Catelyn Winona
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Berthe the Green Witch (3rd person short story)
🕑 Added 2022-09-17 05:07:31 +0000 UTCSummary: Traditional witches and green witches don't always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.
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The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden.
She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon.
She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.
Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.
“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”
The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.
Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.
Ring ring ring
Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…
“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”
“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.
Carefully, Berthe pulls the sheet pan from the oven. Red apples cut thin, laid in a spiral, with spices and sugar dusted over the top. A thin layer of puff pastry shows golden at the edges and she hums in pleasure. She loves when she gets the timing right.
Knock knock. “Berthe!”
She transfers the tart to her cooling rack and, after some consideration, moves her breadbox in front of it. Clayman’s gaze can be rather cold. She wouldn’t want all the warmth and care she’s put into her treat to go to waste.
Clayman is knocking constantly now, and muttering. Her wards don’t react so she knows it’s not a spell, but she frowns anyway. There he goes again. On someone else’s threshold no less!
She wipes her hands on her apron, dusting off flour and cinnamon, and opens the door.
Clayman is a scarecrow. She doesn’t think so because he’s tall and thin, though he’s both. It’s not because of his straw-colored hair, neatly combed away from his face and held in place with rosemary oil. It’s not even because of his coat, a long duster-like affair done in softened leather.
It’s because, as soon as she opens the door, the man is smiling. He is always smiling, his eyes mellow and shoulders loose, no matter his tone of voice. It’s as if the expression is painted on his face, forever fixed. She thinks that he’d cry smiling.
Unsettling.
“Berthe,” Clayman says. He takes off his wide-brimmed hat and holds it to his chest. “May I come in?”
“Be welcome in my home,” Berthe says, stepping aside to let him in. He has to duck a little to avoid the dried rosemary she has hanging over her doorway. A full head shoulder, Berthe doesn’t need to show such consideration. “I have coffee brewing.”
Clayman hangs his hat on the hooks above her shoe bench. He knows she doesn’t drink coffee. Smiling, he asks, “And you still couldn’t come to the door any faster?”
The cuckoo clock upstairs crows in protest. Berthe shrugs. “I suppose not.”
“Hm,” Clayman says and follows her into the kitchen.
He’s able to keep any further needling to himself as Berthe clears him a spot at the table. She sets her daisy coaster down - to lighten his mood - before she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His mug isn’t handmade. SHe got it on sale at the grocery store. It says Bright and Early on one side. On the other it reads Unfortunately.
Clayman drinks so the Unfortunately is pointed at Berthe. “Thank you for the hospitality.”
“My pleasure,” Berthe says. And it is. Under normal circumstances. Despite his prickliness, Clayman is a friend to her even when he denies it. But these are not normal circumstances. “There hasn’t been any improvement?”
“No.” Clayman accepts the sugar Berthe slides to him. He always insists on taking one sip without any sweetness. Then he dumps nearly half of the sugar in the tin into it. “Ms. Rayne is dying.”
Berthe presses a hand over her heart as if to soothe the sting. The Rayne family may not favor her magic, but they have always been kind to her. “I am so sad to hear that, Clayman.”
Clayman smiles, like always. But his aura is distinctly sluggish and tinged a faint blue. Rachel Rayne is his student. “As am I.” He breathes in deeply. “I got permission to have you see her.”
“Oh,” Berthe says. Then, when it sinks in, “Oh.”
The Raynes are a traditional witch family, despite having not produced one in two hundred years. They proudly trace their roots back to 16th century Italy. All of their beliefs and teachings come from grimoires older than their name and alchemical texts that have to be translated by scholars to be read.
Clayman, a traditional witch, is the man they go to for spells. They tolerate Berthe’s practice so long as she keeps her actual workings to her house and her orchard.
“I’ll get my bag,” Berthe says, standing. She feels like her eyes are spinning. She never thought she’d be invited. There are poultices and salves to make, herbs and petals to collect, wands and crystals to choose. She dives for the drawer closest to her and pulls out her favorite wooden spoon. “Do they have pine incense? Should I bring some pine incense?”
“You’re going?” Clayman asks. When she turns, he’s not smiling. His mouth is dropped open in shock. “After what they’ve said about your practice, I expected to have to convince you.”
This is why she doesn’t like traditional witchcraft. So many grudges! So many perceived debts! She’s never called Clayman her friend to his face. She thinks he’d combust.
“Of course I am,” she says waspishly. She dumps her spoon and several jars onto the table in front of him. “Check these to see if they’ll clash with the Rayne estate’s wards, will you? I need to run upstairs.”
Clayman is smiling. “Are you asking me to cast magic in your house? I always knew you were crazy, I didn’t think you were stupid.”
Berthe dashes upstairs without answering him. He may think her stupid for her trust in him, but she knows he’lol follow her orders anyway.
“Ouch!”
Berthe grins. Of course Clayman’s mug didn’t take kindly to his snide words. It has a tendency to heat up something awful whenever Berthe is insulted.
————.
The Rayne Family Estate is massive. Situated on top of the only hill in town, the driveway winds through wild oaks and pines for a good half of a mile before reaching the house. The house looms over the town like a castle, white walls and slate roof and black curtains over the windows.
The woman waiting on the front steps is like the house. Severe and colorless with gray hair pinned securely under a white handkerchief, black blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. Her weathered hands are folded neatly in front of her and her dark eyes track Clayman’s car as he pulls up and parks.
“Hello!” Berthe hops out of the car, waving with one hand. The other is full of the apple tart she’d grabbed at the last minute. “I brought a tart!”
“Berthe,” Clayman says out of the side of his mouth. “Shut up.”
“It’s apple,” Berthe says.
“Berthe Steighart,” Mrs. Rayne says through thin lips. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Yes,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne makes no move to accept the apple tart. Berthe shoves it on Clayman and bustles around to get her bag out of the trunk. “I suppose you’d like to get straight to the point then? Clayman’s already checked my things. Is Ms. Rayne upstairs?”
“There are rules in this house,” Mrs. Rayne says as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “We believe in the pure magics, those that come from study and self-reflection. There will be no calling on - on beings while within these four walls.”
Berthe throws her bag over her shoulder. It’s an old carpetbag she forgot she had and she sneezes when a plume of dust puffs off of it. It’d been the only bag big enough for her things. “Beings? You mean gods? Or other? I don’t have a patron god currently, so that won’t be a problem!”
“Currently?” Clayman asks.
“Never close off future possibilities,” Berthe says. She weaves past him and squints up at the house. “Is that Ms. Rayne peering out the window up there? Hello, Ms. Rayne!” The young girl with hair as black as a raven’s wing ducks back behind the curtain. Berthe frowns. “She looks very pale.”
She is dying, Clayman said. It looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.
“What I am about to tell you is a Rayne family secret,” Mrs. Rayne says. She turns on her heel and, lifting her skirt slightly, climbs the stairs to the house. “It must never leave the walls of this home without our permission.”
Berthe follows the older woman into the house. It’s as austere as its owner. The foyer is minimalist, a dully patterned carpet running the length of the hall to the grand staircase. There are paintings of ancient witches and confusing landscapes of places that can’t possibly exist on earth.
“I will not intentionally reveal your secrets,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne is moving quickly without looking behind her. Berthe huffs and focuses on keeping her heavy bag from dragging along the carpet. She eyes the main staircase with some trepidation, but says nothing. She already gave Clayman the tart. She can’t give him her bag too. “I swear.”
With a sigh, Clayman plucks her bag from her hands. “I vouch for her, Madame.”
Madame? Berthe has to work very hard not to laugh at that. It’s 2022 and he’s calling his employer madame.
“Rachel has magic,” Mrs. Rayne says. She stops in the middle of the stairs to glance at Berthe pointedly. “Significant magic.”
“Oh,” Berthe says. That’s it? She knew that much since Clayman is Rachel’s teacher. Clayman told her so himself - oh. He wasn’t supposed to tell her. Something warms in Berthe’s chest. Maybe Clayman does see her as a friend after all if he’s sharing secrets with her. “Congratulations, Madame.” She shoots Clayman a warm look.
Clayman hisses. When Mrs. Rayne isn’t looking, he darts up the stairs so he can whisper in her ear. “It’s not what you think.”
Berthe grins and winks.
Clayman’s eye twitches. “It’s not—“
“We are very proud of Rachel,” Mrs. Rayne continues. She takes them down the right hall and past several busts of important looking ancestors. “Perhaps we were too zealous with her power. She’s been training since she was young in the ways of witchcraft.”
Berthe sobers. “How young?”
“I first became Rachel’s teacher when she was ten,” Clayman says. His voice is even more mild than usual when he says, “I am her third teacher.”
Ouch. Alchemists probably. Witches like Clayman at least know enough about magical cores to wait until they develop before testing them. Alchemists are always so barbaric about it.
Berthe can’t show her disapproval here. She hums. “She must be very accomplished then.”
“She is,” Mrs. Rayne says. There’s no pride in her voice. It’s a statement of fact. She stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, the one that overlooks the driveway. She looks down her nose at Berthe. “Or was. Two weeks ago, Rachel’s magic began to fail. Her core drained and never recovered. I am told that, when it empties completely, my daughter will die.”
Berthe looks at Clayman.
“I made the diagnosis,” Clayman says, smiling. His aura beats with guilt. “I have tried every healing spell I know, every restoration charm, every ward to catch her magic before it fades. Nothing has worked.”
“Several attempts slowed the progression,” Mrs. Rayne says. To Berthe’s surprise, she sounds like she’s consoling Clayman. She reaches around Berthe to pat him on the arm. “And we are thankful, Clayman. She’s been so happy since you became her teacher.”
Clayman nods stiffly. “I appreciate your words, Madame. And I am grateful you’re allowing me to bring in…unorthodox assistance.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Rayne says, eyeing Berthe’s apron and the flour that still stains it. “Well. Hardly any harm now, I think.”
She opens the door.
The smell of fading hits Berthe full force. Her eyes widen and she steps back into Clayman without meaning to, nearly knocking the apple tart from his hands. The room, like the rest of the house, is bare. A white carpet, black bookshelves, sheer white curtains around the bed and heavy black ones over the window.
The girl sitting in bed - Rachel Rayne - is too weak to sit up on her own. She leans back against a mountain of pillows. She has to be fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Her gaunt cheeks make her look much, much older.
Rachel stares.
Berthe regains her footing. Blindly, she reaches out to grab Clayman’s forearm, eyes never leaving Rachel’s. “The apple tart.”
“Yes, and I have your bag,” Clayman says.
“Leave the bag,” Berthe says.
“What?”
But Berthe is already slipping past Mrs. Rayne and towards Rachel. “Oh, my dear. How tangled you are!” She keeps her voice as soft as the breeze through the orchard. “You must be having dreadful dreams.”
Rachel’s black eyes widen. She doesn’t protest when Berthe takes one of her thin hands in both of hers. “I am. How did you…?”
“You must tell me all about them,” Berthe says. “Clayman, cut the tart, would you? We can talk and eat.”
“With what?” Clayman asks from behind her. There’s a thud as he sets her bag down.
“There’s a knife in my bag.”
Clayman chokes. “You want me to cut a tart with your athame ?!”
“Traditional witches,” Berthe tells Rachel, rolling her eyes. “Always so formal.”
“You know what’s wrong with my daughter?” Mrs. Rayne demands. She comes up beside Berthe, looming with her hands a knot in front of her. “You can fix her?”
“I can untangle her,” Berthe corrects. She smiles at Rachel and pets the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she imagined Rachel’s flinch when her mother used the word fix. “Now, your dreams. I’m sure you can tell me one while Clayman struggles with a very basic task.”
“It’s a ritual dagger, how am I—“
But his words are interrupted by Rachel.
Rachel’s eyes are glued to Berthe. Her voice is small and shaking and she speaks as if caught in a trance. “I dream I am underground. I am trapped there. I can hear Mom walking on the earth above me. She is calling for me. I try to call back, but there’s dirt in my mouth. I think I’m suffocating but it doesn’t hurt. But the more I try to call out, the colder I get. It’s a cold dream.”
Berthe feels the other two adults go still behind her. They’ve never heard about Rachel’s dreams. Why would they? Traditional witches like Clayman don’t divine in dreams. They have mirrors and flames and pools of water for that. She hums. “That must have been frightening.”
“Sometimes,” Rachel says, “I am in the sky. I think I must be a bird, but I don’t have any wings. I fly above the house and I can see it like a heart. When it beats, the streets in town glow an awful red.”
“Awful?” Berthe asks. She accepts the slice of tart from Clayman. The underside is crispy and still a little warm. She holds the tart to Rachel’s lips. “Try it! It has cinnamon.”
Rachel’s eyes are foggy. She’s still seeing her dreams and, like a doll, she follows Berthe’s command. When the taste of sugar and spice touches her tongue, she blinks. “That’s apple.”
“From my orchard,” Berthe says, chest swelling with pride. “It’s nice, yes? Seven apples from my seventh tree.”
Rachel’s gaze drifts from Berthe to the tart Clayman’s still cutting on her bedside table. She frowns. “There aren’t seven apples in that.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Berthe says. It’s technically made with three apples, both of which she picked seventh at some point or another. She’s not bothered by technicalities, though she can see why Rachel is. Imagine having Clayman as a teacher! Or, worse, an alchemist. “Now, tell me. Why is the red awful?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel says. She furrows her brow and chews another bite of tart. Warmth is coming back to her face already. “I guess because it’s alive.”
Berthe hums. “Why is being alive awful?”
“Because it’s a town. It’s not supposed to be alive.”
“Why?”
“It—it just shouldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Our town is laid out into a magical grid. Workings can’t be made with living things. So it can’t be alive.”
“Why not?”
“Because— because it just can’t!” Rachel cries. “That’s not how magic works. There is no spell that can twist something living and if the town is alive then how is it a magical grid? So it’s awful because it’s not true.”
“But it is true,” Berthe says. She can feel Mrs. Rayne ready to protest so she speaks quickly. “What is life? We do not say that a dead bird is alive, do we? It’s dead.”
Rachel stutters. “Necromancy is taboo—“
“I’m not talking about necromancy,” Berthe says. She squeezes Rachel’s hand. “Every living thing has a body. When it is no long living, it is a body. So what is the living part of it?”
“The soul, but that’s—“
“There is an inert part of all of us,” Berthe says. “We do not know it because we are alive. We claim our bodies and our souls so completely that they become one. The town, however, is not alive in the same way. It has a soul but does not claim its body the way we do. It can’t. It exists simultaneously as a soul and also inert. So why can’t there be magic on its body? It is alive and it has working on it at the same time. Why can’t both be true?”
The silence in the room is loud. Berthe takes the opportunity to eat some of her slice of tart. She got the amount of clove just right.
“What does this have to do with my daughter being sick?” Mrs. Rayne is the first to break the silence. “Dreams and life and bodies— what does this nonsense mean to Rachel?”
“It’s not nonsense,” Berthe says. She sighs and sits back on her heels, not relinquishing her hold on Rachel’s hand. The girl’s skin is only just starting to feel warmer. “It’s magic. A different sort of magic to Clayman. Or, rather, the same but through another perspective.”
“Please,” Clayman says when Mrs. Rayne goes to protest again. “Madame, I understand your opinions on Berthe’s practice. I even share some of them. But she is a witch that I respect regardless and I would like to give her the chance to explain.”
He respects me?, Berthe thinks. But it makes sense in a way. He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.
Mrs. Rayne thinks for a long moment, staring at her daughter. Her lips thin and her dark eyes flash as color comes back to Rachel’s cheeks. Finally she says, “Then explain.”
“Rachel,” Berthe says, “is a green witch.”
“No,” Clayman says immediately, before Mrs. Rayne can do more than scowl. He stands abruptly, his hands fisting at her sides. “No, her core is structured traditionally. I checked when I first came on as her teacher—“
“She was trained by alchemists,” Berthe says simply. Mildly. She smiles at Rachel. “They’re a little rigid, aren’t they?”
Rigid is an understatement. Berthe can imagine the torment Rachel went through, trying to force her young magic to conform to archaic arrays and clumsy runes. Her growing power has been stifled and gnarled by the crucible her studies forced it into.
Berthe herself has never been fond of traditional spellwork. She finds the ritual chants and offerings uncomfortable with the way they bend her magic. And Rachel’s been going through that before her core even fully developed.
No longer, Berthe thinks.
Rachel’s lip trembles. She darts a glance at her mom and then back to where Berthe’s hands are wrapped around hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “I—“
“There’s no such thing as green witchcraft,” Mrs. Rayne snaps. She looks like she wants to tear Berthe away from her daughter but, after a moment of hovering, paces away instead. She stalks from one side of the room to the other. “See, Clayman? This is why I didn’t want to call in this— this charlatan. Our family follows the sacred texts for a reason and I don’t want—“
“Charlatan,” Berthe repeats. She lets Rachel’s hand slide from hers so she can stand and face Mrs. Rayne. Berthe is patient. Berthe is not that patient. “Who are you to call me charlatan? It must be easy considering you have no power of your own to sense me with.”
Mrs. Rayne turns red with rage. “You insolent, horrible charlatan—“
Clayman slides between her and Mrs. Rayne, one hand up and warding. “Berthe, you can’t hold her to her words. Traditional witchcraft is rigid in nature. She means no harm—“
Berthe barks a humorless laugh. “No harm? Her daughter is dying from the strength of her beliefs! Why, no one would blame me if I were to spirit her away here and now.”
“Dying?” Rachel asks.
Berthe sucks in a breath, backing away so she can see everyone in the room. Rachel is already fading without Berthe’s magic, sinking back into her pillows. Mrs. Rayne’s lips are pressed into a thin line and Clayman’s smile looks robotic. “You didn’t tell her?” Berthe asks. She looks at the other witch in the room, the one who knows what a crime it is to withhold such information. “Clayman.”
“I didn’t think it was her core,” Clayman defends. He rubs a hand over his straw-colored hair. “I would have if I’d known. I thought it was a curse. Maybe a sickness I didn’t know of.”
He means he thought it was something irrecoverable. He thought it kinder to leave Rachel in the dark as her magic drained, her soul emptied, her body withered.
Traditional witches, Berthe thinks with carefully disguised disgust. Always seem to need an essay to know what’s in front of their face.
“You’re not going to die,” Berthe tells Rachel. She dusts her hands against her apron reflexively, the way she does when she’s finished kneading bread. She lifts her chin, daring Mrs. Rayne to contradict her. “You’re coming into your magic. All we need to do is untangle you before the new moon and you’ll be right as rain by the next full.”
“The new moon is tonight,” Rachel says.
Berthe blinks and then grins. “Oh! And there’s a storm tonight, how perfectly lovely. We can go to my orchard, it’s far enough from the city that the light pollution--”
“No!” Mrs. Rayne thrusts herself between Berthe and Rachel, holding out her hands as if about to throw a spell at Berthe. Her black eyes burn. “No, there will be no going anywhere! My daughter is sick. She needs rest not to go gallivanting about your orchard chanting made up spells and- and eating grass!”
“With all due respect,” Berthe says, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” She pauses. “Except for the eating grass part. Where on earth do you traditional witches get things like that?”
“Berthe,” Clayman says. He’s hovering beside Mrs. Rayne now, eyes nervously flicking from Berthe to Rachel and back. As always, he’s smiling. It is particularly ill fitting now. “You were invited here to help. Maybe if you explained a little more, we could come to an agreement on Rachel’s treatment.”
“No,” Mrs. Rayne says. “Clayman, that’s enough--”
“Madame,” Clayman says. His eyes don’t leave Berthe but he addresses Mrs. Rayne. “I beg you for a bit more of your understanding.”
Mrs. Rayne must trust Clayman an awful lot. She settles back on her heels with a huff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Very well.”
Berthe studies Clayman. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He’s saying the right things for Mrs. Rayne. He doesn’t want her to panic and do something silly like attack Berthe. But he knows that there aren’t any other options. Rachel is a green witch.
They both know who has jurisdiction here.
Berthe sighs and props her chin in her hand. She cocks her head to one side and clicks her tongue. “What part of my explanation did you not understand, Mrs. Rayne? Perhaps it would be better to start there.”
Clayman covers his eyes with his hands. “Berthe…”
“The part where my daughter is anything but a Rayne,” Mrs. Rayne says. She gestures to Rachel. “She is a pureblooded Rayne! Her powers manifested in the traditional manner.”
“Which is?”
“Telekinesis,” Mrs. Rayne says proudly. “She was two and lifted one of her toys into her crib.”
Of course the woman thinks the most common way to manifest is traditional. “That may be so,” Berthe says, “but the power of a child is pure. It doesn’t have a preference or a shape. That comes later or, in Rachel’s case, now. She is a Rayne, but her magic is green.”
“Green witchcraft isn’t--”
“Your daughter dreams,” Berthe interrupts, losing patience. Truthfully, she isn’t as kind as Clayman. She doesn’t understand why she needs to explain herself to a human. “She dreams she is in the soil, like a seed. Well, it’s time to sprout. She must sprout before the winter chill freezes the ground and she suffocates.”
Clayman’s smile is pinned in place. “Berthe--”
“Mrs. Rayne,” Berthe says, propping her fists on her hips. She glares at the older woman. “The matter is very simple. Your daughter is dying because of the teachings you enforced on her. That’s fine. You’re magicless and you thought you were making the right choice.”
“I may be magicless but my family’s power runs through--”
“BUT.” Berthe stomps her foot and Mrs. Rayne’s mouth slams shut. The older woman doesn’t have time to panic at the silencing spell before Berthe is continuing. “But, it’s not too late to undo what has been done. I will help your daughter untangle herself. It must be today. It must be tonight. Once we do, she will recover her strength and her magic will bloom fuller and deeper than it was before.”
Mrs. Rayne rubs at her throat frantically.
Clayman mutters under his breath, pulling and swishing his oak wand in one motion. With the sound of a bell, he breaks Berthe’s spell. He is not smiling now. “Berthe. I must ask you not to lay workings on my employer.”
Mrs. Rayne is shaking with rage. “You--you dare? I am Elizabeth Rayne, matriarch of the Rayne Family and Coven--”
“And I am Berthe Steighart,” Berthe snaps. “Arbitrator of the Light Council, mediator of the Dark and North American Representative of the Green Witches.” She glares at Clayman from her peripherals. “I do not need permission to silence a human, Clayman.”
Mrs. Rayne squawks. “Human--”
“Berthe,” Clayman says, “I invited you here. She is under my protection.”
Berthe breathes out through her nose. Clayman is brandishing his wand like he’ll actually fight her. What he’s saying makes sense though. Along with being rigid, traditional witches tend to be awfully noble. “She may be under your protection, Clayman, but her daughter is now under mine. I won’t allow a green witch to wilt in front of me.”
“I know,” Clayman says. He lowers his wand and rubs a hand over his face. “I know. No one is trying to stop you, Berthe. I am asking you to have sympathy. The Raynes are an established and well-respected family. Their magic has been dormant for so long that no one would’ve been able to anticipate it would resurface, much less as a green witch. Can you understand Mrs. Rayne’s denial? Admitting Rachel is a green witch is like admitting the Rayne Family’s traditional magic is dead.”
“Nobody,” Berthe says, throwing her hands into the air, “nobody is saying that Rachel can’t practice traditional magic anymore!”
“What?” Clayman asks.
Mrs. Rayne gapes. “Yes, you are! You’re saying my daughter is like you--”
“Her core is, yes,” Berthe says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head is beginning to throb. “The death of a family’s magic, Clayman? Really?”
“Well,” Clayman says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “...isn’t it?”
Berthe wants to scream. Sometimes she forgets that Clayman, for all his power, is so young. Berthe was born onto her path. Clayman’s only been practicing for a decade. “Very, very few grimoires are specific to a certain magical core. The Rayne family’s grimoire is advanced, yes, but it’s broad. It’s not that the Rayne family has never had a green witch before. It’s that they’ve never had a witch with a strong enough affinity for it to matter.”
“Ah,” Clayman says. He clears his throat. “I may have misunderstood something.”
Berthe forces herself to calm down. “You’re a very powerful witch, Clayman. Your core is traditional, but that’s unusual. Traditional is usually a practice, not a state of being. Most witches tend towards green, light, dark, or deity magicks. I understand how you made a mistake when evaluating Rachel’s core - she had an unusual upbringing - but now you have the correct information. It’s time to help Rachel now.”
Clayman rubs the back of his neck. His smile creeps across his face. “You think I’m powerful?”
Berthe swats at him.
“Ms. Steighart?”
Berthe turns to Rachel. Oh dear, she nearly forgot the young lady was there. “Yes?”
Rachel grimaces as she adjusts herself against her pillows. “This untangling…will it cure me?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll be able to use my family’s grimoire after?”
Berthe pouts. “If you want to. But you have such a lovely green core. I think you should consider my coven--”
Rachel is already shaking her head. “I am a Rayne. I want to use my ancestor’s spells.”
Mrs. Rayne presses a hand to her chest. “Rachel.”
“Mom,” Rachel says. She reaches out a hand and sighs when her mother grabs hold. “I know it’s against what you believe. What I believe. But if it can help me, I want to do it.” She tries for a smile and ends up with another grimace. “If I’m going to rebuild our family’s coven, I need to be alive to do it.”
Berthe sucks her teeth. “Oh, that’s a good argument. I should have led with that.”
“Plant for brains,” Clayman mutters out of the side of his mouth.
Berthe slaps his shoulder.
--------------------.
Thunder rolls through the sky. There isn’t any rain - yet. Berthe stands between two of her oldest trees and tips back her head. She smells power in the air, lightning and rain and magic. She grins up into the night.
New moon.
“Ms. Steighart?”
Berthe turns. Rachel wrings her hands together, eyes darting nervously from the shivering treetops to the storm clouds to Berthe. Behind her, Berthe’s house is well lit. There are two figures in the kitchen window peering anxiously out at them.
Berthe hopes Mrs. Rayne and Clayman don't drink all of her chamomile.
Rachel is dressed in a simple, linen gown. Her long, black hair is loose down her back and, in the dark, the stress of the past few weeks fades away. She looks young (as she should) and alive (as she should). Magic sparks in her aura as the thunder rumbles around them.
“The ground,” Rachel says. She looks down at her bare feet and wiggles her toes in the soil. There’s awe in her eyes when she looks back at Berthe. “The ground is breathing.”
Berthe grins. There is nothing better than a new witch learning to see. She holds out her hand. “Come on, Rachel. It’s starting.”
Lightning cracks the sky and Rachel takes Berthe’s hand.
