by C. J. Canady
I’m instantly returned to the cottage with my mum. Vahilda’s words stir up memories that I’d rather forget. Memories of my mother shouting hurtful insults at me that would always make me cry.
“I-I’m sorry.” I blink myself back to reality. The flame I conjured has stretched to other innocent flowers, stealing the life from nearby zinnias, daisies, and sunflowers.
Vahilda rolls her wrist. A bouquet of hydrangea blooms in her hands. Tossing the hydrangeas, the witch manifests a heavy downpour of rain. The bed of colorful flowers is doused in gallons upon gallons of crystal blue water. Hissing in protest, the fire is snuffed out like a light.
Vahilda and I stand in hushed silence. Whirling on her heels, Vahilda pinches the bridge of her nose and chews on her bottom lip. “While I’m gone,” she says, eyes pressed tightly together, “please study that book. I want you to learn what you can about chamomile. And then, I will put what you’ve learned to the test. Tomorrow, you’ll learn about toad lilies and foxgloves. You will train day and night. Is that clear?”
I bob my head. “Yes.”
“Don’t let anyone in while I’m away,” she says, opens the backdoor. “Do not disappoint me, Elyse. You come from a long line of magical blood. Should you fail me again, I will deny you the right to sleep or eat until our work is done.”
VAHILDA’S HOME IS SO peaceful, comforting. Though that peace and comfort will fall to the wayside once the witch returns, I’ll savor these moments for what they’re worth. Peace is all I want. Truthfully. Of all the things one could want—fame, fortune, a hot body—all I want is peace. To achieve that peace, I sometimes like to take a nice walk, do a little sightseeing. However, I won’t risk that, as Vahilda could pop up at any moment. She left to go to the market to buy the flower seeds I’ll need to train with.
My feet are cushioned by the lush grass in the backyard as I take a stroll to the edge of the property. I carry the tome in both my hands; the book opens to the chapter about chamomile. Reading and walking aren’t my strong suit, but any chance of me running into someone is nonexistent here. Vahilda has so much space to grow forty acres worth of flowers. I can only imagine how tiring it would be to maintain such a massive garden. Maybe, after the Flower Trials, I can have a garden of my own. Maybe.
What I’ve learned about chamomile so far is that the flower can be used in tea, can help those who suffer from insomnia, gift the user with a sense of peace and harmony, and lastly, allows any witch or wizard to communicate with animals. How cool is that? Once again, I am floored by the magic each flower wields. I wonder why Vahilda wanted me to learn about chamomile? In any case, I’m eager to learn more—
“Ow!” I tumble backward. I land flat on my back. The book thumps against my ribcage. Something thorny pricked my legs. Propping myself up on my elbow, I inspect the cause of the pain. My eyes land on the borderline—a thick flatbed, to be exact—of thorns. For miles and miles, a sea of thorns blankets the landscape in prickly greens and reds. This is unsettling. I begin to wonder about the thorns when I remember something I read last night regarding my father. His obituary mentioned a perimeter of thorns. And how the laws of Parnissi cannot go beyond that. Is Parnissi protected by the threat of humans by way of thorns?
My legs tingle, blood dribbling from my wounds. I’ve got to get back to the house to patch myself up. Lifting myself up, I gather the book and head back toward Vahilda’s home, just an oblong-shaped blob in the distance. Actually, there are two shapes, and one is moving to me, running, in fact.
“Vahilda?” I say to the shadowy figure on a beeline toward me.
Squinting, I notice that the shadow isn’t the witch. It’s Percy. His blonde curls springing with each stride, blue eyes shimmering in the midday sun.
“Well, hello, Elyse.” Percy pants, hunches over to catch his breath.
“H-Hi.” I twist my lips at the sweaty boy. “Are you looking for Vahilda? She went to the market about two hours ago. I thought she’d be back by now.”
Percy wipes his head with the back of his sleeve. He’s still wearing the baggy suit I saw him in last night. “I came to see you.”
“Me?” My brows shoot upward. “Why have you come to see me?”
“Because I wanted to take you out on a date.”
That word “date” gives me pause. First, I’ve never been asked on a date in my life. And second, I barely know the man from a can of paint, and he wants to take me out on a date. All things considered, he is a good-looking guy, but, again, I don’t know him.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say, words jumbled as I breeze past him. My legs are still burning with pain, and the trickle of blood hasn’t eased. “Vahilda said no visitors. And, if you haven’t noticed, I need to take care of an issue I have.”
“Goddess,” he squeals, “you’re bleeding.” He matches my paces, long legs giving him an unfair advantage over me. “That border is there for a reason. I would assume a witch like you knows that crossing thorn road would lead you back to the human world. Or death. Not too sure. But it’s there for our protection—”
“You should leave.” I press the book to my chest. Gaining speed, I ascend a grassy knoll and sprint for the house. “I don’t want to get into trouble. Not after what I did to her garden.”
Percy is breathless. He is shoulder to shoulder with me, grinning from ear to ear. “Is that why she’s at the market? Vahilda told me something different. And she said it was okay that I stop by, though.”
I come to a halt, ignoring the pain in my legs. “Did Vahilda really say that?”
“Elyse.” He leans his arm on my shoulder like we’re old chums. “I practically live here myself. Vahilda sort of adopted me.” He shrugs, lips twisted in a sort of uncertainty.
“She adopted you?”
“Not really, but... sure.”
“You’re like her son or something?”
He gives me a shrug. “Can’t say.”
“And what does that mean?” I ask, stupefied.
His ears twitch, and his nose wrinkles. “Crud.” He balls his fist and presses it to his mouth. “I should go—Vahilda’s back. But tomorrow, we’ll go on our date. Don’t tell Vahilda. Okay. It’s our secret.” The pale-skinned man dashes off at speeds inhumanely possible.
Vahilda appears at the backdoor a moment later, just as Percy zips by and out of sight. “Elyse.” She waves at me. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”
Chapter 8
“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.”
Chapter 9
PERHAPS I SOUND LIKE a broken record at this point. But... I’ve got to say that Parnissi is absolutely divine. Who thought I would ever say such a combination of words about a place I’ve been told was the underworld? It’s midday, and what I know now as downtown Parnissi—or as Percy likes to call it, “where the cool kids hang,” is packed with witches and wizards around my age. They’re either sipping tea and eating danishes at the local café or enjoying a game of croquet in a large field. The main attraction seems to be the sack toss tournament that’s drawing quite the crowd.
I agreed to go on a “date” with Percy if, and only if, he explains to me how and why he’s here. He says there aren’t any other humans around, aside from me, because I’m half-mortal. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I guess I’m still as human as a human can get. It was only a few days ago that I discovered my magical bloodline.
Percy has confided in me that he feels comfortable around me because of my human side. He says it’s “relaxing” and “familiar” to have someone like me in Parnissi.
The only question I want an answer to is, “Why are you here?” I ask, voice to a whisper amongst the clamor in the café, Brioche. He and I are out on the patio, sipping honey tea and eating chocolate chip croissants.