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FREE: The Hearth Witch
by Thea Hutcheson
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The egg materialized three feet above the table, hovered for a moment and then dropped, landing hard, the yolk spreading across the velvet cover. Misha shot a hand out to stop it from falling over the edge and spattering on the floor, but realized just as the goopy mess hit her hand that wasn’t the brightest maneuver. She grabbed the wand from her other hand, deploying it in a desperate attempt to work some kind of spell—any kind of spell—to salvage the moment. The wand got tangled in the velvet and, as she scrambled to free it, the egg, obeying her command to move, flipped off the table and moved toward the watching instructors in the first row of the amphitheater. Worse, it was headed right toward Salome. Misha flung herself ahead of the floating egg, turned, and raised her cloaked arms in an effort to capture the mess before it could sully the Dame’s silk and satin robe. She was lucky there. The egg spattered dead center in her face to drip down upon her roommate’s second best dress. She turned, pleased that she’d been able to avert at least one disaster in the wretched series, although her roommate would be horrified if she saw Misha now. “Magic speaks truth, Misha Millik,” Dame Salome said with a wry smirk. “You have egg on your face.” She turned to the other instructors. Misha took a moment’s satisfaction at the headshaking and frowns at the Dame’s joke. But, Misha’s heart fell even further with the woman’s next words. “I think we’ve seen enough,” she said. “You’ll have our decision soon, novitiate Millik. In the meantime, I suggest you clean up and return to your dormitory.” “Yes, Dame Salome,” Misha said, her face flaming, her stomach a hard knot. Wizard Winterton gave her a sad smile, a shrug, and winked. He winked. Misha’s blush reddened, ashamed that she’d let her patron down. They were all going to vote to expel her. They all hated her except for Winterton, who’d brought her here. They were going to kick her out because she was a terrible magician. Where would she go? She couldn’t return home. Her granny was dead nearly a year now and Teller Village had found a new hearth witch. And, that’s what she was, a hearth witch, not a magician; her magic was not so complicated, written in books, or carted around in rolling tables. So then, why did Winterton want her here? When he danced with her at Teller Village’s May Dance, his flashing brown eyes seemed to weigh her, staring right down to the center of her soul, and she felt honored. Now, she wished he’d never looked her, never found all her weak spots, never glossed over them and smiled at her anyway, in spite of them. She burned with irritation at the way he crooked his slender finger with its long manicured nail, feeling like a dog brought to heel. A poorly trained dog at that, who must be pulled along wherever he wished her to go with an invisible string she couldn’t untie, a thread tied to the center of her chest. “You’ll do fine,” he’d said over the fiddle and flute music at the May Dance. Fine. What would have been fine would have been to be married with a couple of babies, or never to have missed Granny’s last years. She turned to the stage again. At least the egg had flown cleanly off the velvet cloth, leaving nothing behind. Pulling out the small mirror she kept in the drawer of her conjuring table, Misha laid the wand down and waggled her fingers at the mess on her face and down her roommate’s suit, murmuring, “Off, all ye specks, all ye flecks, off with ye.” The mess whirled up smoothly and Misha idly swished it about in the air, turning it into a frothy ball, using a whipping spell her granny had taught her many years ago, as she decided what to do with it. It would be satisfying to hide the mess in Salome’s bed or her table, but any momentary gratification would pale beside the consequences when the woman discovered it. The new Dame could make her life even more miserable than it was. Anybody could. “You’re just such a bumpkin, Misha Millik,” she told herself as she found a glass beaker on the bottom shelf of her table and commanded the egg to fall in. “Everyone can smell that from a mile away.” She’d have to dump it out and then wash the container before her next class. Although it was unlikely she’d be continuing to study at Chisolm Keep. Maybe she could sell her equipment and pay back some of the money Winterton had invested in her. “That was nicely done.” Startled, she spun around to see the man himself watching her. How long had he been here? “I have my moments.” “Indeed you do. Some are better than others.” She sighed. “As long as the roots are in hearth magic, those moments are just fine. Look, Master Winterton, I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I’m sorry that I haven’t learned wand gestures and symbol sketching, and the book of a thousand spells.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You haven’t disappointed me. You’ve done remarkably well.” “You’re the only one who thinks so.” He shrugged. “It’s my school. I’m the only the one who matters.” “It sure doesn’t seem like it from where I sit.” He frowned. “You’re sitting exactly where I want you to sit. I know it’s uncomfortable, but you may rest assured you’re exactly where you should be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to do.” He forestalled Misha’s words by turning to leave. “You just keep your head up.” Better down than up, she thought as he walked up the aisle and pushed the big door open. He turned back to her and said, “Don’t dawdle now,” before stepping through. It slammed behind him, echoing throughout the big room. What did that mean, she was where he wanted her? Did he mean for her to feel so wretched? Did he believe that she could succeed? What did he know that she didn’t? Why did he want her, a young woman and a hearth witch to boot, at this prestigious school for young mages? Why was he satisfied to keep her here, knowing that she failed at this type of magic? She felt like a lamb out of pasture. She had the touch; she’d always known it. At home, she’d never doubted her skill. Here, though, ever since she’d arrived at the imposing school, surrounded by the wealthy children of dames and wizards, she’d bungled most things, forgotten crucial ingredients, misstepped, fumbled her wand gestures. These two years had not been kind to her. It was at these times she missed her granny the most, wished that her grandma had the power to say no to Winterton’s demand that she surrender her granddaughter. At home, Misha’d been a respected hearth witch, skilled at delivering babies and animals alike, brewing potions and remedies. Here, the students considered her a poor peasant. And, it was true. They were all from moneyed, illustrious families, her betters, and they never let her forget it. Misha packed up her cloth, the beaker, and her wand, and tucked everything in the plain pine table, released the brakes and wheeled it off the stage. She didn’t understand what had happened. She’d been totally prepared, had practiced that egg manifestation a hundred times before today. She’d even invented a really nice flourish as her signature. Things never went awry when she practiced her hearth magic, she simply did her job. It was the watching, the judging that ruined things. Bricker, the King’s second cousin, was in the corridor. She couldn’t avoid him so she just kept walking. “So bumpkin failed her test. I told you so. Winterton’s crazy for bringing you here, thinking a hearth witch could make it at the academy. Not a single one of his hand picked students have succeeded. You should just creep away in the night the way they all have.” Her face was set, her eyes focused on the path in front of her. The gray slate stone floor was centuries old and sometimes the tiles weren’t flush. All she needed was to hit one with the table. Misha gained her dormitory door and closed the door behind her. The stone walls were hung with bright tapestries regaling the history of the school and the graduates that went to work magic in the world. She’d stopped looking at them, but appreciated their thick wool, which kept the worst of the winter’s chill at bay. The cart she slipped into its cubby. Removing her cloak, she smoothed the soft doeskin folds, once again appreciating its fineness. She’d have never owned anything so nice in Teller. Hearth witches did well, but not extravagantly so, which suited her. She removed Kellin’s dress and hung it on the hook, muttering a spell to clean it, even though she was certain the previous spell had removed any trace of dirt or egg. She took her favorite spot in the window seat and looked out over the craggy mountain that cupped the academy in its rugged fingers. Spring was fast approaching and the air carried the special sharp, crisp flavor, which boded the turning of the seasons, even though snow still lay thickly on the peaks around them. Her eyes burned and she scrubbed at them, simultaneously fighting the huge lump of frustration that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chest. The door opened. Kellin, her roommate stepped through slowly. She was a pale, wispy girl, with white skin, and silver hair. Misha thought she looked like a ghost except for her full red lips and her wide ice blue eyes. “I heard what happened.” “Your suit is fine,” Misha said quickly. “I thank you again for the use of it.” “If Winterton supplies all of your materials and that cloak, you’d think that he’d supply you with decent clothes too.” “I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Kellin paused and said generously, “As I appreciate the trick you taught me in my time of need.” Misha had to smile. The reversal spell was one of the first her granny had taught her when Misha became her apprentice. It was intended to undo mistakes, dropped dishes, burnt dinners, but she’d discovered on her arrival it would also undo joker spells that people laid on her. It had also helped Kellin the day Misha had found her weeping in their room. Misha had patted Kellin’s shoulder in sympathy, and then her head, her heart, her lips. The woman was bespelled. Bricker’s swooning spell was a complicated love potion with flourishes and embellishments that made Misha smile for his arrogance. Misha couldn’t break it, but that was not always the answer. “He doesn’t love you, Kellin, you know that. He doesn’t love anybody, not even himself. He doesn’t honor you or himself. Give him back what he really feels, turn it back sevenfold.” Kellin’s gratitude made Misha smile. “And back to you,” Kellin chanted after Misha softly, anger roughening her words. “Back to the beginning, all your words, caught back in your throat, turned back to your heart, blasted back in your face.” The girl had used it on Bricker when he claimed his expected kiss, but what he got was a blast of loathing that turned his skin green for two days. It had been their oath secret because both girls knew that if he ever learned what had hit him and who had taught it, they’d both pay. “Well, then I’m going down for dinner,” Kellin said. “I don’t expect you feel like showing your face, do you?” Did everyone know? Probably. Salome had probably shouted it from the steps. The newly named Dame took her position and the prerogatives that came with it seriously. She was bossy and manipulative, but her father was the current King’s Mage, and so everyone just excused her boorish behavior. It didn’t matter. Misha had a store of foods in her trunk. Kellin opened the door and jumped back, with a cry. “Filthy beast. Do not let him near my things.” Kellin swished out and the pale white and grey tabby tom padded in as she closed the door. He jumped up on the window seat. “I’d spray her bed if it wouldn’t cause problems for you,” the cat muttered as he bumped her hand for attention. Misha smiled as she rubbed the cat’s ears. A loud purr rewarded her efforts. He turned and stood on her, front paws on her breasts, lightly kneading them as he touched her nose with his. “Why do you always go right there?” she asked, chuckling as she pulled his paws out of her bodice. She rubbed his body and he rubbed his face against her cheeks in return. When she’d paid the cat his due, she opened the trunk and rummaged around, coming up with some dried venison, a hunk of cheese, and a piece of yesterday’s bread. Her surreptitious visits to the kitchen staff paid off with generous offerings. They appreciated a hearth witch’s skills if no one else here did and she enjoyed their company. She added some coal to the fire and swung the kettle over it. When the water boiled, she made rose hip tea from her waning supplies, picked before the winter had closed in. “I expect there won’t be too many more of these intimate dinners, Timmuk. I’m going to be leaving.” The cat simply stared at her; his brilliant green eyes bright, his tail swishing as he waited for his share of the meal to be laid out. “Nothing to say? Well, I’m surprised.” He butted her hand and made the tiny “mrrp,” sound she loved so much. “I guess, I’ll study,” she said after they’d eaten, “Although, I’m not sure why I’m bothering.” Timmuk stared at her gravely. “I’ve told you before, do what’s expected. That’ll keep Winterton and the rest of them from looking your way any more than is necessary.” The cat had been her friend since her arrival. He was the best-informed and most talkative cat she’d ever met, and she’d known many over the years. He shared secrets about the school life, tidbits that had helped her understand the hierarchy, and, if not fit in, then not flail about too desperately. It seemed amazing that a cat could be so well versed in the subtleties of human politics and the history of the kingdom. She finally decided the exposure to all the magic that suffused the walls and the very air of the keep made Timmuk so unique. “Yes, you tell me, but you won’t say why I’m here, what he expects.” “You’re here because he wants you here. He expects you to do exactly as you’re doing, your very best.” “But my best is not anywhere near good enough.” The tears rose and she let them fall. Timmuk climbed into her lap and sprawled in his most appealing position, upside down, head pressed against her, and paws kneading the underside of her breasts lightly. She lifted his paws off her, stroked him and, when the tears passed, leaned down to kiss him on the head. “Thank you, dear Timmuk.” “You’re welcome,” the tabby said. “Now get to studying. Don’t you have a midterm exam?” The next morning she woke. The room was frosty, the first light of dawn just glowing pearly white through the late winter snow. She burrowed down into the blankets, determined to skip the class. “Up, up, Misha.” The words whispered through the room like a breeze slipping through cracks in the mortared stones. “You have class. That’s where I want you. That’s where you’re supposed to be.” She tried to ignore the words, but Winterton and his insistent tug in the center of her chest wouldn’t be denied and he wouldn’t stop pulling until she obeyed it. When he first took her from Teller, she’d tried to return, tried to sit like a balky mule, but he could pull that string whenever he wanted. She had no choice but to follow where it led; scooting on her bottom or walking in surrender didn’t matter to him. She sighed and got up, shivering, and put coal on the fire and swung the kettle over it. He didn’t stop pulling until she was in her seat. The next day, during wand usage class, she received a notice on rolled parchment, tied in gray and yellow silk ribbon—the school’s colors—and sealed with the dean’s wax mark. She groaned, her heart suddenly thumping. Just as she’d begun to get the hang of the complicated movements, she had to stop. At least the waiting was over. “All packed, Millik?” Bricker asked She unrolled the parchment with sweaty hands, her stomach roiling. Misha’s eyes widened as she read the notice. It said, in the flourishing handwriting of the school’s Dean Hribbar, “Be it known to all and sundry that Misha Millik is a student in good standing at Chisolm’s Keep and subject to the rules and privileges thereof. Signed, Dean Robarius Hribbar.” “Why?” she asked Bricker innocently. “I’m not going anywhere.” Dang, it felt good to say that, even though the paper didn’t explain how that had happened and left her more confused than ever. “Liar, let me see that.” He grabbed the parchment and Misha let go rather than allow it to tear. He was incredulous and everyone crowded around to read over his shoulder. “That’s a puddle of scum,” he said. “It just proves Winterton is off his rocker. He can’t pick a protégé for beans. He’s just been lucky with his own wizarding. Timing, that’s what my father says.” He threw the parchment down on the table. The moly extract they were practicing on tipped over and seeped into the paper. She picked up the wand and waved it. Instead of pulling off, the moly spread itself through out the parchment, dying it a subtle green. Sighing, she rolled it up quickly, sliding it into the sleeve of her cloak. She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or crestfallen. Winterton was not going to release her from what had become a torturous prison. He wanted her here and she could only make the best of it. “All right, all right,” the Dame called from the front of the class. “Clean up your projects, tidy your tables.” Misha, looked at the mess and sighed heavily as she cleaned up, stowing the recipe and the mixing bowl in her conjuring table. She squared her shoulders and pushed the cart out the door, her face set and concentrating on the stone tiles before her. Off to the next class then. The History of Dames and Wizards always seemed a pompous litany of self-promoting family history. The topic today, however, was Master Winterton. She’d done the reading. That she could do. She’d learned that he’d come up out of nowhere, from a small province in the far east of the kingdom. He gained notice by working some small magics that were of timely use to the king. When she’d completed the reading, Misha realized his history seemed to ebb and rise in cycles. Kellin raised her hand. “Why does he serve the Keep? Why doesn’t he stay at court and work on the King’s Wizard Council?” Dame Fallis raised her eyebrows. “Not every magician has such an ego. Master Winterton is a self-effacing man, with humility and a generous nature.” Bricker shook his head and snorted. Clearly, that was not a tack he was going to take on his rise to success. The Dame glared at him. “It is enough for our Headmaster to oversee the Keep for the last six decades, leaving to serve the king only at a crucial time with a fine piece of magic and then returning back to Chisolm Keep and his position as Headmaster.” Misha frowned. Timmuk said Winterton was proud, eager to be counted among the names of the King’s Magicians. But she wasn’t going to risk ridicule on any level by mentioning either the fact or that she had it from a cat who shouldn’t know things like that, magic or not. “What about the Rabbit Maid?” Bricker smiled at Misha. “Regella Courmand was an animal mistress,” Dame Fallis said. “Animal control is a powerful magic. She was able to read any animal brought to her. She could train them to do the most amazing things. Calling her the Rabbit Maid does no justice to her powers. I remember the rabbits you spoke of, though. She got them to run an obstacle course by snapping her fingers. She trained the King’s war charger Barbor de Magni.” “But she ran away in the night,” Bricker said, looking at Misha. “Disappeared. Threw away a perfectly fine future as the King’s animal mistress.” “Magic is a fine art. It requires stamina and a personality not always found in balance amongst all students.” Bricker nodded, staring at Misha. “It didn’t matter,” the Dame continued. “Winterton was perfectly capable of turning the renegade Duke’s cavalry charge at the Battle of Watampan. Such a shame, all those fine animals racing off the cliff. Many riders were caught in the harnesses and saddles and couldn’t get off or were trampled in the rush. But the King won the battle and saved the kingdom from civil war.” Misha sat quietly, listening to the other students discuss Winterton’s contributions and his current posting at the Keep. She privately agreed with Kellin that it seemed a fall from grace and position to go from instrumental in the execution of the King’s business to Headmaster of the Magic Academy. Misha felt sorry for Winterton. But, he had time for me, whatever he thinks I’ll make of myself. If that was true, what did he want with her? How did a hearth witch play into Winterton’s plans, and why bring Misha here, a woman, to a school for youths? Why would he be interested in a hearth witch anyway, when he was so fluent in magic? Misha woke early the day of the equinox. The room was dark, quiet, and chilled. Kellin always waited for Misha to get up first and tend the fire before she roused. Timmuk had left in the night and there was a cold, empty depression where he slept against her side, snuggled up under her breasts. What had woke her? “Misha,” she heard, the softest whisper, the faintest soughing, like a breeze through a broken pane. She laid still, her heart beating like a hammer against her ribs, her breath caught in her chest. She tried not to move out of the warm nest. “Misha, come to me.” The voice pulled like a hook in the center of her chest. She growled as she threw back the covers, hissed as her feet touched the icy stone. She dressed quickly, pulling on her good boots, putting her hair up, and scrubbing at her face quickly with a cloth dipped into the basin of freezing water on the stand. Not taking time for tea or to put more coal on the fire, she threw her cloak over her shoulders, lifted the door catch, and slipped from the room. The tension was steady. What did Winterton want from her? Angry that he dragged her from her sleep without a by your leave or any kindness, she spoke a spell to counteract his pull. “Like a fish on a line, I slip your hook, like a knot in the loom, I slip your bonds, away, I slip free.” But the call was too strong and the pull settled deeper in her chest, her heart. A shock of fear lanced through her heart, making her gasp. It had never felt so strong, sunk so far into her. “Don’t worry, Misha. This is exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. Don’t dawdle now.” But why was Winterton calling her? Ideas raced through her brain as she walked the empty corridors. Perhaps for a ritual. Yes, that had to be it. He was going to work an equinox rite with her. Maybe he’d prepared an initiation to take advantage of the power of this magical day to help her be a better magician. But, why her? Why not Bricker or Dame Salome? Why a hearth witch who fails at the most basic magic? Because she was his protégé. Her steps quickened and she shivered in the cool, damp breeze, allowing the thread to pull her, down past the classes, beyond the stone vaults where they stored the implements and tools of great magic sealed with great timber doors and latched with spelled bronze locks. She stopped at a landing. The call pulled her, but ahead was a wall deeply carved with a sphinx. “Press her beard, touch the tattoo on her breast, tap the cobra on her brow,” Winterton whispered, and those spots glowed softly on the carved wall. A tiny door swung inward when she did so. There was barely enough room for her to fit. The stairs were dark, but the call led her on, the softly glowing thread illuminating the path. Winterton waited for her at the bottom of the staircase. “Very good, Misha. You’re exactly where I want you to be. Come in.” He gestured to a small room behind him, lit with many candles. A great stone table with a groove carved in the center of it sat in front of an altar. A dark shroud lay piled atop the altar. “Take your cloak off, Misha. Very good, just hang it over there, on that hook. When she hung it, she saw Timmuk, huddled in the corner, out of the way, in a pile of rags, his ears flat, his eyes narrow as he stared at her, his bright green eyes boring into hers, his posture saying wished to be unseen, a great hunter waiting for the strike. Very well, she thought. Be a cat. But, she was glad he was there to see. “Don’t dawdle,” Winterton said. “The ritual requires you to be in your shift only.” Misha shivered. She was right. This was like the Equinox rituals her granny had worked with her. She was proud. All this time she’d struggled, done what he’d asked, and now she’d reap the reward. She hung her dress over her cloak and set her boots neatly beneath them. She moved to where Winterton adjusted the silk cloth covering the top of his own table. She’d admired his mahogany mage table since the first time she’d seen it when he came to Teller Village, carved and intricately painted with flowers, symbols, tiny animals, and youths that looked out with all manner of blue, green, hazel, and brown jeweled eyes. It must have been a fortune in jewels. But, she’d always wondered why the artist carved them with sad or frightened expressions. Better to be glad and proud to adorn such a mage’s table. “They should look happy to be part of such an illustrious man’s magic.” “Beg pardon, Misha?” “I was just looking at your table. I think the animals and faces carved in your table should look happier since they’re a part of your table.” Winterton smiled. “That’s a very nice thing to say. Where would you see yourself on the table?” She looked carefully. “There, at the base of this tree, next to that cat.” Its eyes were not jeweled but she thought he looked like Timmuk. Winterton’s face clouded up. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “You can be right there. May you do a better job than that cat.” “What was he supposed to do?” “His job, what I expected him to do.” Winterton growled as he spoke and Misha shrank at his anger. Why was he here, working rituals with her when he was so angry? Granny had always said you must bring only what you wished to take away from the ritual. What kind of magic would accept such darkness? “But you,” he said, softening his voice. “You have done everything I asked, been right here where I put you, came when I called you. I am very pleased, Misha Millik, very pleased. So I will reward you with the spot, right there under that tree.” “Thank you, sir,” not understanding what he meant, but pleased that he recognized her suffering. “It’s been so hard. I try and try, but I am just not a magician.” He laughed. “No, Misha, you’re not. But, you have done far better that I thought you would. Your granny said you were a rare jewel, a good hearth witch, resourceful, and stubborn. She didn’t lie. You’ve been perfect, talented in your own way, persevering, acquiescent, and meek. Just what I needed.” Misha flushed with shame. He didn’t think she’d succeed? Then why keep her here and why did he need her now? A spark of anger made her clench her teeth. “Climb up here, Misha. The dawn is coming and the season will swing shortly after it does. There’s much to be done before that.” She tried to resist, angry that he didn’t believe that she would succeed, but the thread pulled her up on the table, settled her, tied her down. She looked over to where Timmuk had crouched in the pile of rags. “Look up at the ceiling,” Winterton said. Stay looking at the ceiling.” The thread wound itself around her head, tying it in place. She was furious that he thought her a good hearth witch but felt the need to force her to play her part. She began to feel that she wanted no part of his ritual. “Calm down, Misha. Look up.” A complicated round pattern with an eye in the middle stared at her, a mandala. She didn’t like looking at it. “What kind of ritual are you doing, sir?” He smiled. “An offering. I’ve been at this school for a very long time and I’m ready to go back to the King’s service. I have plans that are much more exciting, much more profitable, than administering to the needs of the spoiled get of a gaggle of self-righteous magicians. You’re my ticket back to the castle.” An offering? Offerings were made to receive something in kind. Why would he offer her? Winterton began chanting, waving his wand. Tendrils of luminescence began to form in front of the shroud. The words were harsh and grated across her spine, like nails on a chalkboard. “No,” she whispered, but subsided at a fierce growl from Winterton. He lifted a knife, an obsidian blade, sharp and edged with light where the lamp glow caught it. He leaned over her, waving the blade and chanting. The spell tore up and down her spine, seeking the edges of her center. She gritted her teeth together, trying to push it away. Now she understood. The table, all the animals, all the faces. They were others who had been meek and skilled and just where he wanted them. That’s why his power ebbed and peaked. That’s why they disappeared just before Winterton went on to serve the King. She began to struggle harder. The thread pulled tighter. Her breath grew ragged and shallow as it cinched around her chest. Something happened to the cat. Timmuk. She’d always known that he was more than a cat. Cats never had the kind of thoughts Timmuk had. They were concerned with hunting and eating and grooming and a warm hearth to sleep by. She tried to look over at him, but the thread held her head down. She struggled harder when she remembered Winterton’s words about the cat on the table, but the ties were as strong as despair. What could she do against such a powerful Wizard? Even if he was at an ebb, he was still more powerful than her. The spell caught an edge of her soul and she felt it tear a gap, reaching a tendril in. She pushed against it, but knew that she couldn’t let any more of it in or it would have her. It pushed and slid, and sliced along her resolve, hunting the way in, the best leverage. Her heart pounded loud in her ears, drowning the chanting, narrowing her world to the hissing scratch of the spell as it worked her soul loose from her body. It pried and pulled, half of her soul now loose, the wavery ends shredded and torn. Heart pain filled her thoughts, regret and loss began to drown her, allowing the spell even more slack to work with. Her soul held on raggedly, resisting. Holding on to hope. Holding to where it belonged. The spell raged against this last holdout. Which made her think of the carved cat under the tree with no jewels. What had Timmuk done? How had he escaped? “Be what you are,” the tomcat had told her over and over, rubbing against her arm. “Don’t worry about these budding Dames, these blustering Wizards.” What was he that let him resist this powerful magician? What was she? A young woman. A hearth witch born and trained. What could a hearth witch do against a wizard? The thought sparked a memory of Kellin weeping in her room. “He’s spelled me, Misha. What am I to do against his swooning spell? Bricker’s older and stronger than I am.” Misha caught her breath, and then let it out, quelling the fear in her heart at the audacity of it, the simplicity of it, lest Winterton see, lest he smell her renewed hope. The spell renewed itself, thinking that it was winning. She ignored the chanting tearing at her soul, ripping her strength, her life from her fingers, her heart, and watched instead the Wizard’s face coming closer and closer. When she could feel his breath as he chanted the spell, she spoke quickly, pressing against the suffocating threads wrapped around her chest. Her breath came out thin and ragged, turning the spell to this moment, improvising, the way a good hearth witch did with her small skills, her simple wit. “And back to you, back to the beginning, all the fine words, caught back in your throat, turn back to your heart, just as you spoke, back to the start, that day on my hearth.” Winterton gaped at her, his eyes at first unbelieving, then filling with fear and hatred. He swallowed convulsively like he was choking. Misha repeated the unknotting spell and this time it worked. The threads unraveled and she scrambled off the table and backed to the wall where she came in. The thread was unwinding from her, so much that she wondered that she never recognized how tightly she was wrapped in it. Unhooking from her chest, it reeled back into his wand, went up his arm and out his head, mingling with the luminescent light on the shroud. He wrestled with it before the shroud light subsumed the thread back to the beginning, back to the top of Winterton’s head. It sucked him up, fluttering cloak, kicking boots, wand, and all. The light flickered as if settling after a meal and rose up, in an arrow into the center of the eye on the mandala. It flared and sparked and a great cloud billowed out from the center of it, obscuring the pattern, and smudging the colors. There was a long moment of silence and then a wind began howling, rising in volume. Winterton’s carved cart shuddered and clattered and she realized the wailing was coming from it. All the jewels were lit up and little bursts of light came through them to shoot off and away from the table. There had to have been three score of lights flashing away and disappearing into the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Misha huddled against the wall, frozen with fear in the silence that fell after the last light left. She heard footsteps and squeezed her eyes tight. She’d had enough. “Misha,” Timmuk said. “Open your eyes.” She opened them, looking down for the cat, but saw instead a pair of long, lean legs. Following them up, she saw a man, a few years older than her, with brilliant green eyes and brown hair streaked with silver, his nakedness covered in rags. “You did good, Misha. Everything I hoped for.” “What did I do? What were the lights?” “Winterton’s offerings. Those he’d captured with his filthy offerings. You freed them. You freed me.” “How? Why were you not in the table?” “Because at the last moment, I looked away. He didn’t get to see into me, to give me to the shroud.” Misha looked up. On the ceiling the mandala was now blurred and scorched where the light had disappeared into it. “I knew you could do it, Misha. I knew you’d know what to do. You’re a good hearth witch, skilled, and witty.” She looked at the man, Timmuk. He was lean and strong with a ready smile and dimples in his cheeks. She blushed to think that he’d nuzzled her breast, laid his paws upon them, and snuggled in against her on cold winter nights. “So now what, Timmuk, lately a cat?” “We’ve got to go before they find this place. You’ve broken the spell and saved the others, now you’ve got to save yourself.” “How shall I do that? Where shall I go? My village has a new hearth witch.” “There are always villages who will welcome a hearth witch, and a good dowser.” “You hear the water?” “That and other hidden treasures.” She considered. She didn’t fit here, didn’t want to be here. The wide-open world was big and unknown, and Timmuk was giving her his hand, helping her up. “Come on, get dressed,” he said. “We’ll go to the kitchen. The staff will give you food and we can be gone before the rest have finished breakfast.” He spoke the truth there. She’d always been more comfortable in the cavernous kitchen, though students weren’t to be there. “But what will they think?” “Do you really care what Salome and Bricker and Kellin think?” She considered, remembering her disgust of Salome’s bossiness, Bricker’s greed, and everyone’s disdain for her hearth magic. “Not much, but they’ll think me a coward.” “And leave you alone as beneath their effort. You’ll be safe this way and we can find a life that suits us.” A life that suits us. Misha’s heart lifted, freeing her to realize that Timmuk was a man, a handsome man, and not a magic cat. Yes, a life with him would suit her, and he wanted her, Misha Millik, hearth witch. He gestured to her clothes and she smiled at him, at those brilliant green eyes, and took his hand. She dressed quickly, pausing only a moment before she pulled the doeskin cloak over her shoulders. I’ve earned this, she thought. And I’ll keep it, a reminder of who I am and how I know. The parchment rustled in her sleeve, and she almost pulled it out, but decided to have her own ritual later and burn it over a fire. The moly in it would be the perfect touch. “Come on, don’t dawdle.” She paused for a moment and then realized Winterton must have said those words to Timmuk too. Something else between us, she thought, another tie in a long chain that felt warm and comfortable. Together they made their way through the dark hallways to the kitchen, where the kitchen mistress’ eyes grew round and a pleased smile covered her face when she saw Timmuk. “Why Timmuk, where have you been these two years? We thought you’d run away, that you’d had enough of the school, and magic.” “Please, Mistress,” Misha said. “We are leaving. Can you give us food for a day?” The woman smiled. “Leaving finally. About time, I say. And as for a day, well, we can do better than that.” She shouted instructions and soon, she had a pile of supplies laid out in front of them. “Well, here’s a wallet with food, and breeches, a shirt, and a cloak for you, Timmuk. Wherever you’ve been you need one now. The coal cart is just leaving. He’ll give you a ride if you tell him I sent you. Do him a little favor, Misha. I know his horse has a sore hoof.” “Thank you, Mistress,” Misha said. “Oh, get along with you. You mended my best pot, and, you,” she said gesturing to Timmuk, “you found the leak in the pipe before it burst all over my kitchen.” The cart driver was very glad to give them a ride and Misha spoke to his horse, laid her hands upon him, and told his master she’d make a plaster to apply for a few days to finish the job so the leg would be good as new. The world was bright and new as they made their way down the pass, muddy snow giving way to a sloppy trail as they made their way from winter’s end to spring fully turned. Misha smiled as they looked out upon the new green leaves and blooming flowers. Timmuk smiled too, his teeth white and shining, and clasped her hand. She squeezed it back and said, “Let’s get where we’re supposed to be and start doing exactly what we’re supposed to be doing.” “And dawdle as we may.” They laughed and the cart driver shook his head.  Learn more about Thea Hutcheson and her work at: www.theahutcheson.com The Hearth Witch © Copyright 2010, Thea Hutcheson
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