The Glass Casket (9 page)

“For now we do nothing. Perhaps the duke will make a quick assessment of mauling and exposure, respectively, and be on his way. This is what we hope,” said Draeden Faez. “But we are pleading with you. If you, or anyone in this house, know what it is that the oracle points to, then we beg you to speak up. All of our lives are at risk.”

Wilhelm nodded. “I will ask my boys about it, but I’m sure neither of them will know.”

Jude had heard enough. He stood, and making barely a noise, he descended from his hiding place and left through the back door, the cold night air pulsing against his lips.

Snow was falling steadily as Rowan walked over to the tavern, and the hollowness of her heart did little to protect her from the cold.

Shivering, she tried the tavern door but found it locked,
which was unusual for suppertime. She peered in the window, but all was dark inside. Walking round the back, she heard someone cough and she froze. It was Jude’s cough—she would know it anywhere. Years ago she’d learned to recognize any signs that Jude might be nearby. He was a year older than she was, but she was so small that he’d always seemed much older than that to her, and while she knew he was harmless, there was something vaguely frightening to her about that sly smile he always wore when he looked off into the distance as if she weren’t there. If it had simply been that he ignored her, that would have been fine, but he didn’t ignore her—no matter what he might pretend—because he always seemed to know things about her that no one else did.

When she rounded the corner, she saw him sitting on the low stone wall at the edge of the forest. He was carving something, his hair falling over his eyes.

“The tavern’s locked,” he said without looking up. “Father’s in a meeting. He should open it again soon, I’d imagine.”

As usual, her heart stopped when she saw him. There was no denying that Jude was handsome, but she didn’t understand him, and something about him always made her nervous.

“That dress doesn’t fit you,” he continued, his eyes still on his work. She could see that he was smiling.

“Yes, it does,” she said, trying not to stumble over her words.

“Look at you, you’re swimming in it.”

“It’s none of your business how my dress fits,” she said, unable to disguise her irritation.

He shrugged, still not looking at her. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Thanks, Jude. You’re always so helpful. Is Tom around?”

“He’ll be back soon,” Jude answered. “He went to drop some things off to the Widow Bardell.”

Rowan stood there, not knowing what to do with herself. The inn was practically her home, but she never knew how to hold herself around Jude.

“Do you mind if I wait here?” she said, feeling an idiot for asking, weak for not demanding her place.

“Suit yourself,” he said, still focused on his whittling, the knife sliding slowly down the length of the wood.

She walked to the edge of the wall and sat down as far from Jude as she could.

“You have news, then?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“For Tom,” Jude said. “You have news, I can tell. It’s good news, I presume.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. Fiona Eira, the girl he can’t stop talking about. You’ve been to see her.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, wary.

“Because there’s something different about you,” he said, still refusing to look at her, as if she didn’t merit his attention. “You’re sad. You’re never sad. And you would only be sad if you’d been to see her and you had good news for Tom.”

She stood up, her body feeling suddenly frail, as if she
were composed of only brittle bones and weak tendons ready to snap at a single blow from Jude.

“I’m not sad,” she said. “And I don’t look different. How would you even know when you’ve refused to so much as look at me?”

With that, he grinned and looked up at her, his heavy eyes lit with a boyish beauty. “Ah, Rowan. When will you ever learn?” Then he shook his head and went back to his work.

Staring at him, she felt rage burning in her chest. How was it that he could make her so angry? How was it that he always seemed to know how she felt without her saying a word? It was unfair. He had no right to her feelings. Her temper getting the better of her, she strode over to him, her hands clenched into fists, and took a single wretched swing at him. The force she’d put behind the blow was intense, but she never connected, for he caught her forearm gently in his hand, and looking deep into her eyes, he held her gaze.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said.

She wrenched her arm away from him and smoothed down the sleeve of her cloak.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sneered, unwilling to let him see any more of her heart. “I’ve just come round to speak with Tom like I always do.”

“Why? Why are you trying to marry him off? Surely that can’t be in your best interest.”

“Jude, you’re not making any sense,” she said, changing tack and feigning concern. “Have you been at your mother’s ale again?”

“No, I’m just observant,” he said, something like kindness in his eyes. Rowan recoiled at that more than she would have from a blow. Kindness from Jude was disorienting, and it could mean many things, but she was sure that sincerity wasn’t one of them.

She took a step back but was unable to look away from him. His gaze seemed to pull her closer, to see deep within her. She wondered just how much he knew. “Why wouldn’t I want Tom to marry?” she asked, testing him.

“Do you want me to say it?” He raised his eyebrows. “Out loud?”

She opened her mouth to speak but found that the words refused to come.

“I don’t think you do,” he said, and shaking his head, he broke eye contact and went back to his whittling. “I don’t think you want me to say it.”

She stood there, breathless. Her cheeks began to burn, and she started to feel that familiar dizziness that usually accompanied making the mistake of engaging with Jude at all. It was always the same. She knew he meant to make her uncomfortable, and that was the pain of it all. He always succeeded.

Turning on her heel, she walked away with short determined steps, all the while looking at her feet.

“Don’t go,” he said, and she could hear him stand up.

She turned, fighting back the tears, and saw him standing there, arms out to the sides, something like regret in his eyes.

“Rowan,” he said. “I was only teasing. Don’t act like that.”

“Don’t tell me how to behave. I will act how I want to act, and I will feel how I want to feel.”

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice cracking. “Listen, I’ll go, okay? You can wait here for Tom.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. He climbed over the wall and walked away, slowly disappearing into the trees.

Rowan stood there a moment, watching Jude go, wondering how two brothers could be so completely different.

Then, as she always did when she was nervous, Rowan began to pace, slow steps, her small black boots sinking into the snow. She liked to count her steps … fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …

Somehow things didn’t have to be so bad. It wasn’t as if the world were ending or anything like that. Tom liked a girl and the girl liked him back. A beautiful girl, yes, a bewitching girl, true, but that didn’t have to mean anything so bad. Maybe he would get to know Fiona, and he would find her tiresome.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen …

Or maybe he would marry her.

And then there was a snap, a crack far out among the trees, and she found herself slowly backing away from the forest edge, staring into the darkness therein with eyes that didn’t want to see. Surely, she thought, it was only a rabbit or a deer, but maybe it wasn’t the right time to tell Tom after all. She found herself moving quickly out of the empty yard, back toward the sound of drunken voices on the other side of the inn. Soon she was out in the open again, Joel Proudy and Sarah Unger up ahead, laughing and smoking
pipes. Rowan’s shoulders, which she hadn’t realized she’d been holding high and tensed, relaxed, and she fell into a comfortable stride, hoping the nascent and unexpected fear did not show on her face. Yes, Tom could wait. It was best to get home. It was best to get indoors.

I
N THE MORNING
when Rowan awoke, she sensed that the house was more full. There were extra noises, different smells. The duke must have arrived in the night, she realized. Market Day was Rowan’s favorite day of the week, and there was a bounce in her step as she dressed herself and went downstairs.

As she walked down the hall, she could hear the quiet muffle of voices behind closed doors. She wanted to stay and introduce herself, but her father had told her to head straight to market in the morning. When she passed his office, she thought she could hear her father raise his voice. That gave her pause, and she considered listening at the
door, but she wasn’t a dishonest girl, and besides, she was eager to head out.

On Market Day, all the mountain folk of the smaller neighboring villages gathered in Nag’s End to sell their wares, and to buy and trade with others. It was always a festive time, and since it was the main opportunity for young people to socialize, the girls tended to fix their hair and the boys tended to wear their finest clothes, while their parents did their best to push them off in agreeable directions. But Rowan had no interest in courtship, so she never bothered to dress up for the day or to plait a purple ribbon into her hair to display her maidenhood, not even to dab smudge grass behind her ears, as was the custom among girls of a marriageable age.

When she headed out her door and through the gate, she could already hear the market in full swing. Mountain folk were enthusiastic, if not especially gifted, musicians, and the air always filled with song at their gatherings.

When she came upon the market, her eyes searched for Tom, as they always did, but he was nowhere. She made her way through the stalls, and waving to friends, she tried to be cheered by their goodwill, but something started to overcome her, a strange sense of foreboding. She told herself that it was all due to the growing darkness of the sky and the sudden chill that whipped through the air, but she knew that couldn’t be it. She felt very much as if she was being watched, and though she did her best to calm herself, she was growing increasingly uneasy as she moved through the stalls.

She leaned against a pole and tried to talk herself down from her bizarre flight of fancy. Surely no one could be watching her. She was not a girl whom people watched. But turning around, she noticed a woman staring at her from several stalls away, and quickly her fear turned to curiosity.

The woman was like none other she’d ever seen. Her skin was as dark as a winter storm, and her beauty alone would have caused her to stand out, but her height was so extreme as to be aberrant. She was taller than any man in Nag’s End, and her ebony hair was piled on top of her head like a crown, white feathers and jewels woven throughout. Her gown, blue as the sky and made from exotic finery, gave the impression of royalty. It hung on the woman’s frame as if it were made of cloud dust, falling from her high neck straight down to the dirt as if it had a life of its own. Yes, she looked very much like a queen, and for a moment, Rowan wondered if she might be part of the duke’s retinue. She stared at Rowan like she knew her, and Rowan cocked her head as if to ask if she should know her as well, but the woman shook her head and smiled. It was a sweet smile, an inviting smile, and Rowan realized that she very much wanted to speak with this woman, whoever she was. But just then, Mama Lune came to stand next to the beautiful queen.

Rowan’s father was certain that all witches were charlatans, and while Rowan agreed with him, she could not deny that there was something different about Mama Lune. No one knew how old she was, but physically she seemed to linger in the prime of her womanhood. Henry Rose attributed this peculiarity to some herb she must eat—something that
grew deeper in the forest and which she fed on out of vanity. Whatever herbs the Greenwitches used, he reasoned, most likely could be used by a man with similar efficacy, but witches kept such secrets to themselves, using them as sources of power. Give Dr. Temper the same twigs and leaves, her father was fond of saying, and he could no doubt work magic as well.

Mama Lune slid her arm through the stranger’s. Pale, with deep red hair flowing wild to her waist, Mama Lune did not exactly conjure images of castles and courts. Her simple green dress and her threadbare slippers seemed out of place beside her friend’s finery, and yet there existed an obvious sorority between them. Suddenly Rowan realized what she ought to have guessed right away: the beautiful stranger was a Bluewitch.

As a child, Rowan had learned all she could about the different kinds of witches. Greywitches—often called metal witches because of their penchant for collecting and hoarding silver—had been wicked creatures. When they’d thrived, they’d been the scourge of the land, but the other kinds of witches—the surviving witches—were relatively harmless. There were Redwitches, who drew their power from passion, and Woodwitches, who lived like sprites in small forest colonies, and of course, Greenwitches were the healers. The Greenwitches often lived in the forest just outside a village, limning the space between the tame and the wild, always a short trip away from the birthing women and the quietly dying but far enough from prying eyes. Of all the witches, the Bluewitches had been Rowan’s favorite. Bluewitches
were diviners, and water was their natural medium. Like water, they tended to ramble, wandering as the water beneath the ground did, ever flowing, ever moving. They were also known to be especially beautiful.