Approximately 16-minute read time.

33

Tildy shuffled down the stairs to her room, not knowing what to do with herself. She didn’t want to crawl back into bed, even if that seemed like the only thing she could possibly manage. She was therefore delighted to find Ramora in her room when she opened her door. A stack of fresh linens in her arms, the young woman looked guilty for having been caught by the occupant of the room, which was one of a series of obtuse “proper servant etiquette” rules she continued to observe.

Recalling how they’d left their last private interaction, Tildy was determined to reestablish their friendship. “Hullo, Ramora,” she said in a cheery voice. Struck by inspiration, she added “I, uh, I was coming to change my dress. Don’t let me interrupt!” She quickly walked to the privacy screen. The maid looked torn, as though she wanted to say more, but turned back to the bed instead.

Tildy draped the yellow dress over the screen before quickly donning the one the maid had sewn. She leapt out, extended her wings, and fluttered over the bed. Ramora gave out a little squeak as she landed and grasped the opposite edge of the sheet.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself,” she began, but Tildy cut her off.

“I need some advice, so the less time you spend on this,” she ducked down to tuck in the sheet, “the more time you have to help me with this!” She popped up looking like someone else.

Ramora chuckled but didn’t appear happy about it. Tildy watched her eyes move appreciatively over the dress before returning to her face. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“A woman from Wayfahren named Biswee,” she replied, thinking of the beautiful bendygel she’d once watched at the Middenfaire when the witch wasn’t around.

“Come to the looking glass with me and ask your questions,” she said with a smile of resignation.

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Standing before the large mirror, they studied her face. Tildy frowned as Biswee’s almond-shaped eyes scrutinized the top of her head. “I have trouble with hair length, though coloring is a snap.” She pulled at her spiky hair, as though she could force the newly blackened hair to lengthen.

Ramora said, “For me, it was ears. Hadn’t really looked at ’em, the weird ol’ things.” They giggled together, during which the maid became another person, her laugh changing as she did so.

“You’re showing off.”

“Aye, maybe,” she replied with a wink. She changed back, but it was her turn to frown. Tildy wondered at this until she saw that her friend’s eyes were the wrong color and her stubby nose looked like the witch’s. Ramora quickly turned away, covering her face with her hands.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Tildy soothed as she rubbed the woman’s back. “You’re probably just tired.”

From behind her hands, Ramora began to sob. “Something’s not right with my face, but I’m not sure what it is.”

Tildy didn’t know what to say, so she moved closer to give her friend a one-armed hug.

Ramora allowed herself to be comforted, but only for a moment before she pulled away. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Ah, but I’ve always loved the change, and even now, I’m powerless to resist the desire. A serious look crossed her tear-streaked face. “I’ve lived a lifetime of lies. Never forget who you are, Tildy.”

“That doesn’t seem too difficult,” she replied, assuming her own face again. Her scalp tingled and she saw her arms returning to their olive color.

“Isn’t it? Can you tell whether your face has the exact number of freckles it once did? The same hairs on the back of your neck? Do your toenails grow in the same curve?”

Such thoughts hadn’t occurred to her. She glanced at her bare feet before turning to a mirror.

“Don’t worry,” Ramora said with a sigh. “This is new enough for you, and I daresay your body remembers itself during these quick changes. But you need to understand this: The longer you stay in a form, the harder it is to change back.” She gently took Tildy’s hand and turned it palm up. Tracing a finger along her wrist, she said, “Those little details, like the path of your veins here. We – all of us – have too many details for one mind to remember. We recall the main features, the broad strokes. Over time, we become the shorthand notes of the books we once were, to use a term you’d appreciate. It’s difficult enough for normal people to remember, and they remain largely unchanged throughout their lives. In comparison, I mean.”

Tildy studied her friend’s face, while thinking of some reassurance she could offer. Here and there she saw subtle differences, which wouldn’t have worried her before, if she’d even noticed them. But now… Forcing a smile, she said, “You appear to have retained your sense of self. You look the same as the first day I met you.” She disliked the lie, but thought her friend needed the small deception.

Ramora frowned and absentmindedly touched her own cheek as she turned back to the mirror. “This? No, I’m – I’m not sure this is who I am. I’m not sure what I should look like anymore.” Beneath her touch, the skin rippled and paled, as though trying to find her own face again.

Tildy didn’t know what to say, though her heart broke for her friend. She also felt a little sick. Never had she worried about side effects of her abilities. Yet here in Ramora, she was seeing a physical and emotional toll, and she wondered what it meant for her own future. Disgusted by her own self-absorption, she silently chastised herself.

The maid lowered her hand and offered a weak smile. “That’s a rosy end to our little game, iddinit? I’m sure you’ll be fine. Truly.”

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“Cheers,” Tildy replied, though without much enthusiasm. Deciding to keep her white lie going a little longer, she added, “But you do hearten me. I feel I truly needed it today.”

The maid chewed her lip as she considered something. “You appeared quite upset about the library, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Tildy couldn’t recall when they’d discussed this, but she assumed everyone in the castle had heard about her reaction. “That’s true. It held such wondrous books – some of which are irreplaceable.”

“Much like that Sentinels Grand book, eh? I remember how much you loved it.”

Tildy went rigid. Only the witch had been there when she’d realized that. “How did you hear about my book?”

Ramora’s jaw clenched as she studied Tildy’s face. “Why, I pay attention, that’s how. You’d taken to reading it in the library, and it’s not here in your room.” She tapped her cheek in partial indignation. “Not just a pretty face, even if it frequently changes.”

Tildy blushed. “I’m sorry. You’re more perceptive than I thought.”

Her friend’s mouth transformed into a smile. “No apology needed. We’ve confided in each other so much, we know more than the other realizes.”

Tildy nodded. That seemed right. And if they truly were confidantes, she needed to share something else. “I have another secret to confess.” She paused to gauge Ramora’s reaction, but the young woman only raised her eyebrows. She continued. “I was in the glass-garden when the witch and the baroness came in. I hid and they argued.”

The woman interrupted, her face growing scarlet. “You eavesdropped? Oh my, her ladyship wouldn’t like that. Not at all.”

“No, I expect not,” Tildy said, pulling her friend to the half-made bed where they sat down. She told Ramora everything she’d heard, though her excitement was tempered as the woman blanched. “And the witch said I could stay!” she finished, not sounding as enthusiastic as she would have expected.

“Why? Why would you want to stay here?”

Tildy was incredulous. “Weren’t you just listening? Think of all I can learn!” She nearly bounced on the bed. “And not just from our Lady Amaranth. From you as well! Together, we could better control our changes. You wouldn’t have to worry about losing yourself.”

Ramora’s face had an unnatural sag to it. “Broken people ain’t really fixable, Tildy. You don’t want her helping you learn that.” Apparently unhappy at this betrayal, she rose abruptly and hastened to the door. “I have to go, begging your pardon.”

“Wait!” Tildy called as she began to follow.

Ramora turned at the doorway and said, “Don’t go to that garden no more, Tildy.” She quickly exited and closed the door behind her.

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Tildy stared after her, having more questions than she’d started with. Finally, she went to a comfortable chair to ponder how this conversation hadn’t ended much better than the last one. Her friend seemed torn in two. One person to the baroness; another to Tildy. Perhaps more than two, she thought, considering her friend’s admitted compulsion. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be powerless against a greater will.

And yet, a few minutes later, she stood in the poison garden, watching Lady Amaranth’s instruction as she had many times in the last few months.

“Now,” said the baroness, picking up a small shears, “you must snip the merrywhether stem without holding it.” With a deft move, she clipped the indigo flower, which immediately turned white and fell like a twirling snowflake into her hand. “If you do this step incorrectly, the petals blacken and die, becoming worthless against the black melancholia you seek to cure.”

She walked to a rectangular box on the floor, flower in one hand, shears in the other. Tildy followed, seeing broad grasses within, each blade as wide as her palm. Lady Amaranth bent down and clipped two, placing the flower between them. “Not only are they particular about how we collect them, but they require a peculiar preservation. Lethegrass will keep the flower’s potency for quite some time.” She stood and held out the thin bundle. “I assume you have your herbs wallet with you?”

“I do.” Tucking the leaves away for Marklin and the witch, knowing the woman always suspected cures she hadn’t studied herself. What would she think about daubsweem, the weed that grew beneath their noses, yet was the answer to Tildy’s illness?

An idea occurred to her: If Lady Amaranth could help with those things, perhaps she could help with another matter.

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So she said, “I have no one else to talk to. The witch locked herself in her room and Billious is,” she paused, searching for a polite word, “not mature enough to discuss this with.”

“Of course, child. The lady of the castle should always advise her guests, when she is able.” She led the way to another box of small leafy greens. As they transplanted them into individual pots, Tildy described her feelings about the library. The baroness listened intently, though she dismissed the loss. Tildy worried she might sound ungrateful for their time together, so she made sure to describe how the poison garden was a wondrous refuge against her sorrow.

She looked up from placing a pot on the floor to see Lady Amaranth towering over her, a pitying look on her face. “I envy you, Tildy. You live the carefree life of a child, though with responsibilities that grow like bones beneath your skin. In this moment, I tell you nothing that your heart does not know, but I feel I must speak it nonetheless: those days are coming to an end. You will throw away your mended and dirt-stained garments, trading them for the cloth of womanhood.”

Tildy stood up, uncertain how to respond. She brushed her hands together, careful not to wipe them on her yellow dress. Certainly, she loved doing more adult things, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to give up everything she loved. She became aware of the woman’s stare, so she said, “Yes, of course.”

“Yes, baroness,” Lady Amaranth corrected. “If you are to be my ward, you must play your part. Say it for me.”

“Yes, baroness.”

“Look me in the eyes when you address me.”

Overcoming something that was always a struggle, Tildy complied. “Yes, lady.” She felt drawn into the swirling misty depths that awaited her within Lady Amaranth’s pupils.

The woman smiled. “Much better. A fast learner you are, though this is no surprise to me.” She placed a hand on Tildy’s shoulder and kneeled. “Be not too eager to leave your nonage behind, however. While at times life might feel a prison, where all your days live beneath a watchful parental eye, you will find it far less restrictive than other bonds.”

She recognized a second meaning beneath the baroness’s words, remembering how the woman had once mentioned empathizing with the greens of her garden: born elsewhere but transplanted to Southershard. “You feel trapped, lady?”

“For ages, truth to tell. From my conception to this moment, and all the uncounted days betwixt them. There is a time when you leave your sire, and perhaps enjoy some measure of freedom, though always too short it seems in hindsight.” She stood, a fluid motion unhindered by age or fatigue, though her subsequent sigh sounded like the culmination of a thousand years of toil. “I should yearn for my missing lord, as many tell me, yet his return means the end of a measure of independence I have had these short months. Perhaps the end of everything. Had I freedom to move beyond the valley into the wider world, I darest not. Even the mightiest tree may fall before the dullest axe, and I am but a willow stalk against a coming storm.”

Tildy shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The Eslavanaash are not the only monsters in these lands, as well you know.”

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Are you her? The words came unbidden to Tildy’s mind as memories of another monster returned. “But the Sarsenith sank in Wel Mallyne.”

The baroness idly picked up a small pot from a table. “Yes, but the story you shall also remember is how it first stalked these halls.”

“What?” Tildy said, her voice barely a whisper. The idea fell upon her like a physical blow.

“For more than a year, we had thought some vengeful spirit had taken residence in the Valley of Southershard. We lived in fear of some unseen thing, oft hearing the thunder its footsteps brought. The baron was as dismissive of our concerns as he was of the stories coming from the wilderness.

“Finally, one night in the main hall I saw it. The scrape of rock upon stone caused me to look to the gallery above. There it stood, invisible within the shadows until it spoke: ‘You are her,’ it said.”

Tildy’s eyes widened, and the baroness must have seen it, for she said, “No, forget that. The creature, of course, said nothing and disappeared into the shadows beyond. Then it began to terrorize the lands.”

It was too late. All the hairs on Tildy’s neck stood on end, painful in their insistent warning. Even if she didn’t understand it, she could not mistake the feeling of danger. One didn’t need to see the bottom of the chasm to recognize that death waited there, said her adoptive mother’s voice.

Her mind going numb, Tildy clutched her stomach to feign illness.

“Despite these proofs,” Lady Amaranth continued, unaware, “the baron refused to believe, ridiculous in his obstinance. Oh—” she said, seeing Tildy falling to her knees.

To complete the charade, Tildy fumbled with her herbs wallet. She’d done something similar to get out of chores in Dappledown.

The baroness knelt beside her and gently pried away the small parcel to open it. As she pushed one of the daubsweem leaves into Tildy’s mouth, the woman rubbed her back.

Warmth spread from the touch, but so did a revulsion that Tildy did not comprehend. Are you her? she silently asked the baroness before looking up and adopting a grateful look as she chewed the pleasant-tasting plant. She stared into Lady Amaranth’s concerned eyes, wondering if they’d ever been this close before. She saw there a thin ring of purple around the grey iris, dancing like flame. As the fire grew, so did the woman’s black pupils, getting greater and larger until she felt herself falling into them. A wisp of swirling silver light waited for her in the depths. It reached for her, and she recoiled, coming to her senses with a jolt. She staggered away.

The baroness frowned. “Is the daubsweem not working?”

Tildy nodded in what she hoped was a convincing manner. “Yes, lady. I feel I should lay down a few minutes while it works.”

“Of course, dear, of course. I forget how fragile your stomach is. You are dismissed.”

Tildy walked slowly from the room, wanting to keep up appearances. Wanting not to run. For fear of betraying her thoughts, she did not look back. However, as soon as the garden door closed, she fled up the stairs to her room, moving as quickly as she could without her wings. She slammed the door and leaned against it with spread arms, as though keeping something at bay. Her chest heaved with strangled breath; her heart pounded like a rock bounding down the mountainside.

In mockery of her fear, a casual knock sounded behind her, as though no worries existed in the world.

Has Tildy finally broken free of Lady Amaranth’s influence? If there are consequences, they might be a chapter or two away. Let’s see what happens next in Chapter 34: Marklin’s Lament – coming soon!

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