The Witch's Tempest

BEFORE

SEVEN YEARS AGO

It was a particularly gray, things-to-do sort of morning, when children were beginning to fall into the whirl of mundaneness that September brought—school, frumpily unfitting uniforms, and a fair share of scoldings to do homework. 

The aroma of fresh bread from Montirasi’s contrasted wonderfully with the warmth of dawn’s colors; leaves already fading into the yellows and ruddy oranges of autumn, reminding Elsa all too well of the canned tuna she should’ve fed Luna that morning. Nevertheless, she made some effort to dispel the thought as she picked her way along the cobbled thoroughfare with her brother, Nathaniel, knowingly there were far more important things to worry about. (For example, things like, whether or not she would be capable of making friends with anyone on The First Day—more importantly, talking to anyone for that matter—and finding her right classes, mother, if the teacher would be mean and witchy, if she had enough pencils to last a year, and mother again, and if she’d be safe from the—)

God. It all left such a bottomless, hopelessly panicked feeling in her stomach.

Still trying to push away her thoughts, she clutched to her school bag to her chest, and when that didn’t provide enough clingy comfort, Elsa clung onto Nathaniel’s arm as they jostled through the Montirasi morning crowd. He frowned, reading the anxiousness on Elsa’s face and quickened his step, leaving Elsa to catch up with his haste stride.

There were men crowding by the door of Motirasi’s—tall, stately white-collared men in tail coats and lovely black hats, clearly not only working men but wealthy, too—happily devouring their petulant treats and chatting amongst each other rather obnoxiously, therefore compelling Elsa to bury her face into Nathaniel’s sleeve even more. Elsa looked up to him despairingly in hope to get a sense of warmth in Nathaniel’s sternness but instead, he looked over his shoulder and eyed the men with great longing. Of course, it was their coats. As soon as he caught Elsa was looking at him, too, he averted away rather sheepishly, and his face fell into its usual frown.

“Let’s go,” he muttered. Nathaniel gave Elsa a polite tug to hurry it along, as if she had been the one gaping at them to begin with.

Notwithstanding those old-fashioned men, the two walked by a string of outlets in a tensed silence, short, oddish-looking buildings held so compactly it hardly offered much alleyway. Some facades reeked in such horrid rancidness and decay Elsa wondered why hadn’t they crumbled altogether, although the conditions of the buildings failed to discourage some men standing outside from having their animated conversations (some trying harder to than others) about things Elsa failed to understand. She cleared her throat and fixedly watched the black-coated men inquisitively, but the minute she caught on one of their gazes across the street—he held up a hand to his colleague and paused to stare back—she looked away, certainly feeling the same prick of self-consciousness Nathaniel had a moment ago.

“Couldn’t we have taken a train or something?” she asked, trying to summon bravery to her tone.

Nathaniel gave a slight chuckle. “Please, Elsa, why would we need a goddy train for anyways? You have too legs, don’t you?” Elsa glowered and instantly, her moment of bravery waned back into her nervousness again. It was always his laugh that bothered her. That chuckle of his didn’t even indicate the slightest hint of deference like she was a small child, which was true of course, but she hated to be reminded of it.

“What about a car?” she furthered more prudently this time, as the one parked near Montirasi’s sputtered to life.