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of magic.
And so, you dunce, you must seek out someone who does.
A merchant walking nearby gave him an odd look. Philippe
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ducked his head to hide his reddening face as he realized he had
spoken the thought aloud and none too softly.
* * *
More rumors circulated about Mother Celsa than there were
herbs in her market stall. Wilder ones said she was a sorceress, one
who ate the occasional child, or that she was over a hundred years
old, or at night she flew through the air with her spinning wheel.
But these were children s rumors and no one truly believed them.
She was a good Christian woman who tithed to the church and
attended mass faithfully.
The believable stories said she had married a rich wool
merchant. When he died, he left her a young widow with a sizeable
fortune who, so the story went, swore never to marry again. She
had lived in the stone townhouse for as long as anyone could
recall, and so, while she couldn t possibly be a century old, she
was surely over sixty, easily the oldest person Philippe had ever
known.
He picked his way up the curving, narrow street, careful of the
midden piles. It was safest to walk up the center of the street where
one could avoid the possibility of a slop bucket being emptied on
one s head from a second floor window, but he moved so slowly
that any cart or horseman who came up the street might flatten
him. When he reached Mother Celsa s door, he hesitated, uncertain
of the proprieties. He wasn t expected. Perhaps he should have sent
a boy with a message to see if she would agree to meet with him.
Still, it had taken him an hour to hobble to her door. Simply
turning and hobbling back again seemed absurd. A knock on the
door brought no response, so he limped around to the alleyway and
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on to the back of the house. As he suspected, she had a little garden
there, rows of clay pots stacked on tiered wooden stands from
which herbs of all descriptions sprouted, crept and climbed. In her
black shawl, Mother Celsa bent over a larger pot of some
evergreen plant.
Unwilling to startle her, Philippe stopped at the waist-high
wooden gate and tapped with his crutch.
Without turning, she said, Come in, Philippe. The gate is
open.
He gaped. How did you& ? Perhaps the rumors are true.
Come, boy, there s no mystery. She straightened and turned
to face him, her gray eyes twinkling. I know the sound of your
crutch by now.
Ah. He had planned what to say to her, all the necessary
words to ensure a hearing, and now they had all fled in his
embarrassment.
She huffed a breath through her nose. By your face, I would
say this is not about your leg. Come inside, Philippe. Some things
are best not discussed in the open.
He allowed himself to be led and settled in a chair beside the
fireplace in the stonewalled kitchen. Mother Celsa poured them
both tea and settled on a stool on the opposite side of the hearth.
Now, while I do enjoy having handsome young men come to
call, and it does not happen nearly as often as it should these days,
I think you came here for a reason, my boy. Why have you come?
I have& He sipped his tea, hesitating. I have a story to tell
you, and you may think me mad, or perhaps a liar.
You have never given me reason to believe that you are either.
Tell me or don t, but if you do, you must let me judge for myself.
He nodded, gripping the cup for courage. Some nights ago, I
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met the most unusual man&
The story unfolded awkwardly at first, with false starts and
back trails, but the words came easier as she listened attentively
and patiently, neither laughing at his foolishness nor expressing
disbelief at any point. When he finished, he looked up from his
now-cold tea to find her winter-apple wrinkled face watching him
closely.
Philippe, what is it you want from me?
He blinked, knocked off balance again. To break the
enchantment?
She let out a dry laugh, rocking in her amusement. I think
you ve heard enough old tales to know enchantments are not
broken by old crones. A bony finger rose to stop his protest.
What is required, more often than not, in stories of enchantment?
The only enchantments he could recall were sleeping
princesses and princes as enchanted beasts. A lover s kiss. But
that can t be. I have He broke off abruptly, waiting for the
shock and disgust to register on her face.
She waved a hand. Yes, yes, you have kissed him. Your eyes
shine with moonstruck fever when you speak of him, child. Not the
best way to keep your heart secret. With a little grunt, she rose
and took his cup to put the crockery on a sideboard. Sometimes it
is a kiss. In the oldest stories, it is often more. But it is a lover who
must break the spell. Human love is a very powerful magic,
especially when dealing with these ancient sorceries. This is earth
magic, cher. Very old. From a people who lived here before us
and, for a time, with us. Some people call them fairy.
Fairies built the old fortress?
She shrugged. Eh. Perhaps. I think they might have been
something else again, but an old race, either way. Not human.
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Frost-fingers climbed his spine. Some evil, demon race?
Do not judge, my boy. Old as I am, I never met one of the
elder folk. You wish to think them evil because they hurt your
friend, of course. But I think there were most likely good ones and
evil ones, just as there are with men. It was your friend and his
brothers who trespassed, after all. The spell was there to defend,
not attack.
Can it be broken, though?
With the right elements, all spells can be broken.
Please, honored mother, no more riddles.
No riddles, only caution. She shook out a bunch of thyme,
her gnarled hands still quick and nimble as they tied the stalks with
twine. Earth magic is bound with life, with creation. The spells
and their breaking often involve blood, tears, sex, and sweat.
Philippe felt the flush rise up his face. He cleared his throat,
prepared to tell her that sex had not broken the enchantment either.
Once again, she cut him short. The key is in the words of the
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