Under Her Spell

by Bridget Essex

  So many memories in this room! So many beautiful moments passed in this abbey, and so many hard ones. And here was another difficult moment, pacing ahead of Isabella into the unknown of the future.

  But there was nothing for it. Isabella closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in and out and began it.

  “Emily, I’m so sorry about Pye—”

  “There’s no reason to be sorry,” said the Changer, but she gazed out of the window, not even glancing to the witch, and the words sounded dull, hollow.

  “That’s just how Pye is…she's very blunt...” Isabella trailed off, frowning. “Emily, I’m sorry.”

  “Why wouldn’t they think you’d gone to ruin with a backwoods Changer?” Emily stood up straighter, gazing now at Isabella, but Isabella wished she wasn’t—Emily’s eyes were dark and flashing in a way that the witch had never seen before.

  “Em…” Isabella stepped forward. She wrapped the Changer in an embrace, snaking her arms around the Changer’s waist, where Isabella always felt like they fitted, like they belonged, but Emily was stiff against her now, not allowing herself to be held. Isabella sighed, stepped back, rubbed at her eyes with tired fingers.

  “Why do you care what they think of you?” she asked, then. “You never cared what anyone in your own town thought of you.”

  “They didn’t have to like me,” said Emily slowly, carefully, turning away. “But you said these are some of the most important people in your life…” she trailed off, sighing, arms folded tightly in front of her.

  “You listen to me,” said Isabella fiercely, putting her arms about the Changer’s waist again. “Yes, they’re important. But so are you. And if Pye thinks you’re a backwoods grass-eater or whatever-the-sea-monsters she’s thought of you, she’s wrong. And I’ll tell her to her face every time.”

  Emily searched Isabella's face, eyes wide and dark. “I’ve been judged my entire life for something I never did, and something I was that I could never change,” she said softly. “This wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

  Isabella reached up, smoothing her palms over the beloved skin of Emily’s shoulders, neck, cheeks, holding her fingers there, cupping the Changer’s face. “You don’t understand.” She stumbled over the words, slurring them as tears sprang to her eyes. She tried to swallow the sob, failed, kept going. “I love you, and that’s all that matters. Do you understand me? Pye doesn’t like Changers, has never liked Changers because of this one time…” She frowned, shook her head. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, one Changer hurt her, and now she has a stupid prejudice against all Changers. And it is stupid,” she announced. “I really thought that she’d have outgrown that since graduation.” Isabella folded her arms, breathed out. “I wish she had. She will. She’s a good person. I promise.”

  Emily watched her carefully, face schooled to stillness as she seemed to think things over for a long moment. Isabella bit her lip, drifted her fingertips over the Changer’s skin again, curving her hands at the back of Emily’s neck. Then she drew her down, cajoling the Changer to bend until her lips brushed Isabella’s, and then the witch kissed her.

  There was no thought behind the kiss. Isabella knew Emily had been hurt, and she wanted to heal that pain, soothe it, but that wasn’t why she kissed her. In that moment, the fleeting sadness crossing Emily’s face had taken the witch’s heart and crumbled it. She needed to kiss her Changer in that heartbeat, because she needed to show her, if even through such a small action as a single kiss, that she cherished her. That her friend’s words held no bearing or meaning on the connection Emily and Isabella shared.

  And because she loved her.

  Emily wrapped her arms about Isabella’s shoulders and squeezed tightly.

  Isabella’s memory of Tabby’s warning slipped away, forgotten.

  Tabby was a terrible oracle reader. Even she’d say so herself. It wasn’t important.

  The sun through the glass stars swung lower and bright as ice.

  ---

  The abbey’s dining hall was overflowing with all manner of Imbolc guests, the play participants and the ritual participants. The annual Imbolc play was actually the beginning of the ritual for the holiday, so the two groups of people, each year, had to work together to make certain things like timing went off without a hitch.

  Not that there weren’t hitches, anyway. Frequent hitches. It was what came of bringing witches together from all corners of the country and, within the span of a single day, expecting them to arrange a flawless performance. But, as Sophia had told Isabella every Imbolc of her life, the imperfections of a performance—any kind of performance—were what made it memorable, and beautiful.

  Isabella had never really honestly believed that. But it was a nice and comforting thing to repeat to herself when she couldn’t remember her next line.

  “It’s something about rabbits, isn’t it?” she called off the table, which she was currently standing upon with Pye, Derek, Line and Annalee, the other play participants. Bridey, who was traditionally in charge of the play (“Why change a good thing?” Sophia had once asked Isabella. She’d never found an answer for that), put her face in her hands and took one deep, cleansing breath from her position on the floor, standing in front of the table.

  “Yes, it’s about rabbits, Belly. This is the umpteenth line you’ve flubbed—what’s the matter?”

  Isabella glanced sidelong at Pye, who was very carefully examining her nails.

  “All right, everyone. A small break,” announced Bridey firmly. Derek hopped off the table, hands on his hips.

  “I can say it if she can’t,” he muttered, grumbling to himself as he stalked over to the table laden with pastries in the corner of the dining hall. The groaning thing, covered in a crimson cloth and wooden plates stacked alongside platters, even bore Isabella’s favorite witch peak pastries. But she couldn’t imagine stomaching one at the moment.

  “You two—here, now,” said Bridey, pointing at Pye and Isabella.

  Isabella sat down on the edge of the table, and Pye crouched beside her, eyebrows raised.

  “If this is about earlier, you two need to resolve it,” Bridey hissed, eyes narrowed. “I’m serious. You can’t drag that sort of thing into ritual with you.”

  “Where is she, anyway? The Changer?” asked Pye, nose up.

  “It’s none of your concern,” hissed Isabella.

  “Pye,” said Bridey warningly. “Emily is wonderful, Isabella is happy, and you are being an asshole. Can’t you see that?”

  Pye hopped off the table, brushing past Bridey to angle toward the food, but as she went, Isabella saw the furrow in her brow, how her jaw clenched.

  “Five minutes!” Bridey called out, as Isabella hopped off the table, aiming after Pye.

  “Pye—”

  “No. You listen to me,” said Pye, turning so suddenly that Isabella collided with her form. Pye held Isabella's shoulders for a moment, searching her eyes, but her hands were gentle as she gripped her friend. “Changers are addled in the head. Anyone who can take two forms—”

  “That’s centuries'-old superstition,” Isabella breathed. “They used to say that witches could charm down the stars. Pye, listen to yourself.”

  In Pye’s eyes was a shine Isabella had never seen there before.

  Tears.

  “What…” she whispered, but Pye was shaking her head, taking a deep gulp.

  “You don’t know,” she murmured, so soft, so low that Isabella had to angle her head to hear her, “how she destroyed me. Nadine.” She choked out the word, on the verge of sobbing, but she lowered her voice further, took a gulp of air. “I have never felt such pain,” she said, eyes locked to Isabella’s. “And what if the same thing happens to you?”

  Isabella stood there for a long moment before she licked her lips, took a deep breath. “It won’t,” she said, clearly, earnestly. “I trust Emily. Emily would never hurt me.”

  “So innocent,” Pye said, brows up, then.

&nb
sp; “Look,” Isabella whispered gently, placing her own hand on Pye’s arm, “I love you. But you know this has nothing to do with me, right, Pye?”

  “The Changers are all one step away from the Liminal. The Liminal are mostly Changers…”

  Isabella shook her head. “Again, that’s not true—”

  “How do you know, Isabella?” hissed Pye, dropping her arms, stepping back. “Did your girlfriend ever destroy her own soul?”

  Isabella stood there helplessly, the people in the dining room moving to and fro around them like water rushing over rocks in a stream, as if Isabella and Pye were invisible to everyone but each other.

  Isabella remembered it so vividly, it’s as if it was playing out in front of her now, the past performing before her eyes like dolls on strings. There was Pye, face alight, on fire, joyful. She’d never seen Pye like that; she was too smooth to show that much happy emotion, but there she was, grinning from ear to ear with no sarcasm, no wickedness…just sheer pleasure and happiness, her arm around one of her girlfriends. Nadine.

  Nadine was beautiful, probably the most beautiful girl Isabella had ever seen, with long wavy brown hair, a narrow face and wide, green eyes. She was always smiling a little, the edges of her mouth curled up, as if she had a lovely secret that she might consider sharing with you.

  Nadine was not actually a Changer—she was half-Changer, and as such, could not perform the Changer magics. Later, that’s what they said drove her to do it: because she was neither a Changer nor a witch, always caught between.

  Nadine was beautiful but troubled, taking long walks at night in the dangerous sections of Arktos City with no magic to protect her, and only a ritual blade strapped under her cloak. Pye thought Nadine could do no wrong, that she was lovely beyond description. She had told Isabella seriously that, even though they were only fifteen, she knew she would marry Nadine one day. Isabella remembered how Pye’s eyes glowed when she whispered those words to her in their room in the Academy, the candles low, Pye's heart beating so fast, Isabella could practically hear it.

  That was the night before they found Nadine dead.

  But…not really dead.

  Nadine had gone Liminal, they would realize later, when she was found in the Academy library, wandering through the halls with skin as white as a flurry of snow, eyes dark and seeking. The Liminal did not belong to this world, and they didn’t belong to the next. They had destroyed their souls, and no god would have them, and the earth would not take them, either.

  Nadine was still somewhere in this world, wandering, lingering at crossroads with her nose to the winds, searching for something she would never find in thousands of years. The Liminal were lost.

  Like, Isabella realized now, Pye’s heart.

  Isabella stiffened, straightened, cleared her throat. Outside, the sun was slanting through the sentinel evergreens; inside, the fire was warm and bright, and the lingering daylight bathed the windows, and therefore the dining hall, in a myriad of bright, soothing colors. Pye was dusted with gold and orange and crimson before Isabella, the glow highlighting the intensity of her red hair, and the pain in her eyes.

  Isabella stepped forward and embraced her friend. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, eyes closed.

  They stood for a long moment, Pye’s arms down at her sides, Isabella’s around her shoulders, holding tightly. Then slowly, slowly, Pye’s hands went up, and she embraced the witch back, sighing out.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered into Isabella’s ear. It came out choked, half-formed. But it was an apology, and she meant it, Isabella knew.

  “Five minutes meant five minutes, ladies!” Bridey called, but Isabella could hear the smile in her voice. Pye and Isabella had always argued fiercely, but no matter what had been said or done, the root of the truth was that they were the best of friends, and after everything, the love was what shone through, as constant as a star.

  After the play rehearsal—which, thank every goddess, actually went off without further interruptions or forgotten lines—Isabella, Pye, Bridey and Tabitha met at the fire, gathering close to the warm blaze as, outside the abbey, a winter storm descended in the twilight, bringing with it howling wind and bitter cold gusts that moved through the drafty dining hall like the sighs of ghosts.

  Isabella shivered beside the fire, glancing up at the great grandmother clock that ticked steadily upon the wall, its hands pointing closer to the seven o’clock mark of the play and ritual beginning. She stepped forward, tugging at Pye’s shirtsleeve. Pye raised a single eyebrow, then gazed beyond Isabella.

  “Ah,” she said. “About your other half—”

  “If you could just...it’s just Emily would feel a lot better if…if she knew you didn’t quite hate her.” Isabella wrung her hands together, biting her lip, but Pye understood, saving Isabella the asking of it.

  “I need to go apologize,” she said quietly, glancing at Tabby and Bridey. “We won’t be long.”

  “Good, because we really have to start getting ready,” said Bridey, standing by the food table with another witch peak pastry in her hands. “I’m serious, ladies. Please be back on time. We don’t want a repeat of—”

  “And take these with you!” said Tabby, cheerfully shoving a wooden plate of raisin cookies into Isabella’s hands.

  “What for?” she asked, and then paled as Tabby’s smile remained fixed on her face.

  “The ghosts,” said Tabby, turning back to the table herself and popping an entire starcake in her mouth at once.

  Pye rolled her eyes, took the plate from Isabella’s hands and set it on the chair closest to the fire. “C’mon,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the broad stone staircase. “I can’t wait.” Her words were sharpened but resigned, and Isabella trotted up the stairs ahead of her, heart rising with each step.

  There were several witches in the corridor, talking companionably and laughing, all in their holiday-best hats and dresses and smart jackets.

  Isabella knocked at her door, just in case Emily was still getting ready, and then—when she heard nothing—walked in.

  Emily was not there.

  “Huh,” said Pye, sticking her head into the room. “She must have gone down for the play.”

  “She wouldn’t—” said Isabella, as Sophia paced by their room. “Aunt Sophia?” Her aunt paused in mid-step, turning with a smile.

  “Hello, my dear. Why aren’t you downstairs? Honey, every year you’re late for that dratted play…” Her aunt linked arms with Isabella and began to walk resolutely toward the staircase, dragging her niece alongside her.

  “Aunt Sophia, Emily’s not in our room and—”

  “Honey, I saw her about half an hour ago, headed downstairs. She’s probably trying to find you. Stop fretting and get downstairs and into costume!” Her aunt patted her arm and left her at the top of the steps as she scuttled down the corridor toward the chanter loft of the sanctuary.

  “She’s right. C’mon, I don’t want to be late again,” Pye groaned, while Isabella stood at the top of the staircase, her fingers resting lightly on the railing as she stared back over her shoulder, at the almost-deserted corridor.

  Pye took the steps down two at a time, and Isabella followed.

  Once down amongst the congregants for the festivities, Isabella stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the large crowd. The pointy hats on witch heads made this practically impossible, though, a forest of peaked black the only thing she was quite able to make out. She followed Pye through the gathering, taking the first small door on her right out of the larger corridor into a narrow hall that contained a few of the priestesses of Lunarose walking sedately (but quickly) back and forth with bundles of cloth and candles. The hall was one of many that led to the sanctuary, and preparations were in full swing.

  It was much easier to see down the hall, however, even with the priestesses moving about, and when a small shadow spotted her and darted toward her, Isabella felt relief well up in her heart, soothing her jangled nerves.
<
br />   “Alice!” Isabella called, scooping up her Familiar and pressing her nose into the fur between the cat’s shoulder blades. Alice squeaked in discomfort for only a heartbeat, then began to purr, flicking her tail this way and that.

  “I’d told you I’d be in the kitchens, but did you come looking? No!” said Alice, kneading Isabella’s shoulder against her will, kitty instinct taking over. “I’m quite miffed at you,” said the cat, settling down against the witch’s shoulder with her paws tucked under herself neatly.

  “It’s been a long day, Alice,” sighed Isabella, following after Pye, who waved her on in frustration, already far down the hall. Isabella’s boots clicked against the old wood of the floor, the sound echoing around them, against the small stained glass windows—each depicting a single white rose. They were of plain design compared to the other windows in the abbey, but Isabella had always thought they were still beautiful, no matter how small and simple they were.

  “Have you seen Emily?” she asked her Familiar then, gazing down at the small tabby cat nestled companionably in her arms (something the cat only did when she’d had a very trying day, too).

  Alice glanced up, eyes narrowed. “No. You haven’t seen her?”

  “No,” Isabella admitted, sighing again. “I left her in our room because we were practicing for the play, and—she was tired.” No use getting into the row with Pye now; she could explain all that later.

  Alice stiffened, then leapt out of Isabella’s arms, stretching once she hit the hardwood floor. “I’m going to go look for her,” she said over her shoulder to Isabella. “It’s not like Emily to go wandering among crowds of people. And I’ve had a pricking in my paws all day.”

  Isabella’s stomach turned. “My stomach’s been unfavorable all day, too,” she admitted. “Do you think something’s wrong?”

  “I wouldn’t want to bet my whiskers on it,” said Alice dryly, “but it’ll be a comfort to find Emily just the same. You know what sort of shenanigans go on here on Imbolc night.”