Time passes differently traveling in Jemma's would-be carriage. Everything seems ordinary at first as she watches through the slits between the branches. The Sisters stand in formation as she is carried away. The small dot that is Daisy leads the Fitz dot away when she must, too, have become a mere spot on the horizon. Only when the stone building is too small to see can she finally tear her gaze away from what she's leaving behind forever.
She closes her eyes, for only a moment, to blink back tears. She might have kept them shut longer, but for the strange sensation that rolls over her. The air seems to press down, weighty on her and, startled, her eyes fly open again. The landscape has changed, not the grassy meadows where the townspeople graze their sheep, as she expected she would see. Instead, farmers in the fields along the roadside tend to their crops. Some make the sign against evil as she passes, while others peer after the horseless hansom longingly, half lost already to the Wood. She blinks, feels the distinct weight of the air on her skin. She rouses to houses that become fewer and farther in between. Some are beginning to fall into disrepair. Others have become overgrown, as though the mere thought of the forest is trying to choke them out.
It's clear she's traveled many miles from the Convent School, several days' worth, though she hadn't felt a shift in speed, only that heady sort of heaviness settle over her until her eyes open again. It's as though she's simply lost time in the second her eyes shuttered. She isn't sure whether it is out of longing for what is behind her, or dread of what lays ahead, but she is loath to hurry along all the same. She keeps them open as long as she can, until she can bear the dryness and stinging no longer.
It's Wildwood magic, this way of travelling, a magic she's been taught to fear even as she is given over to it. Still, she can't help a thread of curiosity from winding through her. Does she pass on in a blur to those farmers, an eerie streak down a rarely traveled road? Or does her speed never change at all, her perception only frozen as her eyes flutter closed? Time is altered, but she has no way of knowing if it is only shifted for her.
The ride itself is smoother than she anticipated as well, a far cry from the heaving gait she'd expected the contraption to lurch in step. She can't fathom what it might look like outside, if it rocks and shifts on its spidery legs, but inside the ride is steady, comfortable. Even the slatted seats are not as unpleasant as they appear. She feels as though she is sinking deep into a cushion of moss, the seat shifting and accommodating her minute movements. It's almost enough to lull her to sleep, if not for the creeping terror winding itself tightly around her heart.
Her eyes stinging, she blinks again. The sun has dropped lower in the sky. Now, the signs of twilight pulling at the corners. The roadside has changed significantly, too. No longer are there farmers even sparsely populating the land. Not this close to the Wood. The Wood takes what it wants, and it seems those that cannot find passage into it cannot live outside it.
Though the carriage moves forward as smoothly as before, the landscape outside what passes for a window is rocky, though a few twisted trees and low brushes seem to be attempting to break through. She wonders if this is deliberate, this rock, a way to keep the Wood back, to keep it in place. It is perhaps better at doing so than the prayers and enchantments offered by the Sisters and other orders, she thinks, then chides herself internally for her heresy.
The roadside is not empty, for all its desolate air. Drifting along as they pass, driven by desperation and despair, are what can only be Petitioners. Petitioners and, worse, she shudders to see. Devotees.
Devotees rarely passed through the village and never the convent school. Obsessive. Fanatics. They shunned the Sisters even as they warned against the Devotees, who are dangerous in their zeal for the Wood. They do not fear it, nor even revere it the way some Petitioners do, drawn to what the magic can provide. Instead, they are driven to become part of it, long to shed their humanity. Power-hungry, those she can see from her makeshift window are worthy of her fear, Jemma knows. There is a madness in them, those so assured they will be Chosen, Taken. And more, even, in those who are denied. Perhaps those that leave the Wood do not come out the same, but some are less human for all that they never enter it.
She encountered this closely only once, as a very small child, too young yet to send away to school so there was no daily reminder of the stain of the Wood her parents had bargained into their home. Rumours in the village of her provenance had lead the stranger from the wood to their door, and he meant to buy his way in as her parents had bought an end to their infertility. His grip on her arm had left bruises when her brother pulled her from him, and his unsettling gaze is seared in her memory even if she can't remember what he said as he tried to carry her away.
Jemma is about to pull her eyes away from the road, to keep them shut until she is past the Edgelands in what might be hours that feel like seconds, when she sees rather than feels a movement for the first time as the carriage steers off the road without so much as the smallest lurch. It's disconcerting and leaves her dizzy a moment, to see with her eyes what her body belies, the swooping that should leave her world atilt.
The cause is evident just moments later, a disheveled figure rising from the middle of the path where she'd thrown herself prostrate, fingers curled like claws as she reaches after the carriage. She's so thin Jemma feels she could count her bones, the skin stretches so tightly over them.
"No!" the near woman screams, that same fanatic gaze she had seen in those other eyes so long ago, and desperation in her voice as the carriage continues, without slowing, past her. "Take me with you! I belong! I belong! I'm worthy!"
The cries rise in pitch as rage begins to war with despair. Jemma can't help but turn to watch after the woman who has begun to stumble after the carriage, feet bare and bleeding on the rocky path way.
Jemma shudders and shuts her eyes tight to block out the sight. She hopes the passage of time continues as it has been, that when she finally pries them open again this whole nightmare will be over. That she'll be in the Wood to face her fate, whatever it happens to be.
She counts her breaths, clutching the little book of verses tightly in her hands so that the corners make indents in her skin. She gets to seventy-seven before her conveyance is slowing to a halt, and she counts another seven before she cautiously allows herself to open her eyes, expecting to find herself in the thick of the Wildwood.
They have not yet crossed the boundary, she is surprised to find. Instead, it stretches out before her in every direction but behind, the trees growing so close together she wonders that the light ever gets through to let the abundant thickets and brushes below the trees' canopies grow. They do grow, though, winding and reaching, it seems, looking as though they would clutch at her skirts, legs, throat.
It's like a fence, or a wall, even, wound so tightly that she can't see how the smallest child could even pass through, let alone her carriage.
She sets a hand on one of the thicker branches woven into the front of the carriage, and jumps, startled, as it moves slightly so as to leave a gap she can better see through. Once her heart has calmed somewhat, she leans in, peering at what lies in front of her. There, before her, a small straggling line of people, of Petitioners, halted before what a wall of vines at whose significance she can only guess. She isn't sure who or what signals it, but she feels the air press on her again, then there is a gap in the branches momentarily. A slip of a girl moves through the opening, then they criss-cross shut behind her.
The people and the carriage shift forward, like a collective breath has been exhaled. There is a couple that steps toward door the girl had stepped from, and they pause. Jemma wonders a moment whether they have come to ask the same thing her parents had, feels her throat tighten. She isn't sure what means to come out, a warning or a sob, because the carriage lurches forward again, and the sound is lost in a startled gasp.
She thinks at first that the couple has been turned away, that if she had travelled more slowly she might have seen them, too, feet torn by jagged rocks and fingers clawing, begging to be let in. But no. They are stepping back, the crowd parting like the sea in the story the Sisters told, making a path for her to roll to the front of the line. All eyes are on her, and she can't bear to meet them, to see the awe and the envy. She just wants this done.
The carriage shudders to a halt. Jemma's heart leaps in fear, but she pushes it down. She grips her book more firmly, moves to stand.
Two silent sentries move forward, not part of the crowd as she first assumed, but part of the Wood. Without a word, one reaches out. She sets her palm in it, lets him hand her out of the carriage. Then both are flanking her, herding her even, to a small pavilion, one that blended so well she hadn't seen it. Or perhaps it only now let her see it.
This must be the domain of the Oracle, Jemma realizes. She didn't expect that she would have to stop within, to be measured like the Petitioners and Devotees. Something blossoms in her chest like hope, that she might be found lacking, be sent away. She tamps down on it. She is a sacrifice unto the Wood, and even were she a gift to be returned, that could only mean something terrible for her parents, for her siblings. Whatever else she is to them, she won't be their undoing.
The sentries stop outside the entryway, so Jemma does as well, but the one who had helped her from the carriage waves her inward. They haven't spoken a word. Even the crowd is eerily quiet. She's afraid to make a sound, more afraid her voice won't work even if she tried to find it.
The inside of the pavilion is cast in shadow, and Jemma blinks as her eyes adjust to the darkness.
"You can come in, little mouse."
There is a slight mocking lilt to the woman's voice, and Jemma bristles. Her shoulders straighten and she steps deeper inward. The walls shift a little and light is let in, drawing Jemma's eyes to the where the voice originated. The woman is backlit, just shadow herself from where she lounges on what is not so much a chair but a throne, cushioned with roses. Jemma moves determinedly closer, and nearly stumbles when the woman tilts her head enough that her face is illuminated.
Spines jut out from a delicately-boned face like thorns, unnaturally-gold eyes fixing themselves on Jemma. Her hands find her skirt and she grips it tightly even as she dips into a respectful curtsey, head bowed and eyes firmly on the dirt floor. She doesn't shake for it's a movement well-practiced, though the Sisters had intended their students to demonstrate it before titled visitors rather than ethereal creatures.
The gesture seems to amuse the Oracle, mouth widening into a smile Jemma can only think of as pointed, even as a spiked hand lifts to raise Jemma out of her deferential pose. The mocking tilt of her lips unfading, the Oracle then gestures and a table and bench grow up from the floor. She motions for Jemma to sit, her face shifting into something like impatience, though it is hard read. Jemma hesitates only a moment before moving forward to take her seat, arranging her skirt carefully. Unlike the carriage, the seat is unyielding. She's careful to keep a grimace from her own countenance, but something of her discomfort must show.
"Would it make you more comfortable, little mouse," the creature says, "if I spent our interview like this?"
A strange sensation rolls over her, and Jemma looks up from her lap, blinking rapidly as though it could change what is before her eyes. The table has become solid wood, the throne a velvet chair, and in front of her, her dress patterned with the bold red roses that had previously made up her chair, is no longer a creature but a woman. Her lips are painted the same shade as the blossoms of her clothing, her eyes dark pools beneath hair cropped to her chin in glossy dark curls. Only those bones are the same, fine beneath her flawless skin. Sharp.
Jemma's throat is dry. She swallows, refusing to croak even the slightest. "I'm not a mouse," she says firmly when she can trust her voice. "And I'd prefer to see things as they are. Illusions change nothing."
"Very well."
Another bout of strangeness rolls through her, and Jemma isn't quite sure how to describe the otherness she feels. It's like she feels the sound of a glass dropped onto a rock, shards knocked apart and skittering, as the pavilion returns to its former state, the woman a creature again, though her lips remain in their crimson hue. Jemma shivers, and it earns her a tilted head and a long look before the silence is broken once again.
"Not a mouse, perhaps, small and dull and brown. Hmm," the creature hums almost thoughtfully, but Jemma can't help but feel she's being toyed with. "I'm almost not sure what to make of you. A bird, perhaps. Or a kitten."
The creature holds out a hand expectantly, and though she's loathe to relinquish Fitz's gift, Jemma dutifully extends the book. It falls from her fingers onto the table when her wrist is snagged instead, and her hand is weighed, then turned until the palm is facing upward.
"And you," the creature says with that derisive smile again, though her eyes don't leave Jemma's hand, "don't know what to make of me."
"No," Jemma admits freely. "I thought—"
"Go on." She's not sure how, but the creature sounds almost bored and amused at once.
"I thought I was to be sent into the Wood. Unless – am I meant to be your bride?"
The creature tips her head back, a sound of delighted surprise leaving her lips. "My bride? Oh, sweet child, were you taught nothing?"
Jemma bites back her irritation at being called a child; were she still a child, the carriage would not have come from her. She'd be at the school still, days spent helping the younger students with the lessons she'd long completed, or laughing through chores with Daisy. She's seen one and twenty years, today, a child by no one's accounting and certainly not by the bargain her parents' had made. But this is a creature of the Wood, and so perhaps she is a child in comparison, a mere sapling to a snag, perhaps. So she holds her tongue.
"No," the creature laughs again. "I am not your bridegroom, though perhaps you will wish it so when all is said and done. Unless, of course…"
Jemma shakes her head, confused. "Unless?"
"Child, you do not come to Her for your own Petition, but to fulfill a bargain made by another, but you pass before the Oracle all the same, lest you want to make a trade of your own." The Oracle takes both Jemma's hands now, in a gesture that mimics comforting but feels nothing like it. "You could be free of this promise. All you have to do is ask."
Jemma wets her lips, feels a surge of longing. Her eyes flutter shut reflexively, and it overwhelms her, the promise of it. She can almost see it before her. Twilight falling around her as her hand raises to knock on the convent school door. The Sister on watch would open it, relief washing over her face as she recognizes the tired traveler. She could take the vows herself, learn to carry the sacred duty. Or she could find work with Daisy, at the tavern, where the townspeople would forget she had been touched by the Wood, find someone to settle down with, make a family for herself, not the one that denied her a place in it, that sent her away, that did not deserve her sacrifice…
She pulls herself from the spell of it with a gasp, trying to tug her hands free but finding herself rooted to the spot. "No."
"No?" the Oracle lilts. "What do you owe them, child? They bargained your freedom, your very life. Surely it is their price to pay, not yours."
"That may well be," Jemma says, as evenly as she can. "But I won't be the one to make them pay it."
"Very well," the Oracle says, dropping Jemma's hands unceremoniously, a bored expression falling over her face. She tilts her head at the door in dismissal then turns away, draping herself artfully in her throne.
Jemma moves to rise. She's stopped, however, by the vines that sprout from the rose throne, which wind themselves around her wrists so quickly she can barely track it. She starts to pull, but they tighten to the point of pain, relenting only when she cries out, her struggle ceasing even as panic begins to creep up on her. The Oracle's eyes snap open, pinpoint their focus on her.
"I don't…" Jemma isn't sure what she means to say, but she's silenced by the new gleam in the Oracle's eyes, an interest that wasn't there before.
"Hmm," the Oracle hums, her tone unreadable. "I wouldn't have guessed."
"Guessed what?" Jemma shakes her head, but the Oracle ignores her question, grabbing her arm. The vines uncoil as the Oracle examines her palm as she did before, though one of the shoots remains, hovers near her open hand as though it, too, is perusing it. A new bud forms at the top of it, breaking open display a hint of red as rich as the ceremonial wine used in the Sisters' rituals.
"A gift, then," the Oracle says, though Jemma isn't sure she's the one to whom the creature is speaking. The bud bobs slightly, as though in agreement, before stretching out to lay across Jemma's palm as it flowers. The Oracle snaps the stem, or perhaps razor-sharp nails slice it free, and then the Oracle is closing Jemma's hand around it, pressing as firmly as the air does around Jemma.
A thorn pierces through her skin and Jemma hisses in pain as the world seems to dip, then right again. The rose has disappear from her fist as though it never was.
At this, the Oracle smiles, releasing Jemma. She opens her fist. The only sign of whatever had happened is the drop of blood beaded in her palm.
Jemma scrambles to her feet, shaking even as nothing moves to stop her this time.
"Don't forget your book, little lamb. Your groom awaits." The Oracle holds out the little blue volume carelessly. Though she wants nothing more than to run through the door, back to the rocky path, to the convent, Jemma stretches out to take it. It falls easily into her grip, and she lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The Oracle laughs, a sound like water running over stones and wind through leaves.
The walls of the pavilion draw back into a door to the gateway, where her carriage sits and with a white-knuckled grip on her skirt, Jemma steps through and lets herself be lifted back into it. The gate opens even as her conveyance snaps shut to cage her once again, then, like thunder moving through her, it moves into the Wood.