
“No. Let’s try something else.” She scratches her head, thinking deeply. She gasps, snaps her fingers, and removes the silk scarf hiding her curls. Wrapping the scarf around her neck, Vahilda walks back and forth inside the tiny dining room. “Any clues yet?”
“Oh,” I chuckle. “A cape.”
“Correct.” She twirls the scarf in celebration. “And the last clue: my last name.”
“Marguerite.” Combining the words together, I say, unconfidently, “Cape Marguerite?”
The witch claps her hands together. “You’ve got it.” Vahilda wraps the scarf on my head and presses her cheek to it. “You’re a smart girl. I should’ve never called you a ‘stupid girl.’ It was a name my father called me when I fuddled my magic. And sometimes your father would mimic our father...”
I grasp Vahilda’s hands in mine. “It’s okay. I’m... I’m used to it.”
“How so?”
“My mum,” I say flatly. “She wasn’t the best. She wasn’t kind to me or loving like you are.” My eyes water as unspeakable memories replay in the dark corners of my mind. The worse of them all, my mum never told me she loved me. No one ever did. No one ever has. I don’t say this to Vahilda; instead, I say, “Thank you for saving me. I’d be dead if you hadn’t come for me.”
“Well,” Vahilda scoffs playfully, “if you would have listened to me when I came to that hellhole of a tavern, you’d be further in your training.”
“Sorry about that. I just didn’t know if I could trust you.” It’s the honest truth. What sane person would put their faith in a witch? Now that I know what I know, I would’ve taken Vahilda’s helping hand without question.
“Do you trust me now?” Vahilda leans over me from behind the chair I’m in to stare down at me.
Gulping, I open my mouth to speak when a knock comes to the door. Saved by the knock.
“I’m here for supper.” Percy skips inside like a child. “What are we having tonight?”
I remove my gaze from Percy, afraid that I may give him the wrong idea about... about whatever it is he thinks we have. I don’t want to go on a date with him. And yet, I’ve never been on a date, and that makes me eager to experience one. If the circumstances were different, if I weren’t training for the Flower Trials, I’d probably agree and accept his offer.
“You’re rather early.” Vahilda folds her arms. “Tonight, we will be having leftovers.”
Percy makes a sour face. “Leftovers? Say it isn’t so.”
“Since I have Elyse here,” Vahilda says, “I need to stock up on more food than I’m willing to buy. I’ve got an extra mouth to feed.”
The man-child pouts. “Can you spare me some gold, then? I’m proper starving. I vomited my breakfast, and I was scared to eat since. I might be coming down with something.”
Vahilda’s forehead crinkles. “There’s some gold in my purse. Take what you need and leave. Don’t think I didn’t know you were here with Elyse.” Her head whips to me. “And you failed to mention I had a visitor? How can I trust you?”
I jolt from the chair; hands held up in defense. “It’s not like that,” I sputter. “Percy just appeared, and I told him he had to leave, but he said he was like a son to you, so I—”
“A son?” Vahilda guffaws. She lets out a witchy cackle that reverberates through me. “Percy will not, nor will he ever, be something akin to a relative of mine. Percy is just...” she flails a hand and tries to gather the words to say.
“Go on, say it.” Percy flashes his teeth. “Tell her who I truly am.”
Vahilda’s hackles rise, her eyes snap to Percy. Shoulder rigid and pulled to her ears, the witch approaches Percy, bosoms meeting his chin. “Make this your last visit to my home. Should I see you again... it won’t be pleasant.” Vahilda rubs the tattoo on her hand; it sparks with white for a blink, then nothing.
Percy recoils, turns about and exits the house.
***
SLEEP AVOIDS ME ONCE again. I laid in bed for hours, tossing, turning, waiting for the beautiful dark of slumber to whisk me away. But nothing came. I had too much on my mind once again. This time, though, my thoughts are centered around Percy. About the argument he and Vahilda had. About the request for a date with me. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about boys, but not so much that I am kept awake until the sun rises. Worse still, Vahilda’s cat wouldn’t stop mewling at the full moon last night. His incessant cries added to the lack of sleep, to the weariness that haunts my body.
Vahilda and I are in her garden again. Or, rather, what’s left of it. The spell Vahilda used to douse the fire over-watered the flowers in turn. Her garden is full of droopy flowers, which need more sun and air to be of any use. Vahilda has replanted a few seeds of identical flowers that were destroyed by my fire and has magicked the soil with a spell that would expedite their growth. Unfortunately, from what she’s taught me about flowers, using too much magic on such a natural creation will alter the flower’s original magic.
“There is a balance to everything,” Vahilda says. She’s kneeling by her soaked garden in a flowing pink gown. Her hair hangs loose, curls swaying in the wind. “Flowers should be treated delicately, like an infant. Do too much, and the infant dies. Do too little... and you get the point.”
“So, there’s nothing we can do?” I ask, brushing my fingers along a wilted cosmos. The purple-hued flower droops a bit more at my touch.
“We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. The sun will dry the soil, and my new sapling should sprout in a few hours. By noon tomorrow, we’ll have some flowers to work with. Until then, you must study, study, study. I’ll be off to the market to restock our food supply.”
Vahilda tends to a few house chores before leaving for the market while I read a few chapters of the Floret Tome. There’s so much information to learn and so little time to do so. I don’t know how Vahilda expects me to retain this wealth of information, but I should trust her after all. Yet... I’m still wary of her. I know she means well in her own way, but that persistent nagging in the back of my mind says I shouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her. A few minutes after Vahilda’s departure, someone knocks on the door. I can only guess who it is.
I open the door without question to see Percy standing with his hands on his hips and a goofy smile on his lips. “Ready for our date?”
“Go away, Percy.” I try to close the door on the pestering man, but he wedges his foot in the doorjamb. “You’re not supposed to be here. Leave.”
“You can’t stay in the house forever.” Percy squishes his face in the opening; his lips smooshed like a fish. “Besides, isn’t your teaching for today canceled?”
“How did you know that?”
“Vahilda told me. I passed by her on my way here.” He observes my screwed-up face and adds, “We kind of made up. But I told her I wanted to keep you company.”
“And she said that was okay?” I narrow my eyes at him, searching his face for a hint of a lie.
“Trust me.” There’s that word again, ‘trust.’ I’m not too keen on the whole trusting someone thing yet. I’ll get there, but right now, I’m not too certain. “You deserve to see Parnissi. I bet you thought it was the underworld like I did.”
“Like you did?” I ask, perplexed. Why would a wizard say that about his home? I recall Vahilda telling me about other lands where witches and wizards use other means to create magic. Perhaps Percy was born in another land and thought Parnissi was full of fire and brimstone.
Percy blows out a breath. “I’m not a wizard... I’m human.”