The Witch's Daughter

Part Three

  Amma stood at the altar. In the darkness of the dawn, the pale-gold candlelight looked almost haunting with the way it flickered across every crack in the wall. It wasn't much of an altar, really, just something she'd scrounged together after supper: a velvety crimson cloak tossed over a dark-brown vanity, with smudged lipsticks instead of crystals, and instead of herbs. Amma's veins blazed with the sunlight as it glistened over the dewdrops that clung to the tall green grass. She closed her eyes and struggled to focus.

The world deserves me. It deserves me and all of my magic-- what is my intention, joyous or tragic?

Years ago, Maman's magic had been plainer, simpler-- more based in the earth and its elements, as most old witches' had. But Amma was her own woman, with her own sense of witchery. It seemed she hadn't the time to hone her craft, not with the flower-shop and the rowdy squabble of customers-- old women fussing about dead lilies, children breaking valuable pottery on the hard linoleum....She shuddered at the memories. What held me back from casting spells on them?! The same thing that stopped Maman from fighting Papa? There is no universal Book of Shadows, no written rule denoting such a thing. Maybe Maman and I are simply alike.

She shook her head and faced the vanity, flames flicking across the thin glass of the square-shaped mirror. Amma hardly recognized her own face, with its lines and texture, with the deep shadows sloping under her large dark eyes. It was only a matter of time before her magic went soft if not practiced. She saw a young Maman-- the brown eyes, the ruddy cheeks, the gap in her teeth, the voluptuous figure tending to fat. But there were also traces of that monster, with the long leanness of her limbs and the comical smallness of her nose. She folded her arms across her chest, fingers touching each shoulder.

"I am faced with a mirror," she whispered, "So I am faced with a vision. Show me the source of the dream hiding within."

Kriiiick, krick. The mirror spun forward, whirling slowly. Amma glanced over her shoulder, but neither Emmanuel nor Tiberius stirred. Heavy sleepers, she thought, grinning, Just like I remember! The mirror stopped at a jaunty, backward angle, as a soft silver mist blurred the clear glass. It lifted, drifting across the dark room. She blinked it away, eyes stinging with smoke. Then the vision swirled at her-- the cold, dark shadows of the cave, and the ruby-knotted circle on the floor. Tiny black bats shrieked and fluttered in the ceiling. A tiny figure sat before the deepest, darkest corner, as a hard, jagged voice spoke:

"Come sit at the Lost Miracle, Amarantha Ogier Beraude!"

Amma shuddered. The voice was not mortal, no, nothing from this world. It stung her ears, rattling deep into her heart. Her stomach churned, but she kept watching. A soft, pale light flickered across the small figure, revealing a grass-knotted dress and flower-crowned mass of red hair. She rolled a glass orb along each vein of the knot-- slowly and carefully, like a ritual or surgical procedure.

"You have returned," the female voice murmured, "At the right time."

"Returned...." Amma whispered, "For what?"

Sunlight gleamed through the window of the guest-room, and the candle flickered out. Amma's heart pounded as the mirror spun again, back to reflecting her lined, tired face. Emmanuel yawned behind her, and Tiberius shuffled out of bed.

"Sis," Tiberius groaned, "Why'd you get up so early?"

"Just...getting ready."

"Well, not too ready," Emmanuel huffed, "The only people that'll see you are elves, anyway."

Amma was too tired to argue. She opened the door, nearly tripping over her lavender nightgown.