Page 16 of Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore
She felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable, like her root system had been entirely unearthed. The voice inside her that was the Thornwitch was waking up, telling her she needed to prove she wasn’t weak or timid. That she wasn’t someone to be bossed around and messed with and called “friend” by any of these small, silly people. Up there on that stage, Prudence was vulnerable, her instincts told her. Now was the time.
The time for what?Violet asked herself, and her treacherous thoughts had no response.You’re not a villain anymore. Be good.
Still, it felt strange and wrong to watch someone throw down their walls and invite the world in for a peek. Although the music was beautiful and Pru’s steps graceful, Violet found herself backing away from the stage, the crowd eagerly filling in the space she’d left. By the time she reached the edge of the throng, her breath had crawled up into her throat, refusing to go any deeper into her lungs, and her vision was swimming with dark magic that ached to burst from her.Let us protect you, her thorns coaxed, pushing their way to the surface of her skin.Let us make everything go away.Violet crouched by a tree, her basket dropping from her arms, and shut her eyes, trying to remember how to breathe.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat like that, but when she cameback to herself and opened her eyes, the song had ended. Pru was calling out, “Now who among you would like to hear ‘The Tale of the Witch and the Warrior,’ and how the great stone dragon came to rest beneath this very mountain?”
Violet squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the grass that, in her panic, had grown tall enough to wrap around her knees and had even sprouted little yellow flowers. It nuzzled against her fingers like a cat seeking attention.
Focus on Pru’s words, she instructed herself, trying and failing to pay attention to the fantastical story she wove of two lovers fighting a dragon. When she opened her eyes again, there was a wizened old man sitting next to her, carefully placing her flowers back in her fallen basket.
Violet yelped, leaning back sharply. She felt sweaty and clammy and out of control. Her instincts told her it was a feeling that someone could take advantage of if they wanted to, and dark magic threatened to flare within her again at the thought. Her eyes sharpened in suspicion at the old man, who only looked at her with a kind smile and pushed the basket back toward her.
She cleared her throat, smoothing the thorns and calming the tempest of power that raged within her. She clenched her hand around a bit of rock, squeezing to calm herself. “Thank you.”
He raised his eyebrows and pointed at her, clearly asking if she was well.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. I don’t—I mean, that’s never happened to me before.”
The old man stood and offered Violet a hand. She took it and rose to her feet, brushing her dusty hands on the tails of her jacket. She was still holding the rock, and as she dropped it she realized it was shaped exactly like a spoon.Rock goblins, she realized. They must have transformed it.
“Thank you,” she said again, turning her attention back to the old man.
He waved away her thanks, but then gestured for her to follow him. Violet glanced around her, that voice in her mind once again convincing her that he meant to lead her into a dark alley and pull a knife on her. But he was old and frail, and she was surrounded by soil and trees and things that grew. Like a child might count sheep before bed, she counted the ways she could take him down if she needed to as he led her toward a row of stalls just on the other side of the path. She chided herself for her unkind thoughts when he reached a cart set with a charcoal stove and several rotating spits above the open coals. It turned out to be the source of that incredible smell she’d noticed earlier, which she registered the moment he handed her a warm package wrapped in brown paper.
“I don’t have any coin on me,” she protested, but he waved her off and motioned for her to open it. Inside the paper was a long, spiraling pastry, shiny golden brown and rolled in glistening sugar. It was cylindrical and hollow inside, and the scent of cinnamon that rose from the cake made Violet nearly faint again for entirely different reasons. The man smiled at her and gestured like she should pull at the edge of the spiral and eat it, so she did.
Violet practically moaned when the pastry hit her tongue. It was sweet and yeasty, with a slight crunch around the edges where the sugar had caramelized. Flavors of cinnamon and vanilla overwhelmed her—it was like nothing she’d ever tasted before.
“This is amazing,” she said to the man. “What are they?”
He pointed to the sign on his cart:Dragon Horns.
“Making friends, I see?” They both turned to find Quinn standing there, arms crossed, smiling at them. “You fool, you didn’t even give her any of my whipped honey for dipping.”
“It’s perfect the way it is,” said Violet, before she remembered who she was talking to.
Quinn laughed. “I see you’re in league with Guy, then.”
Frost settled over Violet’s nerves. “What?” she spluttered.
“Guy.” Quinn nodded to the old man, then seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh, not big bad evil Guy. Just regular Guy. Good Guy. It was a popular name for a while, not that it helped our Guy. Shadowfade took his tongue when he was a young man.”
The old man—Guy—waved cheerfully, but Violet only felt nauseous. Of course, they were so close to Shadowfade Castle, and Guy Shadowfade had been in power for over a century. It stood to reason that some of the townsfolk would name their children after him to try to please him, just as it stood to reason that people here would bear scars. “I see.”
“Guy’s dragon horns are fantastic, aren’t they?” Quinn winked. “Though not as good as my honey cakes. You’ll have to come by for tea sometime and I’ll make them for you.”
Guy made direct eye contact with Violet, his face losing all traces of humor, and shook his head vehemently.
“Oh, stop it, you,” said Quinn brightly. “They were much better last time!”
Guy didn’t look convinced.
“Well,” tutted Quinn. “I have a new idea for the recipe, so we’ll see, shall we?”
Guy made a movement with his hands, and Quinn nodded. “Great idea.” She turned back to Violet. “A few of us get together every Thursday and chat. You could come, tell us a bit about yourself and how you came to be here.”
But Violet couldn’t agree to that. How could she? She still felt cold, and the clamminess she’d felt watching Pru was returning—these were real people who’d been affected by Shadowfade’s reign, who had suffered under him. The kind old man who hadhelped her and fed her—he’d been mutilated by the closest thing Violet had to a father. She didn’t deserve their kindness. No matter what she did now, she’d never be worthy of a normal life. Violet clutched the paper that held the dragon horn, crushing the cake in her hands. It tasted like ash now.
