To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) (15 page)

He was not such a man.

When we rolled out of Yegor in the autumn, I knew Renata’s sweet affair had ended badly, and I tried to be kind to her. She appeared so lost and confused, but how could I explain the problem? Few people wished to live their lives as a constant disappointment to someone else. If I’d tried to explain this, she wouldn’t have understood.

With another month, though, it was clear that her brush with love had left her with more than memories, just as mine had.

She was with child.

The prospect of a new life filled me with joy, and I saw my girl blossom as well. She appeared to forget her young man—whose name I cannot remember—and prepare for the birth of the child. Alondra was equally excited.

The three of us now traveled in our family wagon, and soon there would be a fourth. How could we not be pleased? The months swept by.

In the very early spring, we’d not yet begun the journey for Yegor, and we were encamped in a village in the southwest. In the afternoon, I’d gone into the village to purchase some bread and cheese, and then I stopped at a tavern to buy a small jug of red wine to bring home as a treat.

I’d just reached the bar when I felt the nag at the back of my head. It was strong, and fear washed through my stomach. There was a lit candle on one table, and I dropped into a chair, staring at the flame.

Blessed fire in the night

Show me what is in the sight

Show me what brings fight or flight

Blessed fire in the night

The tavern vanished and the mists rose. When they cleared, I saw my Renata lying on her back in a bed in our wagon. Her face was a mask of agony, and she cried out.

Leaving the bread and cheese behind, I ran.

When I reached our wagon, Alondra and our cousin Matilda were both there with Renata. Matilda had delivered many babies and was considered our family’s midwife. When I saw her face, I went cold.

She came from the bunk and met me at the door.

“Renata’s pains have come early, and the baby is breech. I’ve tried, but I cannot turn it. I will keep trying.”

I pushed past her and went to my girl, kneeling and grasping her hand. “It’s all right.”

She gripped down on my fingers. “Mama, it hurts.”

My stomach lurched, and I’d have done anything to take her pain into myself. “I know.”

That was the longest night of my life.

After hours and hours of torment, Renata finally gave birth to a breech baby—a tiny girl. With unspeakable relief, I laid the baby on my daughter’s chest. “What shall we name her?”

“Jolene,” she whispered. “I always wanted to be named Jolene.”

I smiled. “Jolene.”

Within moments, Renata began to bleed and there was nothing any of us could do to stop it. All my relief changed to panic as I tried to help Matilda, but the bleeding did not stop, and my daughter died while I was helpless to do anything.

My Renata was gone.

I don’t remember much of the weeks that followed. There is only so much anyone can take, and I had neared my limit. A parent should not outlive a daughter, and the world seemed a dark place.

I later learned that Alondra had cared for Jolene in those early days. One of the young women from our caravan was nursing a baby, and Alondra went to her for help. It was months before I came back to myself to lend a hand, and I was ashamed that Alondra had been so burdened alone.

“It’s been no burden,” she assured me. “Jolene is a dear child.”

And she was.

She rarely cried, and she learned to laugh early. We soon moved her to drinking bottles of goats’ milk and cared for her entirely by ourselves. It hurts to admit this, but I did not love her then. I think a part of me blamed her for Renata’s death, even though I knew such feelings weren’t fair.

A year passed.

I remember the day I came to love her.

She walked early. She did everything early. At just past a year, she was a tiny thing, smaller than any other baby her age, and yet she was nearly running.

One day, I took her outside with me so I could do some washing, and I set her on the ground. In a flash, she was off, racing for the hens pecking at the earth. With a squeal of laughter, she scattered them, and then she turned and looked at me and threw her arms in the air and laughed again.

“Mama!”

I went to her swiftly and scooped her up. Her face was alive with delight.

“Grandmama,” I corrected, for I’d never overlook Renata or allow her to be forgotten.

The child put both her hands on my face and
something changed inside me. She was an odd little thing who took delight in small pleasures and who loved to laugh.

“Jo,” I said.

In that moment, the name Jo suited this tiny ball of joy in my arms, and that name stuck with her for life.

Jo was as different from her mother—or from me—as fire was from frost. As she grew, she remained slender and small boned. Her eyes were so light brown they glowed. Her hair was thick and light brown as well, unusual for our people. Her skin was ivory. She was the prettiest little thing I ever saw.

She loved everyone and everyone loved her.

By the time she was five, she was the center of my world. She was delighted by everything and always made me feel like a good grandmother. I disliked leaving her with Alondra even long enough to conduct my readings—but I did.

The years passed, and she grew from a pretty child into a beautiful girl. She sang and danced and told stories and became quite a draw in our performances. Some people simply liked to see her. She was like a woodland sprite.

In the night, she and I talked about many things.

“Do you mind having to do so many readings to earn money for the rest of us?” she whispered.

No one had ever asked me this before.

“No,” I answered. “I have the gift, and I need to use it. Do you mind singing and dancing?”

“I love both,” she whispered back. “But I love telling and hearing stories more.”

She did love stories. She was a terrible cook and couldn’t sew a stitch, but no one minded. Her lithe body rarely stopped moving unless she was asleep. She seemed to run everywhere.

In her seventeenth year, we traveled along a southwest road in late winter and stopped near a stream to make camp. I was just lighting a campfire when she came to me with a queer expression.

“Grandmama?”

I jumped up, fearing she was ill. “What’s wrong?”

“Something is bothering the back of my neck . . . like an itch but not. I don’t know what it is.”

Hurrying over, I took her arm and ushered her inside our wagon. I didn’t want anyone else to hear. Quickly, I lit a candle and set it on the table.

“What’s happening to me?” she asked.

“I think you have the gift. Sit. Focus on the flame and on the nag at the back of your neck and repeat the same string of words in your mind. They’ll help you focus.”

I gave her the litany, and she stared at the flame. I’d never seen this happen in someone else before and I watched without speaking. Suddenly, her face went blank, and then she sucked in a loud breath of air.

“Grandmama!” she cried. “I saw upstream. A horse has died in the stream and is rotting. The water flowing our way is contaminated. Don’t let anyone drink it.”

I leaned forward long enough to say, “Don’t tell anyone you saw this. Not yet.”

Then I rushed to spread the warning. Thankfully,
no one had used any of the water yet. Our men traveled upstream, pulled out the dead horse, and collected buckets of clean water from above.

I let everyone think it was me who’d been shown the image.

Alone with Jo, I asked her, “Do you want to let everyone know? We can, but life will change for you. You’ll have a more respected place, but you’ll also have to live as I do, using your gift to earn money.”

She looked at me, and I could see in her sweet face that she was torn. “Would I be able to help you? To take some of the work from you?”

“Probably not. Griffin would set you up in a different wagon.”

She hesitated. “Could we keep the secret a little longer, then?”

This was what I’d wanted. I wanted to protect her. “Yes,” I assured her. “As long as you like.”

So our family had another Mist-Torn, but Jo and I kept it to ourselves for now. I wanted her to enjoy her youth a little longer.

In the late spring, when we arrived back at Yegor, though, I began to realize there would be new problems to face. At seventeen, Jo was so unbelievably lovely and so full of life that every young man from every family in the meadow began to take notice.

One of them was always stopping by with wildflowers or sweets until I ended up chasing them off. Jo handled them as she handled everything, with a warm smile or laugh, but no encouragement. As of yet, no one had stolen her heart.

That summer was the first time I saw Jago Taragoš following her with his eyes. The other young men were a nuisance, but nothing more. Jago worried me. He was a valued shifter, a panther, but his expression often held no emotion at all.

I mentioned my worries to Alondra by the fire one night.

She glanced over at him. “There’s little he can do besides look at her. He was married two years ago.”

Was he? I tried to remember and then did. Yes, he’d married a girl from the line of Džugi.

“Which one is she?” I asked.

Alondra’s eyes scanned the families, all by their fires for the evening. “That one, with the shiny hair.”

The young woman was pretty, with a fine figure and black silky hair. But as I watched her, I noticed she seemed nervous, afraid of her own shadow, and Jago never once glanced in her direction. He only watched Jo.

I didn’t like it.

Throughout that summer, I sometimes did see Jago looking at his young wife, but his eyes held no pleasure. Her nervousness only grew worse, and he watched her with discontentment, like a toy he’d once wanted and now wished to toss away.

For the first time, I was relieved when the summer ended and we rolled onward to Kéonsk. We forgot about Jago Taragoš and enjoyed the autumn fair. I took Jo shopping inside the city several times and bought her some new clothes and new curtains for the wagon.

She loved to shop.

The winter proved mild, and we enjoyed our travels southwest.

Only when we traveled back to Yegor the following spring did my worry over Jago Taragoš turn into something more.

Upon our arrival, he was waiting and he greeted Jo by kissing her hand. She was polite but drew away from him quickly and came to me. I glared at him. Jo was eighteen that year, and I was sixty-four, but I was not weak or stooped, and I could still stare down a shape-shifter.

“It’s all right,” I said to Jo once he’d left. “He’s married and can’t bother you much.”

I was wrong. Shortly after this, Alondra came back from having greeted some of our friends.

“Jago’s no longer married,” she said. “His young wife is dead.”

“Dead?” I asked.

Alondra nodded tightly. “In the winter, she went to fetch water by herself. No one knows why. She was attacked by an animal and killed. Her throat was clawed.”

Alondra’s eyes were bleak. She wouldn’t say it. No one would say it, but I knew what had happened. Jago had tired of his wife, and he had sent her off for water, and he’d killed her.

Now he was after Jo.

I readied for the battle that would come.

Jago wouldn’t approach Jo first. He’d go to Griffin, but I was ready. The next morning, Griffin came to our wagon. He was sixty-five now and showing his age. He embraced Jo lightly as he smiled at her.

“I have good news,” he said. “Jago Taragoš has asked for your hand. He’ll be the next leader of that family, and this is a wondrous opportunity for you, for our own family to be so connected.”

Jo shrank back and looked to me.

I stepped up. “She’s no wish to marry him.”

Griffin frowned in confusion. “You don’t?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “No, Uncle. He frightens me.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I echoed. “Because he’s a half-mad shifter who killed his own wife when he got tired of her. We’ll not send our Jo down the same path.”

Griffin’s eyes widened. “Helga,” he admonished. “You mustn’t say such things. That tongue of yours will cause us trouble.” But he was uncomfortable now and backing away. “Still, Jo, if you don’t wish to marry him, no one will force you.”

“I don’t,” she stated in a clear voice.

Griffin was soon out of sight, but I could see Jo was still slightly shaken.

“Don’t worry, my girl. Alondra and I aren’t the only ones in the family who’ll stand by you.”

And this was true. Griffin might be petty on some counts, but he had two fine sons, Gerard and Gersham, now in their thirties, and they were both devoted to Jo as the brightest light in our family, calling her their “little cousin” with affection. Gerard was the elder. He was strong and quite good in a knife fight.

That night, as we all ate dinner by our fire, Jago Taragoš came striding up with an angry expression.

Jo pressed against me, but Gerard stood up, and Jago stopped.

“What do you want, Jago?” Gerard asked.

Griffin went pale with what appeared to be embarrassment, but he remained seated.

“I want to speak with Jo!” Jago spat.

“Then speak,” Gerard said.

Growing angrier, Jago looked down at Jo. “I am free now, and I have asked for your hand. Do you understand what that means? I will be the leader of my family when my father passes. You would be my wife. The line of Taragoš is far above the line of Ayres in wealth and standing.” He appeared truly puzzled. “You cannot mean to refuse me?”

With Gerard standing beside her, Jo spoke in a steady voice. “I’ve no wish to marry anyone right now. Of course I am honored by your offer, as would any girl among the families. Please ask another.”

“I want no other. I am free now. You cannot mean to refuse me.”

“She said no,” Gerard broke in. “Show proper manners and accept her answer.”

Among the Móndyalítko, once a woman said no, a man was expected to walk away. But Jago took a step closer to Jo and snarled down at her. “This is your final answer?”