Chapter 5

The shutters were open for the first time all season, spring finally gaining a foothold over winter, and a cool breeze swirled through the hanging herbs in the drying room. We six sat in a circle on the stone floor, shucking dried lavender flowers or rosemary needles from their stems and into the wide reed baskets, letting the gentle wind blow away the stems and chaff. We'd sweep it up later, or maybe form a casting circle and get a little magic to do it for us.

"Hey," I told my brother Marten, "you're getting stems in my basket."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. Look! You're throwing them right into the wind and they're falling into my basket."

"So you're blaming me for the wind? Real mature." Marten stuck his tongue out at me.

I snatched up the stems and threw them at him. They stuck right on his wet tongue, and when he sucked his tongue back into his mouth in surprise, he brought the stems, and the chaff, and a bunch of dried lavender flowers with him. He coughed and spat, trying to wipe his tongue off, and the rest of us laughed.

Marten glared at me as only a brother could, then he struck out with his fist. The sheaves of drying herbs rustling in the breeze lifted from their hanging pegs, forming a bundle that was half club, half broom. He snapped his wrist back in preparation to lash it across our cousins and me. A stinging slap to the cheek for laughing at him, if it ever landed.

I jumped upright, the discarded rosemary and lavender stems lurching into my hands. They armored over my skin like needle-like scales, each one pointed at Marten and ready to release like a cloud of darts to turn him into a pincushion. "Stop it," I shouted. "Stop it, you stupid warlock!"

A blast from the doorway had my stem darts condensing into a flock like starlings and flying out the nearest window. It also sent every flower and every needle we'd shucked scattering to the four corners of the drying room like cockroaches. My four cousins yelped, first shielding their faces with their hands then quickly bowing their heads. Marten turned white, and I whirled around.

"Meadow Lavender Hawthorne," Grandmother said, voice low, her ivy-green eyes bright as if they were miniature lanterns with little green flames inside. "What did you just call your brother?"

I swallowed and stood up straight as I'd been taught when I addressed the Hawthorne matriarch. My posture did nothing for the slight tremor in my voice. "A-a stupid warlock."

"And what is a warlock?"

"Isn't it a boy witch?"

"No, stupid," Marten hissed. "Gender's got nothing to do with it."

"Marten Tod Hawthorne. Stand," Grandmother ordered.

He jumped to his feet as quickly as night chases after the light of an extinguished candle. "Grandmother."

"What is a warlock?"

He didn't answer right away, eyes roaming from side to side as they did when he was searching for an answer he didn't know.

"Who's stupid now?" I whispered back.

"Shut up."

Grandmother flicked her eyes to me, and I gulped, clamping my teeth shut.

"Where did you hear this term, Meadow?"

"I-I heard Cousin Otter say it to Cousin Boar when Cousin Boar broke one of Cousin Otter's guitar strings."

Grandmother sucked in an impatient breath and then smacked her lips. "Otter will be informed to mind his language around the children. And now you six will learn what a warlock is. A warlock is anyone who makes a bargain with an entity in exchange for power, whether that be knowledge, physical strength, magical ability, or influence. In exchange, they serve at the entity's bidding. It is a contract, and once you make it, you cannot break it. You must obey, or have your soul consumed.

"Now, can anyone of you tell me how us witches are different?"

My four cousins refused to lift their gazes from the floor, and Marten was busy chewing on his lower lip, trying his best to word his answer, so I said,

"A witch is born with magic and may choose to give homage to the patron of their gift. While not required, it is encouraged, for the patrons have been known to intercede, to answer when called upon for help in magic otherwise beyond the skill of the witch."

Grandmother's face did not soften one bit with the thoroughness of my answer. "Exactly. Witches are born with magic. Warlocks must sell their souls to attain it. Which is against the laws of nature and balance, something us witches hold very dear.

"So, Meadow, to call your brother a warlock is one of the most offensive things you could say to a witch, and you will be punished for tarnishing not just your own brother's reputation, but the Hawthorne reputation as well."

I started to tremble. Marten sniggered at my misfortune, for Grandmother's punishments were legendary, but then her lantern-like eyes flicked to him. "Marten, while it was your sister who offended you, you raised your hand against your cousins, who were innocent in this matter. That goes against nature's laws as well, and you also will be punished."

The paleness returned to Marten's face.

"And you four," Grandmother snapped at our seated cousins, "why did none of you raise a shield to protect yourselves? You are not helpless, cowering mortals. You are Hawthornes! And so, you four will pick up every flower and every needle from the floor by hand and finish harvesting the rest before afternoon tea. Aunt Hyacinth will confirm the thoroughness of your work before either releasing you or having you stay until nightfall scrubbing this place from ceiling to floor. Am I quite understood?"

"Yes, Grandmother," four meek voices mumbled.

"Marten, go to your father. He has already been informed of your unacceptable behavior and will mete out your punishment. And you, Meadow"—Grandmother thrust out her hand, which resembled an eagle's foot full of talons at that very moment—"are coming with me."

I blinked away the memory, the Nightmare Rodeo once again coming into focus. There were cowboys in black clothes with flame accents riding bucking black horses or bulls, gypsy clowns in colorful clothes to distract the beasts when they finally purged themselves from their riders.

The roar of the crowd jolted me even more, and I realized I wasn't just linking my arm with Arthur's. I was clinging to him. His hand was on top of my knee, but there was nothing affectionate about it. He was anchoring me, and he realized it the moment I snapped out of my trance.

"Misty, are you alright?"

By the Green Mother, I was so tight against him I felt the reverberations of his deep voice in my bones. It loosened the tension that had seized me, melting it all away with the comfort and concern imbued in every word. I shuddered, wanting so desperately more of that safety he provided, that assurance that whatever happened, everything would be alright in the end.

"Misty—"

My name is Meadow. Quickly I stood, brushing the crumbs of pretzel off my dress and shaking out my ponytail. Arthur's expression turned from concern to confusion, and when he made to stand, I pressed a hand against his shoulder, urging him to stay put. He could've stood, for the pressure of my hand was no more than that of a robin compared to his shifter strength, but he remained seated, obeying.

"I've got to go," I said. "Thank you for everything. Enjoy the carnival."

"Wait—"

My hand moved to his bearded cheek, and I felt the shiver that raced through him as an echo of my own. "I gotta go," I repeated thickly.

And I did. Clutching my foraging bag to my chest, I skirted around soda cans and feet as I hastily worked my way to the aisle and then down the bleachers to the grass. I didn't look back, not until I was exiting the arena. Arthur wasn't there, and I was glad for it.

I didn't have the mental capacity to answer any questions he might have, and I needed what wits remained in my body to focus on the reason why I was here at the carnival. That time in the drying room hadn't been the first lecture we'd received about warlocks, and the older Hawthornes had impressed upon us many times that warlocks were not to be trifled with. They had access to incredible power, were manipulative, and were to be avoided at all costs. Frankly, I didn't know what Grandmother wanted us fearing more, the fabled Stag Man of the deep woods or warlocks.

But warlocks were real, and I would treat them like I would vipers in the garden: keep my eyes on them and a hatchet in my hand.

This Jakob Tabrass had either sold his soul to that thing in the ruby of his cane, or he had imprisoned it, and I was going to find out which one it was. If I was very careful, and very lucky, he might just give me the key to delivering my family from its curse.