The Hawkweed Prophecy (26 page)

“It is better not to know, is it not?” Charlock stated, and Poppy realized why she had kept her away and in the dark for so long. The truth was too big and brutal. It hurt to even hear it. “It is better for you. It is better for Ember. And for the boy.”

“But he has no family.”

“He will have Ember. They will take care of each other. This I think you understand already.”

Poppy felt the last of her energy leave her. It took everything she had simply to stay on her feet. She leaned against a tree, feeling its rough bark against her back. How many winters had it weathered, how many storms had shaken it to its roots and it was still standing? Poppy thought of Leo, of all the hardships he'd suffered in his life and how he'd grown up so strong despite them. He was a survivor.
He will survive me
, Poppy thought, and
somehow her back straightened and her legs moved and she started walking.

As soon as Charlock entered the camp, she sensed the atmosphere had changed. The energy was electric, and she could feel the excitement surging through the air, touching her and tingling on her skin. Voices were ringing out, high and choral with elation. Arms and skirts were aflutter. Sisters were turning from one to another in a quick, light-footed dance. It was Ember who skipped toward her and told her the news.

“The queen is dying!” Ember's face shone with delight, her eyes wide and pupils large as though she were intoxicated.

Charlock glanced around and saw others were struck with the same fever. She felt a moment of shame that the great witch's demise could be received with such euphoria. Then Raven touched her arm. Charlock couldn't remember the last time she and her sister shared a physical contact. In a flash it took her back to their girlhood and it made her spirits sink even further to think how times had changed them.

“There were those who doubted. But the prophecy—it's coming true, sister.”

Raven spoke so evangelically that Charlock wanted to wince. She stopped herself, of course. Instead, she muzzled her mind and emptied her eyes as she always did when looking directly at Raven.

“It is as you always said it would be,” she responded graciously. “Is Sorrel prepared?”

“I've told her to go and change into her best.”

“It's what you've both been waiting for. She will be ready. Now, I myself must go and prepare for such a big occasion.”

Having dismissed herself, Charlock hastened away. The secrets that swam soundless in her stomach were swirling and swishing, making her want to scream. She thought of Poppy and the wounds she'd inflicted on her own child. The girl had stayed so silent, so accepting. Charlock had expected argument and tears, but this had been far worse. She had underestimated her child's feelings for the boy. She should have delivered her message with more care. She should have shown her that it came with a mother's love.

But her love for Poppy had been held captive for a lifetime, deep within the pit of her being, and it felt too dangerous to release it. Over the years the love had begged to be let out. It had bashed against its bars and clamored against its confinement, only for Charlock to tighten the locks and block out the cries. She couldn't risk freeing it now. Instead, she had reported the news about the boy as calmly and clearly as she was able, knowing, all the while, it had to be done.

The throne was Poppy's destiny. The boy would be her downfall. He was not her fate, just a fleeting fancy that, in years to come, Poppy would be grateful to have escaped the consequences of. And yet the look on her face when she'd heard the news. Charlock had watched a part of her daughter die this day.
For the throne
, she reminded herself.
To be queen.

“It had to be done.” This was Charlock's mantra, the code by which she lived. She had known for many years now the lengths a mother would go to for her child, the lines she would cross,
the hurt she would endure. She had left her baby in another's care. She had let her be raised by chaffs. She had learned of Poppy's presence in the town, her need for a mother, for identity, and yet she had withheld herself, keeping hidden. One motive was pure—survival. The other malign and murky—ambition. Charlock felt it like a tumor inside of her, growing and thriving as the years passed, feeding on her integrity.

As her guts tightened and twisted, Charlock hurried faster to the bathrooms. Her mind raced more quickly than her legs.
What if
. . .
what if?
. . . it asked. What if all those years before she'd spoken out?
This baby is not mine
, she could have said. What if Poppy had been found? What if she'd come home?

Charlock knew the answers all too well, and yet the questions hounded her still. She never knew which enemy had taken her baby from her, only that there were too many to choose from. Too many threatened clans. Too many jealous witches. Too many heirs apparent.

So many times she had thought of confiding in Raven. Raven could fix anything. But the sense was too strong, too nagging to ignore.
Bring your daughter home and you will lose her again
, it said.
Those who took her will come after her once more. Think of Ember
, it reminded.
The clan will expel her if they know the truth, and for such a sweet but feeble child, that would be a death sentence.

With a grimace, Charlock squatted down low over the hole in the slatted ground and let her bowels spill and splutter. She breathed deeply, calming her nerves, telling herself to be patient—just a little while longer. Both girls were safe for now. The pain eased as Charlock's innards emptied, releasing with the waste all the fear that had been bubbling there. As she straightened and
pulled down her skirts, she could hear the ovation as Sorrel made her appearance.

The cheers roused Charlock.
Let them think what they will
, she thought to herself. She knew better. It was her daughter who was taken. Not Raven's. It was Poppy who was feared. Not Sorrel. Charlock knew it to be true, just as she knew the earth lay beneath her feet and the sky above her head—it was she who had produced the chosen one.

Sorrel was chewing the side of her mouth jagged when she caught her mother's eye and immediately stopped. She'd received that very same look all through her childhood when she used to chew the ends of her braid. She'd nearly died from the ball of hair that had amassed and lodged in her throat. She remembered the sensation of choking, of gasping for breath. She felt a little like that now—that something was blocking her airways, that however hard she tried, she couldn't get enough air inside her lungs.

Sorrel looked around at the crowd flocking to her. All the sisters were there, young and old, even the infirm leaning on their sticks and the infants being held up to catch sight of her. Sorrel caught her Aunt Charlock's eye, her face tranquil as usual, as though nothing could ever trouble her too badly. Charlock smiled in encouragement, and Sorrel felt instant gratitude. But then she saw Ember there beside her, so beautiful in her happiness that Sorrel's teeth gnawed at her cheek once more.

“Look at the new queen,” she heard a voice utter so reverently, as if the crown were already on her head.

A hand reached out to touch her skirt. Then another.
It's only me
, Sorrel wished she could remind them. But she kept silent, putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward to the designated spot, a circle scorched into the earth in preparation for this day.

The sisters joined hands to form a ring around her, behind them another band, and another that Sorrel was too short to see. They bowed their heads and hummed. One note, so soft at first, but then increasing in volume until it sounded like a giant whirring insect was in their midst. Sorrel felt the vibrations in the fabric of her clothes, in the hairs on her body that began to rise, and in her bones that suddenly felt light and hollow.

Ever so slowly, she ascended. Sorrel had heard of levitation but never dreamed she would experience it. Raised up by their voices, she lifted higher and higher into the air, until she hovered high above their heads among the trees. She stretched her arms out into the tangerine sky. Silhouetted against the sunset, she stayed suspended there, all the sisters so far below, their upturned faces gazing at her in awe.

Sorrel looked out over the trees and thought of the ancient queen across the waters lying on her deathbed of drying flowers. She would have had a day like this among her clan. She was a young woman once, heralded and raised up so high. That was over a hundred years ago. Sorrel's clan had waited so long for this day to come. Her own life had been mere incubation for now. In a matter of days she would be queen. This was her true beginning, Sorrel realized with a rush that seemed to elevate her further.

She shut her eyes and let herself breathe freely.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

P
oppy let the spider crawl across her face. In her numbed state, she was vaguely curious to experience what it felt like. Yet even as the tiny feet tickled across her cheek and over her nose, tiptoeing onto her eyelid and through her brow, Poppy felt so detached from her body that it could have been someone else's face the spider was touching. She was supposed to write Leo a letter but hadn't found the energy either to fetch the paper or to pick up a pen. Charlock had given her strict instructions, but the longer Poppy procrastinated, the longer it wasn't over, the longer Leo could be happy and she could pretend. So she had laid down and waited, with absolutely no idea what she was waiting for.

The pins and needles had started in Poppy's feet, then crept up her legs until her body had become anaesthetized and stopped hurting altogether. She felt like she couldn't move, even if she wanted to. The spiders had been watching her for a while now. They had appeared as if from nowhere, gathering like dark clouds upon the ceiling. Then they began spinning. So swiftly the webs took their spiral shape, lacing the air above. Then slowly the spiders
lowered themselves like spies on silken threads to take a closer look at her. Poppy studied them back and thought how ludicrously long and thin their legs were, like they'd been sketched in pencil.

Poppy was at Donna's house, where she knew Leo couldn't find her. Donna had given her a look of disappointment when she answered the door but had asked no questions and invited her in. She'd spent the night on the sofa again, unable to sleep, though she felt crippled with exhaustion. In the morning she'd told Donna she felt unwell.

“You do look pale,” Donna had said and told her to go and lie down in Logan's room.

All day Poppy had stayed there, hiding from what must come next. Hour after hour she had laid on Logan's little bed, her legs hanging over the end. She'd watched the light change through the thin curtain as the day passed. She'd felt the temperature slightly rise over the course of the morning and then fall back again as dusk drew near.

Logan was back from school now. Poppy could hear him downstairs watching television. Part of her hoped neither he nor Donna would come in and see the infestation of spiders. Part of her just didn't care. She had no one anymore. Not Melanie, nor Charlock, not her dad, nor Ember—and most of all, not Leo. With him, she could have managed without the rest of them, but now he was lost to her too. And he didn't even know it yet.

The spiders glided back up to the ceiling and began a new and more frenzied piece of sculpture. Working together, each one sewed a section of this new embroidery. Poppy waited as they worked so studiously and silently. When they finished, they swung to the moldings to reveal their masterpiece.

Poppy stared. It was a bird. An ugly, evil-looking bird. So detailed was its image that it seemed to be in flight across the room, its wide wings outstretched, its sharp beak open, ready to swoop in for the kill. The adrenalin was automatic and acute. For the bird was unmistakably a predator and Poppy its victim. Poppy blinked once, twice, three times, then jumped to her feet.

She was waiting downstairs, a hunched, crooked woman with a beaky nose and a long, thin braid that slid down her back like a snake. Poppy couldn't tell how old the woman was, only how strong. The power radiated off her despite her slight and feeble frame.

“Take a seat, child,” the woman told her. “Donna here is kindly making me a cup of tea.”

“This is Mrs. Hawkweed, Poppy,” said Donna brightly.

Poppy's throat narrowed and she had to swallow to be able to breathe again. This woman that she couldn't look at, that sent fear teeming through her, was her aunt. Ember had spoken of her with such awe. Raven, the most powerful witch in the clan.

“Miss,” Raven corrected Donna.

“I'm sorry,” Donna apologized and turned back to Poppy. “Miss Hawkweed found Logan outside on the street. He'd slipped right out from under my nose.”

“The little minx,” Raven added, and Donna laughed.

Poppy's heart jumped in her chest, and before she had a chance to stop them, her eyes darted to her aunt's and the look she encountered made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

“It's a dangerous world out there,” Raven said. “Don't you agree, Poppy?”

Poppy said nothing, but the fear hit her bladder so hard she had to clench it tight before she peed her pants.

“Oh, yes,” said Donna, oblivious. “He could have been killed, perish the thought.” She put the tea down in front of Raven on the table. “We're ever so grateful.”

“Oh, it was the least I could do,” Raven said, but it was only Poppy who seemed to glean the menace in those words, for Donna was offering up a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. Raven shook her head and continued, “Children are the most precious of gifts, are they not?”

“Oh, do you have children of your own, Miss Hawkweed?” asked Donna, taking a cookie for herself.

“A daughter, much like Poppy here.”

Poppy saw Donna's cheeks flush. “Oh, I'm not Poppy's mother,” she said hurriedly. “She's from down south. Not been well.”

Poppy felt the anger ignite inside of her. It gobbled up the fear like it was oxygen, and the heat made her brave. She shut her eyes and cast a rapid spell. Donna and Logan froze. Time stood still.

“Nicely done,” Raven said.

“It was you,” Poppy said. “You killed my cat.”

“And I told you to go. And yet . . . ” Raven paused to pinch at the tiniest speck of a spider hanging in the air. “And yet you're still here.” She flicked the crushed creature onto the floor. “The little spy,” she said with a thin smile that made Poppy want to recoil and look away.

Poppy couldn't do that, though. That would be a battle lost, so she kept her eyes fixed on Raven's. Instead, she wished hard, as hard as she might, for Charlock. For her mother. She didn't expect her silent cry of help to be heard or even responded to. She simply couldn't think of anyone else to wish for.

“The cat was a difficult catch. But these two, they'd be easy.” Raven gestured at Donna and Logan who stood there in mid-motion like strange, expressive waxworks. “The child, so young. Now, that would be a pity. As for that chaff you think you love, that boy you swoon over”—Raven made a face of disgust—“I'd enjoy hurting him.”

Poppy gritted her teeth and dug her nails into her palms, tiny reflexes but Raven spotted them.

“He'd suffer,” she reveled. “Oh, I'd make sure of that. Keep him conscious to the end. How he'd plead for his pitiful existence. A buck without his antlers, a cockerel without his crow.”

Poppy was trembling now, her whole body fizzing with fear and rage. “Why?” she cried.

Raven gave a condescending shake of her head. “Just leave. Be gone. There's nothing here for you but trouble. Every one of them would be better off without you.”

“You most of all,” Poppy spat. Raven's stare was so acute that Poppy almost lost her nerve, but she rallied her voice and her words came strong and clear. “What have I ever done to you that you must come here and threaten me?”

“Don't test me, child. You have talent but you know little.”

“And yet you fear me so?” Poppy challenged.

Poppy felt the fury gather within Raven. “I should kill you now,” she threatened.

“Why don't you then?” said Poppy. “What's stopping you?”

Poppy waited to see if Raven would tell her about the blood they both shared, about the family roots that tied them. But Raven's fury turned to ice, freezing any chance of such an admission. When she spoke, her voice was glacial.

“I am giving you a chance. A last chance. Take it.”

With a snap of her fingers she was gone, and Donna was biting into her cookie and Logan was watching the television again. Donna caught sight of Poppy standing there.

“Oh, Poppy. There you are. You feeling better?”