When she headed out her door and through the gate, she could already hear the market in full swing. Mountain folk were enthusiastic, if not especially gifted, musicians, and the air always filled with song at their gatherings.
When she came upon the market, her eyes searched for Tom, as they always did, but he was nowhere. She made her way through the stalls, and waving to friends, she tried to be cheered by their goodwill, but something started to overcome her, a strange sense of foreboding. She told herself that it was all due to the growing darkness of the sky and the sudden chill that whipped through the air, but she knew that couldn’t be it. She felt very much as if she was being watched, and though she did her best to calm herself, she was growing increasingly uneasy as she moved through the stalls.
She leaned against a pole and tried to talk herself down from her bizarre flight of fancy. Surely no one could be watching her. She was not a girl whom people watched. But turning around, she noticed a woman staring at her from several stalls away, and quickly her fear turned to curiosity.
The woman was like none other she’d ever seen. Her skin was as dark as a winter storm, and her beauty alone would have caused her to stand out, but her height was so extreme as to be aberrant. She was taller than any man in Nag’s End, and her ebony hair was piled on top of her head like a crown, white feathers and jewels woven throughout. Her gown, blue as the sky and made from exotic finery, gave the impression of royalty. It hung on the woman’s frame as if it were made of cloud dust, falling from her high neck straight down to the dirt as if it had a life of its own. Yes, she looked very much like a queen, and for a moment, Rowan wondered if she might be part of the duke’s retinue. She stared at Rowan like she knew her, and Rowan cocked her head as if to ask if she should know her as well, but the woman shook her head and smiled. It was a sweet smile, an inviting smile, and Rowan realized that she very much wanted to speak with this woman, whoever she was. But just then, Mama Lune came to stand next to the beautiful queen.
Rowan’s father was certain that all witches were charlatans, and while Rowan agreed with him, she could not deny that there was something different about Mama Lune. No one knew how old she was, but physically she seemed to linger in the prime of her womanhood. Henry Rose attributed this peculiarity to some herb she must eat—something that grew deeper in the forest and which she fed on out of vanity. Whatever herbs the Greenwitches used, he reasoned, most likely could be used by a man with similar efficacy, but witches kept such secrets to themselves, using them as sources of power. Give Dr. Temper the same twigs and leaves, her father was fond of saying, and he could no doubt work magic as well.
Mama Lune slid her arm through the stranger’s. Pale, with deep red hair flowing wild to her waist, Mama Lune did not exactly conjure images of castles and courts. Her simple green dress and her threadbare slippers seemed out of place beside her friend’s finery, and yet there existed an obvious sorority between them. Suddenly Rowan realized what she ought to have guessed right away: the beautiful stranger was a Bluewitch.
As a child, Rowan had learned all she could about the different kinds of witches. Greywitches—often called metal witches because of their penchant for collecting and hoarding silver—had been wicked creatures. When they’d thrived, they’d been the scourge of the land, but the other kinds of witches—the surviving witches—were relatively harmless. There were Redwitches, who drew their power from passion, and Woodwitches, who lived like sprites in small forest colonies, and of course, Greenwitches were the healers. The Greenwitches often lived in the forest just outside a village, limning the space between the tame and the wild, always a short trip away from the birthing women and the quietly dying but far enough from prying eyes. Of all the witches, the Bluewitches had been Rowan’s favorite. Bluewitches were diviners, and water was their natural medium. Like water, they tended to ramble, wandering as the water beneath the ground did, ever flowing, ever moving. They were also known to be especially beautiful.
Rowan was certain that the lovely creature before her was a Bluewitch, and while the novelty of it excited her, she had to remind herself that the woman was still a witch, and witches functioned outside the laws of man. They followed their own religion, and their own codes, and the fact of it frightened Rowan.
The two women looked at each other and then seemed to make up their minds. Before they took even a step, Rowan knew they were coming to talk to her, and deciding she most definitely didn’t want to talk to them, she turned and started back through the crowds, moving at a pace that was neither customary nor polite. Turning her head, she saw that the two women were gliding along behind her—the crowd parting for them as people called out greetings to the Greenwitch and her enchanting friend.
Rowan’s breath caught, and she fought the sensation that was slowly creeping up her legs, grasping at her heart, starting to squeeze. She looked over her shoulder again. They were only a few paces behind her, walking with that light and steady gait. Rowan knew she needed to escape them, and she plunged through the crowd. And then she felt a finger brush her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see green lacquered nails, and she knew that the hand belonged to Mama Lune. She ought to turn. It was rude not to do so, but her father had spent her entire life warning her about this woman. Alone, she found herself without her armor. She could feel the witch’s teeth trained on her, and she could barely breathe.
An arm caught her from the side, and she let out a yelp. She looked up to see Tom, his gentle face awash with concern.
“Ro, are you okay? You look scared to death.”
Rowan felt a material soft as bog moss brush against her, and out of the corner of her eye she could tell that it was sky blue. She could feel the two women pass her by, and then there with Tom holding her arm, she was brave enough to steal a glance.
They’d started off on the path that led through the forest to Mama Lune’s house, their colorful gowns sweeping behind them. The Bluewitch stopped for a moment and seemed to be consulting a tree in the most peculiar way. Nodding, she came to a decision and snapped a small branch from the young tree—a dowsing rod, for those were the tools of a Bluewitch’s trade—and, as if sensing Rowan, the Bluewitch turned and smiled, then looped her arm through Mama Lune’s again, and they continued on their path. Soon they disappeared into the heart of the woods, as if the forest had swallowed them whole.
“Are you okay, Ro?” Tom asked again, shaking her gently, his voice concerned.
She blinked as if to clear her head, and looked up at him. “I’m fine. I just … something weird happened, or I don’t really know what happened, I guess.”
Tom took her shoulders in his hands. “Do you need to sit down?”
“No,” she said, slowly returning to normal. “No, I’m fine. Really I am.” And then, looking at his heavy winter coat, she laughed. “Haven’t you packed that thing away for the season? We’re not in the midst of a blizzard, Tom.”
“Your problem is you’re not dressed warmly enough,” he teased. “The skies have taken a turn, and you chose not to heed it because you prefer yourself in your autumn cloak.”
“At least I don’t look like I’m being swallowed alive by a dog.”
“It’s called foresight, Rowan. I saw the signs of an approaching storm, and I went up to the attic and got out my heavy coat. I’d only just packed it away after the trek up to …” Rowan knew he was about to say “after the trek to Beggar’s Drift,” but he winced and cut himself short.