The Giving Witch

Meeting

Sparkling lights, colorful, sleek decorations, rows and rows of delicacies fit for a feast, the gentle thrum of a harp and the jaunty tune of a harpsichord filled the spacious room along with the quiet chatter and laughter of the people, all hiding behind either paper smiles or coy looks.

What a delightful party this was, the Witch commended, currently hovering at the dessert table with a cherry tart in both hands.

She took a bite from one of her sugar-filled sweets, savoring the sharp tang of the fruit filling melting on her tongue. She could have nearly brought herself to shed tears at its deliciousness.

One of her most dire weaknesses was her sweet tooth, but the Witch was all too happy to indulge herself on the mountains of pastries, little cakes, and candies set out for the party's guests.

Free food and a show, this was the most fun she'd had in quite a long time. Though the main event was still a little ways off, she could still amuse herself by simply being here.

More than once she had been glared at by a fellow partygoer for her out of place attire. She was also well aware how unnerving her constant knowing smiles could be, so she continued to meet each of those suspicious looks with a smirk.

She was severely underdressed for this gathering of noblemen and women in her simple long-sleeved blouse and knee-length skirt, but no one had approached her yet, so obviously these fools were intelligent enough to realize that she was not what she appeared.

Though, she did find herself longing for someone to speak to. She was not a very social creature by nature, but having nothing but a wolf and the occasional miserable villager to converse with was becoming rather stale.

This party, this deal she had made, was a chance at some excitement! If only someone would attempt to kick her out…

"Are they good? I would imagine so, with you inhaling them like that." A female voice suddenly spoke next to her, and shoving the last bite of the tart into her mouth, the Witch turned to its owner.

This woman who stood before her was quite the sight, the Witch would admit.

With her flowing, magnificent rose-colored dress, pearls framing her neck, and the matching earrings gleaming on her ears, the Witch might as well have been wearing a tattered rag compared to her.

And her face.. there was a strange, sharp beauty to her features. Her cat-like smile and honey colored eyes were striking. There was also a little mole underneath her right eye, which was a minuscule, but charming feature.

The woman was tall, willowy, with the poise of what looked like a dancer. Ballet, perhaps? These noblewomen often took up hobbies to keep themselves from withering of boredom.

She actually reminded the Witch of a lioness, moving with such fluid grace. She could even make the motion of tucking a rebellious lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear look elegant.

She seemed to be more courageous than the other guests, seeing as she had willingly approached her to begin a conversation.

The Witch liked this one already, she decided.

Swiping her tongue over her top lip to collect any cream or cherry filling that had been left behind, the Witch gave her new companion a forthcoming smile.

"Oh, quite. Have you tried one yet?" She raised the second tart in her other hand between them, which the other woman regarded bemusedly.

"They nearly brought me to my knees." The Witch confessed breathlessly, placing her empty palm over her heart in a feigned swoon.

Her theatrics earned her a quiet chuckle from the woman.

"I have not, but I am delighted to see you enjoying yourself so, madam." She extended her hand, her long fingers held forward so that the back of it faced upward.

"I am Chloé du Nord, it is a pleasure."

The Witch couldn't stop the momentary stab of shock that she experienced, nor keep it from her expression.

The comtesse of Château du Nord had come to her. What kind of cruel fate was at work here?

Laughter threatening to bubble up from her throat, the Witch swallowed it, trying to make her smile appear more genial than amused.

With her empty hand, she captured the noblewoman's and bent forward to brush her lips over the fabric of her white glove.

As she pulled back, the Witch released the other woman's hand, then used her fingers to slightly lift one end of her skirt as she curtsied.

"Forgive my manners, Lady du Nord, I had not realized who you were."

Though, really, the Witch couldn't have cared less if she offended this silk-stocking noble, but playing the part of a lowly subject was amusing in a way.

Chloé drew her outstretched hand back toward herself to cup her own cheek in her palm. A wide, coquettish smile was stretching her lips, which were painted a dark red.

"I must say, it is rather refreshing when a guest isn't groveling at my feet,"

Humble, aren't you? The Witch commented inwardly, a yearning suddenly hitting her to dig into the tart that she was still holding.

"...You have not shared your name, either, madam, which I must say adds to this," The countess had her attention now at the mention of a name, and the Witch watched the little quirk in the corner of Lady du Nord's mouth with anticipation. "..Mysterious air that you have about you."

Ooh, she thinks me mysterious, does she? This flattery was going to make her blush…

"Mysterious?" The Witch retorted, a brow arched. "Hardly." She dismissed the notion with a flippant wave of her hand.

Lady du Nord shook with another lyrical chuckle, her slender fingers slipping from her face. "If you say so, madam. What may I call you, then?"

The Witch pondered a name, a name that she had long since shed, the very thought of allowing it to pass along her tongue again leaving her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

Though, why not? Why not commit to this "act" of hers fully?

"Lucie," The Witch offered, "You may call me Lucie."

Lady du Nord contemplated what she been given with a pensive look that furrowed her brows.

"Lucie," She repeated, as if testing the name for herself. The noblewoman blinked. "Just that?"

It seemed she was expecting a surname too. The Witch was not that swift of a liar, so this would just have to do. Besides, even the most common surname that she could think of hardly complimented her... that name enough to be paired with it.

"Just Lucie." The Witch confirmed with a flourish of her free hand, the other still balancing the cherry tart between her fingers.

Oh, how she wanted this interview to end already so she could just enjoy her dessert. She doubted that it was socially acceptable to stuff an entire pastry into her mouth while in conversation with a noble.

The novel of this other woman had already worn thin. She was becoming too curious. More, more, more, that was the impression that Lady du Nord was giving her, and the Witch had no patience for nosy little pests.

"As you wish… Miss Lucie." Lady du Nord narrowed her eyes at the Witch, putting a great deal of emphasis on the name. "Forgive me if this offends you, but, are you a prostitute?"

What? What. How dare she accuse her of being some harlot? She was the Witch of the Wilds! She would never, never degrade herself so!

"I-I beg your pardon?" The Witch sputtered, the tart that she had been holding nothing more than a mess of frosting and crumbs in her closed fist.

Lady du Nord's expression flickered with uncertainty to the demolished pastry, then back to the Witch's face, her cupid bow lips pursed with amusement.

"It's your hair. Unmarried women who wear their hair down like that tend to be giving others the signal that they are prostitutes," She tilted her head, an uneven smile tugging at her mouth. "While I do admit, it is lovely. Such a beautiful shade of gold.. like the moor grasses in autumn."

Subconsciously, the Witch reached for the nearest swaying lock of her hair with her clean hand, threading her fingers through it. She was feeling an inexplicable urge to knot it all atop her head.

Was she really that out of touch with the customs of society? So out of touch that she hadn't realized that she had been presenting herself as a w***e this entire time?

Having recollected her wits, the Witch untangled her digits from her blonde locks, throwing whatever she could back over her shoulder.

"I am not," Oh, and the countess had complimented her hair as well, hadn't she? "And your praise is appreciated, Lady du Nord."

The noblewoman bowed her head curtly. "My deepest apologies for the false accusation, then." She met the Witch's eyes, her insatiable desire for more burning with the intensity of flames. "You do not seem to know the customs of this place well. Do tell, Miss Lucie, are you a foreigner?"

Why.. yes. You could say that. She was a bit of a sore thumb in this group of people, being the only guest present with pale hair and eyes. Perhaps that was why Lady du Nord had sought her out, because she was different, and these noblewoman, desperate for some excitement, liked different.

But.. no. This place was not her home, and it never had been.

The Witch blinked, an uncharacteristic somberness suddenly taking hold of her. She regarded the spike in her emotions with a hint of disdain. How had she let this woman get beneath her skin so easily?

It must have been all these damn questions, regurgitating her less-than-pleasant memories of the past back into her face. Memories that she could recall, anyways.

She still had a part to play, however, she could not abandon it in the middle of her performance.

"I am not from around here," The Witch began carefully, scrambling to form the rest of her response during a moment of pause. Lady du Nord held her gaze, eagerly awaiting her answer. "I am visiting.. from… the other side of the Eastadle Forest."

The countess squinted at her answer, and the Witch was paralyzed with a feeling of alarm so unlike herself. It felt like this Lady du Nord could see through her every lie, and the Witch found this very disturbing.

Usually she had the upper hand in conversations she entertained with the townsfolk, because they were intimidated, they were scared of her.

Chloé seeped this unrelenting confidence that the Witch did not know how to counter. How do you threaten someone whose curiosity overpowers common sense?

"I see.." The countess hummed, taking a step closer. The Witch struggled with her immediate reaction to take a step back. Lady du Nord was on the cusp of invading her personal space.

That would be rude, wouldn't it? But.. wasn't bursting someone's personal bubble just as rude?

For once, the Witch had no earthly idea of what to do.

"Hmm," Chloé drawled, craning her neck so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. The Witch was ramrod stiff, the other woman's proximity making her skin prickle. "Would you happen to be of Celtic origin, then? I have never seen someone with such green eyes as yours. They remind me of glittering emeralds."

The Witch exhaled in a flustered manner through her nose, but she managed to mask it with what she hoped looked like a bashful smile.

This Lady du Nord did love her similes and metaphors, didn't she?

She also truly had no concept of personal space. She was so near that the the Witch could see the flecks of gold within her amber irises and detect the faint whiff of whatever flower-smelling perfume that she had spritzed herself with.

The Witch couldn't step away, though, because that would mean admitting defeat, and she refused to lose a battle of will to this noblewoman.

"Wel-" But her response was cut short by the shrill scream that was ringing out.

Startled, Lady du Nord jerked away from the Witch, both their heads snapping in the direction of the disturbance.

A cacophony of women's screams was piercing the air, disrupting the delightful mood of the ballroom. The music ceased at once and the guests' chatter died off.

A wall of bodies was beginning to form around the end of the ridiculously long dining table, where the Count and his Lady would sit when dinner was served.

"Luca?" Chloé gasped, her already pale complexion draining of its color.

The countess was off in a flurry of lacy fabrics and a cloud of lilac-scented perfume, her heels clicking noisily over the tile floor.

The Witch, no eyes left to see her, didn't deny the vindication she was feeling, and smiled widely at Chloé du Nord's retreating form.

The countess was now attempting to get past the throng murmuring people, and the Witch caught a few of their mutterings:

"..Dead?"

"Luca du Nord is dead…"

"How did this happen?"

"Out of my way!" Chloé shrieked at whoever was blocking her path, throwing her palm into the back of a man in front of her hard enough to cause him to stumble.

At her cry, the gathering of people parted like the Red Sea for the countess, giving the Witch a clear view of the scene, a scene that she would do her best to commit to memory.

Count du Nord, face down in his clam chowder, a half empty glass of wine clutched in his dead hand.

Luca du Nord, cursed to choke to death on the next oyster cracker that he ate. What a.. noble way to go. Her hex had worked masterfully.

It took every ounce of the Witch's self-control not to burst out laughing, which would have no doubt garnered her some unwanted attention.

Chloé was clutching his shoulder with tears trailing down her cheeks, a most delicious expression of despair on her face. Then, those sad doe eyes of hers lifted, seeking out the Witch.

They found each other, both at opposite ends of the ballroom, and the Witch did not hide her smile, in fact, it grew into a grin.

A flicker of unabashed shock flitted across Chloé's anguished expression, then softened into understanding.

The Witch could feel those eyes piercing into her as she turned and strode out of the gaudy, gigantic double doors of Château du Nord.

Descending the stairs with the chilly wind tossing her hair, she brought her hand, covered in the remains of the tart she had crushed, and licked a strip of frosting from her finger.

Following her tongue's retreat back into her mouth, the Witch exhaled sharply, the puff of her warm breath dispelling into the air.

What a delightful night this had been. It had certainly been more exciting than sitting in her hut waiting for news of the Count's death instead.

Flicking her wrist to rid herself of whatever was left of her crushed pastry, the Witch padded down the cobblestone path leading upward to the mansion.

She veered off of the stones, and performed a small hop over the trimmed, decorative hedges that lined the road. Touching down onto the dying brown grass of the estate's garden, the Witch weaved her way past trees and wilting flower bushes toward the west side of Château du Nord.

She stopped at the twisted remains of some dead plant, and crouched to retrieve a long stick of wood from beneath its shedded leaves.

That stick was her broom, and using her hand to knock the mulch from its bristles, the Witch released it into the open air.

It did not fall, it stayed suspended by an unseen force, just at waist level. The unlit lantern hanging from its front end swayed on its latch, and it was soon glowing a soft orange with one snap of the Witch's fingers.

Satisfied, a pleased smile curling her lips, the Witch nimbly climbed upon her broom in a sidesaddle position.

Now.. I should pay that old hag a visit, to tell her it's done. Though, the Witch had no idea where Christine Michel even was in this hovel of a village, but that was nothing a little flying and asking about couldn't fix.

She found herself not really wanting to return to the forest anyway.. the night was still rather young, why not enjoy it even more? Who knew what kind of entertainment she could make for herself here…

Sighing contentedly, the Witch tilted her chin back and lifted her fingers to grasp her bangs as she began gaining altitude. The garden was quickly shrinking below her, and soon, she could see the entire mansion from where she hung in the night sky.

It was very stunning out tonight, in her opinion.

Usually she could not see the vastness of the sky with all those tangled, menacing trees looming above her. Here, it looked like black velvet that had been sprinkled with glittering diamonds, the half-moon a magnificent glow shining upon her.

"Hmm hmm, how lovely." The Witch remarked entirely to herself, her eyes sweeping further downward to take in the sight of the manor now far below her.

Guests were now streaming out like a line of pathetic little ants, their panicked voices so loud and so many that the Witch could almost make out their words from where she was.

They climbed into their awaiting carriages which were lined along the cobblestone road connected to the estate, disappearing either toward the moor or to the collection of buildings and streets that made of Violl's Garden.

The Witch's gaze remained in that direction, watching as each carriage climbed over the hills and down the winding path toward the village.

It glowed faintly with that white light called "electricity" from homes' windows, which was odd. Usually the village would be sleepy at this time of night, with only the occasional light burning at a house's door.

How long had it been since she had ventured into the world of men? The Witch was unsure, but it was obvious that she had missed out on quite a few developments.

Leaning forward, the Witch willed her broom to carry her along, gliding closer to the village.

Careful to keep herself well out of sight, she touched down upon the ground again in the space made between two impressive brick houses.

Though it took a little maneuvering, she managed to hold her broom vertically, and extinguished the lantern still hanging from its top. Positioning it close to her right side, the Witch placed her bare palm along the stone surface of the house to her left and trailed it over the rough surface as she approached the end of the alley.

Keeping her broom hidden behind her, she peered over the edge of the left house's wall.

The street was empty, lined by several similar looking houses whose glass was illuminated with the white glow.

Her lips pursing, the Witch narrowed her eyes, trying to peer inside these windows.

The Witch made a startled noise when something hairy suddenly brushed against her leg. She jerked away from it, the metal on her broom rattling due to the frantic movement.

She stumbled out onto the cobblestone road, twirling around to get a look at whatever had touched her.

Down at her feet was a big, ragged-looking cat, its ears notched and its body littered with scars. Despite its rough appearance, the animal was purring up a storm, having already bounded after her to start weaving through her legs again. It rubbed itself all along her calves, its whiskers and coarse fur tickling her skin.

The Witch let it, looking down at the pathetic scrap of fur with a small smile.

Animals always seemed to have this strange fondness for her. She could not explain it. Bears, wolves, dogs, cats, birds, hell, even squirrels came to her seeking affection, and the Witch rarely turned them away.

Animals were far better than people anyways; animals didn't lie, animals weren't wicked just for the sake of it.

"Oh, hello there, love." She cooed at the alley cat, setting her broom onto the cobblestones and scooping up the animal to gather it in her arms.

This cat smelled of sickness and decay, and that was about as well as it looked, but the Witch cradled it in her arms like a newborn and stroked its head.

The cat's purring grew louder, rumbling like thunder from within its chest.

The Witch chuckled softly at this response to her petting, using her index finger to scratch beneath the cat's chin.

"Excuse me, miss?" A gruff male voice called out to her, and the Witch flinched. She twisted around, the cat clutched in her arms, and laid eyes upon the most peculiar man she had seen in quite a while.

He had this scruffy look to him, with his short beard, sideburns, and shoulder-length brown hair. He reminded her of some mutt actually, with all that hair and his big brown eyes.

On his head was the strangest hat she had ever seen; it had a wide rim and its middle looked like twin mountains atop his head.

Hanging from his lips was a cigar, its end burning with an ember and smoke curling from its end. A plume of it puffed from his mouth when he spoke again.

He had seemed surprised when she turned around, his attention on the cat rather than her face.

"Oh, would ya look at that," He brought his hand to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "I was gonna warn you about ol' Ugly here, usually he's not the friendliest."

The Witch glanced down at the animal she held, her fingers trailing through the fur on his head.

"Ugly?" She uttered in indignation for the cat. "Is that what you call him? He's a sweetheart!"

The man laughed softly, peering at her from beneath the rim of his ridiculous hat. His hand fell from his neck, and he used his fingers to remove the cigar from his mouth.

"He's ugly as sin, so it jus' kinda caught on,"

The Witch wrinkled her nose at the stench of tobacco that wafted her way. She despised that smell.

The man tossed his spent cigar to the ground, and crushed it beneath the toe of his boot. A loud, peculiar jingling came from him as he stomped closer to her.

"Sorry for the offense, ma'am," He said with a warm smile, then offered his hand to her. "The name's Quentin Durand."

The Witch regarded the invitation for a moment, then shifted one of her arms out from under the cat to extend her own hand.

Quentin's palm completely engulfed hers when they took ahold of each other, and shook once. It was clear he was being as gentle as possible, which was endearing.

"It is a pleasure, Mr. Durand," She replied, slipping her smaller hand free and tucking back underneath the cat. "Would you be so kind as to give me directions? I'm a bit lost."

"Oh,'course. Where are you needin' to go?" He replied without missing a beat. Much to her pleasant surprise the smile he was directing at her was genuine rather than laced with wicked intentions.

The Witch returned that smile, shifting her attention to peer past him. Rows and rows of quaint wooden and brick houses stretched as far as she could see behind Quentin. At an interval in the road there was single tall pole with a lantern burning at his top, completely illuminating the street.

It was rather... surreal to the Witch, if she were being honest. She had never seen anything like this in all her years.

Suddenly aware of the lull that she had allowed to settle between them, (besides the cat's happy purring) the Witch cleared her throat before finding her voice again.

"..I am looking for Christine Michel," She returned her full attention to Quentin, who looked to her patiently. His mouth was tilted in a lazy, lopsided smile. "Would you happen to know where she lives?"

Quentin tucked his fingers into the front pockets of his trousers, an almost comically thoughtful expression on his face as he rocked on his heels. The action caused the Witch to take notice of the holster attached to his belt. Tucked into it was a pistol, a gun, she knew. She had accepted one for payment once and promptly dismantled it to learn how it functioned. She had been unable to put it back together. How long ago had that been? Twenty years? Ten?

Quentin turned his head sideways, and his entire body followed soon after, so that his back was now to her.

He freed one of his hands to point far down the cobblestone road, at a house nearly indistinguishable from the others surrounding it.

"I believe Ms. Michel lives there, ma'am," He looked at her from over his shoulder, a delighted grin on his face. "Jus' look for the numbers 119 on the mailbox."

Mail.. box?

Those were probably the metal boxes at the end of every house's plot, each engraved with a different number.

"Huh." The Witch remarked only to herself, then bent down to retrieve her broom with her empty hand. She shifted the cat so that it was cradled snugly into the bend of her left arm to make such an arrangement work.

Quentin had pivoted himself back around, and he studied her broom but did not speak up about it.

Ah, no unnecessary questions asked, too, she liked this one. She hoped that opinion would not change as quickly as hers of the countess did.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Durand," She said to him, and started off down the cobblestone road. "Good evening." She offered as farewell when she passed him.

"Good evening, ma'am!" He called after her in return, and his heavy footsteps were soon padding off in the opposite direction.

"Strange woman." She heard Quentin murmur to himself when he thought he had put enough distance between them, and a corner of the Witch's mouth quirked.

Their meeting was quickly fading from her thoughts as the Witch neared her destination, however.

Studying every metal box's number as she passed, the Witch came to a stop once she reached 119.

Standing in front of the mailbox, she lifted her eyes to the house that it belonged to.

Plain, modest, and dull were the words the Witch could use to describe Christine Michel's home.

Alabaster paint, weathered and chipping brick foundation, and a roof that looked like it was on the verge of sliding right off.

It's windows were illuminated by the light, but most of the glow was blocked by the curtains draped over the glass.

The Witch walked up the pebbly path that led to its door, climbed the creaking steps of the porch, and leaned her broom against the house to empty a hand.

She tapped her knuckles against the old wood, creating a series of sharp knocks.

Moments later she could hear the tap of footsteps, then the click of the door's lock being released.

It was carefully pulled open, revealing a young woman with an eye-catching bruise on her cheek. She looked nonchalant, but that look quickly morphed into confusion once she met the Witch's gaze, leaving the door in a position that left only her upper body visible.

"Greetings, miss!" The Witch said, donning her most genial smile.

The young woman's eyes fell from the Witch's face to the feline in her arms, then back up.

"Uhm.. hel-" Her response was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Fae, who is it?" Christine questioned from inside, her words muffled but distinguishable.

Fae, apparently, turned her head to speak over her shoulder into the house.

"I don't know, mum. It's a blonde woman I've never seen before."

Frantic footfalls sounded from the other side of the door, and soon Christine's frail old hand was upon Fae's shoulder and pulling her back behind the door.

The girl made a quiet sound of protest, but allowed herself to be moved.

Once her daughter was out of the Witch's sight, Christine grabbed the edge of the door with one hand and the other she placed on the frame. The old woman blocked the entrance to her home bodily, her one visible eye glaring up at the Witch. A white gauze wrapped around her head covered the space where her right eye should have been.

"Why are you here?"

Well, this hostility was understandable, the Witch couldn't deny that. It was rather amusing, too, and she could not stop herself from making a spectacle of it.

"Oo, brrr," The Witch feigned a shudder from her body. "So cold, Ms. Michel. I actually had some good news to deliver, but if you're going to treat me like this…"

Throwing her head back to sigh into the frigid air, the Witch shifted into her other foot, as if she were going to turn around.

"What? What do you mean?" Christine questioned, and the Witch froze in place.

Her free hand absentmindedly stroking the back of the cat in her arms, the Witch's shoulders bounced in a shrug.

"Luca du Nord is dead." She replied coolly.

From the corner of her eye, she gauged the old woman's reaction.

Christine's lips thinned to a tight line, lines of stress forming on her forehead and around her eyes. She blinked at the Witch once, and the tension on her face melted away.

"Thank you." She said curtly.

"Mum..?" Fae attempted to speak up from behind her mother, but she stopped herself when Christine moved, lowering her hands from the doorframe. Her posture less defensive, the old woman regarded the Witch with weary eyes.

Jerking her shoulders again, the Witch flashed a smile.

"Think nothing of it." Giving the ragged cat one last pet, the Witch thrust it in Christine's direction. Startled, the old woman managed to gather the animal into her arms, giving the Witch a bewildered look as she reached for her broom.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Michel," Its lantern swaying, the Witch propped the bristled end of her broom on the wood below her. With her head she motioned to the cat, who was resting contentedly in Christine's arms. "Do take good care of him, would you?" The Witch descended the steps to the ground, calling over her shoulder: "Oh, and give him a better name than Ugly!"

The door quickly creaked shut, and the Witch faced forward with a small grin. That grin fell at the sight that greeted her.

Quentin Durand was there at the Michels' mailbox, a fresh cigar between his teeth. He stood with his arm propped onto the top of the metal box, his other hand reaching up to hold his smoke between his fingers so that he could speak.

"Sorry to bother ya again, ma'am, but I have a question for ya."

The Witch stopped in the middle of the house's walkway, her grip tightening around her broom's wooden handle.

"Do you?" She returned with a tilt of her head.

"Yup," Quentin said nonchalantly, twirling his lit cigar. "You're that witch from the Eastadle Forest, right?"

"Yes, I am," The Witch replied with a spurious smile. "What of it?"

Quentin shrugged his broad shoulders, putting his cigar back in his mouth to take a drag from it. Smoke billowed past his lips when he spoke.

"Jus' curious, was all." He took his weight off the mailbox and turned. "G'evening to ya, again, ma'am."

The Witch watched as his form shrunk down the cobblestone street, that strange jingling accenting his every step.

"Strange man." The Witch mumbled at his retreating form.