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.
She looked past me for an instant at the few inches of open floor, and I took the opportunity to bolt past her down the hall, straight out the door at full speed. I ran from the house ignoring the paths; other elves would be no help to me. I kept running until I was certain she wasn’t coming, and then I collapsed at the edge of a meadow. I dropped my face into my hands and considered weeping.
“Freya?” a soft voice asked.
I looked up, startled. Chevelle stood just in front of me. He dropped to his knees and reached out to touch the mark across my cheek. I turned my head to hide the evidence and his hand became a cradle on the side of my face.
Chapter Four
Flame
“Freya,” he repeated in a softer, soothing voice as he lifted my face. He appeared to have real concern as he glanced from what I was sure was now a welt to my eyes and I struggled to keep the tears that were welling up from falling. I’d not had a caring touch or this kind of regard from anyone for so long I didn’t know how to react.
“You’ll need to learn protection spells.”
“I… I can’t…”
“We won’t tell Francine or the council,” he promised, and I didn’t miss that he’d used Fannie’s real name. Then, softer, “We won’t even tell Junnie.”
I didn’t understand. “I mean I can’t do magic… just useless stuff… light candles…”
“Then we start with fire.”
He lowered his hand to mine and stood, pulling me up and toward the center of the clearing. When we'd distanced ourselves from the tree line, he abruptly stopped and turned back to me, still holding my right hand. My eyes followed his as he looked down at our clasped hands and a cool blue flame lit on my right sleeve.
Immediately, my other hand jerked up to extinguish it. Chevelle took the hand to keep me from smacking at the flame, which had already disappeared. “No,” he said, “use the magic. Feel it.”
I nodded and he returned his gaze to our hands, now both connected, as a spark lit at the hem of my left sleeve and slowly worked its way up my arm. I wanted the fire off my arm, needed it put out now. When I concentrated on that, the flame flickered. It flared again and Chevelle squeezed my hands; I had to be able to do this. I focused hard at the base of the flame as it wavered and then fell back toward the hem where it finally choked off. I glanced up at Chevelle. He looked pleased.