Chapter Text
“Go on, Tal,” Raelle says. She shoves her friend forward, and Tally gives her a vicious glare over her shoulder. “A dare’s a dare.”
Tally grumbles. She regrets ever listening to Abigail and Raelle, who swore they wouldn’t make any trouble. Not with the wedding tomorrow, and certainly not with Tally’s mother breathing around every corner, making sure that Tally would be picture perfect walking down the aisle.
Abigail is snickering into the palm of her hand, trying to muffle the sounds of her delight. The wood at the edge of the Craven estate has long been forbidden to Tally, as well as any other member of their little town. As a child, Tally could see the edge of it from her bedroom window, the way the dark trees encroached on the perfectly manicured fields that the Craven family owned. But her mother, deeply superstitious, had banned her daughter from ever going within ten meters of the wood.
“There’s a witch that’s lived there since before my grandfather’s time,” was all she’d say when Tally begged to walk along the small path there. A lively child, Tally had soon grown bored of the staid trees that lined the gardens, longing for the wild and rough oaks that she could see resided in the forest. “She’ll snatch you, Tally, and all we’ll find left are your bones. Drink your blood to sustain her violent and tempestuous thirst. Don’t go near the forest, my girl, not unless you want to die an early and gruesome death.”
Tally’s mother, the fifth daughter of Lord Craven, had inherited the estate after the deaths of all his previous heirs. Tally’s father had been but an insignificant soldier who’d died not long after Tally’s second birthday, on some battlefield or another. May Craven, who liked to pretend he didn’t exist, had devoted all her energy into raising Tally, and finding a suitable match for her that would raise their little family out of the relative insignificance it had suffered since the death of Tally’s grandfather.
And a suitable match she’d found. Not one to disobey her mother, Tally soon found herself betrothed to Gerit Buttonwood, set to inherit an earldom from his ailing Uncle. He was nice enough, Tally supposed, and she'd want for nothing. The entire courtship had been placid and straightfoward, practically set in stone from the moment he kissed her hand and asked her to dance. Gerit’s handsome face was the envy of all her friends, and Tally found herself thrust into the spotlight of upper class society in a way she’d never been before.
And yet, something itches inside Tally. A measure of discomfort, that she’s not managed to rid herself of. The whisper that she’ll never find fulfillment as yet another lady of a grand house.
The whisper that she still needs to live. A whisper that is quickly becoming a wail, as the clock counts down the hours to the moment where she’ll leave Tally Craven behind forever, and become Lady Buttonwood.
That’s why Tally, on the eve of her wedding, is standing shivering in her nightdress, at the edge of the long forbidden forest. Raelle and Abigail, her two bridesmaids and dearest friends, are gleefully forcing her forward.
“Truth or dare is a ridiculous game,” Tally decides, “and not at all appropriate for the night before my wedding.”
“You were the one who suggested it, Tal,” Abigail says with a snort. “You wanted this.”
Tally snaps her head around and glares at her friend. Abigail Bellweather, the epitome of poise and grace, the envy of society and future Duchess, sticks her tongue out at Tally. Tally sighs, and steps forward.
“If I get eaten by the Witch of the Wood, you’re going to have to deal with my mother,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Arguably a worse fate,” Raelle says with a shudder, “so go on. Five minutes, Tal, and then you can turn around.”
Tally shifts, the cold wind blowing through her thin nightdress. She should have brought her shawl, she thinks miserably. Or different friends that would never put her in this situation in the first place.
It had been a mistake, admitting her long seated and rather strange dream of entering the wood. For as long as Tally could remember, she’d been fascinated by not only the forest itself, but the stories of the witch who resided inside it. Although there was no concrete evidence to prove the existence of this so-called bloodthirsty Witch of the Wood, the occasional missing woman was sure to fuel rumors that she’d been walking near the southside of the forest before her disappearance, or that she’d wandered too close to the brush one afternoon.
Sometimes, Tally swears she can hear singing coming from the forest. A low pitched ringing, that calls once in a blue moon. When she’d told Raelle and Abigail this, only a few weeks prior, they’d laughed it off. And Tally was sure they’d forgotten all about it.
Of course not.
The dare is, as posited by Raelle, ‘walk into the forest for five minutes, and then turn around and come back out, you wimp’. Everyone has, apparently. Abigail claims that the young lords and ladies of society used to hold the occasional secret party on the northside of the wood, and nothing ever happened.
But the Craven estate borders the largest and thickest part of the forest - the part that no one really ventures in. And Tally, so sheltered, so heavily guarded for most of her life, has never gone to one of these forest parties that Abigail speaks of, much less a party that doesn’t have at least five chaperones present, and a well lit ballroom.
“See you in five, Tally!” Abigail jeers, as Tally prods the leaf strewn ground that greets her with her foot. Grimacing, she steps forward, and enters the thicket.
She looks behind her, Raelle and Abigail still chuckling as she wanders further in. Soon, however, their figures are obscured by the masses of trees, and the light grows dimmer. Occasionally Tally glimpses a beam of moonlight filtering through the canopy of treetops, but it does little to light her way. Her feet stumble and trip over the roots that pop up underneath her, and Tally yelps when she feels what must be a branch brush her shoulder.
“I am going to kill them,” Tally murmurs, and as she does, her nightdress gets caught on yet another branch. Tugging it impatiently, Tally hears an ominous riiippp - and she stumbles forward, twisting around trying to keep her balance, but eventually landing on her knees in the dirt.
“Damn!” Tally curses, coming forward onto her hands with a thump. Disorientated, she lifts her head, unsure of which direction she came from. Has it been five minutes? It must have been. It has to have been. Looking around her, Tally can make out what must be the path she’d come down.
Right?
She’d not thought this one through, Tally thinks grimly. Neither had Abigail and Raelle. It’s so dark that Tally can barely see her own hands, let alone any landmarks that might guide her out of the soupy dark that surrounds her.
Oh god, she needs to get out of here. She’s getting married tomorrow, not to mention that Raelle and Abigail will be eaten alive by her mother if she ever discovers what they’ve dared her to do. Tally glances around herself frantically, trying to figure out which way to go.
“Okay, calm down,” she says, trying to keep her breathing level. “Pick a direction, and walk. It’s as simple as that.”
She gets up, brushing her knees and feeling the rip in her nightdress. It’s around her thighs, and big enough to leave a huge hole. Oh, that’s going to be hard to hide from her mother. She regrets everything. She regrets it all. Who cares if she’s getting married tomorrow, she still has time to live her life - coming down to this forest and walking in it is not going to change the fact that Gerit Buttonwood will be her husband. No matter how much Tally had secretly wished it would.
She continues walking, beginning to shake. Partially out of fear, partially from the bitter cold that’s seeping into her bones. After what seems like a couple of minutes, Tally knows she’s lost. She’s lost, and it's all her fault. And Raelle’s. And Abigail’s.
She leans against a tree, trying to calm her breathing. Tears catch in her eyes, and Tally swallows harshly, trying to keep them from falling. Much to her dismay, a sob wracks her body.
“Fuck!” She groans, grounding her head into the tree trunk. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She punctuates each curse with a slam of her head into the trunk. “This is so stupid.” She slides down, into the ground, bowing her head between her knees, still crying. The tears are hot and fast on her face, and a blessed warmth in the midnight chill. Leaning back, Tally closes her eyes and wonders whether or not Raelle and Abigail are looking for her.
Sighing, she opens her eyes again and wipes her eyes. No use crying, she thinks. You can get out of here. You can do this.
Leaning forward, Tally makes to get up. Unfortunately, her hem catches underneath her feet once more, and she trips forward, landing on the ground with a thump again.
Groaning, Tally lifts her head, and takes the proffered hand.
“Thank you,” she mumbles.
Wait.
Wait.
Tally can feel the blood draining from her face. The hand holding hers is long and slender, its grip gentle against hers. Tally follows the hand, connected to a long arm, up and up and up and-
oh.
Oh no.
The woman in front of her seems to glow in the heavy dark. Despite Tally’s inability to make out any of her surroundings, she can see each and every one of this woman’s features. Her angular jaw, a proud and sharp mouth turned up in a dangerous smile. Her ice flint eyes, which sweep over Tally’s form, assessing the dirty nightdress, the tear at her thigh. Her hair, which flows free and wild over her shoulders, and is somehow darker than the night that covers them. She looks down on Tally like a goddess passing judgment.
“You’re - you’re the - the -” Tally stammers, because there is only one person this woman could be. Her dress, long and dark, is corseted with ribbons and lace, a thick velvet cloak covering her shoulders. Around her body she wears a sturdy leather belt, where a sharp sword hangs. Her hands, including the one offered to Tally are adorned with golden rings, and a heavy locket sits on her breast.
“The Witch,” The Witch replies, her smile curving higher somehow. “As I’m commonly called.”
Tally is still holding her hand, and she rises, almost in a trance. “I’m sorry,” she says, hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. With my - uh - crying.”
The Witch tilts her head. “It was more your inept stumbling around my forest that alerted me to your presence. I always sense a lost soul.”
Tally swallows, hard. “Right,” she says. “I guess you would, being a witch and all.”
The Witch eyes her, still smiling. “You must be Tally Craven, I assume?”
“Yes?” Tally says. “How did you know?”
The Witch doesn’t reply. Instead, she moves forward, grasping Tally’s chin. A moment passes, and Tally’s breath comes fast and nervous from her, floundering in her chest as the Witch moves back once more.
“You’re the first person in years to have heard my songs,” the Witch finally says. “You are of the blood.”
“The what now?” Tally asks, wondering if she accidentally hit her head a bit too hard on the tree trunk earlier.
“The blood,” the Witch says, almost impatiently. “The first Craven in a century to hear the song that the world gifts some of us. I’d thought the talent lost to your line, but you surprised me.”
“My blood?” Tally squeaks. “My blood’s really not that special, I swear, it's just red and - and bloody, and pretty boring, please - please don’t drink my blood!"
The Witch stares at her. Oh goodness, Tally thinks numbly. I’m going to get eaten.
And then the Witch throws back her head and laughs.
Tally gapes, the sound ringing like a waterfall in her ears. The Witch looks at Tally, mirth dancing across her face. And in that moment, Tally feels her apprehension melt away, replaced with something else. Something she hasn’t felt in years.
Excitement.
“I see they still tell those silly old wives tales about me, then?” The Witch asks, and bites her lip, grinning. Tally swallows hard. She wishes the Witch would laugh again.
Perhaps a knock knock joke would do it?
“My mother told me I’d get eaten if I entered this forest,” Tally admits, a little flushed. “The only reason I’m here is because of my stupid friends.”
“Oh?” The Witch raises an eyebrow. “And what did they do?”
“Dared me,” Tally says, morosely. Her mood turns in an instant, any lingering enjoyment from hearing the Witch’s laughter drowning under the reminder of what Tally must do tomorrow. “I’m getting married in the morning, and they said I needed to live my life while I still can. It’s all horseshit, of course, I’m not signing away my entire life just because I’m going to marry someone -” her breath hitches, and she stops.
“Mmm,” the Witch murmurs. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Tally’s eyes dart up to the Witch’s, which are staring down at her steadily.
“No,” she whispers. “No, I know my life and wants will no longer be mine once I am married.”
The Witch nods. “I once faced the same prospect,” she says. “And I ran away into these woods and never came out. I never regretted it.”
“Well,” Tally says, “I wish I could run away. It would be so much easier than spending my entire life tied to Gerit Buttonwood.” She makes a face.
“I assume there is little affection between you and your intended?”
“He’s alright, I guess,” Tally says. “But he’s so boring. He’s proud of the fact that he’s only ever read ten books in his entire life, and his two interests are horse racing and hunting. I once quoted Aristotle and he said who’s that. About Aristotle!” Tally glares at the ground, a familiar fire rising in her. She’d felt so sick when her mother had announced her engagement. As though she’d been punched in the stomach, repeatedly. Somehow, over the past six months, she’s managed to push it down. To forget that nausea. But now, it’s rising to the surface with a vengeance, and Tally doesn’t know what to do with all of the hopelessness it drags along with it.
The Witch watches this internal turmoil unfold in Tally, a knowing glimmer in her eyes. Tally looks up at her, and finds she’s completely forgotten that she’s standing in front of the infamous Witch of the Wood, who’d she’d been fully convinced would drink her blood not a couple moments earlier.
“Sorry,” she says, sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to go on like that.”
The Witch says nothing for a moment, and then reaches down to grab Tally’s hand again. Tally flinches at the sudden contact, the rough warmth of the Witch’s hand a surprise.
“Come with me,” the Witch orders. When Tally hesitates, she says dryly, “I promise I’m not going to kill you.”
“Oh I wasn’t -” Tally says, faltering. “I wasn’t thinking about that at all.” Well, she was, but then she got distracted by the thought of the Witch’s hands around her throat, of the Witch holding her body down so she couldn’t run away and - oh, what is going on with her?
The Witch hums, as if she knows exactly what Tally is thinking and she cringes. But she stumbles along, still holding the Witch’s hand. It’s not like she has much of a choice. She’s lost in the forest, and this is the Witch of the Wood. Whatever she might have said about not killing Tally, she could still turn her into a frog or whatever. Tally’s not taking any chances.
“So, uh, what did you mean when you said I was of the blood?” Tally asks, after a couple minutes of silence. She’s still holding the Witch’s hand, and she finds it anchors her, making it easier to navigate the silent brush around her.
“You can sing our songs,” the Witch says. “Long ago, the Craven line was ripe with witches such as I. But a century ago, one of you vowed not to sing our songs any longer. Since then, the women of your family have been muted, cut away from the magic that suffuses your land. Until you, that is. You, hearing me when I sing - something no one has done in a long time.”
Tally listens, enraptured. She thinks of her mother, her vehemence towards anything slightly out of the ordinary. Of Tally’s own fascination with the magical, the fantastical. “How did you know I could listen?”
The Witch hesitates for a moment, before saying, almost cautiously, “I could hear you singing back.”
Tally’s eyes widen.
“How did you - how did you know that?” She whispers.
It’s true that Tally has heard the forest singing on occasion. It’s also true that sometimes Tally would sing with it. A tune would fill her, and without even really understanding it, Tally would speak forth words and melodies that came down from deep inside her, something she never quite understood.
“All witches can hear one another,” The Witch says. “If you heard me singing in this forest, then I could hear you. Although,” she says, and now she’s grinning in a way that has a shiver floating down Tally’s spine, “hearing each other from that type of distance usually speaks of a more…intense connection.”
Tally gulps.
A little while later, a small cottage comes into view.
Tally’s not sure how long they’ve been walking. Only that the moon shone brighter with the Witch by her side, and her feet were more sure on the ground than they had been. Tally’s still cold, but no longer shivering. Still, when she spots the merry glow of a fire inside the cosy thatched roof house, Tally almost groans in relief. The cottage itself stands like a beacon in the blue night, rough and firm against the ground, a thriving wisteria inching up one side. A small garden stands off to one side, plants spilling over old gates that no longer hold any authority.
Tally can almost picture the Witch on her knees there, tending to each plant as if it were a child, but the image is then disrupted by the Witch with dirt on her cheek, her hair haphazard and it makes Tally blush. The idea of the Witch, so poised and graceful, wearing something like absentmindedness. They walk up the small stone path set into the forest ground, to the porch where bundles of herbs hang. As Tally passes them, a multitude of scents fill her like heady wine: lavender, rosemary and thyme to mention a few. The wood of the front porch creaks under their weight, and Tally briefly glimpses a deep carving into the dark wood of the door, shaped like a moon.
She’s not sure what she’s doing. She’s really not sure why she hasn’t run away screaming by now. Something about the Witch is speaking to that nervous part of her, coaxing it into submission, and Tally’s not sure if she’s the biggest idiot of the face of the earth for quite literally entering the dragon's lair. But the Witch is calm in the face of Tally's own jitteriness, her hand sure in Tally's damp palm. And Tally's never felt this way around anyone before. Perhaps, what's unnerving Tally most of all, is the power of her own naked desire to learn more about the Witch, about this song she speaks of.
Opening the door, the Witch flings off her cloak, hanging it up on a nearby peg. Tally enters, suddenly extremely aware of her own bedraggled state, the dirty nightdress that is slipping off her shoulders and ripped beyond repair. The warmth that greets her melts into her skin, and Tally sighs as the frigid night air is left behind.
The Witch bustles around, heading to a small alcove with a kitchen filled with herbs and pots. She gestures to the hearth, where an armchair and sofa sit. “Take a seat” she says, and Tally obeys without any objection.
“You have a very nice home,” Tally says, when the Witch comes to join her. In her hands, she holds two steaming cups, and she hands one to Tally. It smells minty, and Tally lets it warm her fingers.
“Thank you,” the Witch says. She’s watching Tally intently, her eyes boring into Tally’s face.
They sit there for a moment, and Tally watches the flames sputter against the logs. Questions bubble inside her, a stewing pot of curiosity. She can’t hold the silence much longer.
So this means I’m a witch, then?” Tally’s eyes dart to the Witch’s, who holds her gaze calmly.
“Yes,” the Witch replies. “It does.”
“Oh,” Tally says, dumbly. “Oh, wow.”
The Witch smiles. “Indeed. Would you like to try a spell?”
“A spell?” Tally says, her voice going high. “Now?”
The Witch nods, and Tally says, a little breathlessly, “Okay.”
The Witch begins to hum, and instinctively, Tally joins her. Their voices meld into one harmonised pitch, and the cup in Tally’s hand begins to rattle. Louder and louder they sing, the ringing floating in Tally’s ear like the soft chime of a bell. Tally watches in wonder as her tea forms a spiral, up and up and up, twirling round and round.
The Witch is looking as well, her gaze showing a spark of delight. Tally can tell their song is reaching a crescendo, and with a sudden drop, the tea falls back into the cup. It doesn’t splash over the sides however, instead placid once more as if it had never moved in the first place.
“Oh,” Tally sighs, her heart beating faster. “That was amazing.”
“Yes,” the Witch says softly. Her eyes are firm on Tally, alight with something that looks like hunger. “It was wonderful to sing with another witch again.”
Tally’s eyes snap to the Witch’s. “Aren’t there more?” She asks, and the Witch sits back on the sofa, eyes hooded in the dim light.
“There were,” she says. “But your family was not the first to renounce our ways. I have been alive for centuries, and even in my own time we were a dying breed.”
“Do all witches live as long as you?” Tally asks with a frown.
“No,” the Witch says with a small sigh. “That is a curse only I must bear.”
This strikes Tally. Her mother has always told her her worst trait is her curiosity, and in this instance, she might be right. She bites down on her lip to stop herself from asking what exactly this curse entails.
“You must know that we are hunted,” the Witch says. Tally realizes she’s been quiet for a beat too long, and the Witch looks into the fire. A darkness steals over her face, and Tally’s breath is stolen at the curl of the Witch’s lip, the way her entire face becomes cruel in an instance. “Our kind burned at the stake, our lives stolen for the sheer crime of singing. It is not an easy life, nor one free of danger.”
She looks at Tally. The darkness is still there, but the curl of her lip lightens. “It is a beautiful one though. A life that will be original and free from doubt.” She leans forward, and takes Tally’s hand. “I should like it if you would join me.”
Tally feels her mouth open, her heart quicken. There’s a blush stealing up her throat, onto her cheeks. “Me?” She asks. “Join you? How?”
“Come live with me,” the Witch says, determinedly. “Train in the ways of the witch, learn our songs. You can choose your own path, and never be threatened with boredom again.”
“I - I could live….here?” Tally is caught in the other woman’s gaze, the sheer force that is held within her eyes. Her skin grows warm, and she feels overwhelmed, flushed
“Yes,” the Witch says. Tally’s mind spins with possibility. Of songs, bursting from her throat. Of the Witch, guiding her in this wonderful new ability. Of getting to know her, this eerie, mysterious woman who has enthralled Tally to her core in the span of a couple hours.
And then the Witch sets stone to Tally’s visions. “But you would have to leave your life behind. Commit yourself to death in their eyes. It is too dangerous, otherwise. For both them and you.”
Raelle. Abigail. Mother. The weight of responsibility presses down once more, the life she’s meant to live an unforgiving reminder to this impossible fantasy.
“I - I can’t -” she says. The words are sour, and she lets them roll stiffly from her tongue. “I’m getting married.”
“You do not have to.”
“But - but everyone expects me too - my mother - Gerit -” Tally stumbles over her words, breath growing shallow in her chest. “I don’t - I can’t -”
As she continues to stutter, Tally watches as the Witch’s face grows colder, disappointment creeping into her features. Slowly, she releases Tally’s hand, and leans back once more. Tally aches, and doesn’t know why.
“It is your choice, of course,” she says, a careful disinterest imposed onto her words. “I will not force you.”
“I don’t even know your name,” Tally says. “I can’t just leave my life because I suddenly found out I can make water float or whatever. That’s not how this works. ”
It can’t be that simple, Tally thinks desperately. Her life can’t change in a few hours, can’t easily detach from the future she’s been carefully resigning herself too. How could she do that? Leave all she’s ever known behind?
Tally shakes her head. Her nightdress is slipping down her shoulder, and irritably, she tugs it up. “Thank you for your kind offer,” Tally says, firmly. “But no. No, I can’t just run away like that. I have obligations, I have my mother, she needs me -”
The Witch scoffs, leaning forward. Tally’s breath hitches in her throat. Unbidden, her eyes fall to the Witch’s lips, which are parted in anger. The Witch’s jaw clenches, and Tally drags her eyes back up to meet the other woman’s gaze. “Do not make excuses, Tally Craven,” she says. “If you are scared, then so be it. Do not blame the others in your life for refusing this offer.”
There’s a heat growing behind Tally’s breast, a familiar storm of anger. She doesn’t try to quell it, the night having brought out something reckless and uncaring in her. “I have people counting on me,” she snaps, “and that’s not something I take lightly. I can’t just run off into the woods like you did. I am the last daughter of the Craven line, and that means something. ”
The Witch glares at her. “My name is Sarah Alder. Don’t talk to me about responsibility.”
Sarah Alder. Sarah….Alder. Tally is struck mute. The Alder family were an incredibly old and decorated lineage that died out centuries ago. But everyone knows the story. They had two daughters, both beautiful and kind. One was set to marry a duke, the other a prince from a distant land. And the night before the eldest’s impending marriage, they disappeared into the woods, never to be seen again.
“You think you have responsibility?” The Witch - Sarah - spits. “I was forced into a betrothal with a cruel, boorish man. The night before my marriage, he discovered my sister and I practicing our magic, and consigned us to the stake. We were sent to our deaths, and I only managed to escape by the skin of my teeth. She, however, did not.” Sarah’s eyes grow dimmer, and Tally’s heart thumps in her chest. “When I ran, it was because I didn’t have a choice. I was being hunted, because I had power that others did not.”
There’s a howling wind gathering force outside the cottage, and Tally instinctively curls in on herself. She’s trapped in Sarah’s eyes, the storm that sings from them, with nowhere to go. Nothing to shield herself from the terrible knowing that scours her. As if the wind itself has stolen its air from Tally’s lungs, she finds herself breathless.
The Witch stands up, stalking over to where Tally still sits, and placing both her hands on the armchair, looms over Tally. Tally is forced to look up, the snarl that is bestowed upon her an electric current through her spine.
“Tell me, girl,” the Witch says, baring her teeth. “Have you run for your life with nothing but rags on your back, your feet shedding blood because your shoes were burned away by the very heat that ate your sister? Have you spent centuries in hiding, forced to leave your world behind, just so that you might see another day? How difficult is it, lying on a feather mattress at night in your grand house, to decide your future?”
And oh, if that doesn’t strike Tally as unfair. She’s aware that she should be running for her life, and it's true, there is a scream stuck in the corners of her throat. But at the same time, her blood has always run hot and tempestuous, and she finds herself rising, forcing the Witch back.
“I would thank you not to judge my life, seeing as you have never lived it,” Tally replies, her voice rising loudly. The fire cracks, flaring bright orange, and it casts a sheen of light over Sarah’s hair. The Witch’s own anger is still present on her face, but mixed in with - surprise? Perhaps she hadn’t expected Tally to challenge her. Therein lies her mistake: Tally might be the obedient daughter, but here she is not confined to those margins. Here, she is just as wild as the Witch herself, and there is no Mother, no society, no Gerit fucking Buttonwood to chain her tongue.
“I have a duty to my mother, my friends, to Gerit, who I have promised my hand to. They have seen me grow, and have loved me. Does that not count for something? I have dreamed of escaping far away from the life that I now face, but if I did that I would break the hearts of those who care about me most. Choices aren’t relegated to living or dying - there are many ones in between that I, as someone who doesn’t want to see others hurt, must face.”
Tally’s aware she’s shouting, and that there is a tell tale burning in her eyes. She’s always been an easy crier. Goddammit. She’d just hoped she’d hold out just this once. No such luck. The tears pour down her cheeks.
The Witch’s face is still twisted in anger, but there’s a softening when she sees Tally is crying. She hovers a hand over Tally’s face, as though to wipe away the wetness, but Tally shakes her head. She still has things to say.
“I wish I could escape. I wish I could sing the songs you speak of,” Tally draws herself high, a deep, aching breath filling her lungs. “I am not scared. It’s just too late. Perhaps if I’d entered this wood a year ago, I would have said yes. But now -” Tally’s words choke in her throat, and she thinks of the white dress hanging in her wardrobe. Of the bouquets lining the foyer, and her mother, asleep in her bed with a smile on her face because the match has been made and the line secured. Tally will bear dozens of round faced little Buttonwoods, will keep a household that is respectable and neat, will kiss Gerit’s smooth face until it has turned rocky with age.
Oh god. Nausea revolts. Tally can’t finish her rant. She lets out a small cry, and staggers forward, suddenly faint with despair. For all her resolve, her fancy words, Tally's body betrays her again and again.
Sarah’s sure hands catch her, and Tally leans into the other woman, head spinning. Briefly, she becomes aware of the woodsy scent the other woman holds, heavy pine and something lighter - lavender? Either way, Tally closes her eyes, and tries to desperately think of anything else other than what her life will be twelve hours from now.
“I see,” Sarah’s voice sounds in her ear. There is no more anger left in either of them. Tally is left boneless, her fire doused. “You do this for duty. Because you feel you owe it to those who love you.”
“Yes,” Tally whispers. She curls her face into the Witch’s neck. It should be inappropriate. She should feel mortified at this contact, the way she’s folding into a woman she’s only just met. But for some reason, it feels completely natural. Tally can’t bring herself to care anymore. This inexplicable night has erased any propriety left in her.
Sarah’s hand comes to rest on her back, firm and comforting. “Then I will not push you further,” she says, and Tally hears an odd hitch in her tone. Is it sadness? Is it disgust? Tally isn’t sure. But when she pulls back, still held up in the Witch’s arms, all she sees on Sarah’s face is resignation. “I will lead you home.”
There - in her heart - Sarah’s words are like a needle, a sharp and sudden prick that leaves Tally woozy. “Can I still learn a couple songs?” She asks. “Please. Perhaps I can’t leave everything behind, but I could come back to see you?”
Sarah’s eyes hold hers. “It is too dangerous,” she says softly. “I have seen many women burned for holding the slightest inkling of mystery. Better to be predictable and boring. That way you’ll live.”
“So it’s all or nothing,” Tally says. “That is unfair.”
“It so often is,” Sarah replies, a bitter smile overtaking her face. Her hand smoothes over Tally’s cheek, settling against her jaw. The ring on her thumb is cold against Tally’s skin as she drags her hand over Tally’s lips next. As though she’s memorizing her features. “I would have liked to get to know you, Tally Craven.” She’s humming something, and Tally staggers, her knees weak.
“I - I feel like - I already know you,” Tally says woozily, shaking her head. “Isn’t that odd?”
“Not at all,” Sarah murmurs, and Tally’s eyes close.
“Oh my god,” is the first thing Tally hears. “I will never forgive you.”
“What?” Tally groans, wrenching open her eyes.
She’s back in her room.
Above her, Raelle and Abigail stand, glaring. They look exhausted, rings under their eyes, and their nightdresses are torn and dirty. In comparison, Tally’s in a clean nightdress, tucked firmly under her covers. She feels extraordinarily well rested.
The night comes back to her in a sudden flash, and Tally sits up quickly.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah!” Raelle says, giving Tally’s shoulder a little smack. “We thought you were dead! We looked in that goddamn forest all night Tally. And then, when we finally resigned ourselves to death by May Craven, we come back here and find you all warm and cosy in your bed.”
“In my bed?” Tally asks, incredulously.
“Yes,” Abigail says, eyes narrowed. “Where you slept, all night, presumably to get back at us for our harmless and very fun dare.”
“No,” Tally says, “No, I was in the forest for hours. ”
“Sure,” Raelle says, rolling her eyes. “And we had a cup of tea with the Witch of the Wood.”
Tally can’t help the squeak that she lets out at the mention of the Witch.
Abigail and Raelle look at her, suspicion dawning on each of their features. And then Abigail’s eyes fasten on her hands. “Tally,” Abigail says, slowly. “Why are you wearing a gold ring on your finger?”
Tally looks down at her finger, and is unable to stop the gasp that springs from her. On the very finger where Gerit is meant to place a ring today, sits another, heavier piece. It twists around her finger like a vine, the bright gold glinting in the sunlight that streams from her window. At its center, almost hidden from the curves of gold, nests a pale blue gem, winking up at her.
It’s the exact color of the Witch’s eyes.
Tally slaps a hand to her mouth. Raelle and Abigail look duly alarmed.
"What's going on, Tal?" Raelle asks, slowly. She squints at the ring and makes a face. "Did you accidentally get married last night or something?"
Tally groans. She doesn’t even know where to begin. But she knows her friends. They’ll trust anything that comes out of her mouth, no matter how fantastical it might sound.
Eventually. Probably. They're eventually probably going to believe, perhaps after they call the doctor to examine her for a delirium.
“I -” Tally says, through her fingers. The gold is a coppery tang against her mouth. “I had the most…unexpected night. I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”
Raelle and Abigail sit down with a thump, their exhausted faces brightening. “Try us,” Abigail says.
The church is a gray blot in the bright blue sky, and Tally feels her breath hitch at the sight of it. Beside her, Abigail and Raelle hold her hands, squeezing tight.
“Are you sure about this, Tal?” Abigail asks, her eyes flicking across Tally's face. Tally nods, and then sags, her head bumping the back of the carriage seat.
“No,” she says. “But I have to be. I have to be.”
They’d believed her. Of course they had. But what had surprised Tally the most was the nervous glance Raelle had given her, and the whispered admission that her mother had once told her that their family had the ability to stir wind into action, to breathe flowers to life. That they had lost the songs that had let them do so, but that the Collar family had once been known as witches.
After that, even the ever skeptical Abigail had been convinced. What had struck Tally the most however, was the doubt that her two friends had expressed at Tally’s decision to marry Gerit.
“Come on, Tal,” Abigail had said. “You don’t love him. Why not go and learn these songs? Learn from the Witch of the Wood, or whatever you said her name was?”
“Sarah,” Tally had corrected, impatiently. “Because my mother is relying on me, Abs. Surely you of all people must understand that.”
Abigail had wrinkled her nose. “I understand family duty, yes. But I also love my duty. I want it. I have looked forward to the day that I might be the Bellweather matriarch as long as I can remember. And -” she leant forward, placing a hand on Tally’s knee, “my mother would never hold me to a match with someone that I didn’t love.”
Tally had still put the white dress on, however. Still taken the proffered bouquet from her mother, who’s teary eyes had then propelled her out the door and into the waiting carriage. All throughout, Tally hadn’t been able to shake the queer feeling boiling up in her gut, the way her feet seem to be going through the motions without her consent. Something is railing inside her head, screaming to be let out, and Tally finds herself hovering outside its locked cage with the key.
And she still hasn’t taken the ring off.
Which Raelle points out, as they come to a stop in front of the church.
“You can’t get married with that on, Tal,” Raelle says, tapping the ring.
“Yes,” Tally says. “I know. Just a moment. I’ll get rid of it.” Her voice sounds peculiarly high.
She really, really doesn’t want to take Sarah’s ring off. It’s a comforting weight, a solid reassurance that last night really did happen, that she is - truly - a witch. That she met a woman in the woods who intrigues her more than anyone she’s ever met.
The carriage doors are opening. Tally gets out, and breathes in the fresh air. Her eyes latch on the church, and then the forest behind it. Her mouth goes dry.
A staid house in the countryside. Gerit’s round, handsome face. Aristotle’s anonymity. The way his words are a tuneless spike, grounding Tally down into dust.
Sarah’s curls. Her strong jaw and blue-sky eyes. A laugh, spilling from the other woman’s throat that sets a galloping pace in Tally’s chest. The way her mouth looks in the firelight. Their song, humming from their throat and intertwining like lovers.
Oh no.
“I can’t,” she says numbly. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Abigail asks, eyes darting to the doors of the church.
“Get married,” Tally says. “Oh, god, what am I doing?”
They’re walking now, climbing the steps and getting closer to the imposing doors that will lead into a church full of high society. And Gerit. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she says, and clutches Abigail’s hand, begging her for the common sense she so deftly employs. “Why am I doing this?”
Raelle is holding a hand in front of her wide grin, and Abigail shoots her a pointed glare. “Because you decided to,” Abigail says, turning to Tally calmly. “You said this was your duty.”
Tally thinks of what’s behind those doors. A man who by all rights is good, and kind. Who interests Tally as much as a blank wall.
“Oh, no,” Tally says weakly. “Oh. Fuck .”
“Tally!” Her mother’s shocked voice sounds behind her. She’s just arrived in the second carriage. “Tally, what’s wrong?”
Tally turns to face her mother. She doesn’t think she has any color left in her cheeks, she feels so faint. “Mother,” she says, and her heart steels. Sarah’s curls. Gerit’s blank face. A laugh that echoes in the parts of Tally’s soul she’d thought would always be empty. “I'm sorry. I'm not getting married today after all, it seems.”
Tally’s mother gapes at her, and then shakes herself. “Darling, this is normal. You’re having cold feet! Just open the door and - and you’ll see his face, and be reminded why you want this.”
“I think if I open that door at see Gerit’s face one more time, I’ll be sick,” Tally says, with nothing but honesty. “Goodbye, Mother. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Maybe for Christmas.”
“Tally?” Her mother asks. She sounds frightened. A small, vicious part of Tally thinks good. She’s obeyed her mother her entire life, just to avoid the slightest bit of fear in her eyes. It’s a novel experience, not wanting to smooth things over for once, and just saying what she wants.
“You know where to find me,” she says quietly to Raelle and Abigail, who are clutching at each other with wide eyes, as if they can't quite believe what they're seeing. They nod. “I love you both.”
And then she’s sprinting. Her slippers fall off her feet in her haste, tumbling down the steps of the church behind her, and the veil that had been carefully balanced on top of her curls flies away with the wind. Tally can feel her wedding dress coming apart the faster she runs, the petticoats and lace and tulle tearing away like a second skin that was never meant to last. And with each heavy layer that peels away, Tally’s very bones feel lighter.
Her curls are a mess around her, all red and ribbon and stiff pearls that Abigail and Raelle had so painstakingly woven in that morning. But Tally couldn’t care less. All she cares about is the beat of her heart and the voice that whispers sarahsarahsarah.
Isn’t it wonderful? How Tally’s entire world has rearranged itself around one figure, lean and commanding and terrifying, in a single night . She’s never been in love. She isn’t sure if she is right now. But what sends her bolting into the woods like a falcon diving for its prey is something bordering on it, a need in her that grows stronger the closer she gets.
The branches don’t snag at her; only at the various white wrappings she’s still trying to rid herself of. Her bare feet are solid and sound on the earth, and Tally lets out a gleeful cry as she continues to run.
The cottage comes into view. Tally doesn’t know the way, only trusted a pull in her gut to find it for her. And standing outside, face turned up towards the sky, is Sarah.
Tally stops, heels digging into the earth. She’s panting, her heart as quick and nervous as a rabbit’s. Slowly, Sarah lowers her face to look at Tally. And Tally has to laugh, quick and sure, at the utter surprise on the Witch’s face.
“I’m not marrying him,” Tally says, and beams. “I ran away.”
“I…can see that,” Sarah says, and Tally looks down at herself. Her wedding dress, once a perfect arrangement of lace and crisp white petticoats, is now a ragged, limp thing. The shoulders holding up the bodice have slipped down Tally’s shoulders, and her hair hangs loose, brushing her neck and back. All that’s left of the jewelry that once adorned her is Sarah’s ring, sitting strong on her finger.
Tally has never felt freer.
“I want to learn the songs,” Tally says, striding forward. She’s never felt more sure than she does at this moment. “I want to be a witch.”
Sarah’s face is morphing into one of breathless bewilderment. Tally thinks she must have shocked her, and it warms her body, makes her toes curl. She wants to shock Sarah again and again and again. “You do?” Sarah asks.
“I do,” Tally says. She moves forward once more. Sarah watches her approach, her only movement the rise and fall of her chest. Tally comes to a halt, so they are standing close together, even closer than the night before. “I don’t know why, but standing here in front of you feels like the first real thing I’ve ever done. Isn’t that strange?”
And then, without really understanding why, Tally leans forward and places a kiss on the other woman’s lips. It only lasts for a moment, but the other woman inhales sharply, her hands curling automatically around Tally’s waist. When Tally breaks contact, she sees that Sarah is flushed, eyes bright.
“Not at all,” she murmurs. “Not strange at all.”
And Tally knows there will be many more kisses, and songs to be taught. She also knows that Sarah Alder has many secrets, and that she is determined to unpick them all; to learn them as thoroughly as she intends to learn the ways of being a witch. And perhaps someone will come after Tally and Sarah; perhaps Raelle and Abigail; perhaps Gerit; perhaps hatred in its usual forms, come to burn them for being different.
Perhaps no one will come at all, and Tally and Sarah will curl around each other in this cottage, content never to break from each other's sides. Or they might find rage once again instead, and shatter into the kind of pieces that cannot be mended back together. The connection they have is strong and pliable, and Tally finds herself eager to push it to its limit. To entice danger, from whatever source.
And Tally will take it all as it comes, because life with the Witch of the Wood will always be unexpected.