Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
What it will become is a sweet potato. I feel it growing under my fingers, pushing the soil around it as it grows, until finally I can stick my fingers into the soft dirt and pull it out. The soil falls delicately, revealing the plump morsel for me to take.
That is the feeling of life. Of sustenance. It will do nicely for my supper.
Once I’ve brushed the dirt from the potato, I head inside. A bird calls as I pull open the door and enter; my gaze takes a few moments to adjust to the dimmer light inside.
The cottage is made up of only two separate rooms—the main room, and a small bathing room. However, the main room is large enough to house a coven of several members, especially if a few of those members prefer to sleep under the stars or in hammocks or on mats on the floor. What once was settles uneasily in my chest, and I close the door behind me.
After it was only me here, I turned the spare beds into other uses. I could not stand to look at the emptiness, so now my bed is the only one in the cottage. It’s tucked in the far corner, a beautiful quilt and plush pillows lay over it. The makeshift bedroom is divided from the rest of the room by a low half-wall. My kitchen is on the other end, separated by another half-wall, and between is the rest of my cozy space. A blue velvet chair with embroidered florals on the back sits in the nook that consists of stacks and stacks of books. Plants in glass vases of all colors and finely painted porcelain pots line every window sill. From mint to dill and of course rosemary and lavender. The scents mix so heavenly.
It is quiet in my home. It is always quiet. So much as it can be.
Peace is why I live here—why I stay alone, in my solitary cottage, with no one else.
For a moment, a small moment, I envision bursting through the door to share the invitation with my coven. They would have taken the fine envelope from my hands and passed it around, leaning their heads close together to look at the writing and to test the thickness of the paper. I can hear the clucking of a sister’s tongue as if she were still here. Their ghosts are merely memories, and I cannot bring them back.
But such invitations—such changes—never bring peace. If they did, I would not be here, well away from other people. In the last few years, I have missed many events and declined many opportunities to change my life once again. I cannot risk what happened happening again.
My heart races at the thought, though there’s nothing in the cottage itself to worry me. If anyone remembers me—aside from Prince Adom, whose household has sent this invitation—they likely wonder why I have withdrawn from all others. I’ve heard the whispers that my solitude has turned to a tale children use in an attempt to startle one another. Some powerful witch alone in the woods…such a dreadful scary thing, I suppose, if told with a malicious tone.
Unless, of course, they all know what happened to my coven. In every land.
I do not withdraw to isolate myself. I withdraw to protect myself.
I am the only member of my coven remaining. I do not wish to become part of something else. It is too much agony to lose people like that, and I will be happy if it never happens again in my lifetime.
And so I have not gone to the Convergence Games, the contest held in the capital city—a battle to the death.
I have not gone to the United Nations meeting that takes place every three years.
I know of all these events. Even if I do not speak to anyone of them, the news comes in the letters people send to my letter box. There are mentions here and there of what is happening in the wider world. I read them with little interest and forget about them until the next one comes.
Whenever an invitation comes, I decline. If there is an event I must attend, I go in secrecy, disguised to hide my identity. This is the way of human witches. We do not trust other beings. I will never trust other beings again. I cannot remember the last time I ventured away. No, the contact I have is the one I’m most comfortable with: others needing my aid for magic. The spell to cast for a loved one or a tincture for a sickness medicine fails to remedy. That is where my comfort lies. Letters of pleas and wants from those I will never know apart from their script.
If I thought we could have peace, then I might have already tried to find a new community.