The Apothecary's Daughter
ch 7
Witch!? Half choking on the tea I’ve just accidently inhaled, I wheeze, my eyes watering. What is this mad aged crone about? Her knobby fingers darts out and wrap about my wrist in an iron grasp before I can fumble out some reason to excuse myself. “Girl,” she says, her face so close I could count the wiry hairs on her chin. Her eyes, not fevered but shrewd, pierce mine and pin me in place. “You don’t remember.” This is not said in a way that suggests this is new information for her, but that she’s supplying it to me. What else can I do but shake my head, though more as a denial of the entire concept. “We’ve wondered, over the years, what had happened,” she continues. “You were so powerful for one so young, but that was no surprise with your bloodline. Your paw’s mawmaw, Elswyth Larkin, was the most talented witch in generations.” “We?” I say, trying to make some kind of sense from what she’s saying. “The other witches,” she says causally. My mouth opens to ask, I know not what, but my mind swims, dizziness sweeps over me, and my vision begins to darken. Sae clamps down on my wrist again, the pain grounded me somewhat. “None of that, now,” she says, tapping my forehead between my eyes. “Seems that spell you’re under is trying to protect you from knowing certain truths. Most likely why you were able to remember what you dreamt only after you drank that brew. Your talent was in dreams, you see. If you can remember them, you may find a way to break the spell.” Shaking my head again, now attempting to relieve a ringing in my ears, I struggle to concentrate. “Spell?” I say, my thoughts so sluggish I can’t understand her meaning. She eyes me sympathetically. “You have a powerful protection spell on you,” she says. I nod, recalling she’d mentioned it the previous week with her display with the strange cards. We folk of these mountains have always been a superstitious lot, with many beliefs best not mentioned in front of Capitol types. We all know to open a window when someone passes, so their spirit is sure to be set free. Or that you’ll have poor luck if you don’t leave through the door you entered in. If a person dies, two more are sure to follow as death always comes in threes. Never walk into fog, especially at night, for the dead roam there. Paint your front door haint blue to ward off disgruntled spirits. Plant anything that grows above the earth while the moon waxes, and anything below while it wanes. Even my mother insists on leaving out a dish of bread, honey, and milk on the first day of May, and last day of October, every year, at least since she remarried, for good fortune. She used to tease Prim about not wanting to offend fairykind. Still, actual witchcraft? Such a notion is so far outside the realm of all that is known to me that I simply can’t fathom its truth.
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