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THE HEAVENS ARE DAPPLED with heavenly white stars and dark, gray clouds threatening Yardenfeld with an unyielding downpour of snow. My cheeks are exposed to the icy winds, my hooded sweater, peppered with holes that allow the cold to nip at any exposed skin, is a size too small and can’t quite fit over my head of hair. Gingerly padding my way to the carriage across a sleek sheet of ice, I clumsily enter the cart and flop into the leather seat. Mum is already inside, slumped against the window, drifting off into slumber. She’s worn out from her final night as an entertainer at Taffy’s, and I’m worn out from the overload of information Vahilda dumped on me. I could use some sleep too. Maybe I’ll wake up from this weird dream.
Worse still... I’m going to die tomorrow. If Vahilda’s word is to be trusted. Though tomorrow is never promised, to have it verified by a witch is alarming. Should I believe her? Can I trust someone like her? A witch.
Can I trust myself now that I know that I’m... I’m... a witch...? Am I still me? Still the same Elyse before I filled the tankard with water? Still the same girl who loves to read books?
And what of my father? The man Vahilda says is a wizard who traveled to Yardenfeld nineteen years ago and was killed. I wonder if my mother knows anything about him. Not that she’d remember a guy she had a one-night fling with so long ago. Or would she? It wouldn’t hurt to ask. But what would come of it?
“Edwin Marguerite,” I say under my breath, to which my mum stirs.
Rubbing her eyes, she squints at me. “Be a dear and close the door, you.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers.
Sliding the door close, I rap my knuckles on the front window and nod at the driver. Mum and I lurch forward as the horse begins to trot down the road.
“Who’s Edwin?” Mum stretches her neck and yawns. “Is it the name of your imaginary boyfriend?”
I bristle, scoot myself closer to the door, and try to put as much space between us as I can in this confined carriage. “It’s no one.” I’d rather not retort in an impolite manner, which would turn into a full-blown argument. Mum and I argue far too much for it to be considered healthy. She’s always the agitator, but puts the full blame on me for starting a fight I never initiated.
Fighting with her would be no good if my final words to her are ones filled with vitriol. I’d rather have a quiet ride home, a peaceful end to the night, if tonight is indeed my last. Would my mum even care if I perished tomorrow? Or even pretend to care?
Mum’s tired voice cuts through my morbid thoughts of death. “Igbob and I will be leaving by noon tomorrow to move into his mansion. You should be grateful he’s pulling a double tonight at the hospital. Now you can keep your dear mother company.”
I nod my head, refusing to engage her in further conversation. She’s been with Igbob for four years too long and has never seen or been inside his alleged mansion. She even believes he’s a doctor at the local infirmary but never thoroughly investigated his claims after being told repeatedly that someone by the name of Igbob McArthur doesn’t work there. I’d like to believe she’s smarter than this, yet she’s so infatuated with the tall, lanky, and somewhat handsome man that she is blinded by his dashing smile. He could lie and say the sky is falling, and she’d believe it.
Warming my hands by the interior lantern, I turn to face my mum, lips twisted in contemplation. “Is there a reason you failed to mention that not only are you engaged, but you’re pregnant?”
“Avery can’t hold water, I see.” Mum digs a hand in her bosoms, fumbles for a second, then pulls out a massive diamond engagement ring that reflects the lantern light in my eyes.
How in the world can Igbob afford something like that? Maybe he is as wealthy as he claims to be. Or perhaps it’s a fake. But mum would never be caught dead in anything fake. Igbob is a big spender, just like mum likes, and this ring is proof enough.
Slipping the ring on her finger, mum inspects the diamond like a gemologist. “I told that obese hag to not tell you anything. I wanted to surprise you. To leave you in total and utter shock.”
“Surprise me, how?” A twang of annoyance pulls at my heartstrings. Leaving your daughter behind to start a new family is not something I’d call a surprise. “You were going to abandon me.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?” Her eyes are maintained on her ring, forehead wrinkled, jaw set. “Don’t I deserve happiness? Don’t I deserve a man who loves me unconditionally?” Stealing her gaze away from her hand, her green eyes glow in the lantern light as they lower. “I get the chance for a do-over, a restart. I get to undo this mess you caused.”
“What are you on about?” My tone is severe, lethal as I fall into the trap and engage her in an argument. “It’s your fault that I am even here, mum. I didn’t ask to be here. If I did, I sure as hell chose the wrong woman to give birth to me. I pray my little brother or sister sees you for who you truly are—a bad mother.” If I were an acid spraying monster, she’d be dissolved into a puddle of gunk.
Mum strikes me across the face, her hand like fire on my cheek. I rub my stinging face, the pain familiar, a reminder of how our arguments always end. Burying my face in my hands, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, suppressing the tears ready to fall. Mum clears her throat, smooths her hands down her dress, and stares out of the window.
“I was going to leave the cottage to you,” mum says, her tone even, flat almost. “It’s not my intention to leave on bad terms, but you’ve brought this on yourself. So, I need you out come sunrise tomorrow. You can stay with that tub of lard, Avery, for all I care. Or possibly the nearest homeless shelter. You practically look homeless. I think you’ll fit in perfectly.”
I’ve had so many opportunities to run away, so many chances to break free of the chains keeping me linked to my mum. But each time I thought of doing such a thing, I felt so guilty for thinking in such a manner. Although mum doesn’t want to admit this, and I’ve lived with the woman for eighteen years, I know one thing for certain: she hates being alone.
We ride the rest of the way home in tense quiet. The rattling of the carriage, the horse’s hooves on the pavement, and the chittering of the crickets are the only sounds that pierce the silent winter night.
Our cottage, a medium-sized rotund brick construction with an infestation of green moss and a droopy thatched roof that’s seen better days, is what we’ve called home for the last decade. I haven’t been home in a few weeks because mum and Igbob desperately needed alone time, making for a complicated transfer of gold since I’ve worked so much overtime at the Tavern. In the dead of night, I’d hitch a ride to the cottage and add whatever gold I made for the night in my secret hiding place behind the loose brick. I haven’t done it in a few days after Igbob almost caught me hiding my gold. He thought I was a thief, attempting to break into the home. When he realized it was me, he asked for my share of the rent. He’s always expecting me to pay half of the rent, even though I barely live at home anymore. I slipped him a few golds, though, but not enough that I dipped into my years of savings.
My pouch of gold is full to bursting as I clutch it tightly inside the pocket of my hoodie. Mum hobbles into the cottage like a woman about to keel over from exhaustion, her legs wobbly from far too many high kicks. Unlocking the door, she disappears inside but leaves the door ajar. Ginger flames from candlelight illuminate a slice of the dark outside.
Grazing a hand along the brick wall, I search through the starless night for the brick that holds my life savings. It’d be easier if I’d open a bank account, but one can’t be too trusting of the banks in Yardenfeld. They’re known for tacking on huge fees that just don’t make a lick of sense. So, my idea is far better and far cheaper.
My fingers glide to a stop, a single brick wobbles at my touch. I grip the brick on both sides and slide it gently out of place and onto the ground. After all this time, I’m still surprised that our entire cottage hasn’t crumbled to the ground each time I remove this brick. The cottage may seem a bit shabby and dilapidated, but it’s withstood hurricanes, snowstorms, and even a tornado.
Slowly, I slide my hand into the opening and grab hold of the potato sack stuffed in the rectangular hole. Removing it takes a few tugs, but when it’s finally free, I empty my earnings from the past few weeks into the sack. The gold coins gleam under the moonlight, clinking as I upend my sock of gold into my life savings.
A rustling sound in the dead grass makes my heart stop for a beat. I hold a breath in my lungs, peering shakily through the night, horrified to think if mum found me. If she found out what I’ve been hiding from her for the last couple of years. She’d take all my gold and claim it as her, claim my life’s work as her own.
More rustling sounds in the dark. My blood runs cold, an ice storm of nerves racks my body to near numbness. Added with the below zero temps of winter’s breath, I will probably die of hypothermia if I don’t hurry.
Hurrying to put the sack away, I smush the bag back into hiding, the gold coins fighting against my fist as I pound it into place. I pat the ground, searching for the brick, whirling left and right as I drop to my hands and knees. I could’ve sworn I put the block of clay near my feet, yet I can’t find it.
“Elyse.” My mum’s voice makes me jump; the breath I’ve been holding sputters out of me. “Elyse, I’m starving.” Candlelight blankets the patch of grass near the front of the home as my mum’s shadowy outline appears. “Where is that dense girl?”
She’s still in the house, thank the Goddess. If that wasn’t her, then what where did that noise come from? It sounded from close by, and yet nothing has come of it. Was it my imagination? Perhaps a side-effect of my dabbling into the realm of witchcraft? Or the murderer who will steal my life away come tomorrow? I shudder from the magnitude of thoughts and worries weighing me down. I’ve got to sleep with one eye open tonight.
“Coming,” I choke out. Scrambling my hands around in my final desperate attempt to find the brick, I curse and hop to my feet. If I’m to be put out on the street come sunrise, then I must beat the sun before she rises. Someone—anyone—can walk by and steal all my years of hard work. I’d hate to leave it exposed like this... but I must.
A shiver runs up my spine as I turn and scurry toward home. I feel like someone is watching my every move, my every step. Stealing a peek over my shoulder, a set of yellow eyes blink at me, then vanish into the dead of night.