“This will need cleaning. It will sting.”
A sideboard to the right of the fireplace stood open, revealing more bowls and jars within. On its surface a wooden chopping board lay cluttered with diced greenery and a large, gleaming knife. Not a drop of saline to be seen. The witch laid a selection of bowls on the hearth, along with a pestle and mortar.
“A poultice,” Sage explained, following my gaze. “But that comes afterwards.”
“Go ahead.” I fluttered my fingers to my knee. I was too exhausted to care about anything, even wound hygiene. My eyelids dragged irresistibly down.
The witch fished a cloth from a bowl of liquid and pressed it to the cut, which immediately exploded with pain. I winced, sucking a breath through my clenched teeth, all thoughts of sleep abandoned, but Sage paid no heed as she proceeded to dab gently.
“You can’t just heal it with your magic?” If magic had to be real, then couldn’t it at least have the decency to patch me up?
The witch smiled wryly. “No. Witch magic does not work like that. The world has already given us all we need to heal ourselves. It is a simple matter of knowing how to use it. Witches can do a little of this and that, but if you want raw healing magic, it is the elves you need.”
Elves. Of course. How silly of me. My brain presented me with an image of a sea of tiny people in stripy tights and Santa hats. I swallowed a giggle. If the elves were as good at healing as Sage claimed, maybe I would take a few home and set them to work in my practice. First, I had to figure out a way out of this mess.
Sage laid down her cloth and turned her attention to the thick, green paste she had ground in the pestle. She smeared a layer over the smarting wound, and immediately, a cool, tingling sensation spread over the damaged skin, driving away the sting.
“How does that feel?”
“A bit better,” I admitted reluctantly. “Thanks.”
“You look tired.” The witch shot a wry glance up at me.
Nearby, Hyacinth tutted. “You will soon learn that Sister Sage is lacking in tact. What she means to say is that you have had quite an ordeal. You should rest, maybe take a nap.”
A nap. God, I wanted to relent, but Mum and Dad were undoubtedly beside themselves. The enormous bed did look inviting though.
As though Hyacinth sensed my argument, she continued, “My sisters and I will put our heads together while you sleep, and by this evening we will have a plan.”
An hour of sleep wouldn’t hurt. Perching in a tree like some ridiculous bird hadn’t been the most refreshing way to spend the night. Besides, if this world was as dangerous as everyone said it was, a plan wouldn’t go amiss.
I mulled it over as Sage finished smothering my cuts in paste. Not even the smallest of grazes was left untouched, right down to the blisters on my feet. When she’d finished, she bandaged my hands and knee. I examined her precise work, finding no cause for complaint as she packed away her things.
“We’ll leave you to get some rest,” Hyacinth offered, her voice soothing and soft.
“Don’t get the bandages wet,” Sage all but barked, “and don’t pick at them.”
If I hadn’t been exhausted, I might have rolled my eyes. What next? Would she whip out a cone of shame and collar me with it?
“I’ve left some clothes on the bench,” Hyacinth called as the witches retreated through the door. It clicked behind them.
I half expected to hear a key turn in the lock, but apparently, I wasn’t exactly a prisoner, and the door was left unbarred.
With a monumental effort, I rose from the warm embrace of the armchair and aimed for the bed. One hour. Just one hour.
7So, Apparently I’m The Chosen One
When I opened my eyes, the room was dark. Damn. So much for an hour.
Lying flat on my back on my obscenely comfortable bed, my bandaged hands and knees tingling gently, I mulled over everything that had happened. Though I no longer felt the urge to drop dead from exhaustion, the softness of my pillow and the warmth of the blanket held me captive. Just five more minutes, then I’d get up and escape the castle.
A tentative knock sounded at the door. I sat up, peering through the gloom.
“Yeah?”
The door cracked open, and for a minute, I thought it was Hyacinth’s head that popped into the room, beaming at me, but then I saw that the woman was younger, her skin a lighter shade of brown.
“Hello, I hope you weren’t sleeping?”
“No. Can I help you?”
The woman bounded into the room, clasping her hands before her. She was clad in the same fussy cut of dress as the other witches, though she had opted for a cheery shade of purple. “I can’t believe I’m looking at a real, live human! I never thought I’d see the day. My name’s Pansy, by the way.”
“Aliza.” I was in no mood to humour the human obsession, not unless it involved delivering me back to my own world.
“Are you feeling rested? Only, Granny is ready to receive you. I’ve been sent to escort you.” She spoke as though the news would thrill me, but I didn’t care one bit for a meeting with Granny, whoever the hell she was. Maybe this was it though, the plan to get me home.
Sighing, I slid off the bed, laying my bare feet on the cold tiles. Though Sage had applied a salve to the blisters, the thought of stuffing my feet back into those awful boots was too much. I hadn’t bothered to change into the too-short dress Hyacinth had laid out. The pink gown lay discarded over the upholstered bench at the end of my bed. It was clearly supposed to skim the calves, but on me I’d be lucky if it covered my knees. Granny would just have to see me as I was. At least the lingering dampness of my shorts had been driven away by a few hours traipsing through the wilds. I plucked up Jacques’ jacket, donning it as I padded to Pansy. The evening air carried a chill, but the sleeves were delightfully long, falling over my hands, hiding my bandages from view. I was grateful for the unlikely gift, and felt almost fondly towards the mysterious Jacques. I’d been convinced he was a murderer, but now, he seemed the least of my concerns.
“Lead the way.”
If Pansy had any thoughts of my bare legs and feet, she kept them to herself as she hurried along beside me. The witch was short, though her dark, spiralling curls, piled on top of her head in buns resembling mouse ears, gave the illusion of height.
“I should warn you,” Pansy said as we walked the corridors, “Granny can be a bit prickly, but don’t be intimidated.”
“Who exactly is she? I’ve heard three people call her Granny now.” And all of them were as different from the other as could be. I was no geneticist, but I wouldn’t have pinned such a collection as blood relatives.
“She’s not a real granny, not to most of us anyway. But that’s just what we call her, because she’s the High Priestess, and—” she dropped her voice to a whisper “—she is really old.”
