Frieda and Georg had overheard the debate and chosen to leave rather than risk what they saw as worse.
“Normally Georg is good at finding his way through the forest,” Frieda added. “But this time, we got lost. We were trying to get to the town, but he couldn’t see the way.”
Klara knelt to open the stove again and add more wood, and when a salamander paused in its joyous leaping, she whispered, “Which one?”
And the answer she received was “Both.”
They ate the mushrooms first, cooked with the butter kept cool in the river. Then the vegetables were soft in the broth, and they ate that with the remains of the bread. Klara couldn’t think much beyond that, and the children were exhausted, too.
The next morning, however, she woke to another delicious smell, and was astonished to learn Georg had coaxed eggs from the chicken.
Earth, she realized, now that she had a clearer head and a belly that didn’t ache. Which meant Frieda was Water, if the undines and naiads had any say. But neither child seemed to know; they’d had no training, had no knowledge, in fact, that Elemental Magic existed.
In many ways, that didn’t surprise her. Magicians were still looked down upon, feared, outcast. In a time when Old Lutherans and those of any religion not sanctioned by the state chose to seek refuge in America, mages had to be especially careful. Or perhaps their parents hadn’t known, either? Frieda had said their mother was dead and their stepmother was strict.
“Frau Klara,” Georg said after they’d breakfasted, “does the mill no longer function?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Could they be the answer to her prayers?
“It could,” she said, “but I haven’t the strength to adjust the face wheel or the runner stones. And the . . . the river has been low.”
Before things had become dire, she had tried to hire some help but hadn’t been able to find anyone willing to live this far from town for very long.
Plus, the mill had been as prosperous as it had when Hermann was alive, thanks in part to the Water spirits helping guide the wheel, keeping its rotation even and steady.
“We’re so grateful for your hospitality,” Frieda added, “and we must pay you back for the bread we stole. Please, let us help.”
And so Klara led them from the cottage into the mill, where the scent of water and grain was strong, and the air was cool and fresh. It took the three of them to adjust the various wheels so that, finally, they stood back, exhausted, and watched the mechanisms move properly.
Klara went to the storage bins and hauled out a sack of grain.
There would, she thought with the first sense of hope she’d had in months, be fresh bread for supper tonight. And to sell at the market.
The mill would work adequately even without the Elementals’ help, but if Frieda had a connection with them. . . .
Klara shook her head, looking down at the moss-covered rocks lining the bank of the river. She didn’t yet dare think too far in the future. Right now, though, a glimmer of hope was enough.
• • •
The first time they traveled into town for the market, the three of them went together, Klara showing them how to get there and where to set the cart to sell the bread and sacks of fine ground flour. The next time, the two children went together, Frieda scratching between the goat’s horns as it pulled the cart, while Klara stayed behind, happier tending to the mill and the garden, staying close to the land.
Cautiously, she let hope trickle back into her life, found it easier to breathe.
The third time, the two children went together again, but only Frieda returned, stumbling next to the cart and the confused goat, weeping to near hysteria.
She could barely speak the words, but Klara figured out, her heart heavy, what Frieda said.
The German Army had conscripted Georg.
Klara couldn’t do much more than hold Frieda while the girl wept. She had told the children briefly about Otto, and she hoped Frieda wouldn’t think of that, wouldn’t assume the same fate would befall Georg.
“Georg is strong and smart and resourceful,” she whispered in Frieda’s ear. “He led you through the woods; he can take care of himself. When his service is through, he’ll find his way back to you.”
But she lay awake for many nights, worrying.
• • •
Without Georg, the mill’s production slowed. Frieda took up much of the slack, and between them they could move the heavier stones, haul the sacks of grain and flour.
Before Georg had left, Klara had tried to broach the subject of Elementals, but any time she did, both children either changed the subject or acted as if they had no idea what she spoke of. She believed Frieda should be trained, however. She just wasn’t sure where or how to start.
Her own training had come from family, as natural a part of things as learning to walk and read and bake.
As she baked, she watched Frieda. The girl transferred the shaped loaves to her. Using the wide, flat wooden paddle, Klara slid the loaves into the oven one at a time. Klara could see Frieda furtively watching, her brown eyes darting back and forth as she bit her lip.
Once all the loaves were safely in the oven, Klara left the iron door slightly ajar, then sat Frieda down at the scarred wooden table. She asked one of the salamanders to join her, and it twined about her arm like a weasel, sinuous and playful.
“Frieda,” Klara said, “you can see the salamander, can’t you?”
The girl’s faced paled, and she shook her head so hard Klara thought she might snap her own neck. “No, Frau Klara, I don’t see anything. Nothing at all.”
“Frieda,” Klara said. She eased toward the girl, slowly, her voice soothing, as if she were calming a skittish pony. “It’s all right. It won’t hurt you. I—”
But before she could continue, Frieda burst into tears. The salamander, startled, leaped back into the oven.
“No, no, no!” Frieda repeated, curling into herself and squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t see anything! It’s not my fault!”
“Frieda,” Klara said again, putting her hands on the girl’s arms. “Nothing’s your fault, Liebling. Why ever would you say such a thing?”
And that was when Frieda finally broke down, her defenses crumbling. They had been cast out of their home, she said, weeping, because their stepmother thought Frieda was a Hexe, a witch, because Frieda could see the creatures frolicking in the water.
“Georg . . . Georg can see things, too,” she said, and hiccuped. “In the forest. Little gnome-men—Erdgeists—he told me. But he doesn’t say that anymore. When she came, he swore he couldn’t see them, and swore I was telling tales, and she beat me to teach me to not to lie.”
Klara knew that by she, Frieda meant their stepmother.
Klara gathered the girl into her arms and rocked her back and forth. “You’re not a witch—not in the way that witches are bad and evil,” she said. “But you do have magic in you, a very special gift. You’re a magician—a Water Magician, if I’m not mistaken, just as my Hermann was. And it sounds as though Georg is an Earth Magician.”
Frieda had stopped weeping, but she was still tense, still frightened, so Klara explained, in simple terms, how Elemental Magic worked.
Eventually Frieda’s sobs and hiccups subsided. She rose and went to the marble basin of water on the beechwood washstand that stood between the two bedroom doors, a wedding gift from Hermann a lifetime ago. But instead of splashing her face, she stared into the bowl.
As Klara watched, Frieda bit her lip, reached out hesitantly with one hand.
The water in the bowl shimmered, rippled. Frieda sucked in an audible breath, but she didn’t move, didn’t pull back.
In contrast, Klara held her breath.
A swirl of water, a tempest in the proverbial teacup, and then a tiny naiad rose halfway out of the water. It coc
ked its head at Frieda, then held out one little watery hand.
Slowly, Frieda stretched to gently touch that hand with one finger.
The naiad giggled, the sound like a tinkling gargle of delight. It did a backflip, splashed into the water, and disappeared.
Frieda turned to Klara, her brown eyes enormous. She took in another deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Clearly she had come to a crossroads and made her choice.
“Will you—will you teach me?” she asked.
• • •
Klara taught Frieda as best she could, for all that Fire Magic opposed Water Magic. It helped that Frieda was determined and talented—and it seemed that the Water spirits remembered Hermann’s kindness and didn’t hold it against Klara that her own magic was anathema to them.
Klara watched Frieda grow stronger every day in many ways. Not that she hadn’t always been strong—not everyone could have survived those days deep in the forest—but previously she’d had Georg to lean on, to share burdens with (and, Klara knew, Georg had shared with Frieda).
The girl blossomed as her relationship with the naiads and undines grew. She never shirked the work that needed to be done to keep the mill running, but when she had a spare moment, Klara always knew to find her down by the river, crouched on the mossy rocks, trailing her fingers in the chill water.
The only darkness was the loss of Georg, of not knowing his fate. Many nights Klara heard Frieda’s sobs, no matter how hard she tried to muffle them in her pillow. They both asked their respective Elementals for assistance, but Earth Magic was weaker in cities, if that was indeed where Georg was.
Frieda transformed her fear into determination—determination to learn Elemental Magic, determination to make the mill a success, determination to find Georg, determination to face whatever obstacles came in her path.
At first, Klara and Frieda went to the market together; Klara was concerned about Frieda, an unattended and lovely young woman, as she had to admit Frieda was becoming, going alone. But even in that, Frieda eventually insisted she could handle herself. Georg had taught her to fight, she said. Ach, she could hold her own.
To Klara, Frieda was the daughter Hermann and she had never had. To Frieda, Klara was far more of a mother than her stepmother had ever been.
With the forest and the river, the mill and the oven, they were content. When Georg returned, as they both trusted he would, they would have a family together.
But when Georg returned, the reunion wasn’t what any of them wished for.
• • •
Spring was turning into summer once again, the forest shifting from the bright green of new shoots to the mossy green of thriving growth. The river settled from early-season swollen to a steady flow, the undines playing in the mill wheel.
Frieda had just come in from the mill for lunch—fresh-baked rye bread, Butterkäse cheese, and sausage from last week’s trip to the market—when the sharp rap at the door brought them both to their feet.
No one ventured this far into the forest.
Klara reached for the butcher knife. Frieda reached for the latch, then stepped back as she opened the door.
The figure in the doorway was silhouetted by the bright sunshine, but Frieda seemed to recognize his form, even changed and grown as it was.
“Georg!” She flung herself into his arms.
But Klara saw a stiffness in him. He held Frieda, his eyes closed, but his body was rigid.
He’d filled out. He was a man now, just as Frieda was a woman. Was that what made him tense?
Klara set the knife onto the table, stepped forward to greet him.
But he released Frieda and straightened, and if he’d been stiff before, now he was a board—no, a rock, braced forever against a stream, unyielding.
He took a few steps inside, and now she could see him more clearly. His uniform was blue, with a red collar and many buttons, and he wore it like a shield.
“Frau Klara,” he said, his voice distant, official. “I am to take you to the authorities for questioning.”
It was Frieda who responded. “Georg, what are you talking about?”
His eyes flicked to her, then back to Klara. “You are under suspicion of being a Hexe.”
Somewhere, deep down, she’d feared this. When Hermann was alive, their success with the mill and the baking hadn’t been unusual to the outside eye. But alone, and then with Frieda’s help, she’d wondered if their success would be questioned in these lean and terrible times.
“I am not a Hexe, Georg,” she said, her voice firm but laced with the affection she felt for him. “I am a woman trying to survive in these harsh times.”
“Your mill’s production is unusually high,” Georg said. He lifted his chin. “And I believe I have seen you consort with demons.”
The salamanders in the oven flames.
Klara closed her eyes, shook her head. “You accuse me of something you don’t understand,” she said. “And are you my sole accuser?”
An uncomfortable look crossed his face. “My regiment is in town,” he said. “I asked for time to see my sister and, if necessary, ensure her safety. I said I would bring you in myself, and my success could mean advancement in the ranks.”
“Georg, stop.” Frieda stepped up to him again. “You’re not making any sense. Why would you want to do this?”
His spiked leather helmet made him look taller than he was, but when Frieda faced him, Klara could see that they were the same height. She thought with a small smile that Frieda looked just as formidable as he.
“It’s my duty,” he said. “To protect. Rules must be followed.”
“It’s your duty as much as it is anyone’s to protect your family,” Frieda said. “Not just me; Frau Klara saved us, Georg. She’s your family as much as I am. We’ve tried everything to find you, sent—” She broke off, bit her lip, glanced at Klara. Although Frieda had accepted and even rejoiced in her Elemental abilities, it was clear Georg’s arrival had brought back memories of being beaten for even saying she saw creatures in the water.
And Klara didn’t know what Georg would do if he learned about Frieda’s magic. He’d no doubt locked away his childhood memories of seeing gnomes in the forest and Frieda seeing Water Elementals.
Frieda was right: You protect family above all else. She didn’t need to be implicated. With Klara gone, Frieda could still run the mill, sell the flour.
Klara stepped forward. “I am not a Hexe,” she repeated. “Elemental Magic is not witchcraft.”
She opened the stove, welcomed a salamander, held it out, and tried to explain.
Her words fell on deaf ears. “Witchcraft,” Georg repeated, and now he stepped forward, shifting the rifle tucked beneath his arm. Not drawing it up, but preparing to.
“Would a witch have taken you in and fed you after you stole her last loaf of bread?” Klara asked. “Or would a witch have fed you to the fire salamanders?”
“Stop it!” Frieda’s voice rang clear and firm. “She’s no more a Hexe than I am. Her communication with Fire Elementals is no different from mine with Water creatures or yours with Elementals from the Earth. You can pretend they’re not real, but they are. Look.”
She picked up the heavy marble bowl and brought it over to the kitchen table, its scarred wooden surface still covered with flour from the morning’s baking. “Look,” she said, pointing.
The little naiad rose cautiously, glancing from person to person.
Georg’s jaw clenched. “I see nothing.”
So Frieda grabbed his sleeve and marched him to the window, just as she’d pulled him around when they were children, Klara remembered, once they’d settled in with her. “Look there, then,” Frieda said, pointing at the river.
The naiads and undines, hearing her silent call, leaped from the water, then fell and rolled like playful otters on the current.
“And there,” Frieda said. On the mossy bank, an Erdgeist—a gnome—crouched, watching them.
“No,” Georg said, but his voice had lost its assurance. “It’s witchcraft. She’s making me see these things . . .”
“But I’m showing them to you,” Frieda said. “I’m calling the Water Elementals.”
“She’s making you see them, making you believe you have power,” Georg said, clearly grasping at straws.
“No, Georg,” Frieda said softly. “I saw them well before we came here. You remember . . . I know you do. And you saw the forest creatures—the little Erdgeists, the dryad who sang to you.”
He shook his head, a sudden, almost desperate movement, and Klara saw the flash of young Georg in his eyes. The Georg who protected his sister however he could, who led her through the forest, who would have protected her from a witch if that was who Klara had turned out to be.
While they were at the window, she’d taken up the knife again, hidden it in her skirts. Her heart pounded; her mouth was dry as stale bread. She didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t know if she had it within herself to hurt another human being. But if he decided Frieda was a witch, she’d defend Frieda, for Frieda was family.
She knew, though, that Frieda would never forgive her, because Georg was family, too.
But the erect military posture Georg had maintained up until now finally shifted; the stiff shell fell away.
“They made me believe . . .” he murmured. “I could believe it of Klara, but never of you. They’re wrong, though, the soldiers, our stepmother . . .”
“If you’d stayed, Klara would have shown you what your abilities are, just as she did with me,” Frieda said. “They’re not wicked or evil.”
He gathered her into his arms but still shook his head. “But what can we do? They’re waiting for me in town. If I don’t return soon, they’ll come looking for me—for all of us. I can’t protect you against an entire regiment.”
With a rush of clarity, Klara knew the answer.
It was an answer she’d feared, but now, she knew, she had to release her fears. Frieda and Georg had been so much braver than she, and they’d done it for each other, because they were family.
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