CHAPTER 11 : LIGHTNING IN THE AIR

“Ichor remains toxic in small doses. Symptoms vary wildly between subjects. Early signs of overdose include lantern eye, skin decay, gold tongue, hair loss and liquification of internal organs. Subject 93 shows the most promise. We have sound-proofed the laboratory after a laundress heard screaming from the ventilation system. Laundress was disposed of.” ~Zhir, Kingmaking Tests, Round 10

EGG

I knew she’d come around.

Few women can resist the charms of a King, even a de-throned one. It was only a matter of time before Nilah realized she was missing out on the most eligible bachelor above or below the—

“Stop smiling like an imbecile and help me carry these to the table while they’re still hot. Go, go!!” Yendy shoves a bowl of fresh potato mash in my arms.

Around me is a buzz of activity. The kitchen is full of carefully controlled chaos. Yendy is waving her arms like an orchestra conductor. Bags of flour, eggs, and kitchen utensils of varying sharpness float around the room, whipping up dish after delicious dish.

I follow Yendy’s directions and bring the potato mash out to the picnic tables. The moon is a pale sliver in the sky, but the stars are out in full force, speckling the deep violets and blacks above the snow capped mountaintops.

Little Abbey's windows burn orange, illuminating the night like a lighthouse in a dark sea.

The tables are clustered on the tower side of the bridge, beside the pond. On the tables is a myriad of similar dishes, all making good use of the first harvested batch from the farm.

There are potato slips, potato bites, potato crisps, baked potatoes, potato soup and potato pot pie, to name a few. Between the potatoes are deviled eggs, poached eggs, fried eggs and an omelet-making station. I feel an immense sense of satisfaction to see so many eggs at once.

It's like I waged a war against the chickens and won.

But Yendy didn’t stop there, vanilla dusted mooncakes, towers of sugar muffins, ginger cookies shaped like magic ruins, and several hundred bowls of hand-made ice cream crowd the rest of the available space.

I know the ice cream is hand-made because I was the one who spent hours this morning pumping the churner. My arms are still sore.

The witches are excited. They’re wearing recently laundered sundresses and have their hair tied in colorful ribbons. Floating lanterns illuminate the small clearing, defying gravity and casting discs of pale light on the grass. Paper decorations, cut and folded to look like bats, chickens and snakes, hang from the tree branches and the sides of the tables.

Some of the girls play a game of jump rope, clapping along to nursery rhymes. Others read against tree trunks, play cards or fish for tadpoles from the bridge. A few practice magic, but most seem content to lounge and enjoy their first night off in weeks.

Tirma holds a narrow flute filled with some kind of fizzy drink I’ve been told is called a swizzler. She sways back and forth while giving an intense history lesson to some of the older girls about the burning of the Thirteenth Library. “These were dark days, girls. Enlightened minds were few and far in-between. The Coven of Chaos hadn’t even formed yet—”

Bavetna sits on a wicker chair off to the side, playing a wide instrument made from a polished tortoise shell and a web of sheep guts. Her eight hands, sixty-four fingers and sixteen thumbs move with expert fluidity. A semicircle of the younger witches sit cross-legged around her, Heedee among them, and listen in awe.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I have to admit—the witches know how to throw a party. It’s not anything close to the grand balls at the palace, but it has its charms.

Unable to resist, and tired of porting dishes back and forth, I grab a plate and pile it with as much food as possible. Somehow, Yendy has reinvented potatoes and made them look appealing again. I stuff a pile of mooncakes into my pockets, grab a goblet full of rummy, and hide behind the water barrels beside the tower.

The food is divine.

If I am ever reinstated as King, my first decree will be to hire Yendy as my head chef.

I inhale the food. The rummy is sweet and cold and tastes like a liquified campfire covered in brown sugar. It leaves a line of foam above my upper lip. Ah. That hits the spot.

The Warden taps a knife on her own swizzler glass, calling everyone’s attention. The girls quiet down, and Yendy leans out her kitchen window above my head to watch. I adjust my position and peek around the barrel.

“When I opened Little Abbey, it was the size of a small shack. I had one student, a leaky roof and was living on dried corn cakes.” She surveys the crowd, a small smile playing on her lips. “Of all the treasures in the world, none matters more than a true home.” She raises her glass. “Thank you for making Little Abbey my home. You are the reason I am proud to call myself a witch.”

Cheers and applause explode across the clearing. The witches stomp their feet and swarm the Warden to hug her. She’s momentarily startled and nearly loses her drink, but laughs with them once the surprise wears off.

I turn back to my empty plate.

A home, huh?

My stomach is bursting, but I want at least three more helpings before—

“There you are.”

I look up and nearly swallow my tongue. Nilah looks...different. Usually she has a face that aggravates me. Like she knows more than I do, or she’s laughing at me for a joke I don’t understand. But this time...

She grabs me by my collar and drags me to my feet. “You made me wait. Come on.”

“But...” I gesture weakly to the food.

She ignores me and pulls me across the yard. I nervously eye the darkness, but she pushes me behind the chicken coop.

I raise my hands. “Okay, listen. I think we should set some ground rules—”

“We’re not far enough away.” Nilah bites her lip. “They’ll know.” She curls her fingers around my wrist and, a little more forcefully, leads us further away from Little Abbey’s tower.

As she nears the woods, I yank my arm back. “Hold on. It could be dangerous.”

“Bavetna cleared them, didn’t she? Not a single monster sighting in weeks.” She waves me off.

“No. I—I’m not going in there. You can’t make me.”

Her expression twists, and she rounds on me. In the night, her black hair melts away, and her eyes seem to drink the darkness in, like two vials of shiny ink.

“Can’t I?”

SILK SISTER - DART

I sit on the porch step of a small house, just outside a nearby village. A garden grows beside the railing, smelling of wet soil and fresh vegetables. It is dark, and quiet.

My blade gleams red in the moonlight, and I clean it with a silk cloth. Weapon maintenance is important. I don’t want it to rust.

On my knee rests a letter, describing many mundane things, and one interesting thing.

I sheathe my blade, carefully fold the letter and stand up. Behind me, the door to the small house is left open, and a palm is exposed on the floor to the cold night air, frail and lifeless.

There are many leagues between me and the location of the writer. But I have time. There are plans to be made, strategies to weave. I look down at the letter and smile.

I cannot take on a tower of witches alone...

‘Dear mom and dad,

How is the farm? Are the corn schutes showing yet? I miss you. Not much to report about the Abbey. I like my classes, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at magic yet. We got a new farm boy, he’s very nice! He may have set the tower on fire a little...but it was an honest mistake. I think. Hug Oliven for me. I can’t wait to see how big he’s grown! I’ll write again soon.

Love,

Heedee’