Page 72 of Curses and Cauldrons

“Here, I think I can help share the story.” Ambrose sinks down by her side, laying his hand on the book. “They always claim showing instead of telling is better anyway.” He waggles his eyebrows and then conjures an illusion, pulling the words from the page and creating a cast of the scene in my mind. It’s as if I’ve been thrust into an entirely new world. One that existed hundreds of years ago. It’s incredible magic.

There’s a young woman, in her early twenties, standing in the main parlor of an elegant house. Her hair is so black, hints of blue glint in the lamplight. She’s wearing a skirt with layers of petticoats and a heavy manteau. It’s casual and obviously not a working dress. Instinctively, I know that the two people standing in front of her are her parents. Her mother is dressed in a similar fashion. Her father has on a pair of knee-length breeches, white stockings with buckle shoes, and a brown coat that almost reaches his knees. There’s fine silver threading creating a pattern in the fabric.

“Briar.” The older woman steps forward to clasp her daughter’s hands. “It is time to put away childish thoughts and do your duty for this family.”

“What childish thoughts?” Briar tries to step back, but her mother holds her hands firmly in her grip.

Her father slams his hand on the fireplace mantle. “Enough. As if we don’t know you’ve been sneaking around with that low-level piece of trash. His family is of no consequence, no power, no wealth.” His voice raises with each word.

I’m obviously stepping into the middle of the conversation. I know enough about our town’s history and of the Briar Witch to put some pieces of the puzzle together. Briar is the witch who stole the heirloom. She is the one who was thrown into the Briar Hollows River to bind the curses. I look at the woman, shaking my head. What was the heirloom? How did all of this lead to our curses?

Briar’s shoulders hunch, but then she straightens, her chin tipping up. “I love him. Tristan is worth a dozen of the founding families. It doesn’t matter that his magic is small. His heart is big. Fate has brought us together.”

“You are the heir of one of the most powerful families. Your blood will not be wasted,” her father snarls. “You will marry one of the sons of a founding family. We have a responsibility to uphold the magic in this town.”

“I thought we came here for freedom from persecution. To live our lives without worrying about how others would see us.”

“That doesn’t mean you shirk your duty and responsibilities to this family,” the mother says with a sharp tone, squeezing Briar’s fingers so tightly she’s leaving marks with her nails.

Briar yanks her hands from her mother’s grip. She takes a step back and holds up her hands. A magical wind stirs papers on the table, and the cups on a tea set clatter. “I will not be your puppet. I will marry the man I love and not Percival Ashenvale. That family is the worst of humanity. Stealing people’s lands, charging to heal the sick when they have no need of funds. This is what has become of the founding families that you hold so high above others. What is there to be proud of in their actions?Their greed for wealth and power has clouded the importance of everything else. And now you’ve been infected as well.”

“You will marry him, and you will obey,” her father bellows, his face red.

Briar shakes her head and pulls off a ring on her left finger. Her parents gasp and spew angry curses. “We belong together. You can’t keep us apart.”

Wrapped around her finger is a thin band of lines that looks like swirling wind. It almost looks like a tattoo, but I know that’s not what this is.

“Impossible. I don’t give a damn about fate. You will marry the Ashenvale heir.” Her father rushes toward her. Briar throws up her hands, a gust of magic pushing him back and giving her enough time to run from the room.

She escapes the house, stumbling out into a blizzard. Ambrose’s illusion is so incredible that I feel the bite and sting of little pieces of ice on my face as Briar runs.

Even though it was over three hundred years ago, I still recognize the landmarks of Mystic Hollows. The river that separates the two sides of the town. Some of the older houses that still exist today. Briar runs for so long that I don’t know how she has the will to keep moving her feet. Her dress is sodden, her exposed face and hands red and chapped from the wind.

Her relief courses through her. I feel it in my veins as Ambrose’s illusion grows more powerful. A small cabin comes into view. The door opens, and Briar falls into the arms of a surprised young man. Their peace is short-lived.

Everything after that happens in a series of flashes: Men show up at Tristan‘s cabin. The council drags him and Briar back into town, where they torture Tristan, forcing Briar to watch.

We’re in a stone-walled room. Men and women both surround Tristan and Briar. It’s the most powerful families of Mystic Hollows, their coven council. But they aren’t twoseparate covens. They are one. My mind spins with all of the revelations. What we’ve been told about our two warring covens, the heirloom, it’s all wrong. I’m beginning to suspect there is no magical object at all. That was an heir being fought over.

One of the men, Percival Ashenvale’s father, walks up to Briar and slaps her across the face.

“You’re not good enough for my son. I want you to remember that.”

He steps over to Tristan, who is held up by chains. He’s not even conscious. The bastard punches him in the stomach while Briar screams. Her hands are tied behind her back, making it impossible for her to do any magic. This goes on for an eternity.

Eventually, Briar caves and tells her parents that she will marry the Ashenvale boy as long as they stop.

There’s relief that the council finally stops, but it battles with the complete misery of what Briar has agreed to. She’s outnumbered, and she sees no way out of this. I know how that feels. To be held down by people who should care about me and punished because I did something that pissed off my mother. I don’t even know when I stopped seeing her actions as a betrayal, and it became normal. I’m shaken as that realization hits me.

In a blink, we’re all standing on Briar Hollows Bridge. Or rather, a previous version of what exists now. Briar’s hands are still tied behind her back, and she’s facing Percival Ashenvale, her soon-to-be husband. He’s tall and lanky and might be considered handsome if not for the petulant look on his face.

They haven’t let Briar bathe or change. There’s blood splattering the muddy hem of her dress, and her tears have left her eyes puffy and her face a tight mask. The head of the coven stands between the two of them, wind tossing his ceremonial robes across his body and face.

“We are gathered here to bring these two families together. To bond these witches by ritual and rite. To carry into the next generations a more powerful union.”

The bride’s and groom’s fathers are holding Tristan’s limp body in Briar’s line of sight. A taunt and a reminder that she needs to do as she’s told. She’s shaking from rage and cold. The feeling of impotence making her whole body tremble. I feel the emotions as if they were my own.

Tristan’s eyes open, and they’re distraught. Briar jerks forward, but another of the council grabs her shoulders and yanks her back. With a shout, Tristan throws off the two men holding his arms and launches himself at the man holding Briar. His fist hits the man’s cheek, and Briar breaks free. Tristan catches her, pulling a knife from one of the council members’ scabbards. He slices through the ropes binding Briar’s hands.

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