Sophie

The late afternoon sun coming in from the kitchen’s window casts a soft, warm glow over the soapy bubbles in the sink while I dip another dish under it to rinse. My fingers are pruned from scrubbing cutlery and other cookware that’s been gathering on the side of the sink for the better part of the week, causing the skin around my nails to pull uncomfortably.

My penance for letting the cleaning get so piled up, I suppose.

Usually I’m more on top of things, making quick work of tidying and keeping this small cottage functional. Lately, I’ve had to start from scratch and clean from the bottom up, like I do every purge season right before the first snowfall of the year.

But I’ll be the first to admit I’ve been distracted recently. Too much of my focus has been pulled away to my studies or taking care of my mother—who's been feeling much more active now that the winter months are finally behind us—to deal with laborious chores like cleaning.

Unfortunately, I’m also the only one capable of doing it. Another reason I should be better at managing my time.

The kettle on the stove whistles, causing me to pull my hands out of the water and deposit the last of the dishes onto the rack before grabbing a rag and drying myself off. With the same cloth, I use it to wrap around the handle of the kettle and move it off of the flame. My skin burns from the contact, causing me to curse under my breath.

“Is that the tea, dear?” My mother calls from the other room, her voice soft and slightly strained.

“Yes. Just a second.” I call back, peeling the wet, hot rag from my poor skin.

I’m too distracted today. Making stupid mistakes like this isn’t like me.

Extinguishing the flame with a quick wave of my hand, I set the kettle down only long enough to grab a tea set and my mother’s favorite mixture of loose leaves. I add a sprinkling to the bottom of her cup before pouring in the boiling liquid. As it steams, a pleasant aroma fills the kitchen slowly.

One of my favorite things about being a hedge witch is how pleasant most of our concoctions smell. My mother used to get complimented all of the time at the market for the lingering sweetness of herbal scents on her clothes.

I find small things like that usually bring people comfort even if they don’t realize why.

Carrying my mother’s tea cup and saucer to her, I find her relaxing in the chair closest to the window facing the dark forest that surrounds our property. Living far outside of the nearest town’s vicinity sometimes makes it hard when the winter months hit, but the peace out here is unmatched compared to the busyness that comes with living amongst other people.

She smiles at me when she spots the cup, slowly setting the book in her hands face down on her lap.

“Chamomile?” she asks.

I nod, handing it to her carefully. “With a little bit of lemon balm and valerian root.”

“Oh, how she spoils me.”

That has me smiling.

Taking the chair across from her, I settle down into the soft cushions, letting my back relax after being bent over the sink for the last hour or so. As much as I hate the daily chores, there’s something satisfying in the feeling of them finally being done. The finality and the accomplishment of checking off a mounting task—despite the ever growing list beyond it.

Much like studying, in a way. There are too many things in this world to learn. Too many books I’ve been dying to get my hands on and comb through, with not enough sunlight in the day to keep my eyes from straining over the pages and pages of text.

My mother sips her tea slowly, the fine lines around her eyes smoothing as soon as the warm liquid passes her lips. There isn’t anything artistic in the way I make it, but I’m happy to see her visibly relaxing. These days, my mother’s aches and pains have been far worse than previous years, and the closer we get to summer, the more apparent it’s become.

It scares me that one day I may wake up to her no longer having good days. That the bad will far outweigh the past good and I’ll be forced to do something I may not be ready to. I want my mother to live a happy and long life, not one filled with pain and suffering.

It isn’t fair. She deserves so much better than the lot she’s been given.

“That old conjurer from next door stopped by earlier, while you were out in the gardens. Came by with some news,” she tells me, taking another sip from her tea.

“Oh?” I roll to my feet, finding my way through the stacks of books lined up around our living area in neat piles—another task for when I have the energy—and walk to one of the shelves that has books lined neatly in rows, picking one out from the middle. “What did she want?”

It’s rare that any of our neighbors visit—if you can even call them that, seeing as how we’re miles away from anyone in our little pocket of the forest. Though, it does happen on occasion, especially when my mother was in her heyday of weaving magic and spell crafting.

“She told me she was in town recently, and overheard a rumor that the Emperor might be setting his sights on this side of the capital soon.”

My fingers tense as they sift through the pages of the book in my hand. Carefully, I walk back over to my seat.

The ever-looming presence of the realm’s Emperor, and his pursuit over finding a healer for his ill sister, has been a long standing threat to the witch community for nearly the past decade. Mainly because no witch who’s agreed to help with the cause thus far has ever made it back alive.

None that I’ve heard of, at least.

His tyrannical nature has a long standing history of having never been quelled, and has been the reason for his commitment to conquering the last four nations currently in his keep. Ours being one of them. Thankfully, we’re far removed from any sort of battlefield, so at least we’re safe for the time being from anyone unsavory showing up at our doorstep.

“Perhaps, dear.” My mother’s tea cup clinks against the saucer as she places it back down. “You’d be best suited to help.”

I want to laugh.

Help? Help with what exactly?

It’s no secret to either of us how absolutely mediocre my magic is, if one could even call the fizzled incantations and abhorrent quality of my spell weaving abilities magic. If I wasn’t born from the very womb of the prodigious Maud Halphen herself, no one would believe I possessed any magical abilities at all.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I settle on.

“You’re well studied. Quick as a whip. What more could the Emperor ask for?”

Maybe someone with actual magical prowess? That’s what I really want to say. She’s always been a bit of a dreamer when it comes to me. Convincing herself that I’m meant for something great, no matter how many times I’ve shown her in the past that magic is no friend of mine.

Believe me, I’ve tried plenty. I’ve slaved away at my studies and put my blood, sweat, and tears into trying to be half as good of a mage as my mother is—or rather was, before she became ill.

I wish I could be what she’s dreamed of. But unfortunately the cards have been stacked against me since birth.

“I think the Emperor would be better suited finding someone more experienced than me.” I tell her.

She hums softly at me, her eyes focusing on the tea in her cup and the leaves most likely settled at the bottom.

“Besides,” I continue, flipping another page. “I doubt the Emperor’s men would make the trip all the way out here. Hardly anyone knows we’re out this way. They’d be better off sticking to the city.”

“Perhaps.” Her voice sounds far off, soft in that way she gets sometimes whenever she’s trying to divinate. “Or perhaps we’ve yet to see what the Emperor is truly capable of.”

I don’t argue with her. The illness prevents her from being steadfast in her opinions anyway.

As the sun finally sets, my mother reminds me to break out our candles, lightly scolding me for reading in the dark. Setting down my book, I rise to my feet again. What I really should be doing is starting dinner before it gets too late. Or else we’ll be eating with the moon high in the sky.

Candles first. Then dinner.

“Oh!” I hear her gasp from behind me.

Spinning around, I turn to where she’s peering out of the window next to her, one hand pressed to the cool glass.

“What?” I ask, quickly heading back over to her.

“By the leaves. . .” she whispers cryptically under her breath.

“What?” I ask again—only to be interrupted by a sharp knock at our front door.