Liar’s Dice (Yellow) > Chapter 5: Age Before Beauty
“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.” –Dorothy Parker
Madam Maraude Morrist, hedgewitch extraordinaire, and diabolical mastermind, sole heir to the palatial House of Morrist, was bored. The feeling was not one that she was accustomed to, having spent so many years in pursuit of anything and everything that could torment her granddaughter. She had thought that freedom was what she wanted; the chance to be rid of an ancient and incessant drag on her coattails, and a painful reminder of a day in her lovelier years when someone else had ridden on her coattails. In the eyes of his child, that someone was reflected and magnified twice as large as life, as if he had somehow risen from his early grave to make amends. Maraude knew that Melody would never begin to understand how her every move shed further searing light upon the shadows in Maraude’s soul. The only person who had lost anything, with Ronald’s passing, was Maraude; what did an old woman have left but useless memories? Those memories were better buried with the subject that haunted them.
The first week had been nothing short of pure bliss. True to her word, she had lifted each window to let in the warmth of the sunlight, and danced as naked as the day she was born, just to spite the world and everything and everyone in it. She threw pots and pans; she knocked over bookshelves; she sat with her feet up in Ronald’s best chair watching the insides of her eyelids for hours. It was all hers, every scrap of silence and dust. Melody’s tears and fears and weak-minded simpering were as much a memory as Ronald’s face, and were easier to forget in the long run. She had thought that she could live the rest of her remaining years with ease in just that fashion.
Then the boredom set in, just past the first week. Her newfound freedom was beginning to take on irritations that she had not thought of before. Being busy was not so bad, after all, as long as one’s hands were not idle for lack of thought. With Melody gone, her only challenge came in the form of figuring out how best to cause mayhem to Ronald’s beloved estate. It wouldn’t be long before she found herself out-of-doors, tormenting the local populace for lack of a more available target. Though payment in kind for their years of disrespect and disinterest and general noise would be pleasant, she might just try their patience to the point where they asked her to leave. Oh, the fun she would have then, but it would come at the cost of her only lodging, and that just wouldn’t do. She was too old for a lifetime of tents and campfires, or strange inns with stranger company. There was, of course, the option to witch them all into her good graces, but that would be too much work.
Maraude sat before the roaring fire she had built in Ronald’s fireplace, his grand plush chair pulled up too close for safety. Every bone in her body drank in the warmth like soldiers in the desert heat might drink their last remaining water. It gave her strength and security, a chance to relax, and to free her mind from the general sense of emptiness that it had been suffering for days. Within that freedom came new ideas, new challenges, and new interests that warred between themselves for her attention. She was, after all, a witch. What benefit could come from allowing her talents to grow as complacent as she had?
Slowly, she opened eyes that had closed against the brilliance of the flames. She had held off spying on Melody and Armer, wanting instead to bask in the success of ending their failed union, but it had been a losing battle. Her desire to see what she had wrought in their miserable lives was too great, and it would be good, after all, to determine the degree of her success. Someday, perhaps, she could use this enchantment as testimony in regard to how gifted a witch she was. Of course, that was what she told herself. It was more polite than calling herself a nosy busybody with too much time on her hands. If there was one thing Maraude Morrist demanded now that she was free of Melody, it was politeness!
Pulling a flask of liquid from her belt, Maraude took a deep drink, only by practice managing not to choke on the foul stench that accompanied it. It was best not to think of what went into it, she’d found long ago. Holding her breath only got her so far, and the more she breathed, inviting air and warmth into her aging lungs, the quicker the spell would reach its full potential. Sitting back in Ronald’s – her – chair, she continued to watch the dancing flames as her vision blurred into a comfortable nothingness. Her final thought before the vision of Melody took hold was of how much easier it was to change one’s attitudes and dispositions via magic, rather than the alcohol and herbal drugs that the nobles favored!
The outline of Melody’s body appeared in the fire, but something seemed wrong at first. Maraude nearly broke her own concentration and lost the apparition trying to figure out what the problem was. The girl had been dressed to kill when she fled Maraude’s company; now her curled hair was flat and ragged, and the gown that Maraude had worked so hard to craft to perfection was gone. In its place was the rough brown wool of a servant girl – a barefoot servant girl at that. The scent of grass and fouled straw grew on her to the point of nausea; then a pattern of sounds that could only be a voice broke into her thoughts. She could not hear him, but she could see him amidst Melody’s skirts; a young boy, barely five years of age, towheaded and adorable. He seemed to be asking questions of her, questions that she did not want to answer, from her guarded posture and bowed head.
What had the foolish girl managed to do to herself? If Maraude didn’t know any better, the scene before her would suggest that Melody had sold herself out as a common hireling! Farm work, for Ronald Morrist’s daughter? Maraude spat into the fire. She had taught the girl so much better, and this was her repayment? She had been right to get rid of her, more right than she knew! What waste, what utter squandering of all the time and energy Maraude had put into her! It was enough to make an old woman want to scream.
Unfortunately, she was wrong in thinking that nobody was around to hear. A polite knock on her door following her caterwauling screech of frustration, followed by someone’s polite “Excuse me, is everything all right in there?” collapsed her vision in on itself, leaving her staring at a fire that was beginning to make her head ache. She barked obscenities at the visitor, and it wasn’t long before the sound of dissipating footsteps took the place of the concerned caller. Did nobody have any thought to privacy anymore?
The visitor gone, Maraude settled herself back into her chair, taking deep breaths to re-establish her previous level of calm. Whatever Melody had done to herself, it was clear that she was no longer in a place that Maraude recognized. One farm was as good as another as far as she was concerned. From the look of things, Maraude wasn’t certain whether anything she could do with her own hands could turn out worse for Melody anyway! What would Armer think of his beloved now, with her filthy hands shoved deep into the earth and her lovely face smeared with sweat and red from the unceasing sunlight?
Armer had to be living a more interesting life. That thought led Maraude to dive for her miserable flask a second time, with a glee that managed to erase at least some of her annoyance at Melody. It was possible that the boy had managed to get himself killed, if he hadn’t yet mastered his newfound ailment with a safe amount of agility. She had scried into the minds of the dead before; they were always so much more interesting than the living! Except, of course, for Ronald…
That thought was a bad one, and she settled instead for focusing on the fire. It wasn’t long before an image of Armer appeared. This image was less shocking than Melody’s by far, and brought Maraude to fits of giggles that would have been more becoming in a girl half her age. The young fool was at a table, surrounded by other men and the scents of alcohol and cigars. Spread across the table were cards of varying persuasions; she did not know enough about such illegal and mundane pastimes to judge whether they were any good. From the pile of gold amassing on Armer’s side of the table, she presumed that her gift had somehow given him some kind of advantage in this particular game.
Ronald had spoken of poker before, she thought she remembered; a game in which the player was at the mercy of his cards and the other players at the table. If Armer couldn’t even trust his own face and reactions, how could anyone else? She had not considered any way her punishment might have been beneficial before now. The realization that he was playing cards instead of searching for Melody had elated her at first, but further study indicated that he was making quite a successful business of taking money from unwitting men who were greater fools than he. The pile before him might well have served as a lesser noble’s paycheck from his king.
If Armer managed to earn enough money, it was possible that he might be able to use that to fund an effort to find Melody. Maraude couldn’t be certain of whether Armer had any intention remaining to rescue the girl; scrying would never tell her the full truth the way a real person would. It was a nasty – and careless, but that was not polite – trap she had laid for herself. If she did nothing, then perhaps Armer would find himself a new position as a card shark, or a prisoner of the kingdom. On the other hand, he might rise from the ashes to emerge victorious. If she acted, though, she could use his newfound situation to her advantage, and make certain that Melody would be the last thing on his feeble mind. Doing so, however, would mean an end to her hard-won freedom and personal wish to wash her hands of anything to do with Melody Morrist and her devil-taken father.
Maraude’s head was beginning to ache worse than it had after seeing Melody in the flames. If she didn’t know better, she might have believed that some outside force was testing her, forcing her to her tired and unwilling feet for some form of trial. She had wanted her freedom for so long; the chance to live her own life after sweeping her son’s bitter ashes beneath every rug he owned. It was possible that his spirit lived on, and resented her treatment of his daughter; but what right did he have to punish her? Hadn’t he punished her enough by making her witness to his broken body, and leaving her a child she had never wanted in place of the one that she had? If he thought he was going to win this fight, he had another thing coming, indeed. She could have verified any of this, had she wanted to, but the anger that it brought left her desiring action more than sanity. She would not remain in Morrist’s house a moment longer. Just being near the area of his influence seemed to be fraying the tattered cloth that served as her mind.
A flash of inspiration struck her, amidst the clamor of her denial and rejection of the possibility of her son’s involvement in the situation. She had wanted to get rid of Melody so much; had groomed her to be the perfect, irresistible bride. She knew what it took to craft a noble out of mere clay; there were natural gifts that aided the girl, but beyond that it was all the same magic in the end. With her witchcraft, it would be possible to craft an enchantment to set aside her age and decay. She had never done so before because she enjoyed being the crotchety old woman that forced everyone to their knees, but perhaps there could be some merit in a second childhood. And Armer had said he would love her, in the end…
She could make certain that Armer never gave Melody a second glance. In so doing, she would ensure her continued position in the little game she had crafted. She would never suffer from the boredom she had unwittingly inflicted upon herself again – and if she did, well, wasn’t it natural for a lady to play hard to get? This, more than anything she had done before, would be the ultimate success.
Maraude got up from Ronald’s chair, stretched to the best of her ability, listened to the resounding snap of her bones for what might be the last time for quite awhile, and nodded with satisfaction. It would not be an easy task to transform herself from an ugly crone to a beautiful swan, but with enough time and attention, by the end of the day, anyone who saw her would be happy to fall at her footsteps and beg for her favor. It would be nice, she had to admit to herself, to have them do it without threatening them first.
Melody could have her little farm, and whatever brat she had stumbled upon in her quest for survival in a world that no longer wanted her. At least, with Armer, Maraude could continue to watch the fruits of her labor, and place him with ease into positions that showed it off well. If Armer’s path ever intersected with his beloved’s again, she would be there to make certain his choice was even less clear than his ability to react.
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