The Vampire & Her Witch

Micheline smelled the smoke long before she saw the fires.

It drifted up the path from the Enchanted Grove to meet them, a sharp, resinous scent of split cedar and burning pine that mingled with the cold, damp breath of the mist until she could almost taste it on her tongue. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it had already slipped behind the mountains, and the light that remained was thin and grey, filtered through the fog until it felt more like dusk than late afternoon.

”Do you hear that?” Charlotte asked, tugging her hood a little tighter around her curls.

Micheline nodded, though she didn’t speak as she focused on navigating the trail. Few people were allowed to visit the Enchanted Grove, and tonight’s gathering was something of an exception. The path saw very little use, and there were treacherous patches of ice that she was careful to avoid.

Ahead, she heard voices. Not the quiet murmur of a handful of witches gathered in a clearing, the way she’d imagined it, but the low, steady rumble of a crowd. Somewhere ahead of them, a child laughed and was quickly hushed. Someone else was chopping wood.

”I thought it would be a more private affair,” Micheline said. ”Just the coven, and Aunt Maela, and perhaps a few others.”

”So did I,” Adala said. Her sharp eyes were already narrowed against the fog, as though she could pick the crowd apart before she could even see it. ”But then, if that were the case, we might not have been allowed to attend,” she pointed out. ”We can’t be the only ones who Empress Ashlynn had a reason to make an exception for.”

”Perhaps it isn’t as private as we thought,” Charlotte suggested. ”Things have a way of getting out in a fortress, so if people heard about it, they may just have come because they’re curious. Yesterday, half the kitchen knew Jocelynn had bought combs for us within hours of her giving them to us.”

”Half the kitchen knew because you told them,” Adala teased. ”You were so excited to show them off.”

”I only told Georg when he brought our dinner,” Charlotte protested. ”And he asked about them.”

”Georg is uncanny and all too observant,” Adala said, though the corner of her mouth twitched. Her hand found the carved comb tucked into the silver-threaded braids at her temple, as though checking to be sure it was still there. ”There’s so much more to him than being the Master of Kitchens here,” she said, though she still hadn’t quite worked out where Georg fit into the power structures of the Vale.

Before she could ask Micheline if she’d heard anything about the mysterious culinary artist, the trio rounded the last bend in the path, and the grove opened up before them.

Micheline’s footsteps slowed to a stop while her eyes took in the scene below.

The fires were the first thing that caught her attention. Not one or two, but at least half a dozen great bonfires, spaced in a wide ring around a patch of cleared, frosted ground, their flames roaring up into the mist so that the whole grove seemed to glow from within like a lantern. Beyond them, half-hidden by the fog, the Bloodroot Tree stood alone, its leaves flickering green and blue and crimson in the firelight.

And around the fires, there were people. Dozens of people.

Knights in heavy cloaks, ladies bundled in furs, children bouncing on their toes to see over the shoulders of the adults. Here and there, among the humans, she saw the broad, furred shapes of the Eldritch, their breath steaming in great clouds as they fed fresh logs to the flames.

”Light above,” Charlotte whispered. ”So many people have come to support Jocelynn tonight.”

Micheline pursed her lips and stayed silent, not trusting herself to respond to Charlotte’s statement.

At the Royal Academy, she’d learned how to read a gathering. Who stood near whom. Who arrived early, and who arrived late. Which houses sent their heirs and which sent only a steward. A crowd could tell you more about the state of a kingdom than a dozen letters from court.

This crowd told her something she’d never expected to learn about her younger cousin.

”My lady?”

The voice was rough with surprise, and it came from the nearest fire. Captain Devlin had half-risen from the log where he’d been sitting, one hand braced against his knee, staring at her as though he’d seen a ghost.

Then Micheline pushed back her hood, revealing the dark hair beneath it, and the captain’s shoulders sagged.

”Lady Micheline,” Devlin said, sinking back down with a sheepish grin. ”Forgive me. In this fog, with your hood up... For a moment, I thought...”

”That I was Jocelynn,” Micheline finished for him. ”It happens more often than you would think, Captain,” she said lightly, hoping she understood that she wasn’t troubled by it. ”Even in better light than this,” she added, gesturing to the diffuse, foggy, smoky glow that surrounded the clearing.

”Aye, well, you’ve got the look of her,” Devlin said sheepishly. He tugged at something beneath the collar of his heavy sailor’s coat, and Micheline caught a glimpse of a polished pendant of black and green stone on a leather cord. ”Gave me a start, that’s all.”

Sir Elgon stood beside him with his arms folded across his chest, his stormy eyes fixed on the path behind her. He didn’t need to ask the question. It was written all over his face.

”She’s with her mother,” Micheline said gently. ”And Sir Ollie. They’ll come after nightfall.”

”With her mother,” Elgon repeated, and some of the stiffness drained from his shoulders. ”Good. That’s... That’s good to hear,” he said, sighing in obvious relief.

Jocelynn’s clash with her mother the day before hadn’t been quiet, and word of it had spread through the Blackwell retinue well before first light today. Elgon had intended to call on Lady Maela after breakfast to see if he could help smooth things over between mother and daughter, but Maela had left her chambers long before he arrived.

But if Lady Maela intended to walk Jocelynn to the ritual, then as far as Elgon was concerned, it was a good omen for how the night would go... He just hoped that he was right.