Spellbound (12 page)

In a flash, I found myself in front of a grand white house. The Hudson River was reflected in the home's spacious front windows—windows which crackled and buckled as orange-and-red flames danced behind the glass. The windows shattered—the force of the explosion blowing my hat off as molten shards danced around my feet. I didn't flinch at the blazing heat, keeping my vigil in front of the inferno.

“It's not safe with him. Can you stay away?” I whirled around and saw my brother Ethan standing there. He grabbed my left hand and tried to whisk me away, gripping my hand so tightly, it hurt—and I realized I was wearing a diamond ring. The stone pressed painfully into my skin as he clutched my hand in both of his.

“I have to go,” I yelled, running into the house and feeling
the heat from the fire assault my skin as the flames ravaged the home, charring everything in its path. The flames licked at my skirt, clawing their way up my white dress, setting my coat on fire. And then the fire crawled into my hair.

I woke up, screaming and scratching at my own face. Suffice to say, it was not a good dream, with images of it playing in my head as I walked to school. Why the hell I would run into a burning building in my dreams, I had no idea. Once I arrived at Vincent Academy, I was dealt another crushing blow. There was no Brendan in English class. For a brief moment, I hoped that maybe he was home sick, and then felt like the worst person in the world.
Really, Emma, you're wishing illness on him now? Shame on you!

My mood perked up in chemistry, when Angelique told me to meet her by her locker—330, on the sunlit third floor, that lucky witch—after school. My eyes bugged out when she produced a leather tote bag stuffed with two thick, antique-looking books and one brand-new one.

“I don't have to tell you, be very careful with these,” she said, going through them. “Here's
Ancient Symbols and Myths
, and
Hadrian's Medieval Legends.
That one is super old. It's missing pages, so be careful. The binding is cracked. And this one—” she pointed to the shiny red paperback “—is
Spells for the New Witch
. You know, in case you're interested.”

I thanked her a thousand times for the books, and staggered home with them, wishing Ashley hadn't made plans after school. I could have used some help with the heavy tomes. Once home, I made myself some coffee and took the mug to my room, telling Aunt Christine that I had a ton of homework and needed to focus.

Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I laid out the three books in front of me. I started with
Ancient Symbols and Myths,
which
looked like an old, dusty college textbook. I opened it and, unsure where to start, just began turning pages. I took off my necklace and placed it on the purple comforter next to the book, looking back and forth between the symbols on the worn pages and the charm I'd had for so long. I'd think I found it, then look more closely and see some kind of difference. My crest was a simple shield, with a faint outline of a unicorn in the center. A sword and a rose were crossed behind the shield, and the bloom was wilted, a detail I'd never noticed before. A petal fell from the rose—it looked like the flower was crying. Under the sword, a crescent moon with a small star appeared where the petal was on the opposite side of the medallion. The back of the crest was plain, save for three large scratches and a few nicks and dings that came with age. I lovingly stroked the face of the pendant. How could I think this was from a mall?

I turned the pages painstakingly, and then, I felt my breath stop. There, on page 307, was an artist's rendering of my necklace.

The Crest of Aglaeon

My hands were surprisingly steady as I read through the basic description of the crest. Yep, a crossed sword and wilting rose behind a unicorn. That was my necklace.

I was moved by the unrestrained beauty of Lord Archer's words; even flowers would cry at her loss. At least I knew what my necklace meant: it symbolized love—a true love—lost brutally.

I continued reading.

There was no more information on my crest in the book, so I carefully placed it back in the leather tote bag and, after a mug of fresh coffee, turned to the
Hadrian's Medieval Legends
book, curious if there was anything on the sad tale of Lord Archer and Lady Gloriana.

I ran my hand over the ancient leather cover, which was peeling with age. It was still beautiful, though, with embossed scrollwork that ran along one side. The threadbare binding cracked and flaked under my fingertips, and many pages were loose or starting to slip. Lacking a table of contents, I turned the pages of the tome gingerly as the sun started to fade out side of my window. The prose was lovely—if a bit flowery at
times—and I found myself getting lost in the romantic legends of dragons, demons and sorcery. Sometimes I'd get drawn into a story, only to find that the last few pages were missing, having fallen out from the fragile binding. I got quite lost in a story about witches using the blood of lovers in a sinister spell, only to find the next few pages were gone. Finally, at page 502, I saw it. I took a nervous sip of coffee and began reading.

The Legend of Lord Archer, Earl of Aglaeon, and his Peasant Wife

Lord Archer of Aglaeon was envied by all. Those who didn't covet his great wealth, craved his strength, his artistic skills with a brush or his fair face. And Archer was aware of the rampant adoration that surrounded him. Pride swelled his chest and his head. Yet it was pride that was his only flaw. A fair and just man, Archer treated the peasants who toiled on his lands with kindness and respect. He perceived them less as slaves—an attitude adopted by most lords—and more as workers in his employ.

Archer's youth was spent in the pursuit of less-than-noble endeavors. He loved hunting with fellow lords on his seemingly endless lands, sampling wine and finely prepared meals and engaging the eager young women at court.

But as Archer grew from a rakish youth into a man, his father, Lord Alistair, was eager for his restless son to find a wife and produce an heir. Yet Archer was bored with the women at court, finding them distasteful and silly. Their conversation was studied and careful. Their greatest talents
were musical—one could play the harpsichord, another could sing—yet they all seemed to possess the same level of talent, as if they cultivated just enough bait to snare a husband.

Archer's boredom with the women at court grew to disgust, and he believed he would never find a woman who was his equal, who could engage him the way he desired. To appease his father, Archer agreed to an arranged marriage with Lady Eleanor, daughter of Lord Charles, Earl of Keane. Although beautiful, Archer found Eleanor silly and foolish. His dislike for Eleanor grew after he saw her berate a servant, slapping the girl for clearing Eleanor's empty plate from the table.

“I had not yet finished my meal!” Eleanor shouted, striking the girl across the face.

Weeks before the wedding, Archer was riding in his fields alone, not wishing to share his miseries with anyone when he came upon a small, yet meticulously cared-for cottage. A young woman was outside, tending to roses that climbed the cottage's facade.

She looked up and blushed, hastily bowing.

Archer was taken by the woman's beauty. It was not powdered and pressed the way the women at the court were. She was natural, almost wild, with black hair that fell to her waist. He dismounted and asked to speak to her.

He found that, although she wasn't highly educated, she was smart. She was clever, yet kind.

Turning to her roses, she pulled something small off the petals and cupped it in her palm. “I'm holding the loveliest thing your eyes will ever behold,” she told him, and Archer begged to see.

With that, she showed him the tiny ladybug nestled in her palm. When Archer scoffed, she explained, “You
cannot find beauty in this small creature? It can fly—we cannot. Its jacket is bright red and spotted. We are simply plain. If you cannot see the glory in the palm of my hand, what chance have you to see beauty anywhere else?”

Archer asked the peasant what her name was, and when her father would be home. Gloriana was stunned when he told her, “Tell your father Lord Archer will return tonight to speak with him.” Although his fine robes told her Archer was a man of great import, she didn't know he was her family's own lord. Gloriana apologized, fearful that she had angered the lord. He promised her all would be explained when he spoke to her father.

That evening, he asked Gloriana's father, John, for her hand in marriage. Her father feared for retribution from the powerful lord, yet didn't want to sentence his daughter to a lifetime of misery. The only joy afforded peasants was the chance to marry for love.

John told Archer he must ask Gloriana for the pleasure of her hand. Surprised, but intrigued, Archer proposed to Gloriana.

“Might you court me first?” she asked. “Afford me the same respect you would a maiden a thousand times my stature.”

Archer, already in love with Gloriana, agreed. But when he told his father he wished to cancel his wedding, Alistair feared for the life of his son. Snubbing Lady Eleanor and her powerful family—for a peasant!—was tantamount to treason.

Still, Archer persisted in his courtship of Gloriana, even after learning that the young maiden practiced pagan rituals. Those in court scoffed at the satchel of herbs he wore around his neck for protection—a gift from his beloved.

Members of society whispered that Archer had lost his
mind, leaving a fine woman like Eleanor for a heretic peasant. But Archer would not be stirred; the bolder and more independent Gloriana was, the more deeply he fell in love. Finally, she accepted his marriage proposal. The two were wed in a small ceremony, with just her family and his father in attendance. Society had refused them.

Archer didn't trouble himself with the court's chatter. After all, he and Gloriana shared a true love. He offered her all the jewels and servants she could want, yet all she desired was an education. So Archer employed scholars to give his bride the knowledge she craved. Soon, she was writing love poetry that rivaled the epic poems Archer himself wrote to his beloved.

Their seemingly infinite joy grew when Gloriana gave birth to a son. But their happiness was tainted when the Cardinal refused to see the child and baptize him. The reason given was that Archer had insulted Lady Eleanor, whose family was great friends with the Cardinal. Archer suspected that the rumors of Gloriana's heresy had reached the Cardinal, influencing his decision. So Archer made plans to travel to the Cardinal and petition him personally to christen the child. He planned to explain that Gloriana was filled with goodness and light, and didn't practice the dark arts of evil witches.

Although it pained him greatly to leave Gloriana's side, Archer felt compelled to, as he worried for the child's soul. Gloriana's labor had been difficult, and both she and the child, Alexander, had struggled with fevers. For a moment, Archer fervently hoped his wife really was a witch, so she could simply take away their pain with a spell, but Gloriana gently explained that it was not quite as simple as that. Should the child die before getting baptized, Archer feared Alexander would spend his eternity in Purgatory.

Archer kissed his beloved, and his sweet son, promising them that he would soon return to their side.

“My eyes are not worthy to look upon your face,” Archer told Gloriana. “Yet they will not rest until they see you again.”

“Nor will mine,” she promised. “For I belong with you.”

But she never saw her husband again.

When word reached Lord Charles that Archer and Gloriana had produced an heir, fury gripped the bitter man's heart. His own daughter, scorned by Archer for a peasant—and a witch, at that!—was too ashamed to show her face at court. She was forced to live as a spinster—no proud man would accept a woman who was rejected for some moon-worshipping commoner.

As Archer petitioned the Cardinal, Lord Charles hired mercenaries, who crept into Archer's manor under the cover of night, to kill Archer's beloved.

Gloriana, still sick with fever, was awoken by a young servant girl, Mary. “They're coming for you! You must flee!” Gloriana gave the servant her infant son, Alexander, begging her to make sure he was safe. Weak and frail, Gloriana knew she couldn't run as swiftly as the young maiden. She directed Mary to her cottage, empty and dark since her family now resided in the manor. “Tell my family to escape to our dear cousins' home. Do not wait for me. I will meet you at the cottage,” Gloriana instructed the girl. With one last kiss to Alexander's head, Gloriana handed over her son. Mary fled.

Struggling against fever and weakness, Gloriana clutched her final poem to Archer in her hand and stumbled through the manor's hallways. Shoving open the heavy door to the
manor's grounds, Gloriana stepped into the cool blackness of night. Her steps faltered as she retreated through her cherished garden, where she was discovered by Lord Charles's mercenaries. They descended upon the frail maiden, and stabbed Gloriana in the heart. She died among the roses, staring up at the crescent moon.

Archer returned the next morning. There, he found his manor in shambles. Rooms had been burned, tapestries torn and shredded, valuables stolen. He raced through the rooms, seeking his wife and fearing the worst.

Archer dashed out of his manor—never looking at the backyard garden—and galloped through his lands, calling out Gloriana's name. Archer challenged his steed to run faster, hoping that he would find Gloriana at her parents' cottage.

Once there, he found the servant girl. Weeping, Mary told Archer that Gloriana had begged her to escape with wee Alexander, and that she had never arrived at the cottage as promised.

“Please stay with my son,” Archer pleaded with the girl. “Thank you for saving his life. I shall return with my love.”

Archer raced again to the manor, calling Gloriana's name throughout the burned, razed home. As if his heart was pulling him toward the site of its own destruction, he turned toward the garden.

There, amid the roses, was his beloved. Archer knelt by Gloriana, putting his head to her still heart.

“My Gloriana, my rose.” He wept, cradling her in his arms and caressing her cold face with his hand. Needing to feel her touch one more time, he reached for her hand and pulled it to his face. A small scrap of bloodied parchment
fluttered to the ground. Archer picked it up and found Gloriana's last love poem, still unfinished.

Gloriana never had the chance to finish her poem. Cradling his wife in his arms, the despondent Archer left his steed and walked to his wife's childhood home. There he met the servant Mary, who helped him bury Gloriana in her family garden, underneath the roses where they first met. Mary stayed with Archer, aiding him in caring for Alexander, who still battled with illness, and gave Archer and his son safe refuge in her family's home.

Still grieving too much to contact his father, Archer spent weeks with the servant girl's family. Apart from weeping for his beloved and cherishing Alexander, the only thing that occupied Archer's anguished mind was his family crest. He was obsessed with designing a new crest to memorialize his lost love. He melted his dagger into a small disc, agonizing over the new design.

Seeing the true anguish in Archer's eyes, Mary's father Gregory—an opportunistic, manipulative man—tasted an opportunity for gain. He promised Archer that he could reunite him with his bride, for a price.

Desperate, Archer promised the man everything—land, wealth, women of ill repute—if it meant he could meet
with his cherished Gloriana again. “You will have to pay me handsomely,” Gregory said. “But remember, another price
you
pay may be even greater.”

Archer was willing to suffer any cost to see his true love again. Knowing a woman as good and honorable as Gloriana would surely be in Heaven was no comfort to Archer. Gregory led him to a small stone cottage in the middle of a dark wood. He stood yards away with the nervous horses, which bucked and reared at the sight of the home. Gregory told Archer that if anyone could reunite him with his love, it was the woman who lived there.

So this is the home of the dark witchcraft feared by so many,
thought Archer, as he knocked three times on the door. A small, withered old hag answered, a dirty, dark cloak wrapped around her hunched shoulders. Soft, fine hair dotted her chin, and her right eye was milky white.

“Archer, yes, I've been expecting you.” The hag cackled. “It's love you seek, yes? A fine woman?”

“I don't seek a fine woman. I seek
the
woman, the fairest and finest.”

“Ah, the one you seek, she's got the magick in her, yes?” The hag rubbed her papery hands together as she regarded the distraught man.

“She is well-versed in some spells…” he began, but the witch cut him off.

“Is?”
she spat out. “She
is
not anymore. She is no longer of the mortal realm,” the hag replied. “Still, I can help you. Have you anything personal of Gloriana's?”

Archer was surprised to hear that the hag knew his beloved's name, but in his desperation, he continued his quest.

In his vest, Archer carried Gloriana's final poem, her
last profession of love. He handed it to the hag, whose one black eye sparkled and gleamed when she read it.

“You own her soul!” the hag bleated. Gloriana's poetic words did, indeed, dedicate her heart, her life—and her soul—to her husband.

The hag started cackling again, and, placing her veiny claw on his arm, drew Archer close.

“I believe I can help you,” she said, explaining what she could offer the heartbroken lord.

She would not raise Gloriana from the dead. “They always come back wrong,” she hissed mysteriously. But the hag said when death comes to an innocent early, the soul may linger—and she believed Gloriana, a magickal soul troubled over her son's health, had not yet moved on. The hag said she could keep her soul earthbound until Archer's own mortal shell had perished. Then, Archer's soul would be reborn, as would Gloriana's. Reincarnated, they would be destined to reunite, a lifetime away.

“It is your soul that aches,” said the hag, licking her chapped lips. “So what care you if you see her in this life time? You'll reunite in the next.”

Archer agreed to the contract, believing it to mean that, reborn in new lives, he and the dearest Gloriana would reunite and enjoy the marriage of which they were robbed—and eventually, old and ailing, die. Their final reunion would come in Heaven, where they would spend eternity in each other's cherished embrace. He fervently wished for death now, so his next lifetime—a span of years with Gloriana by his side—would come.