The day passed too swiftly. I scrubbed the cottage till it shone, stewed a humble meal of barley and onions. Through it all I felt as if I moved through a haze, each moment slipping through my grasp before I could seize it.

And there he stood, the miller, stooping to pass under our lintel, a jug of mead clutched in one ham of a fist. His grin was a hunter's.

"Greetings, fair Pernivish," he rumbled. I curtsied slightly, avoiding his gaze. This man would soon be my husband, yet he looked upon me as a farmer eyes his livestock.

Somehow, I weathered the meal. I choked down a few morsels, my throat constricting with each swallow. It was dung in my mouth. I could mind naught but the miller, sat too near, his leg brushing mine beneath the board. His pathetic overtures dwindled and expired under my silence. I would not laugh at his lewd japes, nor indulge his prying. A small, savage joy kindled in me over it. I would not make myself agreeable to him, come what might of my grandsires' wishes.

After dinner with the miller, I fled to my chamber and barred the door. I did not even attempt sleep, knowing that rest would not find me in my agitated state. Instead, I knelt at my small casement window, peering out into the moon-washed woods that surrounded our farm. Somewhere out there, among the shadowed trees, stood the ancient standing stones. And somewhere, walking paths hidden to mortal sight, the mysterious woman was making her way through the forest.

I knew there would be no flight this night. Not with my grandparents on alert after the miller's visit. I pressed my fingertips to the warped glass of the window pane, yearning to feel the cool night air on my face and hear the whisper of the forest calling me. But the world outside was sealed away, the trees and moonlight forbidden to me now.

I turned from the casement and seated myself upon my straitened cot, the harsh woolen blanket drawn close about my shoulders. I had known the road ahead of me: betrothal, marriage, issuing children until my beauty waned. That fate now seemed so small. There were secrets in the waters the sorceress had bent. She vowed to return and instruct me. I stared at the walls of my chamber.

When pale light at last stole through my casement, I sprang from my bed and dressed in dispatch. There were tasks to be seen to, victuals to prepare and serve. Belowstairs, I concocted porridge and set it to simmer. The humdrum of it calmed me, even as my flesh prickled with anticipation of sundown.

My grandparents did not tarry long before joining me, their faces etched in hard lines. We broke our fast in silence. I felt their keen eyes upon me, ever on the lookout. But I kept my gaze down and spoke only when spoken to.

The day dragged by, each hour stretching in agony. I scrubbed and swept, tended the goats and chickens, hauled water from the well -- a dozen small tasks that should have filled the day, yet seemed to fill no time at all. Time and again I caught myself staring out windows or across the fields, willing the sun to dip below the horizon. At last, the evening meal was prepared and served. We ate baked trout in silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. I bolted down my portion and begged leave to be excused. I did not meet my grandmother's shrewd eye as I fled back to my room.

Alone again behind my barred door, I paced between window and bed like a caged animal. The final, failing rays of day had fled my window, the woods without falling dim. It would not be long before full dark. I laced my fingers, stilled their tremble. Was it wise, this venture into the night? My grandparents' anger yet smoldered from my last absence. Another empty bed come morn would only feed their ire.

Yet the notion of lingering within this place, ensnared amid these walls whilst unknowable truths called from the forest, was insupportable. I yearned to feel sorcery coursing through my veins. I yearned to behold the witch's nod of approval with each fresh precept I mastered. Most of all, I yearned to savor liberty, if only for a scant few hours beneath the moon.

The last warm shades were fading from the sky. It was time. I moved with care, that the boards might not creak beneath my tread, and took my hooded cloak from its peg, drawing it about my shoulders. I loosed the door, wincing at the faintest groan of the hinges, and stole down the shadowed hall toward the postern. My heart thudded so loud I feared my grandsire and grandame must hear it, even in their bedchamber.

Finally, I arrived at the portal unseen. I drew the bolt and stepped forth into the night, the air brisk upon me. I traversed the yard beneath the moon and dove into the woods. There I halted, my back to a mighty oak, and drew breath. Then I turned and set off down the winding track, my steps sure. I was bound for another meeting with the witch, to be further instructed in our craft.

Lost in my expectancy, I did not discern the footfalls until they were on me. I stilled. The steps were ponderous, dragging through the underbrush. 'Fore I could steal into the umbrage, a shape loomed from the trees. Even in the little light, I knew the man by his awkward tread.

"Girl!" the miller called in a hoarse whisper. "Why do you skulk at this hour?"

I shrank as he neared. His face was broad and flushed, no doubt with drink; the same sly grin he wore at dinner was fixed there.

"I had not thought to find you abroad this night," he continued. "Were you out to meet me in secret? Eager for a sample of your husband?" He chuckled at his own vulgarity.

"Pray, I must away," I retorted, wheeling to take my leave. But the miller seized my wrist, his fingers digging in.

"Not so hasty," he mumbled. "Stay, talk." His other hand snaked toward my shoulder.

I wrenched free. "Unhand me!" My cry echoed through the quiet wood.

He blinked, then clamped down harder. His breath was rank with drink. We locked gazes for a heartbeat until a twig snapped. Through the trees, I spied a figure drawing near. The miller released my wrist with a startled oath and fumbled for the cudgel at his belt, but as the figure drew nigh, the feeble light revealed a familiar form.

She halted before us, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. The miller shrank back at the sight of her, his cudgel forgotten.

"This matter does not concern you, wench," he spat. "Be on thy way."

The witch's eyes narrowed, but her voice was cool. "The girl is my apprentice. I'll not have her accosted by a sot in the woods."

The miller bristled, his chest puffing out. "Apprentice? Do not make me laugh. She is betrothed to me, promised as my wife. I'll discipline her as I see fit."

I watched the exchange mutely, poised to flee into the trees. The witch glanced at me, her hazel eyes inscrutable.

"Is it so?" she inquired softly. "You are betrothed to this man?"

I gave a fractional nod.

She regarded me a moment more 'fore she faced the miller anew. "It matters not. Depart."

The miller stood over us, his fists balled, his face mottled in the gloom. For a moment, it seemed he might gainsay her command. Then his shoulders slumped and he turned away, muttering as he lurched off into the woods. I let out a breath I had not known I was holding. The witch remained where she was, watching the miller until he had disappeared from view. Only then did she look at me, her hand still on the pommel of her sword.

"Are you injured?"

Her tone was soft, though her manner was marred. I shook my head, then cast my gaze down.

"Pray, forgive me," I murmured. "I should not have been abroad this night. Had I not stolen away..."

The witch raised my chin with a calloused digit. "You have no cause to beg my pardon. The fault lies with the drunkard." Her eyes raked my face. "Does this betrothal displease you so?"

I hesitated, torn. It was my grandparents' expectation that I accept their choice meekly, yet I found I could not dissemble beneath the witch's shrewd gaze.

"The miller is a loathsome man," I admitted. "I will have no part of him."

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She nodded slowly. "I thought as much. But come, we will speak no more of it tonight." She gestured deeper into the woods. "We have tarried long enough. Are you prepared?"

I drew myself up, pushing thoughts of the miller from my mind. This was why I had braved the forest tonight - for my lesson in the hidden arts.

"Yes," I replied, my voice steady. "I'm ready."

The witch set off down the path, her stride surefoot. I hurried to keep pace as we wended our way through the close-grown trees. The forest seemed to wake about us, shadows stirring, leaves whispering though no wind stirred them. The moon lit our way between the boughs overhead.

"Shall we begin?" said the witch, arching one scarred brow.

I nodded, scarce able to contain my eagerness. The witch spoke in a low, rhythmic timbre. Her words wove a coil of sound that seemed to ache through me. I listened intently, committing each phrase to memory. This was the incantation that would unbar some distant secret.

As the witch concluded, she inclined her head to me. I squared my shoulders and raised my hands, marshaling my intent as she had instructed. The sorcery was within my reach. I had but to give it voice.

The first words trembled past my lips. I spoke them again, my voice growing stronger. It sounded as if a dragon's deep tongue. This was only the barest sip of magic, yet already I was drunk on it.

"Very good," the witch said, observing my industry.

I beamed, buoyed by her praise. We practiced a while longer, the witch teaching me ever more complex manipulations. The witch looked on, nodding approvingly as I twisted roots into the shape of a falcon taking flight.

"You have talent, no doubt."

Her praise swelled my heart. This was a gift, I understood, a thing of my own. These ancient words felt more mine than anything ever had. As I persisted in study, exulting in the burgeoning of my art, a daring notion bubbled in my mind. If I might wield the world so deftly, perhaps I might also wield my fate.

"Enough for this eve," she pronounced. "You should rest."

My elation dimmed slightly. I wished to continue, to push myself further. But the witch took my arm firmly.

"Do not be greedy. There will be other lessons."

I nodded reluctantly. As much as I yearned to remain, the witch was right. She drew her cloak close and looked to the lightening sky. The witch glanced at me, her eyes glinting knowingly.

"Of this betrothal," she commenced, her tone measured. "It troubles you deeply."

I hesitated, unpracticed in such candid talk. But the witch's steady regard was indulgent and coaxing.

"Yes," I confessed.

The witch nodded, gesturing for me to continue as we walked together beneath the whispering boughs.

"He is gross, and unkind," I pursued, growing firm. "Already he takes liberties no gentleman would. I dread the beast he will be when I am his."

I shook my head, bile rising in my throat. The witch was silent a moment.

"Marriage need not be so rotten," she said at last. "With the right partner, it can be a union of two halves"

Her words surprised me. I had not thought to hear such gentle notions from a warrior witch.

"Perhaps for some," I conceded. "But not for me. Not to the miller."

She studied my face. "Is there no recourse? Can the betrothal not be undone?"

I laughed, but it was a dry sound. "It is not so simple. The pact is sealed, the dowry fixed. My grandsire and grandame will brook no gainsay.'"

At this, the witch's expression hardened.

"They do as they think right," I replied, my tone level. In truth, their actions wounded me, but I would not speak ill of them. Not to a stranger.

"I have known such fetters," she said, slowly. "They chafe the spirit, in time."

I saw a shadow move behind her eyes, a darkness that whispered of deep wounds. But it was gone in an instant, and she regarded me with her usual stoic keenness.

"Your cantrips improves apace," she observed, "With study, you may find means to shape a life more to your liking."

We pressed on through the wood, our footfalls hushed by the carpet of autumn's leavings. I stole a look at her as we walked, noting the strong lines of her face beneath the close-cropped hair: though it bore the marks of old violence, there was an economy of movement that spoke to her long practices. This was no mere hedge-witch, but a true adept.

I yearned to know more of her - her origins, her tutelage, her art. But she had been sparing with her history, reticent during our lessons. I divined she was not wont to talk on herself. Still, she had offered more this evening.

"You mentioned before that you, too, had known chains," I ventured. Her stride hitched almost imperceptibly, but she did not slow or turn to me. I hurried on before I lost my nerve.

"I do not wish to pry, but if you are willing, I would hear your thoughts."

For a long moment she held her peace. I feared I had presumed too much. But at last she sighed.

"Indeed. Since you ask, I shall share." She shot me a sidelong glance. "Maddel is my name. And yes, I was once betrothed."

I listened raptly as she continued. "But I was headstrong then, and stubborn. I spurned the match, my thoughts solely on my own appetites. In so doing, I brought great grief upon my family."

Her words struck. Had I too been so bold as to come to study the Art? Had I been so self-absorbed as to consider only my own unrest?

Maddel went on, her voice low. "In the end, I was cast out from all I knew. For many years I wandered alone, mastering what skills I could." She touched the hilt of her sword. "Thus, I am what you see before you."

I ruminated on this as we strode in silence. Maddel's was a story alike and unlike to my own - she, too, had wearied of the strictures of custom, but the toll had been heavy. I was honored that she had given even so slender a slice of herself.

"Thank you for entrusting me with such. I know it must be an ordeal to revisit. But I feel I have a better measure of you now."

Maddel glanced my way, a hint of a smile gracing her lips. "As do I understand you better."

In some manner, her words raised my spirits and loosed a spill of hope within me. Maddel and I pressed on through the wood, tracing the sinuous forest path. Despite the hour, I was as alert as I had ever been, my prior weariness gone. I desired nothing so much as to talk thaumaturgy with Maddel.

"Other lessons, you said," I began, "There is yet so much I would know."

"Patience, little one. Your desire for knowledge does you credit, but you must mix it with discretion. The craft will not be hastened."

"Pardon me," I ventured. "I intend only gratitude for your instruction. You have afforded me much."

Maddel nodded. "And in return, you have shown promise as a student. But promise alone is not enough."

Her words rocked my frame an inch. I felt she was gauging my mettle - to see if I truly possessed this road in me.

"I know there is danger, but I am prepared to brave it." I hesitated, then added in a quieter voice, "This is the first thing I have ever chosen for myself. I cannot turn away from it now."

"I believe you."

I considered my straitened existence in the hovel. Of the joyless agitations. A lifetime enchained by the caprices of the village.

"Whatever may come, it cannot be worse."

Maddel's expression softened a jot. "You are bold, child. Hold to that spirit."

I was awash in gratitude and optimism. If Maddel would be my attendant, perhaps I could indeed navigate these currents. As we proceeded through the sylvan hush, I swore I would not waste the opportunity she had afforded me.

I considered her words as we walked on. The first pale light of dawn was breaking through the trees. Our lesson was at its end. I inclined my head respectfully to my mentor, then turned and hastened back through the trees towards home. She departed likewise.

As I walked, I cradled the memory of magic tingling at my fingertips. My throat still stang from working the spell. I had much to consider.

I crept back through the pre-dawn stillness, my thoughts churning with all that had transpired this night. The forest seemed to hold its breath around me as I retraced my path, leaves and loam hushing my footfalls. I had lingered overlong on my covert errand already. If my absence was discovered, there would be many Hells to pay.

The thought of my grandparents' wrath soured my elation somewhat. They would not understand where I had gone, or why. The world of spells and scrying was as foreign to them as the bitter sea and the lands across. They expected me to live out my days according to their strictures, dutiful and compliant as a milk cow. I would pass from their custody to the miller's, exchanging one set of owners for another.

Buoyed by purpose, I quickened my pace through the familiar trees. The eastern sky was warming to pearl-grey, limning the branches ahead. I would have to use my little woodcraft to slip back into the cottage unmarked. Fortune seemed to favor me this once for no lamp or candle flickered in the windows as I stole up to the squat hovel. I held my breath as I gingerly pried apart the warped door, wincing at the groan of its leather hinges. I hesitated on the threshold, straining my ears. Nothing stirred but the soft whimper of my grandparents' slumber.

With all the speed and silence I could muster, I barred the door and made for my straw. I sank into it with a gratitude belied by the leadenness of my limbs, now that my errand was done. I had returned unobserved. I would rest and later again venture forth into the night to see what more Maddel might instruct.

"Maddel," I whispered. A pretty name.

I knew now that I had found my calling.