The Near Witch

by V. E. Schwab

  Will found a spot on the steps and sat, his black cloak trailing over the stones like a shadow. The sun warmed the chain around his neck, the pendant safe beneath the collar of his shirt. He closed his eyes and listened to the thrum of people, and ran his fingers absently over a set of cuts on his right forearm. One was nearly faded, another was still faintly red, and the third was fresh, only a few days old.

  “What’s this? The prince sitting among commoners?”

  Will’s eyes drifted open, and he drew his sleeve down over the marks. “Are you calling yourself common, Phillip?”

  The boy’s face reddened. He was standing on the path at the foot of the steps, his blonde hair nearly white in the sun. Another boy stood behind him, and two girls stood out of the way, but clearly watching.

  “Watch your words, Master Dale.”

  Will stood, and descended the steps to the path. Phillip was a year older, but no taller than him, and a bit stockier. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?” spat Phillip, drawing closer. The air that day was still, which was dangerous, because any unusual breeze, any gust, would be noticeable. “It’s your name.”

  Will thought of the scars, of the pendant around his neck, of the dire need to keep calm, especially here. Anger seeped through him, but he kept his gray eyes level, intensely aware of the market’s attention bending toward them.

  “Your mother earned it,” pressed Phillip, “when she climbed into bed with my uncle.”

  The air picked up around them now, rippling just enough for Phillip’s smile to sharpen. Will’s knuckles were white, but he didn’t blink, didn’t speak, didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

  Phillip finally shook his head, and laughed. “What? Nothing to say? You really are callous, Will. I’d have slit your throat for talking that way about my mother.”

  At that, Will managed a grim smile. “I don’t need to talk about her. Everyone else already does.”

  Phillip lunged, but Will had always been faster, and he dodged, and watched his cousin stumble forward against the steps. By the time Phillip found his feet, the eyes of the market were turning, the idle chatter dying as the crowd watched. Even Phillip knew better than to carry on now, but he let his friend, Ian, make a show of holding him back, while the girls stood and watched. One of them, Beth, was snickering, but the other, Sarah, looked sad. Will seized the chance, and turned away, letting Phillip curse him under his breath.

  “You’re nothing, Hart,” growled Phillip, and those who could hear drew in a breath at the insult of the name. It was one thing for Will to insist on it. It was quite another for it to be hurled at him.

  Will kept walking. His anger cooled as he climbed the steps, his fists unclenching and the blood flooding back into his knuckles. The sound of the market ebbed as he ascended. He brought a hand to the chain around his neck, and drew the pendant from beneath his collar as he made his way up, rubbing a thumb over the smooth metal face. Instantly he felt better.

  “Master Dale.”

  His grip on control was thin, so he kept walking.

  “Please wait.”

  He reached the top step.

  “William.”

  He paused, and glanced back. Sarah was standing several steps below, breathless, her dress bunched in her hands. Her hair escaped in wisps around her face.

  “Sarah,” he said, softening. “What is it?”

  She climbed the last few stairs and stepped up onto the path beside him. “It’s just… I’m sorry… Phillip was being…” She brought her hand to rest against his arm and he tensed. Most people went out of their way to avoid touching him. “Phillip was being an ass.” She bit her lip. “Phillip is an ass,” she amended.

  “You climbed the steps just to tell me that?”

  Sarah blushed. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

  Will almost smiled. “Alas, I did. But it never hurts to hear it again.”

  Sarah let out an easy laugh. Her gaze drifted up over his head to the Great House that rose behind him, and the sound caught in her throat. “Oh.” She looked around at the path and the arching trees—brought into Dale as seedlings from the far-off forests—and the gardens that flanked the house, and the veil of low clouds, and woven through it all, the quiet.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. Her hand fell away from his arm, and Will was sad to feel it go. She twirled back toward the steps, but he reached out, and took her hand.

  “Stay,” he said.

  “Are you certain?” Will nodded, and Sarah’s smile was radiant. She wove her arm through his. “Would you show me the gardens?”

  He led her through a vine-wrapped arch into his mother’s pride and joy, the Great House gardens. They were not groomed, but wild, tangled and free as they might be on the moors, beyond the reach of Dale, where buildings gave way to valley and grass and, beyond the far rise, who knew what else. The sun was sinking now, the day losing half its light, hedges and trees blotting out even more to cast the gardens in shadows. Sarah pulled free and wandered a few steps ahead, turning in slow circles to take it in.

  He liked that she liked it. These places where nature ate up everything, they were the only ones where he felt…

  Sarah gasped, gleefully. “Is that…?”

  “Shush,” he whispered, even as his lips curled up.

  “A smile, I see it!” she said in a dramatic whisper. “You know what I think, Will? I think you’re not callous, or cold.”

  He forced his mouth back into a thin, grim line. “I fear you’re wrong,” he said. “I’m quite heartless.” But even as he said it, the smile flickered back to life.

  Sarah stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “I mean it. Why do you put on this act?”

  His smile slipped. “I…”

  Sarah didn’t wait for him to think up a lie. Instead, she kissed him. And whatever lie he would have given, it died on his lips as they met hers.

  A breeze caught up the loose strands of her hair. “Stop,” he said softly.

  Sarah smiled and leaned in to him, pressing her body flush with his. The air rustled the leaves and flowers around them, a low sound threaded through the breeze. She tangled her fingers in the metal chain of his pendant and kissed him deeper, and while he kissed her back, Will slid his hands up her arms, over the bare skin until he reached her shoulders. There he stopped, curled his fingers, and guided her body back, carving a space between them.

  “Stop,” he said, breathless but insistent.

  She stopped, but the wind didn’t. It was still picking up around them.

  Fear crossed his face like a shadow, and he tried to calm down, but it was too late. Control danced out of his grip, and the wind blew through the garden. His touch on her shoulders lightened as his body wavered faintly.

  “It’s true,” said Sarah in a hushed voice. “I’d heard rumors, but…”

  He tightened his grip, despite his thinning form. “Which rumors?” he asked coldly. “That I sold my heart for this? That I made a deal with a monster? That I am a monster? A demon?”

  “Or a god,” whispered Sarah, and Will laughed bitterly.

  “You only think that because you don’t know…” He stopped himself. The people knew of witches in Dale, but only as the stuff of stories, and only as those who dealt in earth and stone and petty charms. Not wind. If any witches were fool enough to actually live here, he had never met them. His father made sure of that. As for Will… the sky was the realm of gods and godthings. And the boy whose temper seemed tethered to the air itself… they didn’t know what to make of him.

  “Don’t know what?” pressed Sarah.

  Will swallowed hard, and kissed her forehead. “I’m not anything but me.”

  She pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, and then drew his mouth to hers. The wind whistled around them, and he tensed.

  “Just let go,” she said against his mouth.

  He knew better. But the fight with Phillip had weakened his resolve and the strange glee in S
arah’s eyes broke it, and so, even though his arm still burned from the last cut, he gave in. He guided her back against a hedge, and kissed her breathless. The wind sang through the garden, tangling in her dress and his cloak, whipping around them both as his hands, more smoke than skin, wrapped around her waist and her hands, flesh and bone, wrapped around his back and—

  “William.”

  The moment broke.

  He pulled back, and the wind wobbled and fell apart at his mother’s voice. She was standing on her balcony—the garden was hers, and her rooms overlooked it—and even though she couldn’t possibly see Sarah from this angle, she said, “Miss Lowe, I think you best be getting home.”

  Sarah blushed, and ducked under Will’s arm—which was solid again—brushing leaves from her skirts as she stepped into his mother’s line of sight.

  “I’ll walk you—” started Will.

  “I’m sure Miss Lowe can find her way to the steps,” cut in his mother. Her words were harsh but her tone was warm, and Sarah gave a small nod.

  “Of course, Lady Dale,” she said brightly, as though she’d been given a reward instead of a reprimand. William often thought his mother had a kind of magic in her, too, not a talent for stone or water or air, but the things that flow in people. Sarah gave him a quick smile, and made her way out.

  Lady Dale plucked a leaf from the lemon tree she kept on her balcony, and dropped it over the stone rail. The wind was nothing more than a faint breeze now, and it floated toward the ground by Will’s feet. He watched it land, and felt tired, drained, half by the slip and half by the look in his mother’s eyes when he finally met them.

  “Inside,” she said. “Now.”

  2

  His mother was still on the balcony when he reached the room.

  Her back was to him as she stood, watching the day bleed into night, her hands resting delicately on the banister. She looked regal. Lady Katherine Dale belonged in the Great House. She always belonged. He was lucky, he knew, to take after his mother, from her black hair—though hers coiled and his fell straight—to her slim build, his real father only showing in his eyes, which were a much darker gray than hers. That mattered little, though, since he rarely met people’s gaze.

  He crossed the room now, and came out onto the balcony beside her.

  “I heard about what happened in the market,” she said without looking at him.

  “Word travels so fast,” said Will, leaning his elbows against the rail.

  “Why do you do this?”

  “It’s a foolish tradition. And it’s not my name. It’s not anyone’s name.”

  “I won you that name, William,” she said, sternly. “You will take it.”

  Your mother earned it, when she climbed in bed with my uncle.

  Will pushed off the banister and went inside. He was Lord Robert’s son, and heir to Dale, but not by blood. His mother had arrived in the city pregnant, and wed Lord Dale within a month. And yet, the people of Dale seemed willfully blind to the question of his descent. Perhaps they thought the two had met before, beyond the town’s edge, and William, conceived before rings, was still Robert’s flesh. Perhaps they didn’t care. Perhaps his mother had enchanted them, charmed them into forgetting. Only Phillip seemed intent on pressing the issue. The fact was, William was born in Dale, and was its heir, and to most, the legitimacy of his birth was far less scandalous than his power. That they whispered about in taverns and alleys, and sometimes even on the steps.

  “One day, you will be Lord Dale,” pressed his mother, following him inside.

  “I do not want it. And I do not think the people want it either. They call me cold, heartless, empty,” he said, feeding a stick to the fire that burned despite the season in her chambers. “Callous.”

  He stared into the flames.

  “Let them think you callous, then.”

  “But I am not.”

  “But you are different. Whatever word they put to it, it’s there. Inescapable. Let them think you callous and cold. Let them think you a monster or a godthing.”

  “They think me all those things, and yet they think me Robert’s son. How is that?” he asked, archly.

  His mother ignored the question, as she always did whenever he suggested her influence over people.

  “Let them think you a demon or a god,” she said. “Let them fear you. It does not matter.”

  “It matters a great deal to me,” he snapped.

  His mother sighed, sliding into a chair beside the fire. “The market is one thing…” And she didn’t even know of the fight with Phillip, he thought. “…and then the girl in the garden. Sarah. Really, William? Showing off with magic?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Surely there are other ways to woo a girl than to put on such displays,” she continued. “And besides, Sarah belongs to Phillip. Is that what prompted this? To provoke your cousin?”

  “Sarah might disagree, and believe it or not, I do not court my cousin’s hatred.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” said his mother, quietly. “You do not think like a royal.”

  “I will never apologize for that. And Sarah simply asked to see the gardens.”

  His mother brought her hand to his cheek. “It’s a game, Will. You know that, right? Getting a rise out of you. Goading you to slip. Phillip with fists and Sarah with kisses, but that’s the only difference. You can’t think she actually feels anything.”

  Anger hummed beneath his skin, but he knew it wouldn’t take shape, not here. His mother’s perpetual calm kept his power smothered. In its absence, he simply felt tired.

  “This is the fourth slip this month, Will, and it’s not half over.”

  Will thought grimly of the three marks already on his skin. Robert’s calm, controlled voice filled his head—the cut has to be deep, William, it has to hurt, you have to learn—as his eyes dragged over the mantle, past books and trinkets to his mother’s knife. His stomach turned as he reached for it, and took it up, his fingers shaking as he ran his hand absently over the flat of the blade. It was warm from the fire. He rolled his sleeve, studying the scars on his arm.

  “Wait,” said his mother. “Robert doesn’t need to know. It can be our secret. This once.”

  Will brought the edge to rest against his skin.

  “He’ll find out,” he said, holding her gaze. “He always does.”

  With that, he drew the knife across his skin, cutting deep. Blood welled instantly, ribboning down over his wrist. He clenched his teeth as pain burned up his arm, but he relished it, because in that moment, he felt everything. Anger and sadness and fear and frustration and want, all of it simple and mortal and human. There had been a time when he loved his power, a time when he had clung to it instead of trying to slice it out. That time was gone.

  He felt his mother’s hand, guiding the knife from his grip. She produced a rag, wiping the blade clean before returning it to the mantle. By the time Will staunched the blood and she drew a length of cloth from the drawer of a side table and bound the cut, the pain was fading to a dull ache. He watched the red seep through the cloth.

  “You’ll learn,” she said softly.

  Learn what? he wondered, eyes trained on the drops of blood that made it to the floor. Learn to control? Or learn to hide? Learn to lie? Learn to be the callous prince? What scared him most was that, in the wake of the wound, he did feel strangely empty. Hollow. His mother ran her fingertips over the pendant chain against his shirt.

  “Dinner’s soon,” she said. “Go get cleaned up.”

  Will nodded, and left.

  * * *

  Will rounded the corner too fast, and nearly collided with a man coming the opposite way. He drew up short just in time. The man stopped, too, and straightened.

  “This is a foul habit you have, of walking with your head down.”

  Will forced his gaze up from the man’s throat to his chin, his nose, and finally the lower edge of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Ro
bert Dale, broad-shouldered and severe, looked down at his son, resting his own gaze just above the boy’s. The two hardly ever looked each other in the eyes, Will out of a sense of respect—enforced as opposed to earned—and Robert out of a sense of distaste, the boy’s dark eyes being the most offensive part of him. Now Robert’s attention drifted down to the bloodstained length of cloth on the boy’s forearm.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Will hesitated. He knew Robert did not mean the cut, but rather its reason.

  “Phillip. He spoke ill of our family. It provoked me.” It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. Sarah had been the one to push him over the edge, but the slip had started in the market. And besides, Robert disliked his brother’s son.

  “Let me see,” said Robert, gesturing to the bandage.

  Will held out his arm, and Robert took it, undoing the cloth wrapped tightly around the newest cut. The bloody swatch of fabric drifted to the floor.

  “It was foolish,” added Will. “A minor slip. My temper got the better of—”

  Pain exploded up his arm, cutting off his words. Blood ran between Robert’s knuckles as he tightened his grip on Will’s arm, the force reopening the cut.

  “A minor slip is still a slip,” said Robert calmly. “And you know better.”

  Will dropped to a knee, gasping. The air in the hall began to stir and he clutched his pendant with his free hand, desperate to hold onto control. If he slipped here, with Robert, a few cuts would be the least of his problems. Last time he was bound to his rooms for a week, the windows nailed shut as if the magic could be stifled out. And that was after Robert carved the line himself, cutting nearly to bone. His guards had broken Will’s wrist while holding him down.

  Robert’s fingers dug in. “I will bleed this temper out of you one cut at a time if I have to. Do you understand?”