Title of Story: The Season of the Witch
Word Count: 11442
Type of Edward: Witchhunterward
Category (Literotica or Young Adult): Literotica
Story Summary: After studying under his famous Uncle, young Edward Cullen is sought by a small Northeastern town to rid them of a suspected witch before another child dies, a victim of her black magic. Rumors and whispers are rampant and all of them point to the town outcast, Isabella Swan. Will Edward discover the truth, or fall under the witch's spell?
Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
October 16th, 1692
I have been summoned to assist in the purge of the small town of Renchester, to the north of the city. After visiting Uncle in Salem, I feel confident that I am capable of such a task. He is, after all, such a wise teacher. Such a man of devout faith and knowledge. I only hope that one day I will be like him. A warrior of God. A man against Satan and his followers. A slayer of black magic. And I am convinced now, more than ever, that these witches they speak of... are real.
"We're nearly there, Mr. Cullen," my driver calls from the front of the carriage.
I have traveled nearly into nightfall through the twisted maze of paths that cut through the trees. The tall woods are now nothing more than dark shadows, reaching for me like long, strange arms. I am delighted to hear we have arrived.
A small speck of light, a glowing orb floats in mid air down the road. As we approach, I realize it is a lantern hung on a post. For a brief moment while the carriage passes, I see a dismal trail leading back into the trees. Seems a little far out of town for someone to be living. Unless they are up to no good. I make a note in my journal to ensure a visit.
We travel for a little longer before the horses' clunk-clunk of a trot slows, now staccato and sharp on the cobblestone street.
The small town rises before us, shrouded in a thick fog rolling in like the flow of a river. Several small buildings and houses surround the town square, where a beautiful fountain lays dormant. Past the fountain, down a thinned drive lined with lanterns and overrun with magnificent trees, sits a house. But not just a house. A house the size of three that we'd just passed. The building itself is intimidating, rising like a giant in the mist.
"We're going to that house there," I lean out of the carriage and point to the monstrous residence, not oblivious to the eyes watching me from the darkened windows behind us. They must know who I am. Why I'm here. They requested my help. Mr. Denali did personally.
Before the carriage stops at the door, a round, short man hobbles out onto the porch, a candle lighting his way.
"Mr. Cullen, welcome to Denali Manor. We are so glad you are here." He bows before opening my carriage door.
"Thank you, sir." I step down and straighten my jacket, which has unfortunately collected some wrinkles along the journey.
"Mr. Denali awaits your arrival in the study, just inside. May I collect your things?" He asks.
"Jacob?" I call to my driver. "Please assist this gentleman."
Jacob hops down from his seat as I start up the steps. The door lies open, so I let myself in.
The grand foyer that awaits me is impeccable, draped in majestic art, tapestries, and centered with a grand chandelier hanging overtop from the floor above.
"Amazing," I whisper.
"Mr. Cullen?" A voice calls from a doorway to my right. I find the door half open, the flicker of a fire dancing on the walls inside.
"Mr. Denali?"
"Come in."
I push the door open and step into a study. The walls are lined with book after book, from maps to novels to knowledge. An ornate wood desk is nestled into a corner, just beside the fireplace, where a delicate fire is alight.
"Thank you so much for coming so quickly." Mr. Denali stands from his chair, nursing a small glass of liquor in his hand. "We are ever in need of your assistance."
"Of course. I am happy to help. And I am so sorry for your loss. Losing a child is never easy, especially in such a way."
"Yes." He nods, setting his glass down. "There will be time for talk tomorrow. Tonight, I wanted to personally make sure you are settled in your quarters."
"I am sorry to arrive so late and keep you awake. We had a late start from Boston."
"No bother." He leads me back into the hallway just as Jacob and the other man are scurrying up the stairs with my things.
Mr. Denali leads me to the second floor and down a dark hallway, barely lit with one candle burning on a table in the middle. We pass one door, and then another, and another. I pause at the last, distracted for the slightest moment by the soft crying coming from behind the wood.
"My wife is having trouble dealing with little Maggie's loss. Forgive her if she is not sociable." Mr. Denali smiles apologetically and continues to the last remaining door at the end of the hallway.
It's left open for us, exposing a staircase leading up to another floor.
"Your own personal apartment for your stay," Mr. Denali says, allowing me to walk up before him.
The stair boards creak and moan under my weight, exposing the age of the home. It's quite magnificent, really. One of the first built on the settlement by Mr. Denali's grandfather, the one who founded the town.
My apartment, as he calls it, is the attic more or less, made up into a quaint room. There is a bed, desk, and lamp, as well as a washing basin. The window beside the bed looks out over the entrance, where Jacob is pulling away with the carriage to put it up for the night.
Once I am settled, Mr. Denali bids me goodnight and I retire to bed. My body melts into the bed, exhausted from my day's journey and I find instant sleep. Unfortunately, I am plagued with dreams. Not nightmares, but not clear, happy images either.
She comes in and out of focus, shrouded in a cloud of darkness. The one thing, the only thing I can see clearly are her eyes. Dark brown, the color of the most beautiful bark of the trees.
And each time she opens her mouth to tell me something, I awake, a cold sweat beading on my forehead.
I fight with this mysterious woman throughout the night, sleeping and waking in a restless cycle. By the time the sun breaks over the rooftops, I pull myself from bed, conceding defeat and praying that she will have moved on from my thoughts by the time I lay my head on my pillow tonight.
As I finish dressing, there is a knock on my door.
"Mr. Cullen?" A lady's voice calls.
"Yes?" I stand from my bed, securing one last button on my jacket.
The door pops open, followed by a tentative head of summer gold hair. The woman, not much younger than I, steps inside and smiles with a bow. Her black dress covers her from floor to neck, complete with gloves all the way to the tips of her fingers.
"I am Tanya Denali. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cullen."
"You as well. Are you Mr. Denali's daughter?"
Her smile wanes, barely holding steady. "He's waiting for you in the study."
"Of course." I clear my throat and grab my journal to take notes.
I follow Tanya downstairs in silence, where she breaks off at the bottom of the stairs in the opposite direction, back into the heart of the house. I continue towards the study and find Mr. Denali, as well as another gentleman inside.
"Mr. Cullen," Mr. Denali says. "I trust you slept well."
"Of course," I lie. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"This is Doctor James Smith. I have asked him to sit in with this meeting."
I shake Dr. Smith's hand and sit in the only empty chair in the room, opening my journal to the first empty page.
"Please begin at the start of the strange incidents," I say, testing out my pen. The ink sputters onto the page in blots before I'm able to write the date.
"There have been rumblings of haunted woods and black magic ever since I was a child in this town," Dr. James says with a smile. "But it never amounted to anything more than late night tales until recently."
"The neighbor boy was the first to fall ill. Then the child down the street. Then my Maggie," Mr. Denali says. "All within days of each other."
"Symptoms?" I ask, nodding to Dr. Smith.
"Severe convulsions," Dr. Smith says.
"Like they were possessed by the Devil himself," Mr. Denali stares into the center of the room, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Particularly six feet below ground where his precious daughter lies.
"We also noted severe stomach pain, especially in Miss Maggie's case."
"She said it felt like there was an animal clawing her stomach," Mr. Denali says. "She slipped into a death like sleep before she slipped away completely." He tears up, dabbing at his eyes with a kerchief. "My wife and son are beside themselves with grief."
"Son? Is Miss Tanya not your child?" I look up from my notes.
"We took her in when she was a child. My wife did not believe God planned for her to bare a child. I allowed the orphan to take my name and when she was nearly ten years old, we became blessed with twin children of our own. They were my miracles."
"I see." I turn back to Dr. Smith. "And has anyone else in town fallen ill? Is there any connection between the children, anything at all that may have made them sick?"
"None. All of the children in town are friends, attend schooling together. These three are the only to show the signs."
"Signs of what?"
"Black magic."
"And what brings you to that conclusion, Dr. Smith?"
"I have no medical evidence to identify or connect these children's deaths."
"We found the bags!" Mr. Denali says, raising his voice.
"The bags, sir?" I ask.
"The curse bags. One below my Maggie's window and one below each of the other two children. Devil's work, I tell you. The Devil."
"I see."
The floorboards by the entry creak, exposing Tanya and her tray of tea. "Something warm to drink?" She offers.
She sets a teacup down in front of us all, lingering longer at the doctor's chair while she adjusts her tray.
"And do you have any suspicions of who may be conducting this black magic?" I ask, blowing on my hot tea. The steam rises from my cup, warming my face in a most delightful scent of lavender and honey.
"We may..." Dr. Smith starts.
"Oh, please, James," Tanya spats, her usually sweet voice flaring into a spitfire. "We all know who the town witch is."
I put my pen down. "And who is this town witch, may I ask?"
"She lives just outside of town, in a decrepit cabin in the woods."
"Her name?"
"Isabella." Tanya sighs. "Isabella Swan."
The two gentlemen in the room fall silent, I assume confirming her accusation.
"You understand this is a very serious claim, Tanya? Are you absolutely positive?" I ask, standing from my seat.
"Absolutely. She killed my sister," Tanya says, offering the first claim of family between her the Denali's. "Maggie was my best friend. She's always hated our family, hated the entire town." She sniffles and brushes her hand over my arm. "Please make her pay for her sins, Mr. Cullen."
Dr. Smith and Mr. Denali shift behind me, standing from their seats.
"I'd like to speak to some of the townspeople. Possibly anyone who may have evidence to support claims of witchcraft or any experiences with Miss Swan." I nod, carrying myself and my journal into the lobby.
I spend the day interviewing anyone I can track down. Mrs. Talbott, the local teacher, tells me that Miss Swan is withdrawn and barely visits town. Mr. Hartford, who sells his produce at the market, claims she always asks for strange items. A couple young people I stop on the streets tell me stories of animal sacrifice and large fires out in the woods by Miss Swan's house. The elderly woman tells me that her son stumbled across Miss Swan chanting spells in the small garden behind her house. The most telling, and most chilling account comes from Mrs. Ford, who's little one Jeremiah passed in the same manor as Maggie. She tells me the day before he fell ill, he wandered outside of town and became lost. They sent out search parties and word around the small town, only to find him at Miss Swan's house drinking a warm cup of tea.
"Was there any malicious intent upon Miss Swan's part in this exchange?" I ask Mrs. Ford, as she finishes her account.
"Malicious intent?" Mrs. Ford says. "That young woman told me to watch my children before I lose them forever. Jeremiah was sick the next day and dead within two, Bless his Soul. I don't know what she did to him, but she killed my son."
"I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Ford."
She closes the door without another word and I'm left with a journal full of strange accounts.
I dine that evening with Mr. Denali and Tanya. Mrs. Denali is not feeling well, and stays upstairs and I'm starting to wonder if she even exists outside of that room.
"How did your investigation go today, Mr. Cullen?" Mr. Denali asks.
"Quite well," I say. "I plan to venture out tomorrow morning and meet Miss Swan myself."
Tanya's eyes flutter towards me, before settling back down on her plate.
"Very well." He nods and the conversation falls silent.
"You have such a lovely home here, Mr. Denali." I set down my fork and take a drink of a red spirit that makes my cheeks flush with heat.
"Thank you. Been in the family for decades. My grandfather passed it down to my father and he to I. And when I leave this earth it will go to my boy, Ethan."
"And Ethan is Maggie's brother?"
"Yes. The boy was visiting my own brother in the city when Maggie fell ill. I arranged for him to stay longer until we sort this all out. He's my only child." Mr. Denali goes back to his food. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tanya drop her fork onto her plate and push her chair back.
"Excuse me, please. I have lost my appetite," she says, darting out of the room. Mr. Denali barely looks up.
I can see that he's upset her and although I do not dare to interfere with their personal issues, it seems to bother Tanya that Mr. Denali does not consider her one of his children. Poor girl.
When we've finished eating, I consume another glass of spirits. By the time I finish the glass, my eyelids are heavy.
"Excuse me, Mr. Denali, but I must retire to bed. Thank you for the lovely meal." I nod and return to my attic apartment, falling asleep as soon as I lay down.
The alcohol keeps my dreams away, keeps the strange woman in my head away. I sleep soundly until the sun rises.
Jacob readies the carriage and we leave for Miss Swan's just as the townspeople wake. We travel down the road we had come just nights before, and according to Mr. Denali's instructions, stop at the lantern post by the side of the road.
I disembark, instructing Jacob to wait here for me.
"I shouldn't be long," I say.
The small path leading back from the post is engulfed by the trees just off the road. It appears so dark that I wonder if I need my own lantern to light the way.
I venture a step into the trees, and find it strangely lighter than I'm expecting. The sun breaks through the canopy of leaves just enough to give the forest a faint golden glow.
The path twists and turns, around large trunks and mossy fallen trees, nearly through bushes and vines and past a small creak. Just when I'm about to give up and turn back, I see the smoke of a chimney rise ahead of me. With a few more steps, her cabin comes into view, down a steep embankment.
The cabin itself is dismal, wood rotting away, at least one gap of a hole in the roof. The porch is decorated with various items hanging from the rafters, some beautiful some not. Furs, bones, flowers, strange rocks. Beside the cabin, a garden grows.
I straighten my jacket, grip my journal, and approach the cabin, listening for any signs of life. I glance up at the smoke filtering up from her chimney before I step onto the porch and knock on the decrepit door. I wait a few moments before I knock again. She does not answer.
"Miss Swan?" I call, stepping to the window. "My name is Edward Cullen, I'd just like to speak to you." Peering inside, I can see the cabin is empty, but the burning fire tells me she must be close. "Miss Swan?"
"Can I help you, sir?" A voice says, echoing from around the side of the cabin.
Startled, I leap back, clutching my journal to my chest. A young woman stands at the edge of the porch, her arms heavy with chopped wood. Her dark hair falls in loose waves down to the middle of her back and face is nearly covered in soot.
She narrows her eyes at me when I do not respond. "Sir?"
"Yes," I say, finally catching my breath. "Yes. I am sorry. You frightened me."
"You would not be the first." She brushes past me and throws the door open. Once inside, she sets the chopped wood beside the fire and brushes herself off before returning outside. "
"Are you Isabella Swan?" I ask.
"I am. Who are you?"
"My name is Edward Cullen. I'm staying with Mr. Denali and have been asked to investigate a series of suspicious deaths in the town."
"The children," she says, her eyes falling to the ground. "I was sorry to hear."
"Yes, quite. I have been conducting interviews with several townspeople and was hoping—"
"I know what they say about me, sir. No need to dress it up." She smiles sadly. "Would you like to come in?"
"Thank you." I nod and follow her inside. She gestures to her one and only chair and offers it to me.
"Would you like some tea?" She asks. I recall the incident with Mrs. Ford's son and politely decline, pulling out my journal.
"When you said you know what they say about you. What do you mean?" I ask.
She retreats to a small table and begins to prepare herself a cup of tea. "That I'm a witch, sir. That I worship the Devil and practice black magic...and that I had something do to with those poor children's' deaths."
"And what do you have to say about all of that?"
"They don't like me because I'm different. Did the same thing to my grandmother before she passed. This was her house."
"So you're testifying that you do not practice black magic, Miss Swan?"
"Am I on trial?" She asks, sipping from her tea.
"Miss Swan." I clear my throat. "Do you...practice witchcraft?"
"What do you believe witchcraft is, Mr. Cullen is it?" She asks.
"Witchcraft is the devil's work. Dark. Evil. Impure."
"Then, no. I do not practice your witchcraft."
Denial. Of course, I did not expect her to admit her crimes outright.
"Very well. Can you tell me a little about the incident with Jeremiah Ford. He was found here?"
"Poor child wandered out to the forest and became lost. When I found him, he was huddled beside a tree trying to keep warm."
"And you did not think to return him to his mother?"
Her anger flares. "I thought it best to make sure he was warm first, Mr. Cullen. If she was so concerned with his well being, perhaps she should pay better attention to her children and not allow them to wander off!"
I sigh. "Tell me about your family Miss Swan."
"I came to live with my grandmother after my parents died a few years ago."
"I see." I nod. "And your grandmother lived here long?"
"Her whole life. This was her father's house."
I close my journal. "That should be all for now, Miss Swan. I shall return when I have more questions."
"Please do. I would so hate to be a bother to the townspeople living out here all by my lonesome, minding my own business." She pouts and sips her tea once again. I do not respond to her unattractive tone.
"Good day, Miss Swan."
"Mr. Cullen."
I let myself out and return to the carriage, where Jacob is waiting. On the way back to town, I spot a cemetery off in the distance, just east of town.
"Jacob, that way, please," I call. I hope that possibly with a few moments of silent contemplation, I can collect my thoughts before I return to the Denali home.
A simple iron fence surrounds the headstones, guarded by a tall gate, overgrown with moss and reclaimed by the earth. Two graves, newly covered, stand out from the rest.
Loving Daughter, Margaret Denali
Precious Angel, Jeremiah Ford
The mounds are too little, too delicate for the dirt. It pains my heart to see them for myself.
I spend some time ambling around the cemetery before returning to the carriage. As we pass through town, I notice Tanya Denali walking into one of the shops, so I stop and follow her inside, hoping to be able to speak to her outside the Denali house.
She approaches the counter and speaks with the attendant, laughing as she pulls out some money from her bag.
"Still having the issue with the rats?" The clerk says, reaching below the counter.
"Wretched things just won't go away." She smiles as they exchange. Money for a small, black vial.
I stay steps behind her, not wanting to intrude, and fiddle with a shelf of vases.
"Perhaps a cat would help with the issue," the clerk offers.
"Wonderful suggestion. Thank you, Mr. Halford. I will tell Father." Tanya nods and turns to leave.
"Will your family be hosting the gala again this year?"
"Of course," Tanya says, turning sharply back to the counter. "Why would you ask such a silly question?"
"Well, with your sister's passing, I did not expect it to continue."
"Mother could use a party to brighten her spirits." Tanya smiles. "Will I see you there, Mr. Halford?" Her eyebrow arches into a suggestive invitation that makes Mr. Halford blush.
"Of course," he stutters. "Good day, Miss Denali."
"Good day, Mr. Halford." She bows her head and exits the shop, passing right by without noticing me in the aisle.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" Mr. Halford asks.
"No, thank you." I follow Tanya out. She walks down the main street, heading back up to the Denali house.
I hop on the carriage and order Jacob to catch up with her. We slow as we approach.
"Miss Denali, may I offer you a ride?" I ask, sticking my head out the window.
"Mr. Cullen!" She gasps. "You scared me."
"My apologies. I've just come from Miss Swan's house."
"And?" Tanya asks, continuing to walk alongside the carriage.
"And I plan to investigate more before condemning the woman."
"Seems to be fairly obvious, Mr. Cullen. You will see in time." She quickens her pace, slowly pulling away from the carriage. "I prefer to walk, thank you for your offer."
I shake my head and sit back in the seat. Jacob pulls away, leaving Tanya walking behind us.
When I return to the house, I retire to my room for a short nap. I still have not seen Mrs. Denali yet, and although I do not wish to cause her any more pain, I need to speak with her. She was with Maggie when she passed and it is absolutely essential that I hear a first hand account.
"Mr. Cullen?" Mr. Denali knocks on my door as the clouds from an autumn storm begin to roll into town, plunging the sky into instant darkness.
"Hello, Mr. Denali. Please, come in." I scribble a few more notes and close my journal.
"Dinner shall be ready in an hour or so." He glances outside at the impending rain. "Awful weather we're about to have."
"Indeed." I clear my throat. "Will Mrs. Denali be joining us tonight for dinner?"
"I'm afraid she is still not feeling well. However Ethan has returned. He will be joining us." He leaps as a hairy, fat rat skitters across the floor by his feet and disappears into the hallway. "Damn varmints!"
At dinner, Tanya is very quiet. In fact, they are all very quiet. Although it would be very hard to carry a conversation over the rattling of the thunder and the constant beat of the rain against the windows. It has rained constantly for over an hour now.
Little Ethan is pale as the moonlight, his eyes never leaving his plate. I try to imagine losing a sibling, a twin no doubt. One half of you. To feel forever incomplete must be excruciating for such a small child to bear.
After dinner, I collect some of my books and begin some research in the study, nestled into the desk beside the fireplace. Uncle has marked several places for reference and I immediately thumb through those pages and compare my notes.
I am so completely engulfed in my reading that I do not hear the timid knock on the door, nor the creak of its opening, nor the tiny footsteps crossing the floor. I do not notice Ethan until he is standing right beside me.
"Oh, dear! You scared me, child." I smile.
"My apologies, Mr. Cullen." He is so well spoken for a young child. "I wanted to ask you about my sister. You are going to find what killed her, aren't you?"
"I am."
"Do you promise?"
"I do, young Denali." I ruffle his hair and nod.
Behind the boy, outside the window where the rain falls in blankets, I see movement. I leap from the chair and cross the room, wondering what someone is doing outside in this wretched weather.
A small, hooded figure is darting away from the window, rushing down towards the road. And when she turns back, I recognize her face. Her soft, yet strong features. Her dark brown eyes. Isabella Swan.
"Stay here, Ethan." I rush out to the foyer and throw open the front door, inviting in the horrendous weather inside.
I think maybe I'm seeing things. That maybe the windowpane was playing tricks on me. But there she is. Plain as day, running down the drive.
I step out onto the porch and my foot kicks something in the darkness. Bending over, I feel around the wood and my fingertips brush over a small bag, no larger than an apple.
When I look up, she is the tiniest speck in the dark, merely a shadow growing smaller and smaller as she disappears into town.
I go back inside, tucking the bag into my vest pocket.
"Are you alright, Mr. Cullen?" Ethan says, poking his head out of the study.
"I am. I apologize, I thought I saw something outside, but it was merely my eyes playing tricks on me," I lie. "Goodnight, young Ethan. I hope you sleep well." I nod and go upstairs to my room.
Once inside, I pull the bag from my vest and set it on my table. Small. Brown. Some type of rough material tied together with string at the top. Another hex bag.
My anger flares. Poor Ethan has barely been home a day and this witch is already calling for his blood. This family cannot take anymore. This town cannot.
I pace the floor for hours to the beat of the booming thunder outside. The storm begins to wane just before sunset, a time when I should have been sound asleep in my bed. Instead, I grab the bag off the table, replace it to my pocket, and start outside.
I forgo my carriage, unwilling to wake Jacob and the entire house at this early hour, but unable to wait.
As I march through town, it is still quiet. Every soul is asleep, dreaming of a more innocent world. A safe world. One full of light and of God and happiness. Where there is no death. No pain. No dark magic or Devilish powers. I intend to make that world real.
The road that leads from town, towards the path to Isabella's cabin, grows thick with fog with every step I take. The lantern post barely slices through the mist, but I thankfully see it and step off onto the path. Except the path isn't as I remember. Or maybe it's the trees or the fact that I can barely see two feet in front of me. The fog is thick, and I am merely wading through it, aimless and lost. Perhaps I got turned around. Perhaps I took the wrong path. Perhaps I'm not on a path at all.
Up ahead, over a tremendous fallen tree, the fog seems to clear only slightly. I kick my leg over and across, only to find a deep valley. At the bottom, the fog barely floats just above a small lake, hidden away like a secret.
A pile of fabric sits beside the water, where a newly spotted fawn makes a bed. Out in the water, in the glass smooth lake, there is only one ripple. One wake. Isabella's bare flesh is almost translucent, glowing in the dark waters. Naked.
She floats along the surface, slow and gracefully and absolutely beautiful. Like a dance.
I should look away for many reasons. It is indecent. It is disrespectful. It is wrong. She is impure. And evil. A witch. But I cannot bring myself to do so. The captivating essence of her naked body calls to me, beckons my soul and my heart and my body. I should feel guilty. Instead, I feel something else. Something I cannot place or name. Something deep in the pit of my stomach and in the core of my chest.
My breath quickens and a dizzying intoxication settles in my head. So much so that my footing falters and I find myself falling down the hill, tumbling head over feet through the leaves. I come to a sudden stop when I slam against a tree, my vision going black and a piercing pain shooting through my skull. And for a few moments, I slip away.
When I awake, I'm no longer in the woods. I am in a bed. The roof above me is patched and failing. The smell of some kind of delicious broth catches my attention, but the moment I try to turn my head, the pain comes back.
"Take it easy. You took quite a fall."
"Isabella?" I look down and realize I am naked under the blanket. "Where are my clothes?" I ask, panic rising in my throat.
"They were covered in mud. I took the liberty of washing them for you."
I notice my jacket, shirt, trousers, and undergarments resting over her chair by the fire. The hex bag sits on the edge of the table. She does not say a word about me watching her.
"How is your head feeling?" She asks. I see her now, standing in the corner pouring something into a bowl.
"Unfortunately not well."
"I would not advise traveling back to town today. It is best you rest. You are welcome to stay here." She turns and comes towards the bed. I flinch back, feeling a little insecure and unsure. "It's just chicken broth. Enchantment free, I assure you."
She smiles and props another pillow up behind my head so I can eat. And then she feeds me. Cares for me. And despite her kindness, I cannot help but focus on the hex bag across the room.
"You can ask me," she says, lowering her eyes to the floor.
"About what?"
"Don't be a fool. We both know." She gives me the last spoonful of broth and sets the bowl in her lap.
"What were you doing at the Denali house last night?"
"I wanted to protect the child."
"Protect? And you expected that hex bag to do so?"
"Hex bag?" She shakes her head. "You do not know me, Mr. Cullen, do not assume you do." She rises from her chair and storms out of the cabin.
In this moment, I do not see Isabella Swan, the witch. I see a girl. Misunderstood. Confident. Kind. The conflict between my head and my instincts flares. What I know and what I feel. What I believe. Witches deceive. They lie. They covet and kill. But do I believe this woman is evil?
I rest until the sun is high in the sky, piercing through the window in a golden square on the floor. Isabella does not return. When I am convinced that I can no longer lay much more and the pain in my head has subsided to a dull ache, I slowly and cautiously pull myself out of bed. I dress myself in my trousers and shirt, and again my attention is drawn to the hex bag.
I take a deep breath and brush my fingers against the bag, tugging at the string. The fabric falls open, spilling the contents of the bag onto the table. Dried leaves on a sprig. Three or four of them.
I lean down close and breathe deeply, inhaling the earthy, distinct scent. I know exactly what this is.
"Hazel," I murmur.
"To ward off evil spirits," Isabella says, stepping into the cabin.
"Ward off?" I ask.
"Like I said, Mr. Cullen," she says. "Do not assume you know me."
And just like that the world lightens. All at once and slowly. Like the turn of a dial, taking off a blindfold, letting it all go. Because of one simple fact.
I believe her.
"I apologize, Miss Swan," I say. She returns to the kitchen to grab a rag. She wets it and comes to my bedside. Dabbing at my wound with the gentlest touch, she hums under her breath a sweet, intoxicating melody that calms me.
"What do you do out here all by yourself?" I ask.
She laughs. "Live. I garden, go for walks, hunt. Occasionally read, write, make crafts. I was perfectly content being alone when you walked through my door."
"Sorry to have ruined your loneliness."
"Loneliness is not always a curse you know," her voice softens as her hand drops to my jaw.
I know my share of loneliness. Moving from town to town, holed up with Uncle learning about his craft. I have never considered that some people may enjoy it. The isolation. I suppose when the whole world is against you, being alone is not so bad.
I find Isabella watching me, curious like a child, yet something more stirs behind her gaze.
"Isabella?"
She startles, pulling back. "I am sorry. I just..." She trails off.
"What is it?"
"I am not used to being around men like you."
"Like me?"
"You speak to me, you let me speak. Although I am sure you have your suspicions, you do not look at me like I am evil. Do not flinch away like I am diseased. And there is a kindness in your eyes, Mr. Cullen."
"It only reflects your kindness." I reach out and touch her hand. "Thank you for taking care of me."
When I'm feeling better later that day, I start back to town, looking a little worse for the wear. Although Isabella washed my clothes, they still look ragged and unkempt. Or maybe just I don't fit so well in them anymore.
"Mr. Cullen!" Jacob says, rushing to meet me at the front door of the Denali house. "We have been worried all day. You left with no notice, no indication of where you were going. Mr. Denali was setting up a search party."
"Calm down, Jacob. I am quite alright." I nod and push through.
"Glad to hear your voice, Mr. Cullen," Mr. Denali says, poking his head out of the study. "I was scared we had lost you."
"Lost me to what, sir?"
"The world is full of darkness, Mr. Cullen." He looks ill. "I shall be occupied the next few days preparing for our annual ball. If you require anything, Tanya will assist you. Are there any new developments in outing the witch?"
"No, sir," I lie, although I do not know why. Perhaps because he is so convinced. Perhaps because when people know one thing to be true, they refuse to see the truth.
I walk to the kitchen, hoping to fetch a drink of water. When I open the door, Tanya jumps, clutching her chest, as she stands at the table.
"Mr. Cullen! You frightened me," she gasps.
"I apologize." I smile. "That smells lovely."
She looks down at the pot below her, steaming with heat.
"Tea for Mother and Ethan. He's decided to stay in with her today," she says.
"Tea sounds lovely. May I have a cup?"
She nods. "Of course. Allow me to take this pot upstairs and I shall brew us another. I will only be a moment." She carries the pot past me and leaves.
She returns minutes later and sets to brewing a new pot.
"How are you enjoying your stay?" She asks.
"Very well."
"I imagine you will enjoy it more once your business is taken care of." She pours two cups and sits beside me at the table.
I sigh. "I imagine so." My business, however, has taken a different turn. Instead of proving Isabella guilty, my mission has changed to proving her innocence. Outing the guilty party. Or perhaps proving there is no guilty party after all and these deaths were merely a tragic incident.
I wish I could tell them everything about today. About how she found me and nursed me back to health. How she could have easily killed me or bewitched me if she had wished to do so. I fear that would only bring about her demise sooner.
"Mr. Cullen?" Tanya asks, pulling me out of my rambling thoughts.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I asked if you would accompany me to the ball." She smiles and sips at her tea.
"Oh." I play with the top of my cup. "I think it would be best to keep our relationship professional, Tanya. I am here to work."
"Oh," she says, nodding her head ever so slightly. "Of course. Silly me. Of course." She rises from her seat. "Please, excuse me. I'd like to go check on Mother."
I take dinner in my room that night with a pile of books at my desk. There must be some explanation, natural or unnatural for the incidents. Nowhere in my notes or text do I find anything pointing to hazel as an ingredient of dark magic. Every thing I read tells me Isabella is innocent. Different, but innocent. So often that difference condemns us, throws us into the pits of suspicion and casts a steel finger of guilt in our direction. I can only hope it is not too late to save her.
I fall asleep at my desk and do not wake until mid-morning, my candle burnt down to a puddle of wax.
I go for a walk around the grounds and through town, and without even a thought find myself walking towards Isabella's cabin.
She kneels outside in her garden, picking at her greens and placing them in a basket. Her hair is braided, pulled to one side. And she is dirty. Covered in dirt and filth. I cannot help but think that no other woman I have ever known would allow herself to be that way. Certainly not Tanya Denali. It is quite refreshing.
"I did not expect to see you back here, Mr. Cullen," she says, barely looking up from her work.
I kneel down beside her and begin to silently help her with her work.
"Call me Edward."
We pick and pull until the basket is full. It smells delectable, a mixture of herbs and vegetables.
She stands, brushing at her hands and face.
"I need to wash up." She looks down, and for the first time, seems vulnerable. "Would you like to join me?"
I take in my appearance. Nearly as muddy and dirt covered as she. "I suppose I have to," I say, a small laugh escaping my lips.
I follow her into the woods, through the dense moss and leaf floor. She's always a step or two in front of me, forging her own path.
"Tell me more about your family," I say.
"Because you want to know or because you need more evidence?" She asks.
"I want to know."
"You first," she says.
"What?"
"Tell me about your family."
This is strange. Never in my travels has anyone ever asked me about my life. My family. Anything about me. They always keep a safe distance, caught up in their own problems and how I am supposed to solve them.
"I spent most of my childhood in boarding school in Boston. My parents live back in England, so on holidays and during the summer, I stayed with my Uncle."
"He's the one they speak of. The witch hunter."
"For lack of a better word."
"And he taught you everything he knows."
"He did." I nod. "Although I find myself becoming a bad pupil."
"Why?" Because I trust you.
We come to the small lake, the same one from my disastrous and quite embarrassing fall. This time, she doesn't bother to remove her clothes. Instead, she slowly walks into the water, her dress trailing behind her.
"I used to visit my grandmother here when I was a girl," she says, laying her palms flat against the surface of the water. She stops when she is waist deep and turns back to face me. "I remember how awful the townspeople were to her. Pointing fingers, whispering evil names behind her back. My grandmother was a kind woman of nature, Edward. She never harmed anyone and all they did was spit at her. Isolated her even more than she was in that house."
I unbutton my shirt and leave it on the shore as I wade into the water.
"When my parents died, I came to live with her and I was immediately deemed the same outcast as she. I did not mind it so much. Because I know I'm not like them, you see. But I don't deserve this severe inquisition. I'm at peace with myself out here in the woods. Can't they just leave me be?"
"I wish things were that simple," I mumble.
"Aren't they? Aren't they that simple?"
"To you maybe."
"I won't let anything happen to you, Isabella. I promise I'll figure out what's going on." I take a step towards her. "Why can't you just leave? Just runaway. They can't hurt you if they can't find you."
"I'm not leaving my home. I won't let them do that. I've lost everything else, I'm not losing this."
"I just wish there was something that could be done. I am not sure if they'll take my word for it now. They're too set in their ways."
"Maybe you should just leave before they turn on you too." She wipes her face and wades deeper into the water. Conceding defeat.
"You cannot let them win!" My anger flares. Is she just giving up? Content with her fate? Destined to be damned. I cannot be.
"I am not letting them win, Edward! I am living as I wish."
"Not for long. Don't you see? They will burn you the first chance they get!" I grab her arm and pull her back to me. Our shoulders heave up and down in a syncopated rhythm, creating our own wake in the water around us.
"It's too late," she whispers. "You've already set me on fire."
It's too late. Her words ring in my head over and over. I did not know it until now, but they were more true than anything. Too late to turn back. Too late to deny the simple fact that I see heaven in her eyes. Not the Hell they claim to see. I see the haze where the sky meets the land. The glow of the sunrise and the burst of moonlight. Everything in between and inside. A burn, burn, burn deep inside my chest that draws me to her. Not a complicated burden, but a simple, pure attraction. Beyond the whispers and rumors, I finally acknowledge it. Make up my own heart and my own mind. And both are set on her.
I am so caught up in my thoughts that I barely see her turn away.
"Isabella?"
"You can leave if you want to," she says, dipping beneath the surface of the water. She swims farther away from me, popping up every now and then to take a breath. I wait until she returns and immediately notice the blush on her cheeks. It's the most vulnerable I've seen her.
"I do not wish to leave." I reach for her and wrap my hands around her tiny wrists. As she floats towards me, her head barely above water looking like some kind of siren of the deep, I know there is no going back after this. It cannot be undone. It cannot be reversed. It cannot be forgiven. I choose to do it anyway.
When I lean down to kiss her, her arms envelop my neck as she pulls herself out of the water. It's not safe. Not comfortable. Or all the other things that make a kiss just a kiss. I take her so completely into myself that I feel her in my bones. A dangerous spark. Something so consuming that nothing else will ever feel the same again. I will not be the same again.
My fingers find life, dancing across her damp skin. She mirrors me, like my own reflection. Her hands are in my hair, caressing my neck, exploring my body above and beneath the waves.
I pull at her dress, forcing it down over her shoulders, exposing her porcelain skin.
She presses up against me, her breasts peeking out over her corset just enough to drive me mad.
If someone sees us, I'll be just as damned as she is. They will say I'm under her spell. That she has bewitched me—body, soul, and mind. But as I reach under the fabric of her dress, soaked and clinging to her thighs, I do not care about any of it.
Bewitch me. Captivate me. Never let me go.
The cold water chills me to my core, sloshing around my waist. When she undoes my trousers, I ache for warmth. Her warmth. For everything about her. Then she lifts herself up and slowly slides against my body.
The moment I feel her, my hips buck, yearning to be inside her. To know her that way. And when we finally come together, the moment almost paralyzes me.
"Edward," she sighs, arching her neck. I lean forward, kissing her neck as she moves, her body bouncing in and out of the water.
Her skin tastes delectably sweet, and is as soft as the finest silk man can buy. Maybe it is her time spent here in nature, in the wilderness. But she feels so much more real to me than any other woman I've kissed. Like the wind and the rain and eroded and shaped her into the most precious gem. Now, that priceless rock is mine.
My hands caress her cheek and her shoulders and her waist, a restless flurry of light touches and commanding hold. My body is like a thousand fireflies, scurrying in every direction, a wild dance of energy and light. She makes me this way. She makes me alive.
Her body stills, stiffening in a fit of pleasure. Her teeth nip on my lower lip, holding it hostage until I groan, finding my own release. We hold each other, tangled and twisted, as we catch our breath. It's so loud that I swear it echoes off the trees, bouncing back towards us as we kiss.
Something catches my attention. Pulls me away from the only thing holding me to this earth right now. The only thing that could. The snap of a twig.
My eyes dart to the noise, only to see a flash of light hair as it goes, disappearing back into the trees.
I tell my body not to react, not to jump to the worst conclusion. Because the worst conclusion is that someone just saw us. And I may have killed us both with my pitiful, selfish attraction.
Isabella's body begins to tremble, and only then am I aware how cold the water has become.
"Let's get you inside," I whisper, kissing her cheek. I do not regret making love to her. However, I wish we could find ourselves in better circumstances. In a better place. In a better world.
We wade to shore, adjusting our clothes along the way. Trudging back to her cabin, I decide not to tell her about our visitor. She has enough to contend with and I do not wish to cause her more strife. I, alone, shall bear that burden.
Once back inside, we remove our wet clothes, place them buy the fire, and return to bed, hoping to start again where we had left off in the water. We succeed, three times, before the sun rises again.
The fire glows warm next to her bed. And I feel more comfortable in this place, here with her, than I ever have before. It is not a cold, drafty house. Not stuffy or proper. Not hard. It is the opposite of all those things. She is the opposite.
The panic over being seen has subsided somewhat, although it could be the company I keep. I find myself slowly falling into a consuming happiness. It is disorienting in the best way.
"How will I ever return to the Denali's now?" I tease, nuzzling into her neck.
"You must go back, Edward. I do not want them to turn on you for being here with me."
"But I want to be here with you."
"The ball is this evening, is it not?" She asks.
"I suppose it is." I cock my eyebrow. "I do not suppose you plan to make an appearance."
"It would not be appropriate." She turns toward me.
"Don't you ever get tired of giving them what they want? They want to keep you out here; it only perpetuates their hate. They are only scared of you because they do not know you, Isabella."
I am genuinely curious about her choices and life. The way she interacts with the townspeople. Perhaps it is foolish of me to think it could be any different. Isabella knows the harsh reality of the world. I felt that harsh reality back at the lake, the heart breaking fear. I am afraid for her to be anywhere near them.
"You must go," she says, ignoring my plea.
"And I will hate it the whole time." I smile and lean forward, placing a soft kiss on her nose.
"Here," she says. She crawls out of bed and pulls a robe around her naked body. After digging in a barely held together chest, she produces a locket. "This used to be my grandmother's. She gave it to me when I was a little girl. Inside, is a bit of rosemary. She said it would always protect me." She hands me the locket.
"Then you should keep it."
"I shall let you borrow it for the night. To keep you safe." She leans over the bed and kisses me. "Go, now. It is getting late."
I get up and very hesitantly get dressed. I do not wish to leave. Especially to spend the evening with the Denalis and the rest of the town that wishes to condemn Isabella.
Everyone is in such a tizzy when I return to the house that they do not even bother to ask about my whereabouts. Garlands, ribbons, flowers abound. Draped and carried and arranged to make the house look majestic.
I immediately go to my room and dress for the party, placing the locket in my front vest pocket.
There's a knock at my door. Tanya steps inside, dressed in an elegant maroon gown and elbow length gold gloves. She looks perfect. Beautiful. But I am nothing more than polite.
"Good evening, Miss Denali," I say, pulling on my jacket.
"Mr. Cullen. Might you escort a lady downstairs?" She cocks her eyebrow and smiles. Polite, I remind myself. You're just being a gentleman.
"Of course." I sport a smile and offer her my arm.
The sounds of the party float up from the stairwell. Music. Laughter. Mindless chatter.
It seems as if the entire town is there, drinking and eating and dancing. After I'm forced to meet everyone, tethered to Tanya's arm, I sneak away and settle in a corner away from the crowd. She seems quite annoyed with my escape. Angry even.
Across the room, I recognize Mr. Halford, the man from the store. He sips on a drink alone, watching Tanya with a slightly strange look. Hatred? Jealousy? Perhaps he has already had too many spirits.
I pull the locket from my pocket and hold it between my fingers. I wish Isabella were here, although I do understand her hesitance. These people are exactly alike, one just as dull as the other.
"I should have known," Tanya says, stepping beside me. Her eyes are focused on the locket, burning with a fiery hate. "I know that locket."
"Excuse me?"
"That locket? It's hers. The witch," she spats.
"Tanya, I..."
"She has bewitched you, Mr. Cullen. God save your soul if you don't see that."
At that precise moment, a sudden silence falls over the crowd. The music stops. The world stops. All because Isabella Swan just walked into the house.
She's a little more dolled up than I'm used to seeing her, but even in this room of elegant women, she stands out like a sore thumb. The most breathtaking sore thumb. Her emerald green dress perfectly matches the ribbon in her hair. Bustles and lace and ties wrap her body so tight that it's like it was made just for her. Every single eye in the room is on her, simply because it cannot be any other way. Compelled to stare, destined to wonder.
"What is she doing here?" Tanya spats, her eyes darting between Isabella and me.
I ignore her and push through the crowd, the only one moving in the sea of stationary statues.
"Miss Swan," I say, bowing as I kiss her hand.
"Mr. Cullen." She smiles. "This looks fun," she says through gritted teeth.
"What changed your mind about attending?" I ask.
"You did." She takes a deep breath and holds her head up high. "And I decided to stop giving them what they want."
Slowly, painfully, the party cautiously resumes. The music begins to play. The people begin to chatter. But as Isabella and I walk across the room, they part like the Red Sea, refusing to find themselves close to her. I am nervous about her being here, but I need to act normally. Perhaps it will be alright.
"I do not believe you were invited to this party," Tanya says, glaring at Isabella.
"I invited her, Miss Denali. I hope that is no trouble." I smile and Tanya bites her lip, desperately wishing to spit another insult.
"No trouble." She narrows her calculating stare at me and stomps off, grabbing Mr. Halford in the process.
When I hold Isabella's hand in mine and place my palm on her waist, the world seems to disappear. There are no rumors or whispers. No accusations or suspicions. And whether it's magic or not, everything in my world comes down to me and her. Maybe this whole witch-hunt is wrong. Maybe it was always wrong. Maybe everything I've come to know over the past few years was wrong.
"How did you know Tanya?" I ask, twirling her around the dance floor.
"What?"
"Tanya. She knew the locket was yours."
"We were somewhat friends as girls, before her parents taught her better. She used to see my grandmother and me in town on our few visits."
"When did that change?"
"I suppose it was when Mrs. Denali had the twins. Everything with Tanya seemed to change then. She changed."
I glance over her shoulder, towards the staircase. Tanya and Mr. Halford seem to be arguing halfway up, away from the crowd. She shoves him back into the wall, pointing back towards the group. His face is a mixture of anger and annoyance. I wonder what they are fighting about.
Tanya shouts one last angry insult his way, one that I cannot hear over the sound of the music and the chatter. No one else seems to notice her until she pushes her way through the crowd. Before I realize what she is doing, it's too late.
She pulls Isabella from my grasp and throws her onto the floor, causing Isabella to lose a shoe.
"Witch!" Tanya screams. "Father! Look what she's done to me!" Tanya rips off her gloves and holds out her hands. "She's cursed me, Father!"
Lesions. There are grotesque lesions all over Tanya's hands.
Mr. Denali takes in Tanya's hands and narrows his gaze at Isabella, who is still stunned on the ground.
"You have harmed the last member of my family, you devil!" He shrieks. "And you!" He points to me. "How dare you bring her to my house!"
"Mr. Denali, I do not believe in her guilt." I swallow hard and try to remain composed. Her life depends on it. "I have found no evidence of malice or witchcraft. We cannot condemn someone for being different, sir."
"Rubbish! She's been dabbling with black magic for years, just like her wretched grandmother!"
Isabella looks up at me, and for the first time I see fear in her tear filled eyes. I can only hope it is not reflected in mine.
"Sir—" I start.
"Silence!" Mr. Denali calls.
In an instant, Isabella is up and running, leaving her stranded shoe on the floor of the Denali house. She rushes into the foyer and out the front door, running with her skirt nearly pulled up to her knees.
"This is the last night that witch terrorizes our town! Fifty gold pieces to the man who hunts her down and brings her to face justice!" Mr. Denali announces.
A few men in the room salivate at the opportunity. It only takes them a moment to decide. And only a moment for me to try and stop them.
"I order you to leave her be!" I say.
"You order us, Mr. Cullen? We ask you to come here to rid us of our problem and you bed her instead!"
I blush.
"Lock him in the study. We do not need him interfering," Mr. Denali says.
I think about running. I think about escaping, finding her and leaving town. I regretfully do not get the opportunity to fulfill those dreams. Two men grab me, forcing my arms behind my back. I stumble, struggling against their hold, barely able to keep my feet stable on the ground. They force me into the study and slam the door. The click of the lock seals my fate. Moments later, the shutters slam against the only window, sealing me inside. My only view of the outside world is a small crack in the shutter, a slice no larger than a book spine.
Outside, a mob is assembling. Mr. Denali rouses the crowd, speaking from under one of the large trees out front. Two men carry a large post, forcing it into the dirt of the drive. The crowd shouts, screams, cries for justice. If they only knew. Their justice is the murder of an innocent woman.
I return to the door, throwing my shoulder against it again and again, desperate to break through. It holds.
My only hope is the desk chair and the faith that it will break through the window. Force open the shutters. And allow me to escape.
As my fingers brush along the wood, something moves behind me.
"It is useless, Mr. Cullen. She will win," Mr. Halford says, stepping from the shadows, nursing a bottle of spirits.
"She?"
"Miss Denali. She wanted a family. One that really and truly loved her. When that did not happen, she decided she would have second best thing. The fortune."
"I don't understand." I shake my head.
"Do you know what arsenic can do to the body, Mr. Cullen?" He begins to pace around the room. "Intense stomach pains, vomiting, hair loss...convulsions. Almost immediate death in lethal doses. It does the strangest thing to skin," he says, teetering near the barricaded window. "It produces wounds on the surface, like a sore."
My mind spins. Convulsions. Stomach pain. Death. Sores.
"What are you telling me, Mr. Halford?" I mumble.
"What is the quickest way to the family fortune, Mr. Cullen?" He cocks his eyebrow. "By being the only family member left."
"And the boy next door?"
"Unfortunate price."
"Isabella?"
"An easy scapegoat."
"And you, Mr. Halford? Where do you play into this?"
He closes his eyes. "She told me she loved me. That we'd share the fortune, live in the estate. Grow old together...So I gave her the poison. Told her how to use it, what it would do." He takes a long sip out of the bottle. "She lied."
The crowd outside cheers and I look outside to confirm my worst nightmare. Isabella is being dragged towards the post, her dress ripped and her hair a mess. As they tie her to the post, arms pulled too tightly behind her back, she searches for me in the group. I want to scream. Tell her I'm here. That I'm sorry.
Heaps and bounds of dry hay from the stables begin to pile up at her feet, dangerous close to the torches sported by a few people at the front of the mob.
They cuss at her. Throw rocks. Laugh at her impending death. And she does not give them the satisfaction of responding. She stands, chin up and eyes closed, mumbling silently to herself.
"Sir?" Jacob calls, his voice muffled through the study door.
"Jacob!" I yell. "They've locked me in."
"There is a key on the floor." Moments later, I hear the key go into the lock. It clicks, freeing us from our prison.
I do not question my safety or my sanity. I only rush outside.
Mr. Denali stands once again at the front of the crowd, holding his own torch.
I force my way through the people, pushing and shoving them aside to get to the front. As I sprint through the few people before them, Isabella's eyes open and immediately focus on me. She smiles, a sweet, kind, sad smile that says she understands. But I do not. I do not understand.
"Miss Swan is innocent, Mr. Denali. And I can prove it!" I yell, rushing towards her. I stand between her and the crowd, although I know my body will do nothing to protect her from the flames.
He laughs in my face, taunting my fears with his torch as he brings it dangerously close to the hay.
"Miss Tanya is responsible for the deaths, sir! She's poisoned them with arsenic. That's what killed your daughter and that's what caused the sores on her hands!"
"Preposterous!" He cackles.
"There is a small pocket, hidden in the lining of her glove, sir," Mr. Halford says, stepping forward.
Tanya's face goes white, knowing he's just told her biggest secret. Now, it is written all over her expression.
Mr. Denali stops, shaking his head. "Tell me it's not true, my daughter."
"Your daughter?" Tanya laughs. "I have never been your daughter, Father! Your only children are those two spoiled brats who ruined everything!"
"It's true!" A little voice says. Young Denali starts from the house, aiding a very frail looking woman. "I saw her put something in Mother's tea."
"The dose lethal for a child may only keep an adult chronically ill, sir," Mr. Halford says. "She could not get it right. Otherwise, your wife would be buried alongside your daughter by now. I deeply regret my part in this tragedy, Mr. Denali. Deeply."
Mr. Denali hands his torch to the man beside him and walks to Tanya. He grabs her arms, feeling along her gloves as he looks for the secret compartment. His fingers stop when they brush over the small vial, hidden in the fabric just above her wrist.
"You...vile...devil!" He draws back, his eyes wide with rage. "How dare you? How dare you come into this house and murder my family! We plucked you from the pits of hell and gave you this lovely life, and this is how you repay us?" He turns to the crowd. "Constable!"
Tanya falls to her knees, her dress billowing like a parachute around her. As the constable pulls her to her feet, she throws one last glance towards Isabella and for a moment I see the girl Tanya used to be. Like Isabella, she's been eroded and molded into the woman she is now. Except instead of a precious gem, she is hard as rock. Cold. Unforgiving.
The famed witch of Renchester is not a witch at all, but a woman of flesh and blood. And my Isabella is finally safe.
Four months later...
"When do I get a taste?" I ask, waiting very impatiently in Isabella's kitchen.
"When it is finished." She sprinkles some delicious herbs from her garden over the boiling pot and stirs.
In the months since Tanya was revealed, I have stepped away from my previous life. I could not in good conscience go to another town, with another so-called witch to investigate. Not when they could have been Isabella. Someone's Isabella. Uncle was not too happy with my decision, or my choice to be with Isabella. Despite the fact that she was proven to be innocent of those children's murders, rumors have a way of sticking around. I have not spoken to him since.
"I will be right back," she says, spinning on her toes and heading outside to the garden. I watch her from the window as she plucks a few flowers and heads back inside, twirling them in her fingers.
I am amazed at the ways she has changed and stayed the same. She is no longer afraid to go into town, and joins me quite frequently on my walks to the bookshop. Yet, she's still as stubborn and smart mouthed as before.
She sticks one flower in her hair as she steps inside the cabin. As she slips past me, she grabs a glass jar and sets it in the middle of the table, fixing to put the flowers in for a pretty decoration.
"Don't they smell lovely?" She asks, bringing one up to her nose.
"I love you."
She does not say a word, but I can see the corners of her mouth turn upwards into a smile. She turns, holding the petals of one flower in her palm. When her toes brush against mine, she stops and looks up at me, her eyes mischievous and vulnerable at the same time.
Slowly, the petals begin to quiver, and then they rise into the air with no means of support. No wind. No string. Just air.
Isabella drops her hand, but the petals remain, spinning in a dizzying cyclone in front of my eyes.
My jaw falls open, weighted by amazement and wonder. "What is this?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"It's my I love you."
"You told me it wasn't true," I mumble, still fascinated by the petals dancing in front of me. "You told me you weren't a witch."
"I said I didn't practice black magic, Edward." She smiles and the petals fall to our feet. "I never said I wasn't a witch."