Ronan took a calm bite of his bread. “I’m a quick learner.”
I glanced at him. I had to see his expression. It was the same cold blank mask he’d worn for three months.
Mage Wolfson nodded. “On the morrow, I’m sending crates of wizards’ orbs and medicine to Carendale Castle. She’ll go in the wagon with them.”
So soon. Ronan didn’t take his attention from his plate. No flash of pain went across his face. If anything, he looked relieved to be rid of me.
This was to be our farewell. No goodbyes. No declarations. I would not tell him that he was my world, and I was the sun meant to warm him.
Even though I wasn’t done filling glasses, I spun on my heel and stalked off to the kitchen. I set my pitcher down on the carving table and, without a word of excuse, stormed out the back door. I ran toward the orchards at the far end of the castle grounds. Once I was hidden among the trees, I repeated a transformation incantation, attempting to turn myself into a falcon. I would fly into the air, wing away, go far from here. I wouldn’t be sold alongside crates of wizards’ orbs and fever tinctures as though my value was not much more than either of those things.
My mark was nearly the size of Ronan’s now. Surely I had sufficient power. More than one text said the way to access one’s internal reserve was with firm, concentrated desire. If that was the key, my desperation should sprout wings from my back.
My plans were already expanding, options ticking away in my mind. After I flew away, I’d live as a hermit in the forest, or find some family well off enough to pay for a tutor, or better yet, go to a nunnery and spend the rest of my life repenting for ever loving Ronan.
I pressed my eyes closed and repeated the incantation, concentrating on the image of a falcon. My arms tingled. I felt them grow and stretch. I lifted them, expecting to see feathers. Instead, greyish-brown bark scaled along my skin like cracking mud. I’d pictured a falcon. Why was I turning into a tree? My feet gripped the ground and burrowed into the dirt. Twigs pushed through my arms and leaves unfurled like tiny flags. Small leaves with five points. A hawthorn tree.
In my panic, I forgot what the reverse incantation was, and when I did have the presence of mind to retrieve it from my memory, I could no longer speak. My lips were sealed together underneath the layer of bark.
Would I be stuck here forever?
I could still see the courtyard, though I didn’t know how without my human eyes. Either trees had senses unknown to me, or magic preserved a wizard’s sight even during these sorts of transformations.
I thought the words of the reverse incantation, shouting them in my mind.
The bark disintegrated from my body. My arms shrunk. Roots became toes once more. I ran my fingers along my face and neck to make sure I was completely human. I was, thank the saints. One of them must be the protector of girls who made rash decisions.
I recalled each word of the incantation, trying to discover my mistake. I’d pictured a falcon, said the name for a falcon, and turned into a tree. Perhaps the problem was I’d reached into my reserve using sorrow. Perhaps sorrow was forever connected toRonan, and the hawthorn tree had become the symbol of that pain.
I tried the incantation again, feeling anger this time. Anger for Wolfson who’d nearly fed me to his beast and had forced Ronan to kill villagers. Anger at Ronan for obeying him and abandoning me. Anger that scars would always mar my face.
Heat radiated through my body and pulsed through my blood. A stirring roiled deep inside me; some animal thing growing, reaching, snapping its teeth. Dark fur bristled on my arms. Whatever this animal was, it had no wings, and I didn’t know how to control its wildness. My anger, apparently, couldn’t transform itself into the shape of a falcon either.
My fingers curled into claws and my teeth sharpened—A wolf, I realized. If I finished transforming, I’d be in danger. The men at arms would spear me on sight.
I stopped repeating the incantation and the heat in my body drained away. The spell hadn’t been completed, so it unraveled like knitting when the yarn was pulled. Fur faded. Claws disappeared.
I sank to the ground, exhausted, and wrapped my arms around my legs. My plan to escape had been a foolish one anyway. Where would I go, a scarred, penniless servant? How would I feed and clothe myself? The morrow would come, and with it, my sale. My fate was beyond my control. All I could hope was that since Ronan knew where I was going, he would one day come for me.
I stayed in the orchard for several more minutes, head down, defeated. Finally, I trudged back inside and told Cook Lindon of my sale. She was the only one who would miss me.
She held me enfolded in her thick arms and wept.
“Perhaps I’ll be allowed to write to you,” I said.
“Where would you get the parchment?” She immediately added, “Don’t even think of stealing any from your new master. You’ve no one to look out for you at Carendale.”
I knew a spell for turning onion skins into parchment. “Perhaps I can retrieve scraps from the rubbish.”
She pulled away from me and shook her head, bits of brown hair coming loose from her cap. “Even if you managed to find someone to carry a letter back here, who would read it to me?”
She had a point. None of the kitchen staff could read, and the steward would think such a task beneath him. I nearly told her that Ronan would do it, but I wasn’t sure he would. I wasn’t sure of anything about him anymore. Besides, I didn’t want him to read about my dreary life at Carendale or the menial tasks I performed there.
“If I can’t write,” I said, “then you’ll just have to know that every wagon that comes from Carendale will carry some of my love back to you.”
She forced a smile and ran her hand across my forehead, pushing away the hair I let fall over my face—my attempt to hide as much of it as possible. Her fingers brushed against the ridges on my cheek. “Perhaps it’s not a bad thing, your scars. Might keep you safe from the wandering eyes of the men at Carendale.”
A small blessing. Not one I considered worth the price.