The following days were slow. Gianna found herself going from her bedroom to the kitchen, and back to the bedroom. She did not mean to look dreadful, but she couldn’t help but find herself in a slump. Marg tried her best to console her during this time, as with Amethyst and Opal. One evening, while working through a stitch Opal had gifted her, a knock came from her bedroom door. It was Phillip. He was wearing a loose-fitting off-white shirt with deep blue slacks. He was the definition of ‘princely’ in such attire, minus the bandages covering his gauged-out eyes. A cane, one carved out by Opal, was in his palm, allowing him to walk about better.

“Are you busy? Can I come in?”

Gianna set down her stitch and got up quickly, lacing her arm around his and guiding him to her bed. “I was just working with my needle and thread.”

“Ah,” he replied. “Can I feel it?”

She took out the needle and guided his hand over her work. “How is it?”

“It feels like a stitch.” He chuckled slightly. “I didn’t know what I was expecting from feeling it. I truly can’t tell what it looks like.”

“That’s okay…” Gianna said. “I’m attempting to stitch out the night sky.”

“Oh… then was that the stars I was feeling?”

“It’s… it’s Orion’s belt.”

“You like the constellation?” he asked, feeling the stitch once more.

“Not particularly…” Gianna muttered. “It’s ones of the one’s I’m most familiar with is all.”

There was a brief pause between the two before Phillip spoke up again. “Opal and Amethyst have gone to meet with their coven. I’m utterly bored.”

“Where Marg?”

A faint smile etched across Phillip’s face. “Working.”

“Oh…”

She did not need more of a hint as to what Margery was doing. She was Death after all. Going about collecting souls and talking with the gods was her specialty.

“She’s been distant.” Phillips smile darkened slightly with this comment. “I’m not sure… I’m not sure whether it’s just with me but I feel like she blames herself for this.” His hands went to the bandages covering his eyes. “Although she told me that the gods specifically told her not to speak of the future with anyone when she first saw me… She came by my room the other night. She said something to the extent of ‘I’m sorry that I could not warn you; that I was cowardice in not telling you’.”

Gianna turned her stitch in hand. “I am sure she was just feeling guilty.”

“I could not see her face, but I know she was on the verge of tears. I think what happened with you and her that night shook her up…”

Gianna paused at this, her eyes reddening slightly. She remembered how angry Marg was that night. How frustrated she was in not being able to do anything. Gianna couldn’t help but feel like although the witch left the grasps of her father, the tasks as Death are just as, if not more constraining.

“She must feel like she is partially to blame…”

“But she’s not!” Phillips face was reddening in anger now. “I just wish that she would talk to me more! She just shuts down sometimes without a warning. Have the two of you spoken?”

“I…” Gianna fumbled over her words. “We haven’t. She brings by flowers from her garden on occasion but… I haven’t done my best in talking with her.”

Phillip let out a long sigh. “Utterly ridiculous. The two of you have to talk. It’s getting quite awkward with the two of you avoiding each other, especially you to her.”

“I am not—” Gianna cut herself off. Phillip was right; she had been avoiding Marg in the past couple of days. She knew deep down that it was not Margery’s fault for what happened that night. That Marg had not only saved her but later guided that woman’s lost soul, ensuring its protection. She knew all of this and yet she still found herself upset. Upset that Marg couldn’t save the woman and instead followed through with her death because the gods commanded it. All of this she knew. Gianna knew not to blame Marg; to instead console her, but she still couldn’t bring herself to do it.

That, and the fact that ever since she had learned the truth of her betrothal, as well as running away from a marriage that was thrust upon her, she’s felt… relief. She couldn’t pin-point it at first, the feeling, but knowing that she is not to marry him, and further ran away from the marriage, was tantalizing. It’s what has made her feel even more wretched, the fact that she was able to get away safe, and further, live a life now of her choosing. Marg reminds her of this every time she lays her eyes on the woman. It's strange. This friendship with the witch is nothing like her best friend at home. She feels almost breathless with her around.

Phillip pulled her out of her many thoughts though. “Sorry, I should not insert myself. I just am worried for Marg. We’ve been so close for the longest time.”

“Has she said anything… about that night… to you?” Gianna asked.

“No, like I said, she’s said very little to me recently about a lot of things.”

Gianna tried to calm down her shaky hands. If only it was easy to talk about. She thought. “Was it you that painted these pictures in here?” Gianna asked to change the conversation.

“I—Yes. They’re oil paintings of places most dear to me. I wish that I could still see them, that I could still skim over each brush stroke that I had once made. It’s a good thing though, being blind. I can’t pick apart my artwork anymore.”

Gianna let out a soft chuckle as Phillip tilted his head back, a mischievous smile showing on his face.

“The one with the two young children; that’s you and Marg is it not?”

“When we were living in the castle, yes. We used to play outside so much. My mother would yell at both of us for getting our nice clothes dirty. Marg loved digging up all types of creatures, from worms to centipedes.” Phillip let out a hearty chuckle while recounting his memories. “I hated it. I absolutely hate insects. Terrified. She loves them though. The creepier the better for her. She was quite the rambunctious sort, sneaking them in and hiding them in her brothers’ beds after they insulted her. I was always at odds with my siblings, same with her. We related to each other in that manner.”

Gianna was smiling now. Leaning towards Phillip she asked, “And the blonde woman? Who is she?”

Phillips faced saddened at the question. “She is the one I love. My North Star.” He cleared his throat. “But you already knew that didn’t you?”

“I might have guessed it…”

“I’m not sure how much Amethyst told you about us but yes, I visited her for many years. She has a beautiful voice, one gifted by the gods themselves. She would sing to me for hours while I painted. Our joys were shared, so much so that they became a part of us. Me with her singing and her with my art.” Phillip stood, striking his cane on the floor. His hands feeling around the wall for the painting. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I love her long hair and the way it tumbles about her shoulders, and the way her eyes crease when she laughs. Smart, gorgeous, and utterly perfect.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Gianna had followed him and took his hand in hers, guiding it towards the painting. His rough palm scrapped across the surface, lingering over the woman’s eyes.

“You’re probably wondering how—how I came to be blind.” There was a brief pause. Gianna caught her breathe in anticipation. “I—I won’t say much on the matter, only that we had planned to be married, to run away. Her mother had other plans though.”

“So, when you joked about a nasty mother-in-law…?”

“Yes, Gianna, she did this to me.”

Silence fell over the room as Gianna took in this news. How could a person do such a thing? How could a mother do such a thing as the person her child most cares about? It was impossible to wrap her brain around such a thing, but so was witnessing her betrothed murder a woman.

“I had heard of stories of the ‘Forest of Vales’, of the many treacherous and horrible acts done to people who travel through it. When I was little, I was told that I should never run away, for a witch would snatch me up and drag me through the forest and to her cabin where she would feast on my flesh. All the children were told this. Fairy tales that stuck with me, but those stories too.”

Phillip was now attempting his way back to her bed. “My mother had read me stories of princes, or them slaying dragons to save the princess. She had lined my bookshelves with such stories. It pained me for a long time to read them. To read them just as fairy tales, to see myself in the characters but never able to live as one of them…”

“But you are a prince, just not one who slays dragons,” Gianna joked, nudging him a bit.

Phillip let out a deep sigh at this statement. “I studied each of those pages. Lived in the fantasy vividly for a long time. I lied to you Gianna. In the painting, it’s a lie.”

Gianna’s face contorted in confusion at this.

“I always painted that of which made me happy. I also painted that of which I wished would have been. I was never allowed to wear suits and trousers as a kid. I was never allowed to practice sword-fighting alongside my many brothers. That’s why Marg went ahead and taught me herself. I learned painting instead with my sisters, spent my time playing piano. Marg and I… her with her magic and me with my… we both felt different, like we did not belong.”

“I had read a fairy tale, one in which stuck with me. It was a story of a prince who held a curse of looking like a pig. His appearance, his face, his body, all pig like. He had gone to his parents in hopes of having them find a suitable match for him. Woman after woman ran away from him after seeing his face. He became so dejected. Unbeknownst to him was that the curse of his pig form would be lifted after he found his true love. After a fateful meeting with a beautiful woman, who shockingly agreed to marrying him, he finally was able to shed his pigskin and live a life of a handsome prince.”

“I read that story over and over as a child, wanting, wishing for my… to become the prince I so desperately wanted to be. Being someone forced into frolics and dresses, having their hair done up and braided, looking upon my body in shame and disgust. All of it. I have felt it all.”

Phillip said all this with a pained expression. As Gianna sauntered over to him, she took his cheek in her hand. “You are—you were and always have been a handsome prince. From the time I first saw you I thought that.”

Phillip chuckled at this taking Gianna’s hand in his. “Even with these dreadful bandages on my face?”

“I think they add character, don’t you?”

Both were laughing now. The air around them was lifting. It seemed less harsh, softer, and lighter.

A creak came from the doorway, startling the two.

“Sorry, did not mean to interrupt.” Marg was standing there awkwardly. She seemed out of breath, her hair wilder than usual. “Thought I might stop by and drop these off.” Orchids, lilies, and rosemary all tied together with thread were being held in her hand. “I’ll come back later.”

Phillip quickly shot up from the bed. “Nonsense.” His cane struck the wood floor awkwardly. “We were just finishing up, weren’t we Gianna.” He made his way to Marg, fumbling as he did so and clapped her hard on the shoulder. “I’ll be off now. See to it that you put those in water.” He cleared his throat and said his brief goodbyes to Gianna, shutting the door behind him as he did.

“I—”

“Sorry—”

“You go first.” Marg said, going to the desk as she did so.

“No, you go ahead,” Gianna responded awkwardly.

“I just wanted to drop these off. My orchids are blooming nicely and thought that you…” She cleared her throat. “That they would liven up Opal and Amethyst’s place. I got them some too.”

“Oh.” Gianna was now blushing. Foolish. I thought she got them for me at first. “Thank you. They are very pretty.”

Silence fell between the two. Gianna found herself struggling to further the conversation.

“The stitch.”

“Huh?”

“The stitch.” Marg pointed at the needle and thread in her lap. “How is it coming along?”

“Fine… Fine… it’s not the best but I was never really good at it.”

“Did your mom make you learn it? Mine was quite annoying about it, that, and piano lessons.”

“Yeah!” Gianna let out a soft chuckle at that. “Mine was unbearable about it. Saying that I’ll need to learn how to do it for ‘when I live on my own’. Her fingers were always covered in bandages in how much sewing she did.”

“Really? Mine never said that, only that I prepare for if (or when) I ever find myself making my own clothes. She was more of a soothsayer than my dad was.”

Marg was smiling now. The tension that seemed to be surrounding the two dissipated a bit.

“What about yours?” Marg asked, now walking towards Gianna, and sitting beside her. “Are yours as bandaged and pricked as you moms.”

“I—” Before Gianna could stop it Marg had her hand in hers, inspecting the fine details of her palm.

“Oh. I guess you listened to your mom then. They are quite damaged.”

Gianna could see a faint tan where the sun had kissed Margery’s cheeks and shoulders. Where it had danced on top of her arms and forehead. Marg’s face seemed to be glistening, making Gianna’s face heat up. Looking down at her hands that were now intertwined with the witches she turned them over. She was now the one analyzing them.

“Yours are long a slim. Soft and delicate. I am almost skeptical that you’ve ever held a needle and thread ever.”

“What are you trying to say?” Marg was now gleefully laughing. “I not only have stitched but I garden and sometimes help Opal with her woodwork. They are not so dainty as you may assume them to be!”

“It’s not a bad thing.” Gianna responded. “You played piano, right? No wonder, you have perfect hands for the instrument.”

Marg cleared her throat. When Gianna went to look back up at her face, she could have sworn she saw a faint blush forming.

“I still play.” She took Gianna’s hands in hers and started analyzing them again, looking at the deep creases of the palm. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“No, I was afraid of witches before I met you… Of course, I wouldn’t have had my palm read before.”

Marg let out another faint chuckle at this comment. “You have short fingers and a very square palm. This tells me that you are both practical and grounded, but can often find yourself wrapped up in your immediate surroundings and realities.” Marg continued to sketch out each crease of Gianna’s palm. “You have breaks in you ‘head line’, right here.” She points to the line closest to Gianna’s fingers.

“In other words, you are experiencing a break in your initial thought about something, or someone. As for here.” She then points to the crease below it. “Your ‘life line’ is quite long, telling me that you’re not used to being such an independent person. And your ‘fate line’, the line at the center of your palm, reveals major shifts in your life. Yours is short and shaky. It might be that you’ve already experienced a major shift in your life, or it has yet to happen. Lastly,” Her fingertip rests on a crease furthest away from the pinky. “The ‘sun line’ is crossed with your ‘fate line’, which says that external forces play a huge role in your future.”

“It varies though.” Marg shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been told that both palms need to be read for accuracy, rather than just one.”

“Then… what does yours say about you?”

Marg thought for a second about Gianna’s question. “I am not sure the rules of reading your own palm. Mine is probably similar to yours in that there are a lot of external forces playing a role in my life.”

“But what about your ‘fate line’, its separated by you ‘sun line’.” Gianna brought it up for Marg to see. “What does that mean.”

“Ah… it means that ones with this type of crease, they have an independent fate, separate of outside influences.”

Gianna shifted next to Marg, stealing a look in her direction. She could hear the faint cynicism that laced itself into what Marg said next.

“Though palm reading is unreliable. How silly to think one like me can live independently, not bound to others. Not tied down by certainties.”

Marg let go of Gianna’s hands in that instance. “Yours though, you have an interesting palm there.” An ingenuine chuckle left her lips.

“I would like to visit you house.” Gianna said abruptly.

Marg sputtered out an, “I—I’m sorry?”

“Your house, er, cabin; I would like to see it.”

The witch seemed taken by surprise at the sudden demand but nodded, nonetheless. “Then I’ll take you there.”