To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) (27 page)

After that, things seemed to move swiftly.

When Prince Malcolm saw what Anna had done to herself, he was too stricken to notice the crops had been healed. Still, Céline believed he would recover.

Men like him normally did.

Hopefully, he’d now be more aware of how his actions affected others.

The Móndyalítko held a somewhat subdued celebration in the meadow that night, with venison stew and music, but no one forgot the past days of tragedy and that even though Anna herself had placed the curse, she’d sacrificed much to make amends.

Céline and Amelie ate dinner with Sinead, Terrell, and the pack of unruly male cousins. Céline enjoyed herself.

The following morning, Jaromir vanished after breakfast and then came striding from the tree line. He wore his armor, tabard, and sword.

Clearly, he saw no further reason to play the Móndyalítko husband.

“Our work here is over,” he said. “It’s time to leave.”

Setting down a mug of tea, Marcus asked, “Already?”

Céline had known this was coming, and she wanted to go home, but that didn’t make leaving any easier on Marcus, and it didn’t make saying good-bye to those here any easier, either.

Helga had been crouched by the fire. “I need to go talk to Alondra.”

“Of course,” Jaromir answered.

“And we need to talk to Sinead,” Céline added.

Amelie flashed her a look of alarm. She hated any kind of emotional good-bye. Reaching out, Céline took her hand. “We must.”

She was about to start down the row of wagons when she saw Sinead walking toward them. Perhaps their aunt had known this was coming, too.

Sinead stopped an arm’s length away. “Can I not convince you to stay? You would be loved, cherished among your family.”

“We can’t stay,” Céline answered with regret for causing disappointment. “Our home is in Sèone now.”

Sinead’s face was sad. “I knew you would say that, but I had to try. I know you feel torn between worlds, and I hope you’re not sorry you came.”

Céline cast her gaze at the line of the wagons and the people busy making breakfast. “Never. We’ll never be sorry we came.”

*   *   *

Seven days later, Amelie sat up on the wagon’s bench beside Jaromir, and in the distance, she could see Castle Sèone.

They were almost home.

On the journey from Yegor, she and Jaromir had
spent every night together in the white wagon. Céline had slept in the blue wagon with Helga, and Marcus had slept outside.

It seemed that whatever had happened between Céline and Marcus, Céline had ended it upon leaving the meadow.

Amelie had no such wish. Whatever was happening between her and Jaromir, she didn’t want it to end.

And yet . . . though she’d dreaded him pushing her into a conversation about the nature of their relationship, now that they were going back to their normal lives, over the past few days, she’d expected him to say
something
.

He hadn’t, and the castle was in sight.

Though it was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, she reached inside herself and asked, “Jaromir . . . what happens when we get home?”

“What do you mean?”

She wanted to hit him. Was he doing this on purpose? “What do you think I mean, with us?”

“Anything you like.”

That was hardly helpful. “Now what do you mean?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It means I’ll do anything you like. I’ll marry you if you want.”

She clenched her fists. “Well, that’s a proposal every girl wants to hear . . . and no, I don’t want to get married.”

He pulled up the horses and looked down at her. “You seem to think you’re the only one who’s floundering here. This is all as new to me as it is to you, and I have no idea what you want.”

Could that be true? Was he as lost as her?

“Even if you don’t want to get married,” he went on, “will you still move into my apartments at the castle?”

“And what would I do all day?”

“Do? What do you do at home?”

“Work in the gardens, help Céline make medicines, do the shopping, do readings for money, help Céline with her patients. I’m busy all the time. What would I do up at the castle if I was living with you? Mend your shirts?”

He was quiet for a while. “I never thought about that. Of course you like to be occupied.” He paused. “I can’t come and live with you at the shop. My job is in the castle.”

“I know.”

He started the horses again. “We’ll have to work this out as we go. You can come to me sometimes, and I can come to you. But I don’t want it to end.”

“I don’t want it to end, either.”

He dropped one hand over hers. “Well, all right, then.”

*   *   *

When the wagons reached the first wall surrounding Sèone, Céline was up on the bench of the blue wagon beside Marcus. Dusk wasn’t far off.

She knew he’d been hurt on the first night of the journey home when she began sleeping inside with Helga, but he never said a word, and Céline had spent the days with him up here.

They spoke little, but they didn’t need to.

As they reached the first gate, the white wagon stopped ahead of them. Jaromir jumped to the ground and began striding toward it. Amelie wasn’t far behind.

“What’s wrong now?” Céline asked Marcus.

“I don’t know.”

They both climbed down.

Helga opened the back door of the white wagon. “What’s going on?”

As Jaromir reached Marcus, he said, “Do we go on up, or do you want to go home now? I do need to make a report to Prince Anton, but will your family want the wagons back as soon as possible?”

Céline then understood. They’d borrowed the wagons and horses—and Marcus—from the Marentõrs.

Marcus glanced at Céline and then back to Jaromir. “I should probably get home as soon as possible.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jaromir said. “I left my horse out on the homestead with your family. We can drive the wagons out now, and I’ll ride back.” He looked down to Amelie. “You want to come? You can ride home behind me.”

She nodded.

This meant Céline and Helga were at the end of their journey. Céline spoke quickly to Jaromir. “Take your time. I’ll go up and report to Prince Anton myself, at least let him know we’re back and what happened.”

“Good,” Jaromir said. “I’ll see him as soon as I get back.”

“Helga,” Céline called. “Will you get Oliver? We’ll need to walk ourselves up from here.”

Marcus stood rigid by the front of the blue wagon, and thankfully, Amelie and Jaromir had the sense to head over to pretend to assist Helga.

Céline moved closer to Marcus. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.”

In her mind, in her memories, she knew him so well, and yet he was almost a stranger now. She’d never wanted to hurt him.

“Will you come out to the homestead sometime?” he asked. “Mercedes and Mariah would like to see you.”

“Yes,” she rushed to answer, and she meant it. “I’m sure Jaromir would ride out with me. I’ll come to see you soon. And you are always welcome in our shop. You don’t need to send word. Come anytime.” She reached for his hand. “You are ever my friend, Marcus.”

His body was still stiff, but he nodded. “I’ll come to visit.”

She gripped down on his fingers.

*   *   *

After walking up through the village, Céline stopped at the apothecary’s shop only long enough to deposit Oliver—who was overjoyed to be home—and change into her lavender wool gown. She washed her face and brushed her hair, and then she and Helga continued on to the castle.

When they reached the entryway, Helga stopped her. “I’m going to go up to my room. The prince won’t want to see me anyway. But I wanted to tell you . . . I wanted to say . . .”

“You don’t have to tell me anything. I know.”

“You stood by me when I asked. I won’t forget.”

On impulse, Céline leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then she turned swiftly and walked toward the great hall. At this time of day, Anton would be about to have dinner.

As she came through the archway, she saw him near
the hearth, crouched down, feeding bits of meat to a few of the spaniels who seemed to live in here. He wore a sleeveless burgundy tunic over black pants. As always, his brown hair was tucked back behind his ears. Guards and servants and a few nobles milled around before the meal was served.

At the sight of her, Anton rose. “Céline.”

He closed the distance rapidly. “You’re back. Are you all right? You’re well? Where’s Jaromir?”

She smiled at the rush of questions. He was normally so reserved. This wasn’t like him. “I’m well. Jaromir and Amelie are bringing the wagons back to the Marentõrs. They’ll be home later tonight.”

“You were successful?”

In brief, she filled him in on what had occurred, but as with most men of his station, the main thing he wanted to hear was that the southeast crops had been restored and the economy in that region was safe.

He hadn’t wanted them to go in the first place, but he seemed pleased to hear of their success.

“Still,” he said, “it’s been almost three weeks, and I will admit it’s been a long three weeks. I would prefer never to do without Jaromir for so long . . . or to be without you, ever again.”

From him, this was quite an admission, and Céline drank in the sight of his face. “I would prefer that, too.”

“Stay and have dinner with me.”

He held out his arm, and she took it. They walked toward the head table where a few nobles and merchants waited. Céline had never dined with Anton without Amelie and Jaromir being present as well, and Anton had never before offered his arm.

Everyone watched them cross the hall, and she knew it looked as if they were . . . together. For once, he didn’t seem to care.

As she sat beside him, he poured her a goblet of wine.

Although she had no memories or feelings that she’d done this many times before, here, in this life, she was sitting exactly where she was meant to
be.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

Barb Hendee
is the national bestselling author of the Mist-Torn Witches series (
Witches with the Enemy
,
Witches in Red
,
The Mist-Torn Witches
) and the Vampire Memories series (
Ghosts of Memories
,
In Memories We Fear
,
Memories of Envy
). She lives in a quirky little town near Portland, Oregon, with her husband, J. C. Hendee, with whom she writes the Noble Dead Saga (
The Night Voice
,
First and Last Sorcerer
,
A Wind in the Night
). Barb’s short fiction has appeared in numerous genre magazines and anthologies.

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