26. Silva

Silva

The picturesque little street was like something out of one of her daydreams.

Every tenth house featured a towering oak between the street and the sidewalk, while tulip magnolias and ornamental cherry trees dotted the space before the other homes. Each yard was immaculately landscaped, and the landscaping itself mirrored the century home in front of which it stood. They varied in age and style, all of them built sometime in the 19th century. Tate would love one of the perfect, doll-like homes. He could fill it with his antiques and she would make it comfortable and cozy, a marriage of everything they liked together.

The house she was staking out was one of those darling Victorian styles, with cascading gables and gingerbread trim, and a magnificent, turreted tower. Three full floors, a huge, sloped roof with a peak at the center, a stained-glass window in the gable. Leaded windows glittered all around the main floor, and even though the shape of it was compact from the sidewalk, Silva could tell the house was huge and deep.

Hollyhocks and sweet peas filled the garden, purple and blue hydrangeas, fuchsia azaleas, and the late-spring remains of multicolored rhododendron, climbing up the corner, beyond the wraparound porch. It was lovely. It was quaint, and quirky, and old-fashioned.

It was the precise sort of house a witch should live in, Silva thought.

She lifted her fork to her lips, the Styrofoam take out container balanced against her steering wheel. Bright red, slightly briny to her palate, her eyes fluttered closed. There was only one restaurant in Cambric Creek that served a steak tartare to her liking, and she had been ordering it several times a week, gobbling it down in stolen moments, hiding in her car like a criminal. She had worried for a moment that her parents might question the sudden uptick of charges on her credit card for that particular bistro, but she would simply say she was ordering lunch to take to work, which she shared with Tannar. If she went more than a few days without the bloody meat, she would be unable to sleep, a hunger clawing at her throat, twisting her insides, that no amount of vegetables or tofu could satiate.

She had been attempting to work up her nerve for this particular task for more than a week, but now the clock had run out. It was time to act or show her cards, keep up the hustle, or lay down her cue and walk away from the table.

Her mother was going to be devastated. Her grandmother was going to be heartbroken. Both of those things were going to hurt her, but she was already hurting. What's a little more? If she had to be miserable, Silva had decided, if she was going to be forced to be Silva of the Daytime indefinitely, the whole world ought to be miserable with her. Misery loves company and company loves more.

Unfortunately, this was a necessary component to her plan. She couldn't pull anything off if it would all fall apart on her; if she would be sent packing, back to her family in disgrace. She had panicked and twisted and fretted, and then finally realized. The witch at the market.

Silva already knew of her skill. She had purchased virtually one of everything off the woman's table in a series of successive Saturdays, stretched over the last year. After Ris had explained to her the futility of buying over-the-counter remedies at the local pharmacy — something she had been to silly and na?ve to not realize, so ensconced in Elvish society she had spent the first twenty-six years of her life — Silva had turned to more arcane methods of medicine in the past few weeks. The witch sold herbal packs, steamers and salves and powders, for toothaches, fevers, headaches, menstrual pain, and every ailment in between. Remedies for head ache and nausea, obliging her to chew bits of root and bark like an animal, brewing strange-smelling teas, putting a powder in her drinks that gave everything a mud-like consistency — but they'd worked.

She had dropped the bottle of human formulated painkillers in the trash, turning instead to her stock from Brackenbridge Spellcraft, and hadn't looked back.

The woman's business card posted more than just lotion and shampoo. Holistic healthcare and Spellcraft, available upon appointment.

She hadn't made an appointment. There was little time for that. Instead, she had staked out the witch's house. It was easy enough to do. She and Tate had seen her walking hand-in-hand with a huge Araneaen, last year when Tate had stayed with her, the night of that party in Bridgeton. As it turned out, there weren't many Araneaens in town. Finding her had been uncomplicated.

Now all she needed to do was knock on the door. Tomorrow your whole life is going to change. Silva finished her last bite of the raw meat, closing up the Styrofoam container and placing it back in the bag on the passenger seat. Her hand closed around the locket she wore day and night, as a reminder, to keep him close. Fly away, little bird. She had to do this. He had told her to do whatever she needed to do to survive in this world, had done it himself. And you can do it too. And if anyone got in her way, they would find out that Silva of the Nighttime still existed there, rippling beneath the surface, ready to claw her way free.

Silva had the strange sensation of eyes on her as she got out of the car, glancing swiftly in either direction before she walked across the street. The feeling of being watched did not diminish as she walked up the crooked little path to the witch's front door. It wasn't until she was safely ensconced beneath the roof of the large, wraparound porch that she was able to take a deep breath, centering herself. Steadying herself. You can do this. You don't have a choice. She knocked on the door.

The witch answered a few moments later, looking somewhat frazzled, with her curly frizzing hair around her face. Her huge, perfectly round glasses slipped down her nose as her eyes widened behind them, recognizing Silva immediately.

"Oh, my gracious, hello! It's so nice to see you —" Her voice broke off, panic making her eyes widen further, her hand flapping lightly at her side, as though she might suddenly take wing. "Oh-oh my goodness, do we . . . do we have an appointment? I am so sorry! It'll only take me a moment to prepare the —"

"We don't," Silva cut her off, not wanting to extend the poor woman's frantic consternation. "I mean, we don't yet."

The witch sagged against the door, her overwhelming relief at having not forgotten an appointment nearly taking her off her feet. "Oh, I'm so glad! I would've felt horrible if I'd forgotten . . . well, nevermind that. What can I do for you?" Her eyebrows turned down slightly. "Most people make appointments on the portal —"

"I don't have time for that." Silva's voice wavered, all of her bravado melting away in a hot rush, heat racing up her neck, up to the tips of her ears, crowding her face until tears burned in her eyes. You don't have a choice. "I-I'm going to be leaving soon. Moving away. And I don't know when I'll be back." Cambric Creek was ruined for her. If she could not get everything she wanted with him, she wouldn't tolerate it at all. Her eyes filled with tears, desperation crowding her insides, making it hard to breathe. Seven months of uncertainty, of nausea, of this gnawing hunger inside her. You don't have a choice. "But I need your help."