ask for a trial.
- Ursula (You)
She’d started to think of herself as two people: Former Ursula and New Ursula. Former Ursula was a complete mystery, and her one link to Former Ursula was the white stone in her pocket, its surface now worn smooth from constant rubbing. It was a strange little anchor to her old life.
Occasionally, glimpses of a bygone life appeared in her dreams: fields of wild thyme and orchids, skylarks and adders. She had no idea what it meant, except that she’d probably grown up in the countryside.
Here she was, waiting for her life to change by some sort of magic on her eighteenth birthday, but that was obviously a sad joke. At what point in this disaster of a day was she supposed to have asked for a trial? On the crowded bus she took to work, burning with a fever? Midway through losing her job? Or while meeting Rufus’s new girlfriend? The whole day had been a series of ordeals, one trial after another, but none of them particularly momentous.
It didn’t matter. She’d been gradually losing faith in the idea that her fortunes would magically turn around, that someone or something would waltz into her miserable life bearing a gift of a diamond or a secret bank account.
And now, she had to figure out how to save herself from complete destitution.
She shivered, hugging herself tighter. A normal life would be nice: a family and a steady income. Maybe some childhood memories, and hands that didn’t spontaneously ignite.
She stalked past a row of crooked Victorian homes, warmly lit from within. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened with her hands. Madeleine had called her a witch, for crying out loud. Maybe there was a trial in her future.
Her door came into view—the one she could always pick out from the rows of identical houses, by the chipped red paint on the doorframe. She jammed her key into the lock. Thank God I’m home.
She stepped inside, hoping to hear a welcoming Hello from her flatmate Katie, but the flat was as dark and quiet as a grave. She flicked the switch by the door, but the lights didn’t turn on. Shit. The electric key must have run out. It would remain dark and cold until she got to the shop tomorrow. She shook her head. Maybe the point of the note was that her whole life was a trial.
Sighing with frustration, she steadied her hand along the wall as she crept down the carpeted stairs.
It wasn’t a stunning place—a one-bedroom basement flat—but it was home nonetheless. Katie had the bedroom, since she paid more in rent, and Ursula slept in the living room, tidying up an air mattress every morning. With Katie’s help, she’d brightened up the woodchip wallpaper with canary-yellow paint and some posters of wildflowers—forget-me-nots and golden aster—that reminded her of her most soothing dreams.
Ursula pulled out her phone, flicking open a text from Katie.
Happy Birthday Ursula! I’m coming home soon. Let’s go out.
A pit opened in her stomach. She was going to have to tell Katie about her little rent problem. She dropped her phone on the sofa, then peeled off her leopard-print coat and the beer-soaked shirt and bra, still shivering, before yanking a black shirt and bra off the drying rack. Might as well have an outfit to match my mood.
She slipped into her dry clothes, then crossed to the kitchen, a cupboard-sized space with a tiny vinyl countertop. As she flipped open the blinds, she let a little light in from the streetlamp outside. Crouching before a kitchen drawer, she rifled around for a box of matches.
After lighting two tea candles by the stove, she felt her stomach rumble. When was the last time she’d eaten?
Yanking open the fridge door, she grabbed the last smear of butter. Bread and butter for dinner.
Just as she reached for the loaf of bread, the hair on her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. She could always tell when she was being observed. And right now, someone was most definitely lurking in the shadows of her tiny flat.
Slowly, she turned, and her heart nearly leapt from her chest. Moving silently through the living room was a broad-shouldered man, his face hidden in the gloom. Probably her flatmate’s latest conquest, but better safe than sorry. She slid open the knife drawer.
Carefully, so as not to alarm the stranger, she gripped a knife’s hilt, her hand hidden in the drawer.
The man prowled closer, his movements smooth and almost inhuman.
Ice licked up her spine. Just outside the doorframe, the stranger paused in the shadows.
She swallowed. “Who’s there?”
His green eyes seemed to glow in the dark, and the word witch flitted through her mind.
“My name is Kester.” His deep voice slid through her bones.