Desperate Remedies

The only thing I needed to get him to do was enter the castle. “It shouldn’t be hard,” my mother told me, sitting before her round vanity mirror, the edges laced with carved roses — no thorns, buds only, but the petals were sharp. I knew that from when I was a child and ran my finger along the flowers, in awe of their delicacy, only to feel a sharpness and find it bright with blood.

“Every woman in our family before you has done it. The hardest part, my darling, will not be getting him to come in—it will be making sure the one you let in is the right one,” Mother continued sternly.

I watched her swipe black lipstick across her mouth. Her lips were thin, a feature she abhorred and covered up every day by drawing a circle around her lips and filling it with darkness. “People are going to look,” she always said. “Might as well make them look for a reason I choose.”

“How did you know Father was the right one?”

She caught my eye in the reflection and winked. “Oh, you’ll know, Isabella. We always know. It’s our gift.” Mother turned and stood, cradling my chin in her hands, swiping a strand of my nearly white hair behind my ear. “Witches have instincts even beyond our understanding. Listen to your instinct, sweetheart—you were born with it.”

I paused, considering. “Is there a spell?” I asked.

Mother shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “That’s for you to decide. All I can tell you is that you have one week to choose him and get him inside this castle. And once he is here—well, you know what happens then.”

She took one more critical glance at herself in the mirror and adjusted her glittering tiara so that sat perfectly centered around her tight bun, every wisp of long, sable hair tamed and slicked back. She angled her head, checked that her lipstick was flawless and smooth. On some Witches, the black lipstick would be a stain, a blot on a face with otherwise pale beauty. But my mother carried darkness like the night. It became her.

I watched her leave the bedroom, the train of her day dress sweeping behind her in a cloak. Mother dressed like every day was a grand ball. I took the opportunity to assess my own reflection—it was always impossible to see when she was in the room. I leaned forward, looking for blemishes. My skin was just as pale as hers, but my eyes were gray like thick ice, and my hair was as colorless as fresh snow. Storms were my safe space, a place where I could become as light and pale and invisible as the snowflakes themselves. I was excited for Winter to come with her cold claws and early sunsets. She would soon have us in her loving grip. And if I did my job right, this castle would have its grip on my future husband.

*

The village was not far. I walked there in thirty minutes, my brown boots crunching on the frost-bitten leaves scattered on the road. It seemed a logical place to start. None of the men already inside the castle were eligible, and the next most crowded place was the village.

“Your name and your purpose?” the guard asked me, assessing my long indigo cloak with the embroidered snowflakes on the hood.

“Isabella of Winterspell.”

His eyes widened.

“And your purpose?”

I raised my rucksack. “Shopping, sir. I am looking for some ribbon for a new dress.”

He swallowed hard. I could see the bulge in his throat bob, noted a bead of sweat as it trickled down his left eyebrow. Everyone knew what a woman of Winterspell was. What they didn’t know was exactly what we did. They suspected it, of course—but no man had ever escaped our castle, so no man had ever provided proof. Our tradition was nothing but a rumor, and rumors don’t hold water. They float in and out, hovering invisibly on the airwaves, impossible to pin down and easy to dispel. Us Winterspell women know how to make a rumor disappear as quickly as a frozen breath.

I waved my hand and whispered the right words. The guard’s eyes went blank, his mouth slack.

“Welcome to Bell’s Landing,” he said, and the doors opened.

I nodded in thanks, and then I started my hunt. There were men everywhere—riding horses, sweeping the streets, selling wares from wooden carts with creaking wheels. “Fruit, my lady?” a man about my age asked, gesturing to a display of bright apples. “Last of the season.”

I assessed him quickly, scanning up and down, taking in his loose brown trousers and soft white shirt, unkempt blonde locks. A farmer’s boy, obviously. Nothing wrong with that, but there was no spark. No brightness in my belly. He was not the right one.

I thought the man in the charcoal, well-tailored suit might be it. He walked with confidence and smooth strides, carrying a leather case that looked like it contained contracts or something else important. I imagined that he was capable of interesting conversation, and there was a lot of time to pass in Winterspell. It would be useful to be able to have stimulating conversations with my husband.

But then he tripped over a little girl dashing across the street after a ball and swore in a harsh voice and kept walking when she cried, and I moved on. We didn’t need to bring evil men to Winterspell. We were the evil, from the moment we were born to the moment our bones sank into the earth, and even after that.

An hour of walking through Bell’s Landing proved fruitless. There were options, of course, but I never got the feeling. The tingle that burns like a flame when one goes in the right direction. I sighed and walked back through the archway. The guard looked puzzled, like he was trying to call back the memory of letting me in. He wouldn’t be able to, of course. I was nothing but a shooting star to him—small and quick and gone in a blink, a spark so brief that you doubt you even saw it fall.

“G’day, my lady,” he said cautiously, clearly trying to maintain some level of duty.

“Good day to you,” I said and started in the direction of home. I decided I would stop at the orchard on the way. The farmer’s boy was not the right choice, but maybe there were other sons.

I was nearly there when a black horse rounded the bend toward me. Coming from the City. There was only one city in our lands, so there was no need for it to have a further name. The horse was so tall, so magnificent, that I barely noticed his rider.

We passed each other, and I paused, taking in the luminous coat of the animal, his bulging muscles, the heavy, comforting sound of his stamping hooves. He was darker than midnight, stronger than the depths of Winter Herself. I drew in a breath. I had loved horses from childhood, and I thought of my own steed back home—Starlight, named for the single white patch on her forehead, a small beacon on her otherwise pitch-black coat. Normally, I would have ridden her to the village, but today, I needed to focus.

“He’s beautiful,” I said, more to the horse than his rider, whom I had yet to look at.

“Thank you,” a man said, his voice smooth with just a hint of gravel. It stirred something inside me, and I leaned my face upwards to see.

He sat tall, holding the reins gently but firmly in thick hands—hands that had seen work. His lips broke into a half smile, and he tapped a finger to his wide-brimmed hat in greeting. Square jaw, neat beard. Pale blue eyes. Light brown hair with hints of golden honey that barely brushed his shoulders. “His name is Dante,” the man added.

“And yours?” I said, smiling back because the small flame in my heart grew stronger by the second.

“Axel. Pleased to meet you. Miss…?”

“Isabella of Winterspell.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of it.”

“We have horses,” I said. “ And it’s getting late. You are welcome to stable Dante for the evening.”

“Ah, that is kind of you, but Dante and I are running late for an engagement. The sunset doesn’t scare us.” He patted Dante's neck affectionately, and the horse whinnied.

“On the way back, then,” I offered.

“Perhaps,” he said, tipping his hat again. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Isabella of Winterspell.”

“You didn’t say where you’re from,” I pointed out.

“I’m from nowhere and everywhere. Dante and I, we’re travelers, you see.”

“I see. Well, safe travels, then.”

“Same to you. You’re a ways off from home, I think.”

“Not as far as it seems.”

Axel and Dante headed down the road at a fast clip. So, he knew Winterspell. It made sense that he would move quickly if he believed the rumors.

No matter. There was more than one way to get a man inside the castle. It would have been easier if he had wanted to rest Dante for the evening.

I made sure to go home before casting the spell. I wanted to be ready when he came knocking.

***

“Did you find him?” Mother inquired, seated in her chair in the library, holding a glass of port in one hand and practicing with a dagger in the other, twisting the blade around and around, balancing it expertly between her slim fingers.

“Yes,” I said. “But I need a storm.”

“Ah,” she said. “A classic strategy.” She paused, mulling it over. “A good one, though. Nearly foolproof.”

“It’s not too early for a heavy snowfall.”

“I’ll tell Mathias to bring the horses in and close the shutters.” She glanced at the fire, which was starting to wane. “And perhaps more firewood, depending on how long you intend for this storm to last.”

“As long as it takes,” I said. “He is a strong one, Mother. He might come inside, but he won’t stay easily.”

She sighed. “Very well. I’ll have the boys bring in extra firewood.”

“Do it quickly,” I said. “I don’t want him getting too far away.”

***

I stood in front of Winterspell with my hood up over my loose hair, Mother and the other Witches behind me in a line. “Why can’t she summon a smaller storm?” I heard Margaret mutter. “I hope we aren’t snowed in for a week.”

“Hush,” Mother hissed at her. “You know this is for the good of us all.”

I closed my eyes and raised my palms to the sky, a ball of last year’s snow in each hand.

Mother Winter, I intoned. Bring on your snow. Bring on your wind and cold. Block the roads and make it so.

I repeated the words until the snow melted and dripped from my fingers. In the skies, heavy clouds gathered, smothering the sunset, the air bright with the sharp, clean smell of my storm.

Flakes began to fall, and now, it was time to wait.

It didn’t take long. Mother Winter sent feet of snow and droves of wind. We watched it pile outside the castle from the Great Room windows while Mathias and the other men shoveled a walkway, constantly clearing the path to the road.

“Where is he?” Margaret asked impatiently.

“He will be here soon,” I assured her. And I was sure. He was the one. He would come.

Some of the other Witches had retired to bed by the time Dante’s frame appeared in view, Axel’s bent head a blurry silhouette among the swirling wind and curtains of white. He knocked on the front door, and I opened it to find him standing there, wet and red-faced, out of breath, Dante heaving next to him, his black coat turning nearly white in the weather.

“Does the offer still stand?” Axel asked. “This storm took us by surprise, and we didn’t make it to the village on time.”

I stepped to the side and opened my arms wide. “You are welcome here.”

“Thank you,” he said, but his eyes peered behind me cautiously.

“Mathias will take Dante to the stables. He will be safe there,” I promised.

Axel reluctantly handed the reins over, his eyes trailing the shape of his horse as Dante and Mathias disappeared around the corner of the castle, Mathias carrying an orange lantern to light the way.

“Come in and get warm,” I said. Axel had still not stepped across the threshold.

He looked in Dante’s direction with concern. The glow from the lantern was gone.

“I can sleep in the barn,” he said. “I don’t mind. I’d like to be with Dante. We are never apart when we’re traveling.”

I leaned forward and offered my warmest smile. “It’s just one night,” I lied.

“Right.” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He had definitely heard the rumors.

“Oh, come on. At least let us offer you some hot soup. Mathias will take you to Dante later.”

Axel sighed. He was running out of excuses.

“Alright,” he said and walked through the door.