Matilda's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

Matilda ran through the trees with the stolen book tight against her ribs. The smoke above her cottage was thin and steady, the smoke of a small fire built on purpose. She slowed at the edge of her yard. The bramble vines that wrapped her walls were pushed aside at the door. The latch hung loose. She crouched behind the woodpile and listened. Something inside was breathing hard. Something knocked a jar off the shelf, and glass broke on her floor. Her wand was spent. Her half-brewed potion sat in the cupboard behind her workbench. She had nothing to fight with but the book in her hand, and the book was only paper. She crept to the window and looked in. A small red creature stood on her table. It had horns and a lashing tail, and its fists were clenched at its sides. A rage imp. It had knocked over her kettle and torn the curtain. Steam rose from its shoulders. Matilda knew the rule for these. They fed on anger, and they burned hotter the more you gave them. She set the book down in the grass. She took three slow breaths. Then she opened her own door and stepped inside with her hands empty. The imp turned and snarled. Its eyes were yellow. She did not shout. She did not lift a hand. She walked past it to the hearth, lifted the lid off her cold tea, and poured a cup. She sat in her chair. The imp watched her, waiting for the anger it had come to eat. She gave it none. Its shoulders stopped steaming. Its fists loosened. After a long minute it climbed down from the table, slipped under the door, and was gone into the brambles. Matilda stood up and looked at what the imp had done. The kettle was dented. The curtain was torn. The jar on the floor was one of her empty ones. She crossed to the cupboard behind the workbench and opened it. The half-brewed potion was still there, sealed, untouched. The imp had not known what to take. She sat down on the floor with her back to the cupboard and let her hands shake. Someone had sent the creature. Imps did not wander this far from the deep wood on their own. Someone knew she had left her cottage today, and someone had guessed she would come home too tired to fight. She got up, fetched the book from the grass, and set it on the table beside the dented kettle. She had the recipes now. She had the potion. She was still missing the raven feather, and now she knew she was being watched. She latched the door and drew the bolt she had never used before.