Ink Raindrops

“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.

“All of us tend to put off living.  We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon – instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.” –Dale Carnegie

Melody found herself unable and unwilling to pay attention to where her footsteps led her, in the midnight rain.  The tears that poured down her cheeks blinded her view.  The delicate color she applied to her eyelids and cheeks earlier that night, in order to make them stand out, ran in streaks and stung her eyes.  Her nose ran in an unbecoming fashion; hysterics left no room for the beauty of maidenly grief. The worst part was that she did not care what the passing crowds thought of her any longer.  They had no sympathy for her, anyhow; any girl worth approaching would not be making such a scene.  She was alone, again, and just when she had begun to believe in miracles for the first time in years.

She tripped over her own feet as she reached up with a silken sleeve to wipe the mess from her face; down she went into the muddy street on her hands and knees, the hem of her gown as torn and filthy as her soul.  At once the tears halted, and gave way to hysterical laughter despite the blood that began to well from the scrapes on her hands.  She could feel the crowd looking onward; their eyes were downcast, but she knew they watched beneath veiled lashes and furrowed brows.  They wanted a show, and she was giving it to them, like some kind of common prostitute; her laughter only grew louder at the thought that soon, she might very well fulfill that role.  Anything had to be better than the House of Morrist, and the woman who lived there – and her puppet, Armer, who danced only for her.

A young boy in the crowd hesitated, his innocent gaze the only honest concern directed her way; his mother bumped into his unmoving back, scolding him in hushed tones and urging him to continue homeward, away from the strange woman in the street.  Abashed by his behavior, he turned his face and obeyed; he was gone before Melody had time to miss him.  She was done with believing in human kindness; the male sort of human kindness in particular.  Boy or man, they were all the same; Armer, her childhood friend, had not grown or changed in his time away from her, so why should any other man possess the ability to transform into something greater than himself?  It was too much to believe.  Even her father had not changed; he had died instead.

Melody rose to her feet, her skirts heavy with grime, and began to walk again; it was a walk with purpose, though without aim or direction.  She had long since lost her orientation within the city, having had little opportunity to familiarize herself with the distances to the apothecary or the market on her own.  She had always followed in her father’s footsteps; always trusted him, or someone he knew, to guide her in the world.  Without him, she was adrift on the wind, seeking something that could never be found.  She had thought that Armer might know where his feet had once traveled, and guide her to him in the end, but he had failed her as well.  She had wanted to love Armer; had believed that his foolishness and innocence were as much a part of him as her hopelessness was of her, but she had not known him as she thought she did.  That much was clear, at least.

His words rang in her ears, striking her bruised heart again and again with fists of iron and steel.  “Melody, would you never follow me again, please?”  It was the final straw, after finding him again, then finding out who he had become since she had last seen him.  He was afraid to come and save her, as shattered by the loss of Ronald Morrist as she herself had been; she had never guessed that her savior and suitor would be nothing more than a bottomless pit of fear!  She had expected more, somehow; a white knight, born from his parents, Honor and Grace, reaching out to her with hands of Justice and Mercy.  He had been so beautiful, in the darkest reaches of her mind; so gentle and kind, and had wiped away her tears with a single breath.

Armer was a failure, compared to him.  She wanted to laugh at him; to push him back and away from her presence, but she couldn’t do that, not with him sipping tea at her grandmother’s behest!  She had been willing to settle; he had not, it seemed, in the end.  Not only did that mean that Armer had betrayed and destroyed her, it meant that she was not even a good enough woman to be settled for out of fear.  What hope could there be for her after something like that?  The knowledge made her want to scream; to tear out handfuls of her coiffed hair and twist apart the delicate jewelry that adorned her neck and earlobes.  What good were those things now? What good could any of it be, in the end?  A woman without a name and a husband was as good as dead, in the eyes of the world.

As the storm of her thoughts raged in her breast, Melody flew through the city, toward the outskirts, and at last into the forested reaches beyond the city gates.  A well, designed to aid weary travelers on their path, if they had no time or means to enter the city itself, intersected her flight.  The sight of it drew her up short, breathless, and disrupted her racing mind into something approaching sensibility; she had never been so far beyond the city, and was beginning to doubt her ability to return via the way she had come.  If she had been a fool to believe in Armer, she was becoming a greater one with each step she took!  Return, of course, would be impossible anyway.

The rain and the wind picked up, and Melody found herself bending double to try to stay afoot.  Hopelessness began to creep in again as she crawled up to the edge of the well and clutched the dirty, rusted and crumbling side with all her might.  She had intended to fall in the lee of the well, blocking at least some of the wind from shearing through what remained of her delicate gown, but instead her gaze fell to the rising water level in the bottom of the well.  She had heard stories of maidens, awash in grief from their lost lovers or broken promises, who ended their lives in wells.  Their families grieved and wailed when they found their bodies; in death, they guaranteed a place in the hearts of those they loved.  She had thought it selfish, clutched in her father’s warm embrace; thought it meaningless, when playing with Armer as a boy.  Now, face to face with her reflection, she thought she could see, for the first time, the sense in such an act.

She had thought a lot of things, over the course of her life.  She had wanted so much to be free of the mindless masses that her grandmother insisted she ingratiate herself with.  Life was to be an endless stream of parades and parties, court balls and lovelies, if she was to be anything more than Morrist’s failed excuse for a child.  Her grandmother had done her utmost to make Melody into what she most desired, and Melody had paid it no mind, believing with all her heart in the stories her father told; the ones where the maidens with wit, cunning and intelligence never needed to throw themselves on the mercy of others.  Things always worked out for them; their saviors always came, and cherished them just as much – if not more so – than their rich and realistic cousins.  So many stories, packed with such beautiful promises; she had wanted to believe with all her might that such things were possible.  Her father had told her never to believe everything she read, but she had never realized how deaf those words had been to her until just that moment.

In his eyes, she could have been anything.  She could have gone off to war, in a knight’s clothing and armor, and become the light of the world.  She could have gone questing for the herb that would cure the world’s ills, and created the potion that would erase the grief from human souls.  She could have read all the books in the world, and been the smartest person alive, giving advice to the lost and lessons to the world’s children.  She could even have been noble in any of these professions, had she the will to learn it.  He had never pushed her, never said anything one way or another to make her think that the path of courtly intrigue was to be preferred.  Only after his death did the necessity of such a way of life begin to enter her mind, and she had hated it with every forced smile and every ladylike word that crossed her lips.  And yet, if she had followed it, she would not be standing here now, an empty shell of a childish flower blooming into the petals of a woman.  She had never believed she had failed before, but her mind was changing fast.

A foul taste crept into her mouth and throat, choking her.  To admit that she had failed, and that any woman expecting to survive in the world had to pursue the highest goals in life and become the possession of someone higher than herself was one thing.  To admit it, however, was to admit that her grandmother – the woman who had done nothing to save her as Armer left her bleeding from the inside out, the woman who had used him to cause such brutal injuries on purpose to spite her, and the woman who resorted to blasphemy and witchcraft to achieve her goals in life  – had been right all along.

Melody’s eyes fell on the well before her again, and her haggard appearance in the water.  Given the choice between agreeing with Madam Morrist, and death, she thought that she might, in fact, prefer the latter.

Just as her arms began to find the strength to pull her weight up toward the well’s edge, her vision blurred further, and her eyes began to sting even worse than they had before.  Thinking that more of her makeup had caused the flareup, Melody stopped pulling and rubbed her soaked sleeve across her eyes.  If she was going to die, she wanted to do it with a minimum of pain; the necessary pain of suffering as her body surrendered to the water and gave up its last breath did not enter her mind.  She was, after all, only a child when it came to the harsh realities of life.  Blinking the soreness out of her eyes, she met with a sight beyond the well that almost stopped her heart by itself.

He was an old man; she knew that from his bushy black beard and matching black hair, but she knew by instinct that he was far, far older than his appearance belied.  He was wrapped in a foreign cloak, crafted from patches of mismatched and ratty fabric.  It appeared to wrap multiple times around his body in uneven layers, clasped in the front with a heavy brooch worth three times more than the jewelry she wore.  His white shirt had billowing sleeves that tied at the wrists with what she thought might be fishing line; his breeches were tied at the waist and knee with the same.

He wore a wide straw hat that kept him and the ground around him free of the rain for what seemed like miles; no matter how hard the wind blew, the hat never shuddered or attempted to take flight.  In his hands was a gnarled old root staff, which he used to aid his ample personage in movement.  She had never seen such a large man; the elders she knew boasted thinning gray hair, frail bodies and feeble voices.  Though he had not spoken, she felt his voice would be able to reach to the ends of the earth with a single word.  How such a man had come upon her without notice in the silence of the night, she could not fathom, even in her frantic state.

If she had believed in magic outside of her grandmother’s filthy tricks, she might have known him at a glance to be a man from another place and time outside her own.  Unfortunately, she had written that off as one more thing her father had meant when he told her not to believe everything she read.

He looked down at her and smiled; the corners of his black eyes crinkled up.  She wanted to run then, but something held her feet rooted to the spot, and she found that she couldn’t look away from him, no matter how she might try.  When he chose to move, his motions were deliberate and far more graceful than a creature his size and shape ought to command.  She imagined she could feel the earth tremble as he walked, but it was only a child’s fancy; he was as light as a feather, for all the world knew of things.  He approached her, the kind smile still rapt on his face, and at last ceased his approach within a giant’s handspan of her; his own hand, of course, which he offered to her.  His fingers were free of callus and markings in a way that no man’s should be.  She thought he might crush her in his palm, if he wanted; but he waited for her, as he would have for anyone he offered a simple handshake to.

She frowned at him for what felt like hours, trying to determine his nature; was he a friend, come from the dark of the night to save her, or was he a foe, seeking to end her life by his own hands instead of her own?  At last, when she could find no reason inside herself to wait any longer, she reached out with timid fingers to brush his open palm, as if it might burn her at a touch.  If he sought to kill her, then she would not end this night any differently than she had intended.  If he was a friend… well, she could use one of those, though she did not for a moment trust his lasting impact on her life.  After all, Armer had betrayed her, and her father had too; this man could not be anything greater than either of the two, or the two combined.

His black eyes smoldered with unnamed emotion at her touch, and just as she felt he was about to speak, the giant man seemed to glow with a strange, ethereal light.  His appearance trembled before her eyes, as if he fought to maintain his existence in her world.  At last, he lost the battle, and he began to dissolve into nothingness.  The touch of his hand was the last of him to disappear.  She heard the sound of bells in the distance; many shopkeepers tied bells to their doors in foreign places, to announce the coming and going of patrons. Her father’s books had said so.  She had no idea why that was the first thing she thought of, but she knew at once that it must be true.  Her father, it seemed, had not lied about everything, during her life.

It was then, in the silent void left by the giant’s passing, that the rain and wind stopped, leaving in their wake a still and silent night.  The moon shone down on her from its height in the sky, illuminating everything around her and pressing back the darkness that had held her in thrall before.  Melody looked down into the well again, but reflected there was not her own ragged face, but the glow of the moon, radiant and beautiful and alien at the same time.

Melody was a foolish girl; her understanding of this fact had grown tenfold since the moment she first saw the strange giant.  She had suffered a great deal of injury and betrayal that night, and she was overwrought, exhausted and drained.  Less than an hour ago, she was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for infamy and love; now, the thought seemed as foolish as it ever had in her youth.  Her flight from Armer, and from her grandmother, seemed foolish as well.  The stories of her childhood spoke of women that fought, sometimes with swords, but most times with words, for what they believed in.  She had not fought; she had allowed herself to be tricked and wounded instead, all while waiting to be saved like the very princesses she despised!

Armer was wicked, of that there was no question, and her grandmother more wicked still; but what she hadn’t considered before this moment was the blessing of freedom that now rested upon her shoulders.  With an assumed name, a little bit of creative disguise (her father would have called it dress-up) and no one to look for her, who knew what sort of life she might lead?  She could be any of the things her father had promised her, and more still that he hadn’t.  The thought of a simple life was not a bad one; she could be happy as a librarian, or an apothecary, or even a farmhand.  Work did not shame her anywhere as much as parading around in noble garb looking down her nose at the masses.  Now, divested of her entire childhood and its tangible memories, she was nobody and everybody all at once.  Nobody had to know of her failure to marry Armer.  Nobody had to know of her lying, selfish witch of a grandmother.  They could know her, and perhaps even love her, for who she was.

She had thought that the world had conspired to teach her one of its greatest lessons that night: that dreams were for children, and that she was no longer the child she still felt like in her heart.  However, the giant man had somehow taken with him all the chaos and drama that swept the intellect from her mind and left her little more than a slave to her emotions.  Now she could think, and thinking was what all the heroines she had ever read about did first, and best.  Her dreams still lay in tatters, just as her fancy dress did, but perhaps what she needed went beyond dreams in the first place.  She could not spend her time dreaming of rescue now; there was no need.  Now came learning to live again in a world without dreams; it was a place she felt she had never seen before.

Gathering up her filthy and torn skirts, Melody began to make her slow way out of the forest; at least she thought she might, if she continued in the same direction for long enough.  She was still too innocent to find her way back to the city she was born in, but sanity dictated that something had to lay in whatever direction she chose.  She would find the nearest road, keep to it, and soon, she would find a place to begin her transformation into something other than Melody Morrist, the hero’s daughter.  Inside, she would never be anything more; but it was time to see what the outside could be, if she let it.

As for the strange giant of a man… she would have to write it off as insanity, if she wanted to get anywhere in the long run.  She knew that she would have to find the answers about him inside herself at some point, but to dwell on it now was to risk looking inward at a time when she needed first and foremost to look outward.

At worst, he was an apparition sent by her grandmother to bolster her flight.  At best, he was an angel, sent by her father to guide her on her way.  Whatever he was, he had set her feet upon the path of life, and she could only thank him for that.

“They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” –Andy Warhol

When the doorbell rang for the fifth time that night, Madam Morrist got to her feet with an agility that no ordinary old woman ought to have.  Each of the previous four times, Melody had seemed to find some flaw in her suitors that left her unwilling to accept their advances, and by now Maraude was beginning to get desperate.  She had no misconceptions about whether Melody shared this desperation, but the girl was young enough to still believe in love, and true love at that.  It would be the undoing of them both.  What sensible girl wouldn’t look at a well-to-do merchant and swoon for his wealth?  What sensible girl wouldn’t look at a lesser prince of the realm and swoon for his palace?  That one in particular burned Maraude; the bribe she had paid his governess was not small!  The girl had learned nothing from her schooling and the guidance of her peers, it seemed.

This time, Maraude swore to herself, Melody would not get the first move.  It would be this man, or none at all!  She could, of course, have made this all much more simple with a few well-placed magical wards, but she had underestimated Melody’s stubbornness versus the amount of effort it would have taken her to do so.  Melody should have been willing to jump on the first male that entered the House of Morrist, but as usual, the girl always found some way to nettle her in the end.  How simple a task it should have been, indeed!

Melody failed to reach the door before her grandmother, as planned.  A cackle found its way to Maraude’s lips as the petulant scowl on Melody’s face deepened.  “Ye’d better git faster, sweet.  Men like their dinners hot.”  Ignoring whatever proud retort came in response, she unlocked the door, smoothed back her own ratty hair (for all the good that it did) and flung open the door with a flourish.  “Welcome to th’ House o’ Morrist, good lad.  Are ye here to court my granddear, then?”

Only after she had spoken did she get a glimpse of the new suitor that had come to make ease of her life.  He stood before her in a simple yet well-tailored suit, its colors muted but strong.  The style was good, but not the latest in fashion; the boy couldn’t be a noble, not with that as the finest he had to recommend him!  His hands were clean, at least, which improved her opinion just a touch.  He was a fighting man, judging from his broad chest and powerful muscles; Melody would just love that, she knew without even having to ask!  The fighting part, less so.  Maraude’s heart leapt into her throat; despite his lack of overachievement, the boy had the earmarks of success written all over him…

Then she looked into his face, and realized just how much trouble she was in.

Melody was quicker to recognize the visitor.  “Armer!  It’s been so long, I thought…  Oh, never mind what I thought, come in, come in!  Let me look at you.  You’ve grown so much, haven’t you?”  Confirming Maraude’s worst fears with each breathless word, she swept the young man inside, fussing over every stitch of his person.

Maraude retreated to the fireplace and fought to regain her composure.  Of all the people in the world to hear her call for a suitor, why in Heaven’s name did it have to be Armer D’Auguste?  The boy had been a close friend of Melody’s, years ago, back when her father was still little more than a boy himself.  The three had spent inordinate amounts of time together, and it had seemed like Armer wanted little more to do with his life than to emulate the great Ronald Morrist.  Though Maraude had never heard of anything untoward passing between Melody and Armer in the past, it was practically expected — or in Ronald’s case, accepted — that Armer would be the one to claim Melody as his own.  He had been too young to understand, of course, and so had she; but the look in Melody’s eyes suggested that for her, at least, she had learned to add.

Armer, on the other hand, was just as slow as he had ever been.  “Quit that, Mel, you’re messin’ up my coat, I just got this washed to come out here, y’know.” He brushed off her questing hands with an impatient gesture, then shoved his own hands into his pockets.  “I’m not dead, not with your dad’s teaching under my belt.”  His tone suggested that the very thought of his own demise by a woman was an affront to his manhood.  “I enlisted, you know.  I can take care of myself now.  I don’t need a second ma.”

Maraude watched Melody’s face shift between complete and utter adoration at the first sight of Armer’s face, to the irritation that had been more common when they were children together — at least, as far as Ronald had ever mentioned it to her.  The heat in Melody’s cheeks was rising, and Maraude knew her pretty little temper well enough to know that meant trouble.  It was nice to see her venom aimed at someone else, for a change.

Melody was all too eager to please her grandmother, for once.  “You do need a second ma, at least if you’re still as clumsy as you used to be.  Dad always thought you’d stab yourself with a sword before you ever killed…”

Then she froze, realization marring her delicate features into a mask of fear.  “Armer… did you say you enlisted?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, attempting to maintain his pride while being blissfully unaware of the more important aspect of Melody’s reaction.  “I heard Ronald died, I couldn’t believe it.  Those were dark times for me, being just a kid.  He was my hero, and to have him butchered by some filthy Goblin…  I made a few ranks in the army just by being mad.  Then I thought of avenging him and made a few more.”

Maraude studied his build while he boasted.  His muscles were well enough, she had admitted as much before she’d known who he was.  Had Ronald really built the scrawny lad that he’d spoken of so often into this passing display of a soldier?  He was still stupid, of that there was no question, but his years in the army had given him more poise, more pride, than she would have expected from someone with his… questionable background.  Whatever the truth was, most of his pride seemed to be challenged in the face of someone who had grown up by his side and knew the child behind the newfound mask of heroism.  It was good for him.

Unsure what to do with Melody’s silence, Armer decided to try to fill it.  “I wasn’t sure what happened to you, of course.  I hear a lot of girls who lose their fathers end up drunk, or we find ‘em after they off themselves.  I wasn’t sure…”

Melody made a sound that Maraude could only describe as being similar to a plucked chicken, and she forced the remainder of her composure into an attempt to contain the hysterical laughter that began to build in her belly.  Perhaps her initial panic had been too sudden; if Armer blundered into too many more walls, his paramour might just kill him, and the crisis would be over before it ever began!

The tones in Melody’s voice seemed to be at war between a high-pitched squawk and a low growl when she managed to speak again.  “Drunk?  Off myself?  You spend years with me and Dad, and you think I’d just crawl off to some corner and end it all?  How dare you, Armer D’Auguste!  And what makes you think you know anything about what girls do?  If you’ve been in the army like you claim, you shouldn’t have had time for girls… right?”  She was fighting tears, like any good noblewoman should, Maraude noted, but her voice quavered just a little bit too long at that last; with any boy other than Armer, she would have just become a liability in the desperation department!

“Um… sorry, Mel.”  At last realizing that he’d made a mistake, Armer studied the floor with intense interest.  Maraude watched his hands try to dig deeper into his pockets and fail.  “That’s not good enough, but sorry.  When I saw the notice that you were to be wed, I came as fast as I could.  The army’s looking for me right now actually.  Something about absence of duty, I dunno.  They can’t win a fight without me, you know, just like Ronald.”  Maraude couldn’t help a snicker; it wasn’t like anyone would notice in the midst of such chaos.  The boy was treading on thinner ice than he knew, and yet he was still trying to recover his ego.  It was priceless!

Melody’s glare didn’t waver, but her arms had folded across her chest and her body language suggested the rigidity of a wild cat about to pounce on its prey.  Balked by his failure to diffuse the situation, Armer again attempted to fill the awkward silence.  “I didn’t want to join, you know.  I wanted to be like Ronald, and it was the only thing I knew how to do.”  A sweaty hand finally emerged from his pocket long enough to sweep through his shaggy hair before returning.  “I’ve always been stupid, Mel, you know it.  He didn’t need me to be smart, he had faith in me the way I was.  When he died, the only thing I knew how to do was hold a sword, so I did it, and I did the best job of it I could.  I couldn’t set his soul at rest, or take care of you, so…”

“You could have taken care of me!  Anything would have been better than this!  I’ve been dying for the last five years, you stupid ass!”   Maraude couldn’t help but feel resentment building.  She knew Melody’s feelings well enough, but to hear her shout them as if she weren’t even in the room, in the middle of company, was beginning to cross the thin line where her patience intersected with insanity.  Melody was far too irate to stop herself, however.   “Instead you went off and tried to get yourself killed, like he did.  You abandoned me just like he did!”

No longer able to control herself, Melody burst into tears.  If Armer could have dissolved into the floor by means of some magic spell, he would have done it.  Maraude held her breath, waiting to see the final stroke that would end it all, the one that would send Armer packing into the distance and free her of a general feeling of doom that had arrived when she first recognized Armer.  It had not dissipated, even after the realization that the reunion of Melody and Armer might not spell her worst nightmare, and that made her more nervous than anything else had that evening.  If Melody got away with someone that made her beautiful smile appear more than once every three months or so, Maraude would consider the evening a failure on many levels.

Armer’s next move, however, took Maraude by surprise.  He took his hands out of his pockets, straightened his posture as well as he was able, and crossed the painful distance that had developed between himself and Melody with several strong strides.  After only a moment of hesitation, he tried to put his arms around his childhood sweetheart.  The gesture was too much for the already overwrought girl, who shouted unintelligible things at him, beating her delicate fists against his chest.  Where any other man would have turned and run, however, Armer did not.  Maraude thought that he was simply too stupid to understand that he had made a fatal error, but soon began to realize that something unexpected was happening.  Melody’s assaults were growing weaker, and unable to escape from his rigid grasp, she was instead falling into his arms.  Her sense of doom could no longer be ignored.

Melody was babbling a string of half-formed thoughts all at once.  “You’re so stupid, Armer…  Why didn’t you come back?  I thought I’d lost you too, I didn’t know what to do…  Everyone disappeared, my friends, everything…  And this hag came and ruined it all!”  Sudden strength and anger surged in her voice.  “She’s horrible, she hated Dad, I don’t know how a mother could say such things to her own son…  Make her stop, Armer, take me away from here, there’s nobody I’d rather…”

Melody couldn’t finish the thought, which was just as well for Maraude, whose teeth were now ground into a permanent snarl.  Before she had time to bark, however, Armer rested his head against Melody’s, still trying to calm her shattered soul.  “I didn’t come back because I was scared, Mel.  You always loved your dad best, I could never compete with that.  The best I could hope was to try to be at least equal, so that maybe you’d look at me like you used to look at him… that I could give you hope like he did.  I couldn’t tell you…”

His voice skipped a beat, and Maraude couldn’t shove her fingers into her ears fast enough to avoid the words she knew were coming.

“I couldn’t tell you I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world.”

Melody’s sobs changed force, from tears of rage to quieter tears of joy.  The damage was done; there was no way that Armer wouldn’t leave the House of Morrist with Melody on his arm now.  Looking at the two of them together made Maraude’s stomach twist in ways that it never had before; all the anger and frustration she had felt since arriving at the House of Morrist to meet with her hellion of a grandchild boiled to life.  For just one moment, she forgot that most of the goading had been hers, and that her own rage at Ronald was perhaps more than Melody’s could ever hope to be.  That moment was enough to change the tide that threatened to overwhelm all of them in its force.

Maraude would be damned if Melody got everything she ever dreamed of.

“Know what I think?” Maraude’s voice was louder than she meant it to be when she spoke at last.  “I think there’s too much honesty in this room fer me.” She reached into her pocket and removed a handful of garish-looking herbs and mushroom stems.  Armer turned at the sound of her voice; a trained soldier he was, and didn’t miss a beat despite his lack of mental agility.  Melody was slower, too blinded by her own emotions to recover so soon.  “Fer once I’d like t’ hear some sweet talkin’ my way, and not just the tripe y’ give me, child.”

Armer was not quick enough to remove his arms from Melody and make it to the fireplace in time to stop Maraude from flinging the mixture into the roaring flames.  “Let’s see how honest ye are now, D’Auguste, and how much th’ girl fancies ye when ye are.”

Armer froze as the flames roared even louder than they had before, and the blinding light that followed burned spots into the vision of everyone present.  He began to clutch at his throat, gasping as if the fires were choking off his ability to breathe.  Melody stood by in terror, torn between throwing herself at her grandmother in vengeance and a desire to aid Armer in any way she could.  Though she had seen her grandmother’s witchy magic a few times over the years, she had never gotten close to it, never understood it.  Maraude thought it was fitting that her ignorance should be paid for with joy.

After several moments, the flames resumed their normal heat and height.  Armer opened his mouth, fury written across his face, ready to speak his mind to what would be his new grandmother.

“That was some pretty swift magic, Granny, even for a beautiful girl like yourself.”

His eyes widened in horror, and Melody’s horror only mirrored his own.  Maraude’s grin could have sunk a million ships, if only she’d wanted it to.

“What the hell…  what the hell did you do to me?”  Armer’s voice had returned to normal again.  “What was that… mixture?”

“Still slow, aren’t ye, lad?  Ye can ask questions all ye want, but careful what ye say, especially to yer lady friend.  She’s fragile, y’know.”

Armer turned to Melody, who had begun to tremble behind him.  “We’ll never find a way out of this.  This is all your fault, you know.  Find your own way out.”

Melody fell to her knees, breathless, and Armer growled in fury at the witch who had somehow managed to twist his words into untruths — the opposites of what he intended to say.  It seemed that any question would pass unchallenged, but anything that he intended to say with any meaning at all would be warped.  It was perhaps the worst punishment possible for a simple farmer’s boy with nothing but honesty and a small amount of combat experience to his name.  Maraude congratulated herself with a mental pat on the back.

She watched with growing amusement as Armer attempted to compose himself.  She could see the wheels in his mind turning, grinding in an effort to find a way out of the predicament he was in.  She knew that the first thing he would do would be to try to retreat, taking Melody away with him until he could find a way to explain to her what was going on.  However, she was laying odds that he would try to use questions to his advantage, now that he “knew” they were safe.  Such a brave boy, thinking he understood the rules of the game before he’d even begun to play!  She didn’t have long to wait before her guess was confirmed.

“Melody, will you never follow me again, please?”

It took only a second for Armer to realize his mistake in assuming that questions were safe.  It took Melody less time to look at him as if he were some sort of monster, and then flee in the direction of the door.  Maraude never moved to stop her as she fumbled for the door latch and threw it open, running into the pitch black night as if her life depended on it.  No longer would she wait for anyone to save her; Maraude had bewitched Armer, her only hope, and now he was not to be trusted any more than that witch was.  Her only salvation was to run, far, far away from the House of Morrist, away from her father’s memory.  Maraude was certain that Melody would never return, unless by some stroke of luck, they managed to undo the spell.  The act was possible, but it would be difficult for two headstrong young fools such as Melody and Armer.  They still had time to figure out their new limitations!

Armer threw one last disgusted look at Maraude.  “I will never be back here, kind lady.  I will wait for you to tell me someday what enchantment you have bestowed upon me.  And when I find out, I will love you even more for it.”

He took off after Melody, slamming the door of the great House of Morrist behind him, letting it echo as much as it could.

The silence that fell was all the reward Maraude Morrist needed.

“Politeness, n. The most acceptable hypocrisy.” –Ambrose Bierce

The single room at the top of the third floor tower was a shocking, horrible, baby-girl pink, no matter which way Melody tried to look at it, or how much of a face she made in an attempt to arrange the sight into something pleasurable.  The grand high walls, the sea of ornate bedding, and even the fox-fur slippers she wore to bed greeted her with a radiating sense of color that overwhelmed her delicate senses and left her wishing to hold her nose in defense.  Hopeless, she cast her eyes downward for the rug — the single vestige of whiteness in a maze of rose and fuschia — and took a deep breath.  With luck, or God’s help, tonight would bring the promise of a swift egress from her personal pink hell.

Sinking, defeated, into a comfortable pink armchair, she let out her breath in a classic sigh; a token facet of every single noblewoman in or out of the King’s Court was the sigh.  If you didn’t have it at the ready, you just weren’t prepared for the trials of court, or so the other girls said, behind fingertip-brushed mouths and breathless giggles.  It was one of the many things they said this way that left Melody with a bitter taste in her mouth.  What those girls sold their souls and hearts for was natural to her; the beauty she displayed was no artifice, no feeble attempt to disguise an otherwise plain or homely face.  However, the gifts of meekness and subservience that they had in her place seemed to brush like a pair of warm, heroic lips across the nape of her neck and then flee in terror before she could manage a blush.  Part of her wished very, very much for that tempting kiss to last, and to continue into other, less courtly behavior that the other girls would, no doubt, know all about — but most of her wished instead to wait, to find the one true meaning of the word “man” — and at the same time, the reason behind the madness that seemed to lurk just a hair’s breadth away from the behavior of her peers.

Then again, she reminded herself with a bitter laugh, she wasn’t a noble at all.  Perhaps understanding only came with the blood.  Her mind wandered as she leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes to block out the pink disturbance before her.  If her father, a kind merchant with a hand for toy crafting and grain selling — not to mention warfare in the defense of his beloved city of Banewick — had not died, then she would not be sitting in a manor house at all, let alone a manor house with an offensive amount of pink within its walls.  Madam Morrist, bless her, had not even bothered to go with red; the brothel image just might be preferable as far as Melody was concerned!  Instead, just to raise the girl’s ire and discomfort, she had chosen pink for the lady’s plush bedroom.  The woman knew how to wrinkle every stitch of fabric she touched; Melody had decided that long ago, the first time that Madam Morrist — her grandmother, in title only — had entered her line of sight.

That cold November morning, with the bitter rain coming down in sheets, she had heard the sharp knock at the door and run, tripping over book piles and toys and skipping past the antique furniture that decorated the great House of Morrist, to admit the visitor that she knew would be coming to see her.  Instead of the man with the loving laugh, twinkling eyes, and clothes that smelled of gunpowder or foreign spices by turns, she found a different man with a thin line for a mouth and a cold, impassive gaze in his eyes.  Without stopping to breathe, or to let her do the same, he informed her with a crisp salute that the Lieutenant Ronald Morris would not be returning from the line of duty.  What was left of his body, after the Goblins took their share by right of war bounty, was handed to her in a small envelope, sealed with the strange man’s spit and stamped by the King’s Court with a note full of empty condolences.  He was gone before she had found her voice enough to ask why.

He had always been a man for the people; she had known that since the day she was born.  She herself had a deep love for people and their unique differences borne of his teaching and guidance.  When the Goblins had come to threaten the city and every man, woman and child within its confines, he had been the first man to step across the line and into the King’s Court Army.  Countless others followed in his wake, but he had never forgotten the example that he made, and had never allowed himself to be anything less for the people that needed him.  To protect that which he held most dear, he’d said years ago, and Melody had cheered him on, believing in the wild fairy stories of the time in which wars were fought without blood on the backs of dragons and fairies.  With his death, the Goblins were routed, but that would not heal the heart of that which he held most dear — not in the least.

A single tear rolled down Melody’s perfect cheek, but she had fallen asleep with her thoughts and did not notice the flaw.

It was after her father’s death that she had been forced to accept Madam Morrist’s iron will and foul breath into her ancestral home.  The woman arrived at the door with all the pomp and circumstance of a queen, and yet the cloud of stink, magic and displeasure that followed her left those watching in the streets with a sudden urge to bathe.  She had announced to a tear-stained Melody that she was her father’s mother, come all the way from Carrickberg in the North, thank you very much, and to carry her bags up to her room at once.  It had all gone downhill from there.

It seemed that her father had been sending small amounts of money to assist in the daily living expenses of his mother, and with his death came Madam Morrist’s inability to continue paying taxes on her Carrickberg-in-the-North home.  It was only the right thing to do, to allow her aging grandmother to live in the home that was once her son’s, and to govern the young child in her father’s absence — but there were the comments, the frightening words and horrifying curses that the woman threw in the presence of Ronald’s daughter.  She said so many things about Ronald himself that Melody often found herself locked in her room for kicking her aging grandmother, or for pulling out handfuls of her white and straw-like hair in retribution.  What right had this she-devil to condemn her father for dying, when he had left Melody herself alone to suffer her company?  It wasn’t fair at all.

Now that Melody was soon to come of age, it seemed that the old woman wanted nothing more than to be rid of the supposed problem that Ronald had left her.  Truth to tell, Melody wanted nothing more herself.  However, it was clear to her that her grandmother intended for her to suffer; to pay for the trouble she had been over the years and months since her father’s death, even though she had been too young to make a decision as to whether or not she should stay in her grandmother’s company.  The coming-of-age party that Madam Morrist had funded (with part of Ronald’s remaining gold, of course) and aided her granddaughter in becoming beautiful for, all stood as a painful reminder of just how many birthdays Melody had spent without the warm birthday song sung by her father’s deep baritone.

If Madam Morrist, and perhaps Melody too, got their wish, a suitor capable of stealing the heart of one of the city’s most beautiful bachelorettes would knock upon the door sooner, rather than later, and whisk Melody off to a new life, free of her foul grandmother and every nasty insult she had ever flung at the name of Ronald Morrist.  Leaving her cherished home would be difficult, she imagined, but it seemed a fair price to pay for removing herself from the old woman’s clutches.  After all, what would she need her own home for, with a loving husband to give her something grander than her father ever could have?

That led her to the biggest fear of all, the one that had occupied her mind for the two weeks leading up to this day — her eighteenth birthday.  If no suitor came, she would be forced to endure her prison again, for days, weeks, months — or even years longer.  Since her father’s death, she was no longer the social creature she had once been; all her friends had grown up, married, and had children without her.  They assumed she was dead, and for all intents and purposes, they were right.  Who would notice the name Morrist in the locals now?  Even if they did, why would they care about anyone other than Ronald?  Their hero was dead.

Waking from her troubled sleep, Melody shifted in her chair and listened to the sound of her stiff, proud back crackling in protest.  It had been too long since she was able to relax; she had not relaxed since the day that her father died.  Perhaps she could indulge, in the arms of someone that could take her away from the main reason she could not and would not find a way to do so beforehand.  Once she was married, the world would open up in ways that she’d only dreamed of for years — if only she could find a willing husband.  The agonizing wait had begun.

“I was always taught to respect my elders, and I’ve now reached the age when I don’t have anybody to respect.” –George Burns

A pair of fine silver spectacles, fitted with the smallest of reading lenses and buffed with the finest of cloth, slid down the thick and gnarled nose of Maraude Morrist, Madam of the House of Morrist.  Sweat poured fresh from her wrinkled brow, her graying hair falling free of its savage pinning from the exertion she endured.  Running down the hallways of the House of Morrist was preferable — perhaps even hand-scrubbing the chamber pots within the whole of the House was preferable! — to the difficulty she faced just a hand-span in front of her.  Luck, however, was with Madam Morrist, for she was anything but timid, and problems tended to flee in terror before her presence.  Problems were wise, indeed.

“Straighter then, missy!  Ye’ll never get th’ waist ye want slouchin’ like a guy!”

Madam Morrist’s hands seized upon a pair of loose cords as they slipped from her grasp, causing Melody, the young woman in front of her, to stifle a gasp.  The cords trailed up and into an ornate golden brocade work of art, complete with hidden nips and tucks to make any woman sigh with pleasure — in the shape of a corset, and the girl was already fighting to breathe in the wake of Madam’s prior attentions.  The old woman sighed, her broken teeth and wicked lips twisting into a mocking grin that did nothing to augment the questionable beauty of her face.  “Girls these days ha’ got nothing worth tying, if ye ask me.”

Melody glanced down from atop her fitting pedestal, and Madam waited on her haunches for a longwinded and noble apology — her favorite kind.  In the end, she found an utter lack of shame in the strong and proud line of the girl’s perfect chin, and the look she suffered was anything but meek and mild — it was in direct defiance of everything a lady ought to be.  It seemed she would not get to enjoy this after all.  “Say what you will, Madam Morrist, but nothing will take the sting out of your hands until the job is done.  Kindly finish it so that I might have the opportunity to take my last breath before I die.”

Madam Morrist felt the need to laugh, and did so with a gusto that left the dressing maids and the butler unsteady in their positions at the rear of the room, and left Melody guarding her delicate breath even closer in order to tolerate the stench of Madam’s breath at close range.  The impertinence of youth always nettled Madam to no end, and perhaps it always would. The entire city of Banewick knew well to keep their children apart from the woman, lest she visit her so-rumored “witchy” powers upon their hopeless offspring.  How little imagination they had, when it came to what they thought she could do!  Melody, to her immense disappointment, had little choice but to brace herself, and it brought Madam no end of pleasure to remind her of it.

“What do ye know of Death, pretty?  Only yer mind could tell ye.”  She punctuated the statement with a sharp tug on the cords, continuing her way up the length of the girl’s corset with slow and deliberate movements.  Her agile mind seized upon two incompatible desires at once; the first, to beat the foolish child into a newfound respect for authority, and the second, to mind her temper, as far as it remained feasible to mind.  The little crotchety voice in the back of her mind, which served as her conscience, reminded her that every moment spent at Melody’s side would bring her one step closer to her deepest desire.  The second thought, as always, won out over the first.

Melody was prepared for the tug this time, and maintained her composure over the old woman’s attacks.  “Only a witch could know what lies inside my mind.  Are you confessing, then?”

“Confessions are for priests, lovely, not for headstrong gits like ye.”

Having finished the last of the lacing, Madam relinquished the tied cords, feeling the joints and bones in her hands and fingers shift in ways that they should not comfortably manage.  The job that Melody had asked of her was complete, to the best of her ability — and what an ability she had!  Stepping back from the girl, she took a moment to look over her work.  Whatever Melody was or wasn’t, it was plain to see that she was the most beautiful creature this side of the River Tross, and that meant success, as far as Madam was concerned.

“Now every man, woman and child within a hundred miles will want to marry ye, for what ye’re worth.  I hope ye kept yer dowry in plain sight.”

“If any man can look at you and not tread on his coattails as he flees, Madam, I will be right happy to accept his courtship.”  Melody’s hands slid to her cinched waist, and in that moment she appeared to Madam as nothing less than a goddess on high, speaking down her retribution.  The eyes that had seemed beautiful before now radiated with a mixture of stored anger and tears of distress, lest she still find herself unworthy in the eyes of her suitors.  Her hair, a sable mane of pins and curls, left her pristine face open and haunting to anyone who chose to look; wretched, as far as Madam was concerned.  “Somehow I fear for the worst.”

“Nonsense, missy.”  Madam threw back her head and laughed again, relishing the tortured expression on the girl’s face.  “What man wouldn’t love a charming grandmother like me?  Ye’ll be worth every wrinkle and wart.”

Melody appeared unconvinced, and Madam shook her head, dusting her sweaty palms on the hem of her simple black robe.  “Come along then.  Ye’ll only be Miss Melody Morrist for a few more hours now, if I play my cards right.”

Madam turned her back, heading for the parlor of the House.  There was so much yet to be done before her granddaughter’s suitors began to arrive, and she was not going to scrimp or pause on anything that might free her from the insufferable child’s company!  Once the girl was out of her hands, the real witchery, and the running about the house without a stitch of clothing on for the first time in years, could begin.

Melody Morrist followed a short length behind, thinking only of the moment when a big, strong hero would appear at her door and carry her away, back to the home she loved and the life she’d known before the Madam changed everything about it that mattered.  A bird could carry her away, or a mouse could chew through the door latch; but a hero would be even better.