Not that Isabella noticed this, of course.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Emily greeted the witch, when Isabella finally entered the clearing, the snow crunching beneath each of her footfalls. The Changer's words were so soft, but the hush of the snow held them both like hands, and Isabella could hear Emily’s breath, how it was fast and short, like a heartbeat.
“Well...I had to come,” said Isabella practically, though her reason for visiting Emily had much more to do with feeling than practicality, if truth was to be told. “I have this for you,” said the witch, holding out the bit of ribbon, tattered on the one edge from the uneven hack of her blade. The Changer stared down at the ribbon, then looked at Isabella, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. Silent.
“It’s...it's for the spell,” said the witch, grimacing at her own words. “You know…” she trailed off, turning her hand in the air.
“Why?” asked Emily, and the word came out broken. Isabella stared at the Changer as she sat down heavily on the trunk of a fallen tree, as if she could no longer stand upright. The witch crossed the distance between them, crossed the clearing to stand beside Emily, and she put out her hand but stopped just short of skin. Isabella did not touch her.
“Because. You’re part of this place. And it didn’t feel right without you…” She stumbled, sighing, cursing herself again and again and again. Why exactly had she thought this was a good idea? Why had she thought that Emily might like to be included in a town that shunned her, that kept her separated, that would not allow her in?
She drew back her hand and the ribbon, convinced that this was the worst idea in a long, long string of her absolute worst ideas, but Isabella was startled when Emily reached up. The Changer stayed her, fingers warm on the skin of the witch’s wrist. Warm and soft as a doe's cloud-like fur coat.
“I have been thinking,” said the Changer gravely, quickly, “about what you said. About your being an outcast. Like me…” Her last words trailed off, and again, her eyes were questioning.
What Isabella wanted to say, more than anything, was that she had been thinking about the Changer, too. Almost nonstop, in fact, since Emily had left her cottage last night. Isabella wanted to tell her that she didn’t care what the townsfolk thought. She wanted to say that, when Emily took her hand, every part of her wanted to shiver in delight but couldn’t, because that was too weighty, that truth, and too soon, and she didn’t want to frighten Emily, who was so like the watchful doe, her secret shape. And Isabella wanted to tell her that, all the while, she cursed herself for her lack of bravery and tenacity, because what the witch really wanted was to have courage enough to reach down and kiss the wild outcast with no fear of consequences. With no fear of anything at all.
But Isabella said none of those things, only paled and nodded and bit her lip so hard that surely she must have drawn a drop of blood.
“I have never met anyone like you,” said Emily, standing, so near that Isabella could feel the warmth of her body in the cold midwinter, so close that what she could do, if she had any sort of conviction or courage in her whatsoever, was reach up and twine her arms about Emily’s neck and for once, just for once, kiss her.
What she did instead was reach out, tentative, hesitant, and lay her other hand on Emily’s arm. There—that wasn’t so very difficult. Not a bit as romantic as her other daydreams, but it was something. The white doe hide beneath her hand was soft as down, and warm, as if the doe skin had just covered the Changer’s own. And perhaps it had.
“Please...please take the ribbon,” said Isabella miserably, backing up one step, two, letting go of Emily’s hand. The Changer watched her, gaze unreadable.
Isabella had turned, was almost on the edge of the clearing before Emily broke her silence, called out to her: “Isabella.”
Isabella paused. The way the Changer had said her name was soft, hushed. Warm. Like her name itself was a secret.
And then, voice low and gravelly, Emily murmured into the stillness that surrounded them: “I will meet you at your cottage, Winter Solstice night...if you’d like.”
The witch looked back, spellbound. Emily’s shoulders were wide, determined, feet spread, eyes flashing. “I’ll come,” she growled, then. Her eyes were brighter than stars.
What was held in those two words was more than Isabella could have hoped for. More than she could even dream of, though she did, that night, the mystery and longing in those words moving over her skin like glitter, shining in the darkness and then gone.
---
What bound two people together? Was it a shared memory, like a poem, memorized and always on the tongue, ready to live again and be said aloud? Was it a moment the two had possessed together, if only for that moment, now a memory past? Or was it a connection that spanned from one heart to the other, an invisible thread, unending?
Isabella considered this as she ran her fingers along the rim of the barrel of hard candy at Mrs. Goose’s general store. The smoothness of the barrel's wood, the mellow mint of the sugar dusted her nostrils, and she curled her toes in pleasure as she tasted the piece of star candy Eliza had given her, tasted it like the poetry on the tip of her tongue.
Tonight, the Winter Solstice celebration began. Tonight, she would do her yearly spell, and tonight, after the festivities, the Changer would creep through the forest, to the witch’s cottage…
And...well, Isabella didn't know what would happen after that. She had thought on it many times, a perverse amount of times, really. Did Emily feel the same way as the witch: smitten? Was she only coming to tea and dinner, or was she coming for a...different reason?
Alice laughed at her every day, licked her little paws and said not a word. But cat and witch both knew something was coming; something soon would change. And it was tremendous and exciting and frightening all at once. Isabella sucked on her star candy thoughtfully and ran her fingers now along the soft bolts of cloth.
She would do her best with the spell. As Mrs. Goose had reminded her many, many times, it was all a mere formality. The Wolf of Winter had not been seen in generations, and—really, the shopkeeper had said, expression indulgent as she took Isabella aside—it was more the ritual of togetherness that began the festivities than the actual spell. This had taken a vast deal of worry off Isabella’s shoulders, and she had stopped being so concerned that every last little bit of her spellwork would have to be perfect. It was a mere formality! The Wolf of Winter hadn’t been seen in generations! She needn’t fret at all!
Somewhere in the back of Isabella’s mind lurked a tremendous, hulking shadow of uneasiness at her own dismissal—but the witch did not focus on it, instead pondering every small thing shelved in the dry goods shop.
She was going to get Emily a present.
It was a silly idea, but one that filled her with great delight. Isabella couldn’t imagine that Emily had any use for a pretty little bauble—but must everything have a practical use? Perhaps something lovely was its own reward. Still, the witch was very uncertain and felt looming awkwardness at hand.
Out in the streets, the last few townsfolk were getting ready for the holiday, bustling across the snow with their little sleds and brightly colored packages. Mr. Ox was hanging a great evergreen wreath on his door—handmade by Mrs. Goose, Isabella knew—and Mr. Toad was helping Miss Wren hang the silvery string of lanterns down the village street.
Isabella’s heart fluttered as she looked through the shop one last time. There was cloth and flour and sugar and tea and combs and mirrors and bows and buttons, and what use would Emily have for any of these things? Miserably, she bid Mrs. Goose farewell—just until the celebration!—and then she ducked out and into the cold.
It was snowing, great fluffy flakes that seemed to hang suspended in the frozen sky. Isabella looked up and caught a few on her lashes, blinking long and slow at the beauty that surrounded her. And, oh, yes, it was beautiful, the way the flakes drifted like feathers lost from a gigantic quilt, shaken over the heavens and now drifting ev
er down. Isabella drew her shawl closer about her, hitched the basket farther up her arm, and went down the shop's front steps and along the street, moving much slower than she probably should. Her feet dragged; her heart twisted. A gift didn’t truly matter, she reminded herself. Emily wouldn’t be expecting one, and it was such a frivolous custom, really, giving gifts on the Winter Solstice.
She paused at the window of the toy shop, the first sight she remembered upon coming to Benevolence, and she stared inside, still as transfixed with the wonders within as she'd been on that very first day. The glorious mound of toys was smaller than it had been then, but the tree stood just as silvered and magical.
In the tangle of lovely things, then, Isabella spotted something she could not believe. She closed and opened her eyes, then rubbed at them. But the object still remained. She stared for a long moment until—tentative, uncertain—she climbed up the steps and into the shop.
Miss Lacey Turtle owned the toy shop, her pride and joy the little wooden dolls she carved herself. Lacey greeted Isabella when she came in, smile wide for the witch. “You’ll catch your death if you window-shop too long,” Lacey admonished her new customer. “How can I help you, my dear?”
“The ornament…on the tree…” murmured Isabella haltingly. “Is it…”
Lacey’s mouth went sideways, but she came forward, took the little thing out from underneath one of the heavier branches.
And it was exactly as Isabella had thought: for in Lacey's palm lay a perfect little glass deer, white and glittering as snow.
“It was a mistake—but the city glassblower wouldn’t take it back,” Lacey admitted. “It’s white for the Solstice,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Not because…” She trailed off, her mouth in a sour line.
Isabella’s stomach tightened, but she kept her face calm. “I think it’s quite pretty!” she said with false brightness. “How much is it?”
Lacey turned it over in her hands, sighed. “I’ll never be able to sell it…”
“I’d like it,” said Isabella deliberately. “How much, please?”
The shopkeeper looked up in surprise. “I don’t—”
Isabella pressed a gold coin into Lacey’s hands, held out her palm for the deer. Lacey was shocked for a long moment, but finally—finally!—handed over the little deer to the witch. Her face was filled with bewilderment, but she waved Isabella out the door as the witch practically fled, holding the little deer under her shawl, close to the warmth of her heart.
No matter what happened tonight, she had something precious and fragile to give the Changer.
In that moment, it was all that mattered.
---
The cottage was dark and hushed, the fire’s embers the only glow in the place. Alice stretched luxuriously and rose from her usual spot on the hearth, blinking sleepy eyes at her mistress as Isabella lit a single candle. She used magic to do it, not a match or bit of tinder, and she felt a bit impractical as she cupped her hands about the small flame, heart racing, face flushed. It was Solstice twilight, and soon, the magic would be born, the townsfolk would gather, and throughout the world, people would sing back the light.
It was never taken for granted, on Solstice night, that the sun would rise again in the morning. It was the longest night of the year, the shortest day, a mere handful of hours with wan sunshine that sputtered like a candle in a drafty room. It was a commonly held belief that if fires were not lit, candles not sparked to life, songs not sung and celebrations not reveled in, the sun would never again be coaxed up and over the edge of the world. So in every home and town would come a great shout and laughter, voices raised in celebration to endure that darkest of nights.
It made Isabella shudder with delight, this great outpouring of joy and love, benevolence and merriment... Her favorite night of the year had begun.
Alice felt her witch's delight and padded over and sat, purring and leaning against the witch’s leg. Isabella brushed her fingers over the cat’s warm ears and knelt down on the rough boards of her floor. She felt the purr of her Familiar against her hand, the hewn wood against her knees and the press of silence against her ears.
The cat and witch sat side by side, as they had done many times before. They were both very familiar with how magic was made (certainly with varying degrees of success in Isabella's life), and fell into the old patterns easily. The little cat closed her eyes and leaned against her witch's knee, and from her heart soared a little light. It would be visible only as a shadow of brightness to the casual onlooker, but to Isabella, her eyes tightly closed, the wisp of Alice's magic grew brighter in her mind's eye than a star.
Isabella reached out above the little cat and absorbed that flare of magic that Alice spun, and then, in the center of the room, it began to grow.
The pine tree began from nothing but a bit of will and a small smidge of magic. Isabella did not see the first prick of needles rising from the floorboards, did not, in fact, look at her creation until she felt it full grown. Only then did she open her eyes and survey her handiwork.
Isabella was averse to killing anything, and she loved the trees of the forest far too much to take an ax to any one of them. So, ever since she was a little girl, she had created her own Solstice tree, drawing on magic and bits of wood and bark unused and not needed from the earth of the forest floor. Here and now, a pine tree stood, trunk extending seamlessly from the floorboards, branches arching overhead, a full head taller than Isabella herself. She walked about it, looking at it this way and that, hands on hips.
“Splendid job this time, Alice,” she said, rubbing her knuckles affectionately against the cat’s head. Alice purred a little deeper for the compliment and the petting.
Isabella raised her hands and watched the magic shimmer from her fingertips, spiraling through the air to lace the tree’s branches with a light glimmer, like the first hard frost at sunrise. When she was satisfied with the light and opalescence on the green needles, she picked up her shawl, wrapping it about her shoulders.
“You’re nervous,” said the cat, then, leaping up on the table. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Isabella admitted. She picked up her length of ribbon, shifting it in the glow of the tree and the candlelight. The silver flickered. “I suppose it’s about the spell...” But that wasn’t exactly the truth. Since she'd woken that morning, she'd had a strange heaviness in her belly, a flutter against her rib cage for a reason she could not name. She looked helplessly down at Alice, sighed.
“Don’t fret,” her Familiar whispered, patting the witch’s hand with a little paw. “All will be well.”
“Do you really believe that, Alice?” she said, sinking down so that her face was level with the cat’s. The butterflies with their sharp little wings beat harder against her rib cage, fluttering furiously.
“I do,” the cat replied, eyes steady and unblinking.
Isabella gathered Alice up into her arms, gave her a small squeeze, and set her gently back down on the table. Ribbon in hand, she ventured toward the door but paused with her fingers on the knob.
“Alice,” she said, turning back to look at her cat. “If...well, just say something...” she gulped, “say something not-so-great happens. If we have to leave in a hurry—”
“I’ll find you,” said the cat, eyes twinkling merrily. “I’m not your Familiar for nothing, you know. I’ll take your broom someplace safe. I’ve got it covered.”
In a world of vast uncertainty, Isabella knew she could count on her cat. Unbidden, a grateful smile came to her lips, and Isabella—mediocre witch—slipped out into the star-strewn night, ready to try her best.
---
As she entered the town proper, Isabella lifted up her face to the sky, to the tops of the towering pines that surrounded Benevolence. It seemed as if the stars were falling, covering the forest with a brilliant, pulsing light. She paused, standing in the snow, heart filled with wonder as she watched the sky. It must be snowfall, surely, not stars? But as she wat
ched the glimmering bits of light drifting to the ground, she knew that she couldn't be sure.
And that was when the music began.
It sounded as if it came from one great throat, that single note. Isabella knew, in that moment, that if stars could sing, that’s what they would sound like, as she covered her heart with her hand, utterly spellbound. It was a bright, joyous tone, that pervasive music, and as she looked down the street, saw the villagers, men, women, children, animals, coming out of their houses, their shops, coming together in the center of the town, she saw that they sang together, that one note, every voice raised until the very earth seemed to thrum with mighty music.
Isabella closed her eyes, listened with her bones, and it was true, she realized...it was beautiful, that music. But—deep in the perfection of the harmony—there was a discordance, destroying its perfection. Her eyes shot open, and she frowned.
The music was not complete.
Did anyone else feel that?
No. They gathered at the center of the town, their faces radiating joy as they formed a loose circle, clasping hand in hand, one to another. Isabella paused, fingering the ribbon in her palm. She watched the townsfolk form the circle, and even looking at it, she knew that there was someone missing. The music was not complete, the circle was not complete, and she knew the reason, knew it so suddenly and deeply that it caught her breath.
It was simple, really.
There was a hole in the town where Emily belonged.
The witch trotted to catch up to the villagers and began to join in the singing. She opened her mouth, let the single note pour out like a hum, but it did not heal the chink in the music. Oh, for the stars’ sakes. She gripped the ribbon harder, sang louder, but—of course—that didn’t change anything. As the music died down and the villagers stood, as the pines radiated light and the Solstice celebration began, Isabella felt uneasiness creep into her heart. But she did her best to quell it. After all, if Emily’s family had really been run out of town so long ago, the chink in the Solstice music must have been there all that time.
Under Her Spell Page 4