Frey (The Frey Saga, #1)(7)

Junnie’s door was partially open when I reached her house, so I peeked my head in and called for her. No answer. I decided to try the back room.

As I walked through, I passed an ornate mirror on the wall and noticed something odd about my reflection. I guessed I was probably simply flushed but I stopped to get a closer look. There was something about my complexion; must have been the combination of worry and excitement. But what was really off was just above my face. I leaned toward the mirror and reached my hands up as if to check.

The first quarter inch of my hair was dark, almost black. I pulled the part in a different area and then again; the base of my hair was dark over my entire scalp. My hands began to tremble when I could come up with no explanation for the change. Abruptly, the rush to find Junnie was paramount.

I went to the study but it was empty. I let out a shaky, exasperated breath and glanced around, noticing an unusual thistle on the table. It was thriving, but unplanted. I examined it closer. It was rather large, and though the blooms looked healthy, the exposed roots were black, seemingly rotted. How could the plant survive without soil or with decayed roots? I scanned the table. It was the only plant aside from Junnie’s potted ivies and flowers hanging as they always had.

I reached out to touch a leaf and it crumbled. There were some seeds and bulbs lying where the ashes fell, and I recognized the scene. It was the thistle I had grown. The garden.

I rushed out, leaving the door open as I had found it. I hurried from the village, trying to remember where the abandoned garden was located. I was almost running now, under the gray skies. It wasn’t hard to find because of its new size but if I hadn’t been half expecting, half fearing the excessive growth, I might not have recognized it. Each of the strains I had grown the day Evie choked was flourishing. Noxious weeds were taking over the meadow.

As I stood there, frozen before the garden, I was overwhelmed by the scene, overtaken by emotion, and had to close my eyes. I raised my head to the sky and drew in a deep breath when the light rain began to fall. Cool water trickled down my face, calming me. But it didn’t clear my head, I still couldn't understand.

A painful fear shot through me, and I tilted my head forward to run through the growth. Vines, thorns and leaves turned to muddy ash as they touched my outstretched arms and mixed with the rain. When I reached the edge of the onetime garden, I stopped and knelt, digging my fingers deep into the soil to form a trench. When I saw the bared roots, black, dark and rotted, I was suddenly exhausted. I mindlessly turned and walked toward home, void of any sensation save the slow rain on my skin.

When I entered the house, Fannie was there. I ignored her as I trudged past on the way to my room. However, I did notice her face. I couldn’t place the expression she wore, a mix of tight, wicked grin and surprised, suspicious eyes while she scrutinized my face and wet hair. I didn’t care to stop and ask; I was spent. I made my way to the dark room and collapsed onto the bed, dropping swiftly asleep to the comforting thrum of falling rain.





I woke gasping from another dream of my mother and destruction. The rain had stopped, and the sun was rising. I wiped the sweat from my brow and went to the hall pitcher to splash my face. When I noticed the dark roots of my hair in the mirror, I recalled the dream. The memories of my mother were fuzzy, but I'd always thought she'd had light hair, beautiful and golden like Junnie's. In the dreams, it was black... as black as the roots of my hair now were.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the darkness, and then spun as I made a rash decision. I quickly slinked past Fannie’s room to the makeshift vault she’d created. She kept all the things I wasn’t allowed to have or touch in that room; it was supposed to be completely off limits. I hadn't often bothered trying because there was a large flat stone on the floor I’d never been able to move. But that was before.

I wasn’t sure how the magic had worked with the bird but I knew it had, so I dropped to my knees, held my hands above the stone, closed my eyes, and concentrated as hard as I could. Nothing happened right away, and my mind wandered a bit with thoughts of what might be inside, how I wanted to see and needed to touch my family heirlooms. I heard the scraping sound of the lid shifting across the floor.

It didn’t go far but I didn’t need much. I reached down and drew out a small velvet pouch, laid it aside, and reached back in. I felt a tube, probably a scroll case. I started to take it out and heard a wheezing growl behind me. I froze.

The stream of profanities that followed was long and harsh; part sounded like it was in another tongue. I released the tube and turned slowly toward Fannie. She was livid, red-faced and shaking. She stepped toward me, and I cautiously slid the pouch that lay against my leg behind my sash. She hadn't seemed to notice.

The blow came so fast I didn’t see it coming. My head turned with the contact and then whipped back toward her with shock and anger. Her eyes lit with anticipation. Did she want me to fight back? I had never even talked back to Fannie. I didn’t have the size to fight her, let alone the magic. And she was conniving. When I’d first come to live with her she had sent me to council repeatedly, complaining of my behavior. I had undergone hours of “evaluations” under the scrutiny of council members. Exams and trials and endless questions. Black blots on parchment that made abstract shapes. “What do you see, Elfreda?” I knew what they wanted to hear–butterfly and flower species. But I was so resentful toward Fannie for putting me there, I usually saw a black blob of death consuming her. “A Monarch,” I’d say.