Under Her Spell

by Bridget Essex

  That night, Isabella stared glumly at the mound of ribbons on the rug before her fire. A weaving spell—why did it have to be a weaving spell? They’d never even covered them at the Academy in her courses, which were all General Witchery. Of course the instructors had mentioned weaving spells as something you could do but had never bothered to mention how. Isabella had time to dig through her great book, read up on them, but how could she be assured that she would be up to the task?

  She rose, straightened out her skirts and filled the tea kettle with water from the earthen pitcher. She hooked the kettle over the fire and stared at the crackling flames until the spout began to whistle merrily. Her mother had always said that any problem could be cured with a good cup of tea. This prescription for life was one that Isabella lived by and she believed it with her whole heart.

  Once the tea had steeped in her own favorite mug, she curled up again by the fire, lost in thought. Next to the pile of ribbons sat the little twig deer. All throughout her worried musings over the spell, she’d held the deer, turning it this way and that in the firelight. It was such a little thing, a veritable stick figure, thin twigs held together by bits of thread, such as one found in a wren’s nest. It was so crude, so small…so charming. Whenever Isabella looked at it, her heart made that strange little flutter.

  She tried to push it from her mind.

  As the night wore on, Isabella broke from her reverie again, last drop of tea consumed. She had a very funny feeling she’d forgotten something, so she stood and stretched, wandering over to the back door of the cottage.

  Alice had been unusually quiet...

  Alice. Oh, no.

  She opened the back door and called for her Familiar. Alice, as stubborn as any cat, had declared earlier that she needed to go exploring and hunting right at sunset. Isabella had obliged, holding the door open for her, warning her not to be gone too long.

  Alice detested the cold, but had been out for hours, and Isabella hadn’t even noticed! Oh, her cursed daydreams! Isabella went out onto the back lawn without her shawl, casting about for her cat. In the almost full moonlight, there were many tracks across the backyard but none of little cat feet. Isabella went back into the cottage, paced the kitchen, tugging at her hair.

  And then a knock came at the door.

  She was across the expanse of the cottage in two bounds, jerking the door open.

  And there was Alice in a stranger’s arms.

  “Oh, Alice,” whispered Isabella, gathering the limp feline to her. Alice made a plaintive little mew, snuggling closer to the horrified witch who peered down at her Familiar’s back left paw, covered in dried blood.

  “Here, help me,” she muttered to the stranger, not even looking up to see who it was that had delivered her cat back to her. She closed her eyes, concentrated on the magic and began to close the wound on Alice’s paw, lacing the skin together with a spell.

  The stranger reached out between them and curled soft, warm fingers over the back of her hand. Isabella could feel them on her, and as she felt that soft weight of the stranger's palm, she also felt a boost of magic, a warm, bright glow that pulsed out of that person's hand and into her own. And it was enough magic.

  For when she opened her eyes, her little cat's wound was sealed.

  Alice struggled out of her arms and leapt down to the ground, completely unhurt, wound vanished.

  “Oh, thank you,” gasped Isabella then, turning to look up at the stranger. And everything stopped.

  For it wasn't a stranger. Not exactly.

  It was Miss Deer.

  Her white furs were down around her shoulders, and her hair was long and tangled, a good brown color, like a grackle’s wing. Her eyes were wide as a doe’s, and wild, but with a steadiness, too, and as Isabella stared, they blinked once, languorously.

  “Oh,” said Isabella, in a very small voice.

  “Cat was caught in a snare,” said Miss Deer gruffly. Whatever Isabella had thought her voice might sound like, this was most certainly not it. The Changer’s voice had a full tone to it, like music—soft and throaty and warm. Isabella processed the words, swallowed, and then there were tears in her eyes.

  “A snare?” she whispered, looking over her shoulder at her plump little tabby, busily washing her face with a prim paw on the hearth. “She could have died.”

  “I cut her down,” said the Changer, nodding. “No harm done. She’ll be fine.”

  Isabella suddenly remembered that she possessed something akin to manners. “Oh, please,” she whispered, stepping back quickly. “Won't you come in? Have some tea? How can I thank you?”

  Miss Deer narrowed her eyes, took in the hearth and cottage all in a glance. “I can’t stay,” she murmured, and looked back over her shoulder, toward the village.

  Isabella felt her throat tighten. “Please,” she said, and the word broke a little. Damn it all. “I don’t care what they say,” she said, and she put up her hand to touch the Changer’s arm and stopped. Her hand dropped to her side. “At least warm yourself by the fire before you go back out into the night?” she offered. The Changer considered this, and—after a long moment—nodded.

  “I’ll warm my feet,” Miss Deer managed, then walked stiffly into the room. Isabella was horrified to see that the woman limped.

  “Oh, you’re hurt,” the witch whispered, darting forward and putting out her arm to steady her. Miss Deer shook her head, crouched down by the fire, and then gingerly sat back into the rocker.

  “It’s my boots,” she said, voice suddenly tired. “I’m good at spells having to do with ropes, knots… Terrible at most others. Can’t even do a simple mending charm.” She winced and straightened out her feet, and Isabella stared with horror down at boots that were more holes than hide. She could see the woman’s skin through gaping tears, could see how it had been rubbed raw and red in the snow.

  Isabella knelt down before the woman and stared at the boots. “I can fix these…” she said, and looked up.

  The Changer gazed down at her, expression searching, curious. Her mouth was open a little, her lips soft and parted, and when Isabella’s eyes strayed to those lips, she felt herself blushing even before she realized that she’d placed a casual hand on the woman’s knee. “Forgive me,” she whispered, snatching it back as if burned, but Miss Deer put out her own hand, slow and gentle, and gripped her fingers tightly.

  “What is your name?” she whispered to the witch.

  “Isabella Fox,” said Isabella, smiling a little. “…what’s yours?”

  “Emily,” said the Changer then, letting go of Isabella’s hand. She slumped back in the chair, wincing.

  “Is it your feet?” said Isabella, wincing, too. They looked like they were on fire, thawing much too quickly from the cold. Emily nodded, eyes closed, biting her lip.

  “Can I…will you let me?” asked Isabella, then, hands on her own knees.

  Emily opened her eyes, looked down at the witch. “Yes,” she murmured, voice low.

  Isabella reddened under her gaze. No one had ever looked at her like that, that intently, that...all-consuming. When Emily looked at her, it was as if there were nothing else in the world but where her gaze fell. Isabella chanced a sidelong glance and reddened further to see that Emily was now staring intently at the witch’s hands.

  So Isabella held them out over the Changer’s boots. She concentrated, felt the energy coil up, snakelike, moving from the earth and through the floorboards, through her body, out into those feet, those boots. She felt the pain slacken in Emily, felt it leave completely, and then the boots began to repair, the tears mending like a wound grafted.

  When Isabella opened her eyes, she examined her handiwork. Emily’s face was open, wonder-filled, eyes wide, and she smiled down at the witch.

  “I just have to seal it,” said Isabella, unthinking. She kissed the tips of her fingers and then tapped her fingers to the Changer’s boots, the hide warm beneath her fingertips.

  “What was that?” asked E
mily, curious.

  Isabella looked up, shrugged. “It seals the spell,” she said, suddenly self-conscious, rubbing at her arms. Emily leaned forward, and Isabella realized in that moment how very close she was, so close that if the witch angled up her face just so, she could reach up and…

  “I saw you in the woods, saw what you left for me,” said Emily softly, brows furrowed. Isabella felt the softness of skin against her palm, and then the Changer was holding her hand again, fingers dancing lightly over her wrist. “Why did you do it? Haven’t you been told that I’m…forbidden?”

  Isabella sighed, feeling in that moment more exhausted than she thought possible. “I’ve been told,” she muttered, shaking her head, shifting from one knee to the other.

  Emily’s brows went up, a question. “Then why did you invite me in?”

  Isabella opened her mouth, closed it. Emily smelled of the woods, of bark and tree and moss and wild, running stream. She smelled like the good wood air, and the way the firelight fell upon her tangled hair… Something fluttered in the pit of Isabella’s stomach, and she knew that she could not put it into words. Not yet, not now. She had often daydreamed of pretty girls, had almost asked one of her classmates to the great Witch’s Ball once, but had never summoned up the nerve. Daydreams were safer; wishes could be kept secret.

  But this wasn’t a secret right now, her hand held by the Changer, whose skin was soft and warm, like silk and tea. Isabella looked up into the questioning, questing eyes of the stranger and felt something fall into place, something she hadn’t even known was wrong but was now made right.

  “I’ve always been an outcast, too,” she said, then, voice so quiet she almost couldn’t hear it herself.

  “You?” Emily stared.

  Isabella laughed. “Yes, me.” And then: “You’d be surprised.” And she actually winked.

  Emily looked deeply into the witch’s eyes for a long moment, as if searching for something. But she stood after a small space of heartbeats, unable to meet the witch's eyes now. “I should go… I’m too close to town.” She set her lips in a long, thin line. “You could be run out for associating with me.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” said Isabella, shaking her head. “You did nothing wrong. Miss Cat told me the story, and it's ludicrous,” she repeated. “This whole thing isn’t even about you.”

  “Well, Benevolence holds a grudge forever,” Emily said, voice small. “My great grandfather was a scoundrel. We’ve never denied that. But I’m not like him. I never have been.”

  “I know,” said Isabella, surprising herself. She believed it, believed it deeply. “It shouldn’t be this way. What’s this whole ‘Wolf of Winter’ thing about, anyway? They don’t really think it’s true, do they? It seems more like a story, a myth to explain away a storm.”

  Emily shrugged. “They think it’s true. I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know. But they cast the spell every year. They believe the Wolf brings pestilence, snowstorms... They think the spell bewitches it to keep it away from the town, hypnotizes it. If the Wolf doesn’t enter Benevolence on Solstice night, it vanishes by morning.” She shook her head. “This is a story everyone knows by heart. I can’t say if there’s truth to it or not.”

  Isabella considered this a long moment, watching the Changer. “You know I don’t care what they say.”

  “You will,” Emily said, and the words were so soft, they were almost lost to the wind.

  A knock at the door. Isabella jumped. Who might it be? It was so late that it was odd indeed that someone had come to call...a fact that Emily realized at the same moment as Isabella, for the Changer's face blanched almost as white as the snow. As Isabella turned, horrified, the Changer bolted, as fast as a deer in flight.

  And, indeed, even as Isabella crossed slowly toward the front door, the back door banged open, and a single white doe loped across the snow and was gone.

  The front door opened, and Isabella shouldn't have been surprised to see Miss Cat there...but there she was, standing on the porch, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

  “Did I hear voices…?” Miss Cat asked, words sharp as claws.

  Alice glanced up from her never-ending bathing session by the fire. “I’m an actual cat, with nine lives...the whole bit,” she pointed out reasonably, “and even I'm not as much of a busybody as you. Shouldn’t you take up a hobby?” It was said with deliberateness, and Miss Cat huffed and flounced off the porch and back down the street into town.

  Isabella went to the back door and stared at the deer tracks through the snow for a very long time. Alice came and sat on her foot.

  The cold curled into the cottage, as persistent as a cat.

  ---

  It had taken Isabella all day to go through the town, but she had done it. Ribbon after ribbon had passed from her hands into the hands of each of the townsfolk, and as she met person after person, her heart grew bigger and bigger, beating against her ribs.

  They were all good people. And now, more than ever, she felt like she had come to the right place.

  But it made even less sense, as she met each member of the town, that they would hold a centuries' old grudge.

  It was starting to bother her.

  So she gave away the ribbons one after the other until she had a single ribbon left. But no townsfolk left to give it to. After Mr. Ox had taken the second-to-last ribbon, Isabella went over the list of townsfolk in her head once more. No...she hadn’t missed anyone, so why did she have an extra strand? This bit of ribbon was silver-threaded and lay coiled in her palm like a spiral.

  In the dry goods store, Mrs. Goose smiled at her.

  “Honey, that one’s for you,” she said, nodding at the ribbon. “It’s your piece. You’re part of the town now, just like the rest of us.”

  For better or worse, thought Isabella as she walked slowly back to her little cottage, feet dragging. Alice leaped daintily up to the porch railing and repeatedly butted the small of the witch's back as she unlocked the front door and let them both in.

  Isabella had studied her great book last night, but the section on weaving spells was sketchy at best. They weren’t even mentioned in the index. She sighed, lowered herself into her rocker as Alice climbed into her lap, a bundle of purrs. They sat like that for a good, long while, Isabella giving occasional glances to her length of ribbon, tossed on the stones of the hearth. Surprisingly, as she sat there, she didn’t think much on a certain busybody townsperson or the weight on her shoulders regarding the upcoming spell...

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” asked Alice, around her purrs. Isabella stared down at her little cat, who blinked once, twice, very slowly up at her witch—the ultimate in feline displays of affection.

  “Yes, I’m thinking about her,” Isabella said through a smile, because it was the truth, and it had never worked, lying to Alice.

  The cat nodded, began to lick her back left paw, the no-longer-wounded one. “She was very gentle, when she cut me down from the snare,” said Alice thoughtfully. “She told me that it would be all right and that she would take me home to my mistress and that I would be better soon. She carried me inside of her coat because I was cold.”

  “You like her,” said Isabella, staring down at the cat in wonder. Alice tolerated very few people, had only ever really admitted to liking Isabella, and had promised that a large portion of that “like” had to do with consistent meals and behind-the-ear scratchings.

  Alice considered this. “I suppose I do.”

  So Isabella supposed that if the world’s pickiest cat liked the Changer, perhaps she could admit to herself that there were stirrings in her own heart toward Emily... Stirrings that delved a little deeper than “like.”

  Perhaps.

  ---

  The sharpest thing in the cottage was Isabella’s herb-cutting blade, forbidden by her fourth year Academy teacher to be used for anything other than the ritual purpose of gathering herbs.

  Isabella now took up the blade, slid it to the center o
f the very last ribbon and cut it in two.

  She had always considered rules to be more like friendly guidelines—suggestions, really. Which is why she slid on her boots now, drawing her shawl close about her, and went out into the darkness of a winter’s night, half a ribbon in hand.

  Isabella felt a slow thrill of delight, bathed in moonlight and on the edge of the woods. The ribbon was surprisingly weighty in her fingers, as if it meant something special. She struck out along the deer path through the woods and paused every few steps to listen. She listened intently, with a witch’s practiced ear, to the earth slowly putting itself to bed, to the trees falling to sleep and the hibernating animals whispering good night to one another in their native tongues. In a few days, it would be the Winter Solstice, and autumn stood on the threshold of the year, beckoning winter to come to the world and make merry…

  Isabella had a deep hope, a hope she would never have mentioned to anyone, not even to Alice, who had raised a little cat eyebrow when she’d told her that she was taking a moonlit walk through the woods. “'For no other reason than fresh air,'” the cat had repeated Isabella's reason primly, laughing like a cat does, with a sly, sideways grin. Isabella had blushed, taken up the ribbon, cutting it while her cat meowed chuckles at her mistress.

  Alice knew, of course. But she was very good at keeping secrets.

  The farther Isabella went into the wood, the more the pricking sensation of being watched grew, the feeling sliding across her spine like a feather-light fingertip, until—finally—the witch saw the white doe.

  Emily stood in a small clearing ahead, and all around her the woods were hushed with sweet silence. The white deer raised her head, and the whole of her was glowing and brilliant in the moonshine. Isabella paused, stock still, staring at the creature who turned her face, then, looking down from the pretty moon to stare back like an enchanted thing, too bright, too fragile to be real. And then, in the blink of an eye, Emily stood where the doe had been, furs down around her shoulders, gaze soft, shy, full lips parted and shimmering wet in the moonlight.