Witch of the Lake

Chapter 3-3

Mama had Mokosza’s blessing. She captured magic with her shuttle and threads. It was she who’d first encouraged his interest in art.

But seeing his likeness and Roksana’s... A rock settled in his gut. As lady of Rubin, Mama helped keep peace amongst the lords of Nizina with her cool head and honeyed tongue, but it was hard to think of Roksana someday filling that role. She had none of Mama’s gift for diplomacy. He’d tried begging Mama to convince Tata before, and she’d refused. If only Mama’s way with words had been hereditary.

She tugged on his hand. “Don’t leave me in suspense. You’ve got an artist’s eye. So?”

He inhaled deeply. “It’s beautiful, Mama.”

She beamed as she stroked his likeness on the tapestry. “I’ll be done before the wedding, thanks to Roksana.”

“Did she come to visit, then?” The words caught in his throat. Roksana had been coming by more and more lately. Mama had to see that Roksana could never fill her shoes, but she loved her like a daughter and wouldn’t be dissuaded against the marriage otherwise.

“Mmm,” Mama said distractedly, as she resumed the rhythmic movements of the loom. The gentle clacking of her work had once been soothing, but now each thread was a tightening noose around his neck.

“She wanted to wait for you to return from the ceremony, but it was nearly dark so I sent her home.” Mama tutted.

Iskra yawned as she stood and stretched before twirling in place and settling down between him and Mama.

Outside, the sun had almost completely sunk beyond the horizon. That was a small mercy at least. He’d been avoiding Roksana as best he could since the wedding preparations had begun. All he had left was one more day. One more day of freedom, and then he could avoid her no longer.

With a kiss on her cheek, he left Mama to her work and headed up the stairs to his private chambers.

His door was open…

He swore he’d closed it before leaving this morning. Faint titian candlelight flickered. The servants had been inside, tending to his chamber.

A floorboard creaked. Wait. Someone was in his chamber now.

He eased the door against the wall, opening it all the way.

Roksana’s curtain of golden hair shone like amber in the candlelight. She spun to face him, her pink lips parted and her doe-like eyes wide.

“Kaspian, you scared me!” she scolded him, her voice high.

“You shouldn’t be in here—it’s not appropriate,” he replied loudly, glancing back out into the hallway. For once he wanted his parents to scold him if it meant sending Roksana home.

“I waited all day for you,” she whined, her bottom lip quivering. It was all an act. Whenever she didn’t get her way, she’d pretend to cry until she got it. Not this time. Not on what was his last night as a free man.

“Go home, Roksana.” He sighed heavily.

She stomped toward him, pale hands clasped into fists. Perun’s bright lightning… She was going to throw yet another tantrum, and he was going to give in to her demands to spare himself her fake tears.

“I snuck your painting into your chamber. Can’t you at least be grateful?” She threw her hand toward his easel, where his painting of the lake rested. So she had taken it.

He focused on the painting rather than meet her gaze. She’d propped up his easel, proudly displaying his unfinished work. Normally he hid it away under his bed. “How did you find this?”

Roksana’s head dropped, and her hair shrouded her face as she scuffed the floor with her boot. “I was leaving for home when I saw you go into the barn. I know your father doesn’t like your paintings, and you work so hard on them. It would be a shame to have him destroy it.”

“You shouldn’t have. Now it’s dark... I’ll have to walk you home.” He removed the painting from the easel, ready to stow it away from sight once more.

“Do you think she lived there? That cygnet?” Roksana asked wistfully.

When they’d been children, she’d once found an injured cygnet, and together they’d tried to nurse it back to health.

Tried… But it had been no use.

Kaspian tugged at his ear. Guilt gnawed at him, like a hound with a bone. Perhaps he had been too cruel to her. Although she was childish, she had a big heart.

Tears brimmed on her long lashes, not fake tears this time. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, bringing her close to his chest, and she buried her face against him, small arms circling his waist just as she’d done that day. Her hair brushed against his chin, reminiscent of the little cygnet’s fluff. She smelled of sweet bread and sunshine.

She sniffled but didn’t pull away. “The way you paint the lake, it’s so beautiful. I want to see it for myself, see the swans and their baby cygnets… Will you take me, Kaspian?”

It was always pleasant to hear someone appreciated his art, and he knew Roksana meant it. But when Roksana said his painting was beautiful, it didn’t make his heart flutter like when… when she had said it. That mysterious young witch from the lake. Her eyes had given it away, the same color as the weaver’s. He’d heard rumors of the third, youngest, witch, but he’d never seen a sign of her until today.

Would there be a chance to ever see her again? He’d invited her to the feast tomorrow, but there was no guarantee she’d come. What attraction would a village feast hold for her, when all of nature lay at her feet, an enchanted wood, and the magic the world of the mundane could never match? To her, his life had to be laughably dull. His life, and perhaps he, too.

He pulled away from Roksana, but her hand continued to cling to the hem of his tunic. Why was he thinking about the impossible anyway? He was to marry Roksana Malicka. Regardless of whether he wanted to, once those vows were spoken, there would be no room for another woman in his thoughts. Ever. The swan may long to swim and the eel may long to fly, but a swan was a swan and an eel was an eel, and he would marry Roksana no matter his longings.

He removed her hand from the hem of his shirt. “You’re scared of the forest. Why would I bring you there?”

Roksana pressed her palm against his chest. “I know you don’t see me as a wife yet,” she said softly. “But my mother says those feelings will come with time.” She looked up at him through her long lashes, her smile bright.

It felt wrong. But a tiny part of him wished it didn’t. That he could look upon her as a man does a woman.

But with her eyes red and puffy from crying and her cheeks tear stained, he could only see that little girl clutching a tiny cygnet. She would always be that little girl to him, but his wedding was the day after tomorrow, and he had just one day, only one, to paint his future with new perspective.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you safely home.”