Our little castle

"Just to be clear, I don't make a very good human sacrifice," I inform the witch, aiming for nonchalance.

He takes his eyes from the road briefly to look at me. "Come again?"

"I don't make a very good human sacrifice," I repeat. "I don't have magic, so if you need to sacrifice a fairy, I'm afraid I wouldn't count. And if you need a virgin sacrifice, that ship has sailed, too."

The witch, I notice, smiles slightly. "We don't routinely sacrifice anyone," he assures me. "Besides, I gave you my word that no harm would befall you while in the home of my family."

"We aren't in the home of your family," I point out, because we're indeed in a car driving through the Scottish countryside. It's picturesque, as always, but also very, very lonely.

"Yet," amends the witch. "We won't be long though. Maybe another ten or fifteen minutes."

"Why do you all live in the middle of nowhere anyway?" I grumble, because the last time we passed another car was minutes ago and if I hadn't already doubted the wisdom of going with him, I certainly would have started now.

The witch shrugs. "Witchcraft might not actually come with colourful lights and loud noises the way it does in fiction, but it isn't unnoticeable either. By keeping some distance to others, we minimise the risk of discovery."

Hm. I guess there's a certain logic to that.

"That is sensible," I concede. "After all, the last time witches weren't careful about avoiding discovery, a lot of other beings ended up getting burned – including fairies!"

There's a moment of pause as the witch navigates the car around a sharp corner. "Did they teach you that?"

"It's the truth," I insist. "It was witches who flaunted their powers and got the humans scared. In the following hunt, humans burned and drowned all magical beings they could find. The witches are to blame for that."

"Some might argue the humans are to blame, seeing as they did the burning and the drowning," retorts the witch and I sense an undercurrent of tenseness in his voice. It's no wonder either, given that the happening of those dark times still play a large part in upholding the animosity between witches and fairies.

"Of course the humans aren't blameless," I concede, if grudgingly. "But if witches had been more careful, none of this mess would have happened."

The witch makes a sound of annoyance. "What makes you so sure it was witches whose behaviour made the humans suspicious? It could well have been fairies as well."

"Excuse me?" I snap. "The clue is in the name, isn't it? Witch trials, witch hunt, Hammer of Witches…"

"So named by humans," argues the witch. "As you correctly pointed out, they burned other magical beings as well, mistaking them for witches. What makes you so sure it wasn't these other magical beings whose magic alerted the humans, only for them to then mislabel them as witches in their ignorance?"

I open my mouth, then pause, and close it again.

Darn. He's good.

"History says otherwise." But I know it's a weak argument even as I speak the words.

He looks at me from the side, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, and did history also tell you about how fairies simply magicked their way out of any tight situation while the rest of them died?"

"Don't tell me witches simply allowed themselves to be burned?" I mock.

The witch pauses for a moment. "Unlike fairies, we can control neither water nor fire. We can manipulate elements by proxy within reasonable limits, but we can't control them, especially once they reach destructive force. As fairy can bid the fire not to burn her. A witch can't."

Huh?

I didn't know that.

"I… I didn't know that," I admit hesitatingly.

"Yes, well." The witch steers the car around another corner and a cast-iron gate comes into view. "I suppose you'll have many opportunities to correct your mistaken assumptions about witches over the coming days."

Impulsively, childishly, I stick out my tongue at him. He doesn't turn his head, but I think I see him smile ever so slightly.

We pass thought the open gate, which, upon closer inspection, hangs somewhat askew from its angles. Behind the gate, the narrow street continues through a wooden area. When I roll down the window, I hear birds singing and the gurgling sound of a brook or river close by.

The building that comes into view one or two minutes later would accurately be described as a castle. It's not one of the big, flashy manor houses dotted all around the UK, but one of the older, smaller castles common for the Scottish countryside. There's a tall, solid tower block surrounded by lower annexes and outbuildings, all of it built from rough, grey stone. At the side, I see a long wall which I suspect to hide a garden.

"Sixteenth century," supplies the witch. "The upkeep costs a small fortune and it's deeply unpracticable to live in, but my mother loves it."

"I can see why she does," I reply truthfully. There's something enchanting about this small castle in the middle of nowhere and the feeling I get from looking at it is one of tranquillity.

The witch stops his car – mid-size, German-make but with its best days already past – in front of the castle and gestures for me to get out. I do, stretching my stiffened limbs and rolling my tense shoulders. We drove for nearly three hours from Edinburgh and I'm glad to be on my feet again.

I'm still staring up at the castle in front of me when the witch appears by my side, holding my hastily-packed bag. I barely had ten minutes to throw some clothes and toiletries into it last night, while the witch and Carl nervously kept watch for anything untoward happening in our apartment. Thankfully, everything remained quiet as we took leave from our temporary home. Not wanting to remain there, however, Carl and I spent the night in a non-descriptive boarding house on the outskirts of Edinburgh. I hated the expense of it, but Carl insisted I couldn't appear on the doorstep of the witch's family in the middle of the night, so this was the only compromise to be reached. In the morning, as promised, the witch was there to pick me up, while Carl left to gather reconnaissance in the sewers.

"Come on." The witch motions for me to follow. "I told my mother to expect us."

And to be sure, the door is opened before we've had a chance to knock. The woman standing before me is easily the most beautiful I've ever seen. She doesn't look old enough to be the witch's mother, but –

"Morning, Mum," he greets her, stepping forward to kiss her cheek.

"Ken, darling," she smiles at him and reaches out to smooth down his hair. He shakes his head, unwilling, and the gesture is so normal that I have to hide a smile of my own.

"And you," the witch's mother turns to me, "must be our guest."

"Um, yes." I nod, stupidly. "Rilla Blythe, Ma'am. Thank you for having me."

She shakes her head. "Please call me Leslie. We're happy you came here. Anyone seeking shelter is always welcome in our home." She takes a step and motions for me to follow her inside. "Do please come in."

My apprehension quieted somewhat by her kindness, I follow her through a corridor with a well-worn stone floor and faded tapestries hanging from the walls. It's a dim and somewhat narrow place, probably owing to the castle's origin as a stronghold meant to protect its inhabitants. No grand reception rooms for the sixteenth century!

The kitchen we enter next turns out to be a surprisingly welcoming space. The floor is laid out with colourful geometric tiles and the cupboards are painted bright and cheerfully. The windows, meanwhile, are so large that it's apparent witchcraft was involved. There's no way an old castle such as this has large windows such as those!

"Please have a seat," invites Leslie. "Are you hungry? Do you want some tea?"

Actually, I could do with a good, strong cup of coffee, because even with Carl present, I barely slept a wink last night. With no coffee offer being forthcoming though and not wanting to be rude, I instead nod and smile and accept the cup of tea Leslie hands me. It's still hot, telling me she knew when to expect us.

"Sit, please." Leslie points to a large wooden table with slightly mismatched chairs grouped around it. Truth to be told, I would rather have remained on my feet a while longer after the three-hour car ride, but I don't want to appear ungrateful, so I pull out a chair with a crocheted pillow on the seat and sit down.

"Ken, be a darling and make some breakfast for our guest," orders Leslie while sitting down opposite me. "How do you like your eggs?" The question is directed at me, though I need a moment to realise it. I'm really too tired after two very short nights!

"Uh, scrambled, please," I answer. Breakfast at the boarding house consisted of soggy toast and burned bacon, so I don't mind getting another one already. I especially don't mind having it be prepared by the snotty witch!

He rolls his eyes, but evidently doesn't dare go against his mother's orders, so he leaves my bag by the door and walks to the ancient-looking fridge and starts gathering the ingredients needed for breakfast.

I take a sip of tea and sit back in my chair. Fishing my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I send a quick message to Carl. Arrived fine. Mother nice. Call when you can.

When I look up from my phone again, I see Leslie watching me with alert eyes. "So, Ken told me you had a bit of a trying time recently?"

Now, that's understating it!

"My…" I hesitate, trying to decide how to describe Miranda. "My friend disappeared from my flat the night before last and we haven't heard from her since."

"Oh, dear." Leslie shakes her head, looking concerned.

"She disappeared without a trace from inside a locked flat," adds the witch from where he's cracking eggs into a pan. "It was just hours after she was turned into a demon."

I can see how Leslie's friendly concern turns to more serious worry at his words. "Do you think magic was involved?" To her credit, she looks between me and her son as she asks, directing the question at both of us.

"We have no better explanation," I reply, shrugging slightly.

"Especially in light of what happened next," adds the witch, turning and pointing a spatula at me.

I glare at him, not well-pleased that he's directing the conversation. "I was attacked outside my work last night," I relay after a moment of hesitation. "Your son was… of some assistance as it happened."

That, of course, is downplaying is role in the matter, but he's evidently already confident enough without me feeding his ego.

"Who did it?" asks Leslie, a deep frown etched between her brows.

I shrug and quickly take another sip of tea. Having no idea who or what attacked me, I can't really answer her question, but I don't really want to admit to being unconscious throughout either. The magic of my family might have passed me by, but the pride certainly didn't.

"I don't know," replies the witch with a sigh. "Whoever it was, they were certainly magical – and powerful."

Leslie gets up from her chair and takes a step towards him. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

He shakes his head, obviously a little embarrassed. "No, I'm fine. Rilla knocked her head pretty good though."

The concerned gaze moves on to fix on me. "Does your head hurt? Do you need anything?"

I shake my head, ignoring the fact that it does, indeed, hurt a little and has done ever since I woke up from my fainting spell last night. "It's fine. No need to be worried."

Leslie clucks her tongue. "Remind me to give you something against the pain later on."

I nod, not daring to ask whether she means some simple Nurofen or whether witches have other substances they use in medical situations. I mean, there must be some truth to all the potion-brewing they get up to in fiction, right?

"You really have no idea who it was?" Leslie enquires, directing the question at her son's back.

He sighs, a tad exasperated. "No, I don't. I know they were magical, but I can't even say for sure which kind of being. I was over within seconds and then whoever it was just disappeared."

"Like Miranda," I mutter, wondering, once more, what has happened to her and how we can get her back from wherever she is.

Leslie, sensing that, reaches over the table and places a reassuring hand on my arm. "We'll try to find her. I promise we'll do our best."

I wonder if their best will be enough? Like her son, Leslie is undoubtedly a witch and a powerful one, too, if my perception of her is accurate, but as established, we have no idea what we're up against – and I'm of no proper use whatsoever, being hidden away in a stranger's home because I can't even be trusted to protect myself.

My gloomy thoughts are interrupted by a plate being placed in front of me. On it are the scrambled eggs I ordered, two crisp pieces of toast, some ham and a blob of jam. While not quite a traditional combination, it looks, I must admit, quite mouth-watering, especially after the burned bacon of this morning and the soggy cereals of the day before.

Under the watchful eyes of both witches, I clear the plate, feeling a little self-conscious and thus eating more speedily than I would otherwise do. Just as I push the plate to the side, my phone beeps, signalling an incoming message.

It's from Carl.

Glad to hear. No news yet. Will call later.

"Did he find out anything?" the witch wants to know, guessing who the message is from.

I shake my head. "No, not yet." Emptying my tea, I place the cup back on the table. "Thank you. This was very good." I look at the witch as I speak.

He bows his head slightly, perhaps sensing that my thanks is genuine this time around.

"I assume you want to rest now, Rilla, after the days you've had?" asks Leslie, while motioning for the witch to clear away my plate and cup.

I nod. Truth to be told, I'm positively knackered, even though it's not even near midday yet. As I'm starting to trust the good intentions of my hosts, the adrenaline leaves my body and as it's been the only thing keeping me upright in the last 30 or so hours, I'm increasingly exhausted.

Leslie claps her hand. "Well, then. Please show our guest her room, Ken."

"Which room?" he asks back. I think he's a little annoyed at having to carter to me, but I suppose that's when you get when you invite people to your home, right?

"I thought she might like the Tower Bedroom," replies his mother. To me, she adds, "It has the best views. I hope you'll enjoy staying there."

"I'm sure I will," I assure remembering my manners. "Thank you, again. I really appreciate everything you're doing for me."

Smiling, Leslie waves my thanks aside. "We're glad to help."

The witch is already by the door, my bag in hand. He motions for me to follow him back into the corridor and on towards a narrow spiral staircase. Up we go, one, two, three, four floors, before reaching a heavy wooden door that the witch opens to reveal the room behind.

Having seen the kitchen, I'm no longer surprised to see that the so-called Tower Bedroom is actually cosy. There are heavy rugs on the wooden floor, floral drapes surrounding the windows and a colourful knit blanket covering the four-poster bed. There's even a fireplace in one corner, though it is not currently lit.

"Will this do, fairy girl?" asks the witch.

I turn quickly, not being able to tell whether he's mocking me, but his face remains perfectly straight. Instinctively, I stand up straighter and raise my nose a little into the air.

"Yes, it's adequate," I reply, deliberately downplaying the fact that the room is, in fact, much more than adequate. It's not exactly luxurious, but compared to our depressive Edinburgh apartment, it's much, much nicer.

There's a small mock-bow from the witch. "I'm glad it meets your requirement. I'll leave you to rest now. Lunch should be ready around one o'clock, knowing my mother. You can just come downstairs if you're hungry."

"I will." I nod. "Thanks."

He nods and turns to leave, when there's a knocking sound on the door. The witch opens it wider to reveal a small bottle just floating there. The witch plucks it from the air and offers it to me.

Gingerly, I accept the bottle and examine it. Inside sloshes and bubbles a bright purple liquid. It's a potion right from a Hollywood movie and the cliché of it makes me smile.

"Mum sent it up," explains the witch needlessly. "For your head."

I nod. "Yes, I figured as much."

Not, of course, that I have any plans to actually drink it. Tea and eggs are one thing, but strange purple potions are a step too far. Kind as Leslie and her son have been to me, they're still witches and I shouldn't be too trusting around them.

Taking his leave, the witch closes the door behind himself, leaving me alone in the bedroom. I place the potion on a small side table by the window and pick up my bag from where it sits by the door. Briefly, I consider unpacking, but seeing as I have no plans to stay here for more than a few days, it seems like a needless effort. Thus, I simply shove the still-packed bag into an intricately carved dresser standing opposite the bed.

Kicking off my shoes, I let myself fall onto the bed and stare up at the wooden panel that makes up the ceiling of the four-poster bed. The drapes hanging from the sides are quite elaborately embroidered and I idly reflect that Aunt Marilla would really admire the handiwork.

Through one of the opened windows, nature sounds waft into the room and I find them oddly soothing. I grew up in the country, but couldn't leave it quickly enough once I reached majority. Ever since, I've been on the move, living mostly in bigger towns or cities, so the quiet calmness of the countryside is something that has grown unfamiliar to me. It reminds me of home, but for once, I can't muster the strength to resent it.

Thus, I spend a moment just lying there on the bed, listening to the birds singing in many different voices. Tired as I am, I'm ready to drift off to sleep, too, when a shrill sound disturbs my peace.

Groaning, I sit up and wiggle a bit so I can pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans again. A look at the display tells me it's Carl.

"Hey," I greet after accepting the call.

"Hey," he parrots. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine," I reply. "The mother is really lovely. And, get this, they live in a castle."

On the other end of the line, I hear Carl chuckle. "I can't say I'm surprised. He had that well-cared for air around him."

Well-cared for? Arrogant, more like!

"Once again, you're utterly too polite," I inform Carl, but I do so quite placidly.

"That's me," he agrees easily. "They're looking after you well though?"

I nod and look back at the bed's embroidered drapes. "Yes, I can't complain. What about you? Are you alright? Where are you right now?"

"In some pub," he replies. "I checked the apartment earlier, but there was nothing out of the ordinary."

"You went back? Carl! That's dangerous!" I chide him.

"Relax. I snooped around in rat form for a few minutes. Don't worry," he tries to assure me.

"Has it crossed your mind that whoever is behind this might know that you can turn into a rat?" I challenge.

For a moment, there's silence on the other end of the line. "If they do, they still need to find me," Carl points out, a tad defiant. "We all look similar to human eyes, be they magical or not."

He's not wrong. Not even I, who I've seen him in his rat form more often enough, can pick him out of a group of rats if he doesn't want me to. It does provide him with a good cover though, which I'm currently a little envious of, despite my comfortable surroundings. While I had to flee, he can simply spend his nights hidden away as a rat, nearly impossible to find.

"I'll take your word for it," I grumble. "But please, don't go back to the apartment anymore. It's not worth it."

"Alright, alright." Clearly, he thinks he's humouring me, but I'm humouring him by being here, too, so I guess it evens out.

"Have you been to the sewers already?" I ask, brushing over his slight annoyance. 'The sewers' is our way of referencing all the places that rats convene, though in fact, Carl assures me they're much more varied than that. Wherever they do live, alas, the rats appear to have very effective channels of communication. Moving unseen inside the city as they do, there's not a lot they miss.

"I was for a bit, yes," Carl confirms. "I need to go back and ask around some more, but I've already heard some… some rumours, if you will."

I frown. "Rumours?"

"I'm not sure of them yet, but there are whispers about disappearances, of people just being gone one day," Carl relays, sounding apprehensive. "There might not be anything into it, but…"

But he thinks there is.

And so do I.

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Don't save me' (written by Marit Larsen, Kare Vestrheim and Peter Zizzo, released by Marit Larsen in 2006).

To Curious Reader:
Thanks for your review! I'm glad to hear the previous chapter made you laugh =). The question of why Rilla doesn't want to involve her family is a pretty sizeable plot point of this story and will be answered with time. Equally, we will learn who is to be trusted and whom Rilla should better distrust - Carl included. Right now, she herself isn't quite sure who's deserving of her trust, thought it hasn't crossed her mind (yet?) to question Carl's loyalty. She's got a lot of unravelling ahead of her, that's for sure!

To Mammu:
First of all, please, never apologise for reviews! I promise all your reviews are perfectly fine and intelligible, and that I never have any trouble making sense of them at all =). I really do appreciate that you're taking the time to comment, especially so faithfully and for such a long time already, and I'm always looking forward to your input, so whichever way the reading and reviewing works for you is perfectly fine for me!
You're very much correct that Rilla is totally annoyed about being saved by a witch - especially this witch. She's slowly and grudgingly coming to realise that he's not all bad though and will, in time, also start using his actual name for him, just not quite yet. Part of why she's especially irritated with Ken is, of course, personal, but part is a general animosity that exists between fairies and witches. They talk about it a little at the beginning of this chapter and as I hope is evident, there are quite a lot of prejudices directed at the respective other group. A lot of it is historical and even more of it is based on rivalry (since they're the two groups of beings with active magical powers) and not a lot of it makes actual sense. Rilla grew up learning that witches are not to be trusted, so it's quite deeply ingrained into her (whereas Carl, who was raised by humans, is mostly baffled by it all), but now her own experiences are starting to show that maybe not everything she was taught is actually correct.
Rilla not wanting to go to her family for help is quite an important part of her story and more will be revealed about it in time. What we do know already is that she's the only non-magical female in the family and that there have been unsuccessful attempts to 'wake' any potential magic in her, so she's got a lot of issues with being accepted as she is. Add to that that she herself has got it into her head that she doesn't measure up and doesn't fit in (like the Ugly Duckling, only that it's about magic and not about looks) and it's a pretty complex emotional situation for me. It all means that if she has to decide whether to be protected by her magical mother and sisters or by an unknown family of witches, she'll takes the witch-y strangers any day.

To DogMonday:
I did provide you with a dictionary! Miranda was introduced to all the magical beings known in this world and with her, we were. But it would be much too easy if everyone was like "oh, the attacker was a dwarf named Randolph whose special creative talent is glassblowing and who creates all those cute little animals", wouldn't it? (Incidentally, I now need to include a glassblowing dwarf named Randolph in the story.) Who attacked Rilla and what their powers are isn't something that's meant to confuse, it's merely something that needs to be figured out. It's plot!
I think I said in an earlier reply that Rilla has a major chip on her shoulder and I do think it holds true, doesn't it? Her insecurities are in full force whenever magic is concerned and that brings out the most stubborn tendencies in her. I think it's natural to want to shake her at time, but I also think it's necessary for plot reasons. If everyone behaves perfectly all the time, there's no room for growth and frankly, to me, there's not a lot of interest in exploring the story of someone who has it all figured out. Conflict, be it intra- or interpersonal, is what keeps a story going. Now, we haven't seen any growth from Rilla yet, but that's because we've only spent about 36 hours with her since the story started and at this point, it'd feel unearned. I have her whole progress slated though and I do hope that by the end, she won't be obnoxious anymore - at least not as much ;).
Of course, we'll also learn why Rilla left Canada and why she has such complicated feelings about her family. I don't think she 'fled', per se, but she used the first opportunity open to her to leave and isn't inclined to go back. Carl definitely isn't her protector though, just her friend and travel companion. He's a generally more sensible character than Rilla, he's a little older and he has a more even temperament, so he does look out for her at times, but he didn't deliberately set out to follow or protect her. When she suggested travelling, he liked the idea and went along, but she's not his charge, nor his responsibility.
The question of why Ken is in that alley is a good one! He had no business being there and yet he was, so it's worth asking why he turned up in that alley at all. He's generally quite purposeful in what he does, which is partly because he's very sure of himself. Rilla is plagues by insecurities, but Ken is secure in who he is and what he's able to do, which helps him be as composed as he is. He's nowhere near perfect though and he does have his own personal weaknesses, but seeing as he's pretty much a stranger to Rilla, those have yet to be revealed.