Bewitched

Chapter 3

My parents had warned me, always, about witches and warlocks. They told me their kind was dangerous, not only because of their powers but because of their nature. Manipulators, deceivers, creatures who sought control over everything the Four Courts had once held. As a child, those words had lodged in me like thorns. I grew up afraid of shadows that might have been theirs, convinced that even their names held power.

And in a way, perhaps they did. Speaking the word itself became an act of rebellion, a crime against the kingdom. Books that even whispered of their existence were burned and buried. To utter their name was to invite punishment. People learned to lower their voices, to look over their shoulders before speaking of them, until silence swallowed the memory. For most, witches became a rumor, a faded stain on history that no one dared look at too closely.

Yet fear has a way of shaping the world. My father believed they despised royalty more than anything, that the crown itself was a beacon to draw their hatred. It was why he concealed me. To everyone beyond the castle walls, I had perished in the fire that claimed my mother. My supposed corpse burned so completely that only ash remained. That was the story he gave his people. A story to keep me safe. A daughter dead, a line ended. But here I lived, hidden in plain sight, tucked away like an inconvenient truth.

Which is why what I found in the attic unsettles me more than I care to admit. A collection of books, their spines warped, their leather cracked, their pages swollen with dust and damp. Witch books. Here, in this palace, under my father’s roof. How had they survived the burnings? Who had placed them here? Was someone moving in secret among us, gathering fragments of what had been erased? Or—my stomach turns at the thought—had my father himself known?

The idea makes me sick. If he knew, why would he keep it from me? Why would he preach fear of witches and yet hide their words beneath our roof?

I keep them now in my room, away from Tremaine’s gaze and her daughters’ careless hands. Safer there than in the library, where servants sweep too often and her eyes wander in search of faults to correct. At least my room remains beneath her notice.

One evening, after cleaning the basement, I set the books on my table and wipe them clean with a damp rag, watching the dust lift away like smoke. One catches my attention, its title still legible beneath the grime.

Book of Prophecy: The Witches’ Oracle.

The words stir something in me. Prophecy. Oracle. Strange, heavy terms that feel both hollow and important. I flip it open. The first page is blank. The second, torn. The rest, scrawled in symbols I do not understand, curving letters that look more like marks than words. They mean nothing to me. Useless scratches.

Until a small slip of paper falls from between the pages.

I lift it, my heart tightening, and for once the words are clear enough to read.

Twin draco from obsidian stone

For who will prevail may sit thy throne,

The forgotten one will rise awake

Balls of magic, so little to take.

Crystal fortress of missing stone,

Find by the stealer of the sacred bone,

Once you leave, consider it the last,

For no one sees her more than once.

The rhyme makes me uneasy. The lines tangle in my head, meaning nothing and yet pressing on me with a weight I cannot explain. A prophecy, perhaps, but hollow without a key to unlock it. Witches’ words meant for witches’ eyes. Still, I tuck it back inside the book with a shiver.

I tell myself they are harmless. Old relics, brittle and useless. If they held true power, would they not have been destroyed long ago? Perhaps Father let them rot in secret because they were already dead things, no more dangerous than dust. That is what I tell myself, though doubt coils in me like smoke.

I close the book and set it aside, trying to shake the strange feeling that clings to my skin. I push myself up, heading toward the yard for air, and on the threshold I nearly collide with Tremaine and her daughters.

She stands poised as ever, black skirts sweeping the stones, her mouth already tight with disapproval before I even speak. Anastasia and Drizella hover at her sides, faces bright with a false delight they do not extend to me.

“Mother,” I begin, swallowing down hesitation. “May I speak with you?”

Her eyes narrow, sharp with impatience. Anastasia tilts her chin, Drizella smirks.

“What is it, Sol? Speak quickly. We are in the middle of a discussion.”

“A discussion about what?”

Drizella sneers. “The ball. You’re interrupting, as always.”

“A ball?” My voice catches before I can help it. “Where?”

Tremaine answers with a cool, dismissive wave. “At the Cromwell estate. Why?”

The name jolts me. Cromwell. Larimar’s kingdom. My father never trusted them. He and their king were never allies, hardly even civil. And yet here she is, speaking of them as though they were friends.

“What of the ball?” I press, ignoring the burn of her glare. “Why are you attending?”

Her lips tighten, her voice clipped. “It is none of your concern.”

“It is my concern,” I fire back before I can stop myself. “This is my kingdom as much as it is yours. I heard, too, that you invited a family of Winter Court here. You know what Father thought of them—”

Her temper snaps like a whip. “Your father is dead, Solstice. His opinions no longer bind me. Nor do you. I am the one who rules now. My alliances are my own to forge.”

“Why would you need alliances? The Four Courts are at peace.”

She smiles then, slow and cold, a curve of triumph. “Peace is never as simple as you think. The world does not move for your comfort, sweetheart. You would do well to stay where you belong—in the basement.”

“Father would never approve of this.”

“I require no approval,” she says, voice low, deliberate. “Not from your father. Not from you. The ball will proceed tomorrow. The Winter Court will be in attendance, and my daughters will not miss it.”

Anastasia and Drizella giggle at her side, their amusement sharp and shallow. I bite down the words I want to spit, knowing they will only make things worse. Instead I give them all a cold stare before turning sharply, my feet carrying me away though my mind burns.

Something is happening. Something beyond a ball, beyond Tremaine’s endless hunger for influence. She is weaving ties with Larimar, with Winter Court, and for what? Alliances are not born of dances and gowns. They are carved from necessity, from danger.

And danger means something is coming

Something Tremaine knows—and I do not.