by J. A. White
Grace gently rubbed her back.
“There, there,” she said. “Are you ill? Would you like me to get your father? I’m sure he would be a great help. He’s an expert at not being well, isn’t he, Kara?”
Kara longed to reach back and slap Grace’s hand away, but she wasn’t confident in her ability to balance her weight with one hand. Besides, she could see Simon standing just behind his mistress like a deformed shadow. His face might have been blank and lifeless now, but that would change the moment she struck Grace.
“This is a strange place to take a nap,” Grace said. “Unless, perhaps, you were waiting for the Dark Man? Or perhaps meeting your little Stench friend? When I am fen’de, such inappropriate relationships will not be tolerated.”
Kara tried to reply, but her mouth was too dry to talk. She was ravenous too, as though she hadn’t eaten for days.
I used too much magic. More than my body could take.
“What do we have here?” Grace asked, noticing something on the ground.
The grimoire.
Kara hurled herself toward the book, but Simon got there first, pinching the grimoire between two fingers and holding it at arm’s length like a poisonous snake.
Propping her cane beneath the crook of her arm, Grace held out her hands expectantly.
“Give it here,” she said.
Simon shook his head.
Grace’s mouth fell open. It was the first time Kara had ever seen her surprised.
“Give it to me!” she repeated. “Now!”
Kara’s strength had begun to return to her, and though the world was still not completely stable, she managed to get to her feet.
“It’s nothing,” she said, the words barely making a dent in the silence. “Just a blank journal.”
Grace ignored her. Using her cane she took a step in Simon’s direction. Simon stayed in place but turned away from her. As Grace came closer he clenched his eyes shut and brought the grimoire to his chest and whimpered softly, as if its proximity caused him great pain.
“Simon,” Grace said. Her voice was soft, hypnotic. “Simon, Simon.” She ran a hand along his arm, and the giant shivered at her touch. “Be a good boy and let me have what I want. You want to make me happy, don’t you?”
The giant nodded and looked up.
“Then give it to me. It’s just a book.”
The giant shook his head.
“Simon,” Grace said. Her voice remained gentle, but the cracks in her patience were beginning to show. “You don’t want to be punished, do you? You don’t want me to leave you alone again. In the dark, where he can find you.”
The giant’s whimpering grew louder, but Kara noticed his hold on the book begin to slip a bit.
“Be a good boy, Simon. That’s right. Be my Simon.”
After she had taken the book from his arms, Grace spun one finger in the air. Simon nodded and turned away from her. He closed his eyes just before a whistle of air cut through the forest and Grace’s cane snapped against his back.
“Never refuse me again!” Grace screamed. The ribbon in her hair—fuchsia today—unraveled and fell to the ground. She struck Simon twice more. “Never.”
Grace’s rage evaporated as quickly as it had come. She smiled at Kara and shrugged, as if asking What can you do? Then she opened the book. Kara waited for the look of disappointment when Grace saw the blank pages and realized that all this trouble had been for nothing.
Instead Grace’s eyes shot open. Her entire body began to tremble.
“Goodness,” she said.
Grace had turned to a random page near the middle of the grimoire, farther in the book than Kara had reached. With the gentlest of touches, she used a single fingertip to trace the peaks and valleys of an unseen image.
“What is it showing you?” Kara asked.
When Grace looked up, her perfect face glistened with sweat and revelation.
“Everything.”
Grace bowed her head forward until her nose almost touched the open book. From deep within her throat emanated a strange pattern of moans and grunts. Kara wondered if she sounded the same way when she cast a spell, like a conduit for something dark and far more powerful. The thought disturbed her.
“Grace,” she said with a measured tone, “you need to stop. You don’t know what you’re—”
It started to snow.
There was no preamble. One minute it was an unassuming autumn day, and then the world was obscured by whiteness. Leaves rustled as animals rushed madly through the trees, their body clocks driven mad by this inexplicable change in seasons.
“Yes,” Grace said under her breath. She tilted her head skyward, allowing the unusually frigid flakes to settle on her face, her forehead, her tongue. Snow vanished into her hair, precisely the same shade of white.
“So this is what it’s like,” Grace said. “Magic.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as though she and Kara were just two girls trading secrets. “I’ve always wondered. They don’t tell you, in the stories, how good it feels. Not that I’m a witch like you, of course. I follow the Path and will certainly seek penance afterward.” She turned to the next page. “But first: just one more . . .”
Kara snatched the grimoire from her hands and ran toward the village. She expected Simon to give chase, but the giant let her pass. “Bring it back!” Grace screamed after her. “Bring back my book! Bring it back now!” Kara continued to run, chest pounding, branches cracking beneath her feet. She was almost home before she noticed that it had stopped snowing.
The Fenroot tree at the village’s center was the reason the last remaining Children had chosen to pilgrimage to De’Noran, despite the dangers of the Thickety. Fenroots had grown increasingly rare throughout the centuries, and you could not have a community that properly honored Timoth Clen without one. The villagers gathered around it now, waiting patiently on the smooth stones that encircled the tree. They were grouped by profession: Elders and their families sat in the first row, followed by the shopkeepers and farmers, and finally the fishermen and traders. Clearers sat in the last row, with a sizable gap between their people and the rest of the congregation so “noses could breathe.”
The graycloaks were the only ones who did not sit. They roamed among the stones, staffs held at the ready, wooden balls up. Anyone who dared fall asleep during the sermon would be in for a rude awakening.
But even the graycloaks stopped moving when Kara entered the circle.
Over the years she had grown used to the murmurs of disapproval generated by her arrival at their weekly Service. This was hardly a pleasant way to be greeted, but the reaction was usually halfhearted at best, just another errand to be done: sweep your barn, till your field, shame the Witch Girl. Today was different. Kara watched, from the corner of her eye, as a father hugged his children close and an old crone spit in the aisle.
They had seen the snow, and they thought she was responsible.
“What’s going on?” Father whispered.
Kara shrugged and led them to three stones in the farmers’ section. Once they settled into their seats, conversations returned to the usual topics of crops, weather, and trivial gossip. Father turned to the Widow Miller and asked her how preparations for the Shadow Festival were going. There was nothing particularly exciting about their conversation, but it made Kara smile anyway; perhaps her father was finally getting better.
Taff twisted on the stone next to hers. “I don’t see why we have to go to Service,” he said. “There’s only three nights left of Shadow Festival. We’re supposed to be having fun.”
“Don’t worry. I hear Fen’de Stone’s sermon is going to be even longer than usual today! Won’t that be exciting?”
“I could be building something right now. Or climbing. Or washing my socks. Or anything that isn’t this.”
“Be good.”
Kara eyed the graycloaks closely. Are they going to arrest me on suspicion of witchcraft? How strange it will be if I get blamed for
the one spell I did not cast. Some kind of argument erupted between an old Clearer, his face cracked and wizened from years of service, and the blacksmith’s apprentice, a haughty lad who was fond of causing trouble. The graycloaks did not bother to hear both sides. They simply dragged the Clearer away as the apprentice chortled with his friends.
No, Kara thought. Nothing has changed. They may take me soon, but it will not be today.
She could see Grace sitting in the first row, her pure white hair arranged in two fancy braids bound by a black ribbon. Her magic is more powerful than mine, Kara thought. And the spell simply appeared for her. She didn’t have to work for it at all. The page Grace had used was ruined now, to Kara’s eyes nothing but a shimmering black surface that rippled at her touch. There’s a spell here, the book seemed to say, but you’re not worthy enough to see it.
It was her mother’s grimoire, but it liked Grace better.
“I think I have a fever,” Taff said.
“Nice try. But we’re not leaving.”
Nevertheless, Kara placed the back of her hand to his forehead and was surprised to find that it was warm. She looked at her brother more carefully and noticed the ruddy cheeks and dried snot.
“See?” Taff said.
Kara nodded, feeling guilty. It was the first time Taff had ever brought an illness to her attention without her noticing first.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been paying much attention to you lately, have I?”
Taff shrugged.
She wrapped her arm around him and squeezed. “How about this? After Service we’ll put your costume together. Just me and you.”
“That sounds great,” he said, even more crestfallen than before.
“But?”
“But you promised we’d make my costume yesterday. And the day before that.”
Kara stared at him blankly.
“Do you even remember?”
She didn’t. But she believed him.
Kara’s apology was cut short as the fen’de, wearing the crimson robes of Service Day, took his position upon the Speaking Stone.
“Work hard, want nothing,” he said.
“Stay vigilant,” the congregation replied in unison.
After a sleepless night worrying about what might happen, Kara found it difficult to stay awake during the sermon. The fen’de could often be an excellent speaker—even Kara had to give him that—but he was just going by rote today, repeating homilies and stories they had all heard before. “When our people first came to this island, escaping the blind ignorance of a World that had forgotten all we had done for them . . .” Kara watched Grace closely. She expected her to still be angry that Kara had the grimoire, but instead her lips curled into a smile. Without turning in Kara’s direction, she gave her a small, dismissive wave.
Why is she so happy?
“. . . and on that glorious day Timoth Clen will return to us and cleanse the World of magic once more, and the Children of the Fold will be rewarded for never doubting the righteousness of the Path . . .”
The morning dragged on. Taff shifted in his seat, releasing an occasional sigh of boredom. Even Father looked ready to doze off. It was only hours later, when Service was finally drawing to a close, that the sermon took an interesting turn.
“Today is a special day,” Fen’de Stone said. “A day of celebration.” Men and women straightened in their seats as the customary zeal returned to their beloved leader’s voice. “With the Shadow Festival drawing to a close, and spirits so high, I thought now might be the perfect time to make my announcement.” He sighed theatrically. “I am nearing the twilight of my years and cannot be your leader forever.” The crowd murmured its objections, but Fen’de Stone waved them away. “Don’t worry, my Children. My time is still a long way off. I simply mean that the moment has come to begin training a new leader.”
Grace smoothed out her dress and ran a hand over her hair, making sure every strand was in place.
No, Kara thought, though really she had been expecting this day for some time. Not now. Not so soon.
“Please come forth,” Fen’de Stone proclaimed, gesturing toward the first row.
Grace leaned forward, ready to rise, before realizing that her father was pointing to the seat next to hers. Marsten Cloud rose proudly to his feet. Brushing past Grace he made his way to stand by the fen’de’s side. “I am honored by your decision,” he said, his handsome face dour and serious. “I shall do my best to serve the Fold.”
The congregation clapped politely. Marsten Cloud was an excellent choice, a paragon of the Clen’s ideals. He would make a fine leader.
Only Kara thought to look in Grace’s direction.
The pretty mask had slipped away, replaced by an expression of rage so pure, it twisted her features into something dark and feral. Although Grace had shown her nothing but unkindness, Kara felt a rush of sympathy for her. She knew what it was like to feel betrayed by your own father.
The crowd rose to its feet, still applauding, and Grace Stone—her smiling face pure and beatific once more—joined them, clapping louder than anyone. Her teeth were perfect white rows.
After Service ended, Kara watched Lucas make his way toward her, maneuvering against the tide of worshippers leaving the Circle. “Filthy Stench,” one of them muttered in anger. If Lucas heard he gave no sign.
“Can we talk?” he asked her.
Kara would have liked nothing better. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him until he was standing before her. But at the edge of the crowd, she saw Constance Lamb look meaningfully in her direction before heading toward the outskirts of the village.
She wants me to follow her.
“I’m sorry,” Kara said. “I have to go.”
Before Lucas could respond, Kara turned and walked away. She needed to talk to Constance about the night her mother died. Kara had been too overcome with emotion to question what Constance had been saying at the time, but in retrospect she was certain that a good deal of lies had been mixed in with the truth.
“Where was my father?” Kara asked, after following Constance to a secluded area behind the tannery.
Constance’s eyes flickered away for just a moment.
Kara continued, her voice louder than she intended. “He told Fen’de Stone that he had seen Mother murder those people! He turned against her—his own wife! And yet he was nowhere to be found in your story.”
“He arrived after me, but he could see what had happened. Anyone could.”
“That’s not right. He swore he had actually witnessed the murders. Why would he lie about that? He loved her!”
“No one is denying that.”
“And yet you want me to believe that he denounced his wife without seeing her do anything wrong? That doesn’t make any sense!”
“It was a long time ago, and I may have gotten some of the details wrong. William arrived after me, but it was only to bring the graycloaks. He had actually been there much earlier, before—”
“And when, during all of this, did you deliver Taff?”
Constance’s face froze. “Before your mother left for Abigail’s. I told you that, I’m sure.”
“Stop lying to me!”
Constance looked her over, a bit of the old coldness returning to her eyes. “That’s right,” she said. “You’ve become quite the expert on lying, haven’t you? Tell me, did destroying the grimoire simply slip your mind?”
Kara pulled her satchel closer. Since what had happened with Grace, she had been carrying the book everywhere.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“You don’t see it—maybe you can’t see it—but with the grimoire your eyes are different. Distant, even when you’re standing here. It was like that with her too. From here it gets worse. Fast.”
“I’m going to destroy it.”
“Of course.”
“It’s just, things have gotten complicated.”
“You sound like her. Making excuses.”
> “Mother never made excuses for anything!”
“I wasn’t talking about Helena, you foolish child!”
Constance bit her lower lip, but it was too late: The words had been released. In the distance Kara heard the sounds of laughter and conversation as the Service-morning crowd congregated in the village square. The smells of fried dough and roasted hazelnuts drifted in their direction.
“What does that mean?” Kara asked. “If you weren’t talking about Mother, who were you talking about?”
Constance shook her head fiercely.
“What’s done is done. Destroy the grimoire. That’s the important thing.”
“Right. Or else my friends and neighbors will stone me to death and burn my corpse. It’s a shame, really. They’ve been patiently waiting my entire life. I’d hate to disappoint them.”
Constance looked at her with what might have been pity. “These are not bad people, Kara. They may do bad things out of fear or foolishness, but most of them want to live simple lives with their families. They are no different from anyone else, even you.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I know,” Constance said, “and I’m sorry for that.” While walking away she added: “I’ll give you until Last Night. If you do not end this, I’m going to Fen’de Stone myself. I hate to threaten you, but I couldn’t live with myself if it happened again. I owe Helena that much at least.”
Constance left without another word.
For a few hours, as she patched Taff’s costume together from various odds and ends, Kara was able to push the grimoire from her mind. It helped that Father stayed in the room with them. Ever since their encounter with the fen’de, he had been acting a bit more like his old self. Yes, there were still the long silences and lapses of memory, but as Kara watched Taff and Father shooting marbles across the wooden floor, she couldn’t help but smile. He’s getting better. In time he will tell me the truth of that night. She would ask him when the moment was right, but not this afternoon. Kara did not want to do anything to disturb a scene so tranquil—so normal—that she could almost imagine Mother walking through the door.