Unable to stand my thoughts any longer, I swung from the bed and dropped to the floor beside my husband. He breathed, slow and rhythmic. Peaceful. Nightmares didn’t plague his sleep. Slipping beneath the blankets, I pressed close to him. Rested my cheek against his back and savored his warmth as it seeped into my skin. My eyes fluttered shut, and my breathing slowed to match his.
In the morning. I would deal with everything in the morning.
His breathing faltered slightly as I drifted to sleep.
A Clever Little Witch
Lou
The small mirror above the basin was unkind the next morning. I scowled at my reflection. Pale cheeks, swollen eyes. Dry lips. I looked like death. I felt like death.
The bedroom door opened, but I continued staring at myself, lost in thought. Nightmares had always plagued my sleep, but last night—last night had been worse. I stroked the scar at the base of my throat softly, remembering.
It had been my sixteenth birthday. A witch entered womanhood at sixteen. My fellow witchlings had been excited for theirs, anxious to receive their rites as Dames Blanches.
I’d been different. I’d always known my sixteenth birthday would be the day I died. I’d accepted it—welcomed it, even, when my sisters had showered me with love and praise. My purpose since birth had been to die. Only my death could save my people.
But as I’d laid on that altar, the blade pressing into my throat, something had changed.
I had changed.
“Lou?” My husband’s voice echoed through the door. “Are you decent?”
I didn’t answer him. Humiliation burned in my gut at last night’s weakness. I clenched the basin, glaring at myself. I’d actually slept on the floor to be close to him. Weak.
“Lou?” When I still didn’t respond, he cracked the door open. “I’m coming in.”
Ansel hovered behind him, face drawn and concerned. I rolled my eyes at my reflection.
“What’s wrong?” My husband’s eyes searched my face. “Has something happened?”
I forced a smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”
They exchanged glances, and my husband jerked his head to the door. I pretended not to notice as Ansel left, as an awkward silence descended.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally.
“A dangerous pastime.”
He ignored me, swallowing hard. He had the air of someone about to rip off a bandage—equal parts determined and terrified. “There’s a show at Soleil et Lune tonight. Maybe we could go?”
“What show is it?”
“La Vie éphémère.”
Of course it was. I chuckled without humor, staring at the shadows beneath my eyes. After Madame Labelle’s visit, I’d stayed up late into the night finishing Emilie and Alexandre’s story to distract myself. They’d lived and loved and died together—and for what?
It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.
Hope.
A hope they would never see, would never feel, would never touch. As elusive as smoke. As flickering flames.
The story was more fitting than my husband would ever know. The universe—or God, or the Goddess, or whoever—seemed to be poking fun at me. And yet . . . I glanced around at the stone walls. My cage. It’d be nice to escape this wretched place, even for a little while.
“Fine.”
I made to move past him into the bedroom, but he blocked the doorway. “Is something bothering you?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“Well I am concerned with it. You aren’t yourself.”
I managed a sneer, but it was too difficult to maintain. I yawned instead. “Don’t pretend to know me.”
“I know if you aren’t swearing or singing about well-endowed barmaids, something is wrong.” His mouth quirked, and he tentatively touched my shoulder, blue eyes sparkling. Like the sun on the ocean. I shook the thought away irritably. “What is it? You can tell me.”
No, I can’t. I turned away from his touch. “I said I’m fine.”
He dropped his hand, eyes shuttering. “Right. I’ll leave you alone then.”
I watched him leave with a twinge of what felt strangely like regret.
I poked my head out after a few moments, hoping he’d still be there, but he’d gone. My foul mood only worsened when I saw Ansel sitting at the desk. He watched me apprehensively, as if expecting me to sprout horns and spew fire—which, in this case, was exactly what I felt like doing.
I stormed toward him, and he leapt to his feet. A savage sort of satisfaction stole through me at his skittishness—then guilt. None of this was Ansel’s fault, and yet . . . I couldn’t force my spirits to lift. My dream still lingered. Unfortunately, so did Ansel.