The Cursed, Pt. 2

The Cursed

Part 2

~x~

There was a witch in Celia's living room.

At first glance, Celia didn't know the woman was a witch. Not until she took a second one and noticed a levitating tea cup in the witch's proximity. After seeing that, how could anybody assume anything other?

Celia couldn't believe it. Magic was within her proximity. How could she not sense even a blip of it? With each step toward the door, surely she should have felt something. Celia resisted the urge to pinch herself for not detecting it.

When landing on Celia's windswept hair and crooked neck bow, Irma's eyes narrowed. Besides her tardiness, Celia knew her disheveled appearance only added to Irma's annoyance. If only she hadn't been delayed. . . .

The witch in the living room barely glanced at her, her back straight and her head leveled. To Celia, she looked very much like a statue — a strangely beautiful fire-haired statue with light brown skin and lips the color of blood. There was an odd touch of grace to her looks, a touch of grace that anyone could appreciate.

Celia attempted to straighten her back, hoping to at least mirror that same gracefulness.

"Celia," Irma said, turning to her in her seat. Her face then took on its usual indifferent look, all traces of discontent gone. With an outstretched hand at the witch, she said, "This is Lady Magdalene. The head of the coven."

Lady Magdalene. Celia had heard the name before, only through barely pursed lips and hesitant breaths. "Lady Magdalene was the one who turned Cal into a dog," whispered Josephine Gordon one morning before studies. "Lady Magdalene walked into my father's shop last night and bought a collar," said Jon Lorin right after her. In Terran, Lady Magdalene always seemed to be doing something.

Lady Magdalene didn't look at Celia.

Celia shifted unsteadily on her feet. She bowed her head, her eyes on the witch's bulky bag which just rocked. "It is nice to meet you."

"Do you understand what I just told you?" Lady Magdalene said to Irma, not Celia. The levitating tea cup floated to Lady Magdalene's hand before it drew to her lips.

Irma looked at the witch, but not before glancing at Celia with the words with a dismissive look. Celia understood: what they were discussing was not to be overheard. With a nod, Celia bowed her head again before dismissing herself.

She took a step back from the living room and then proceeded to walk down the hallway, up the stairs, and to her room, but she stopped herself. Questions clouded her mind. Just what did the head of the coven want to talk about with her mother? What could they, two women from two different worlds, possibly talk about?

She knew she should have kept walking, but her curiosity got the best of her. She took a couple more steps and then stopped at a point where she could still hear their voices. Pressing herself against the wall, Celia briefly closed her eyes. Ten minutes, she promised herself, and then she would leave. Ten minutes would have to be enough to assuage her curiosity. She then turned her head so that her ear was closest to the opening that led to her mother and the witch.

". . . but I don't realize the significance of this information," came Irma's voice.

"Miss Pembroke," Lady Magdalene said. She sounded all-commanding. "As you and many of your folk may have realized, this floating balloon has been flying ever since we have arrived. As you and many of your folk may not have realized, is a threat to your well-being."

An image of the hot air balloon entered Celia's mind, and she couldn't help but feel confused. A threat? To her, the last thing the hot air balloon was a threat. She'd always thought of it as a sign of hope, a sign of magic. A sign of just plain other.

Celia wanted to hold firm to that belief. She wanted to discard Lady Magdalene's words as simple ones, but the serious tone that curled around her words only made them seem all the more real.

"Pardon?" Irma said. "My people are very much aware of the balloon, but it has not proved itself a threat. A nuisance, yes, but a threat?"

"Very much so. It is one that threatens the safety of Terran," Lady Magdalene deadpanned. "You see, I've had my witches track it for days and we've realized the same as you, that the balloon does not appear to originate or end somewhere, but we did realize something." There was a rustling and the song of a flying zipper, and to Celia it sounded like Lady Magdalene was digging in her bag. "This mark. One of my witches saw this mark on the balloon's sides and was able to draw it."

Something made a slippery sound across the table. The drawing? A slight pause, and then Irma said, "Forgive me, but I am not familiar with symbols of this kind."

"In our hand, this is no ordinary symbol," Lady Magdalene explained. "It is a curse mark. One where a spell is read into and then applied to the object that is intended to spread the curse. We've determined that the balloon serves as a vehicle of sorts."

When Irma said nothing, Lady Magdalene seemed to find it all right to continue, "Curses are more than just curses. There are many of them with different rules and directions on how to cast them. This is just one of many. I assume you are not familiar of curses in general?"

"I am not." Celia couldn't help but note the tone her mother used. A prideful one; as if Irma was proud that curses and spells weren't a common thing in her life.

Lady Magdalene only said, "I see," and Celia wondered if she noticed Irma's tone of voice and decided to overlook it.

"You called for this meeting, Lady Magdalene. Can you get to the purpose of it?" Irma asked, sounding less and less indifferent than initially and more anxious than Celia could ever imagine. Celia was marveled — more so by the witch than this happening. Hardly anything could rouse her mother out of her nonchalant front, and yet, this Lady Magdalene managed to do so in a mere tea visit.

The gossip of the streets rang in Celia's ears: Oh, Lady Magdalene did this, Lady Magdalene did that. Celia's fingers curled against the wall. None of what Celia had heard about Lady Magdalene surprised or awed her. Not until now, with her sitting in the living room of her home, shifting Irma Pembroke out of her comfort zone.

So what did this say about Lady Magdalene?

Lady Magdalene didn't say anything at first, and Celia wondered if Irma's tone put her off. Then Lady Magdalene said, "We need the girl. We need your girl."

Irma paused. And so did Celia's breath, but not before a shudder ran through her.

We need your girl. Celia felt her eyes widen — the words replaying in her mind endlessly. She felt herself shove back against the wall in an effort to keep from swaying.

"Earlier in our conversation," Lady Magdalene continued as if her words didn't render anyone speechless, "you asked why we came to Terran of all place, a settlement devoid of any magic at all. And I gave you no answer until you felt forced to change the subject." She spoke low, but low enough for Celia to hear. "But the truth of the matter is, we've come to look for someone. Your daughter."

"Celia," Irma said, her voice sounding as if it'd been lost and then found. "But why? Why her?"

Lady Magdalene simply said, "Because of who she is." But to Celia, and possibly to Irma, there was nothing simple about her answer. Because of who she was? Celia gripped the charm of her necklace: a silver star. She was Celia Pembroke, daughter of Terran's head councilwoman, a fervent hater of magic, and a nameless father, who abandoned her at birth.

As sad as it was to ask herself, what else was there to her? Celia's grip on the charm tightened.

"Who she is. . . ." Irma's voice still had a shallow-like quality to it, and it did nothing to comfort the fear coursing Celia's veins. She wanted to hear her mother matter-of-fact voice; a voice she usually dreaded hearing. But now she needed it, if only to give her some relief. She needed it more than anything. "I don't know what you're talking about," Irma said, and Celia could hear the attempt for control in her words.

"Yes you do, Miss Pembroke," Lady Magdalene calmly insisted. "Yes you do. You couldn't have thought that this little secret would stay a secret forever." Irma said nothing and in mock-pity, Lady Magdalene went on to say, "I see it in your face. The questions. The disbelief surrounding them. You ask yourself, 'How did she find out?' Oh, it's too much to bear."

Celia's hand squeezed the star tighter until she felt it digging into her skin until she was numb to the pain.

What was being said here? The way Lady Magdalene was talking with shadowy clues and hinting words — it hit Celia with how much she didn't understand, and how much Irma probably did. She wished she could see her mother's face. To see what look clouded her features — aloofness, anger, surprise? Guessing only made Celia impatient, and she briefly considered stalking to the room to see her mother's face for herself. But she held herself, pressing herself harder against the wall as if she wasn't already plastered to it, because she knew showing up would make things worse somehow. Especially considering the topic of discussion was her.

Say something, Mother, Celia pleaded silently, wishing that her words would reach her mother somehow. Tell her there's no secret. Tell her there's nothing special about me. Tell her she's got the wrong girl. Say something.

Irma continued to stay silent.

Lady Magdalene said, "Miss Pembroke, secrets are not to be secrets forever. It is imperative that you understand this for your own safety. Do consider this. We would like your cooperation in keeping Terran as safe a settlement as possible."

To Celia's surprise, Irma finally spoke up: "Lady Magdalene —"

Lady Magdalene's tone became serious as she said, "It is the only way, Miss Pembroke. The only way to keep Terran safe from the likes of —"

A sharp noise was made. It sounded very much like the slamming of a teacup on a table. For a few seconds, neither women said anything. Celia swallowed, and then she heard her mother say, "I will not make such a sacrifice. Celia will not make such a sacrifice." Irma's breathing suddenly became audible, as if she were drawing in a deep, sharp breath. And to Celia, it sounded like the real Irma was back. The words through her mouth were rough around the edges, gruff with what Celia determined to be irritation. "This cursed balloon only became in existence the moment you all arrived. I think it is safe to assume that your very presence here is what incited the caster to perform such an act."

The witch offered no words in response.

"I also think," Irma continued, "it is only fair to call it a witch's problem. Perhaps this caster is on our side, and is only after you and your merry men."

The tension in the room escalated to a level Celia felt suffocated by. She felt a sense of pride all of a sudden. Her mother, a mere human, was standing up to a member of the coven in her defense. And not just any coven, a coven full of limitless witches. Witches that could easily rip one's throat out with a word or two and a flick of their wrist.

Celia doubted her mother forgot all about that.

But there she was. And so was Lady Magdalene.

Another teacup sounded against the table, but this one made a lighter sound. Lady Magdalene cleared her throat. "Suppose we just take her?"

Celia quelled down a gasp, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. The light tone Lady Magdalene had used — as if it was just a simple thing to do and be done with. Celia swallowed, and then pressed her back even harder against the wall, her head tilting up.

"Suppose you do just take her," Irma mirrored in an even lighter voice. One would say it was on the borderline of taunting. "Doing so would only make your stay here more unwelcoming," Irma said. She'd sounded confident, sure of words. "It would only be a matter of time before the Chancellor would find out, and then, the High King. Besides this caster, you'd have a bigger problem in your hands. Turning men into dogs is one thing but abducting young girls for your own fiendish purposes is another."

Again a moment of silence passed between the two before the couch made its characteristic creaky sound whenever someone stood up from it.

The clicking of heels sounded against the floor, heels Celia remembered garbed Lady Magdalene's feet; the charms on her bag clinking as she moved. Irma seemed to have made no move to escort the witch. Celia heard the steps coming closer to her and she moved to slide to her right until she turned on a corner, just in time before Lady Magdalene entered the hallway.

The door creaked open, and Lady Magdalene's voice carried over its creaking: "I hope you realize the misdoing of your choice, Miss Pembroke. To choose the life of one child versus the lives of hundreds of people simply because she is of your blood is a faulty one. But who am I to say anything? Good-bye to you." Then her voice carried in a different direction: "And to you, as well, lovely girl."

Then Lady Magdalene was off, leaving Irma to make way to the kitchen, and Celia — on the other side of the wall, once seemingly undetected — to her voicelessness.

Shakily opening her hand, Celia counted five small spots of blood.

AN: Constructive criticism is welcome. More parts to come. Thank you to anyone who reads. -comrie