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SINCE THE DAY THE CLOAKED stranger came to my home, it has felt different. After he left, his evil request and tainted money took up space and fouled the air.
I tried all my own remedies; cherry plum, mimulus, red chestnut, but none of them helped. I swept all the negativity out, opened all the windows and lit a fire to drive out the devil and still I couldn’t sleep.
Since seeing Halfreda and making the disgusting death draught and then bringing it home, things are even worse. Last night, for the first time since I came to my little cottage, I wanted to leave.
I have hidden the little poisonous vial, in a bag of cloth, tied with black ribbon, hidden in a box of scented pouches. I have put the box on a shelf, with books on top of it, and a posy of flowers on top of them. I am hoping that I have made it difficult to find, should someone try to steal a love potion or worse and I am hoping that the books – all good spells and white magic – as well as the flowers will off-set some of the evil within the vial. It’s not working.
It is so small but so disgusting. It’s as though it’s giving off a heat or a smell, even though it’s not. I am aware of its presence and I feel like it’s watching me.
I make a calming tea and sit in my chair, watching the box. I have had so many customers, many strangers coming to see me this week, and I know I am not myself, I should be happy. The Kingmaker’s feast, celebration week and death day are all going to make me a heap of coin. My heart feels sad, though.
I am sure my regular customers can sense that I am not my normal self. Strangers will have nothing to measure me against. They will just think I am a worried little witch.
I pull out one of my favourite spell books and flick through it. I need something to counteract this negativity before I go mad.
The book is old and beautifully bound in silk. I was given it when I turned eighteen by my mother. She was so proud of me; I am the only witch in our family and witches are so revered. We have such power and special abilities that normal people would kill for.
I find a happy spell, a joy spell, a spell for making people laugh. I know most of them without having to look in the book, of course, but it’s a happy book. There are wonderful illustrations and just flicking through it makes me feel better.
I fetch my little metal pot and place it beside me. I pull some flowers I like the smell of – roses, lilies – from a vase on the window sill and crush them with my pestle and mortar. I add some dried herbs from my cupboard and some spices. I go outside. I am looking for a lady bird. I just need it to walk through my little concoction, I don’t need to kill it. Killing won’t make for a joyous spell.
I see a butterfly on a flower and lift it off. I put it in my bowl and it patters over the ingredients before flying away. A butterfly is almost as good as a ladybird.
I sing out the spell as I mix through some ale and then I scoop the lot in to a cup. I will drink it in an hour or so, when it’s infused enough. Until then I brood again.
The cloaked man will return for his draught tomorrow and yet every knock on the door since he first came, makes my stomach clench and a sweat break out on my skin. I trust Halfreda’s guidance, without a doubt, and yet I cannot abide what this man is going to do.
When Halfreda said that he would test me by using some of the death draught I could have cried. It had not occurred to me. But of course he would. He wouldn’t risk trying to kill in his cowardly way if there was a chance that it wouldn’t work. And so, I am guilty of not one murder, but two, three if I count the fox, which I suppose I must.
How am I going to live with myself? And who or what will he kill? A mouse, a cat, a puppy, a vagrant or a King.
It could be any one of those.
I think I may be sick. I sip the tea and try to calm myself. Panicking will not help. I do not want him to see that I fear him. He might try to test the draught on me.
And wouldn’t that teach me for giving it to him in the first place?
Another knock, another panic. I smooth out my clothes and hair, and plaster on a smile. I know it is not him and yet I could be sick.
I open the door; it’s not the cloaked man, of course, and still the relief that floods through me is palpable. It’s just a love potion for a stranger passing through, who thinks that the girl who fills the jugs of ale in the tavern might be his true love. I pass him the little jar, and smile at him, thinking how simple his life is. And hoping that he finds happiness on this sunny day with this girl he wishes was his.
I wave him away and close my door against the world.
As I sink in to my chair again and sip my tea I think about my life. This cloaked man wanted something and now I am embroiled in his scheming, against my will. His poor choice has affected me, and I have involved Halfreda and now who knows what implications this will have.
I sip and wait and wonder what will become of me. Of us all.