Rosemary Thorne's Arc

Chapter 5 of 24

Rosemary stood with her forehead against the bolted door. The wood was solid. It wouldn't matter. A lock stopped a man. It didn't stop a witch. Behind her, Damien lay quiet under the cold cloth, the cats close but not touching him. She had eleven nights of trust in her cottage and no wards on a single window. She went to the shelf above the hearth and pulled down the old book she had bought at a market three summers back. Green cover. Yellow star. She had never opened it past the first page. The seller had called it a curiosity. She had called it pretty and paid too much. "Damien." She knelt beside him and laid the book on the floor. "Can you read this." He turned his head. His eyes moved over the cover and something in his jaw tightened. "Where did you get that." "A market. Years ago." "It's hers. Or it was." He pushed up on one elbow. The books on his spine slid. "She lost three of them once. She was furious for a month." "Can you use it." "I can read some of it." He reached with his scarred hand, then stopped short of the cover. "No skin. You turn the pages." She opened it. The paper smelled of iron. He read down a column, lips moving, and pointed. "Salt. A line across every threshold. Iron at the sills. And this one. A binding on the door. It needs blood." "Whose." "Mine. She cursed me. My blood answers to hers." He met her eyes. "It will hold her outside for one night. Maybe two." Rosemary went to the kitchen. She came back with the salt crock, a paring knife, and the iron nails she used for the garden trellis. She poured a white line along the base of the door, then under each window. She pressed a nail into every sill. The gray cat watched from the table. The other two sat by Damien's feet. He held out his palm. She gave him the knife. He cut the pad of his thumb and pressed it to the wood above the bolt. He spoke three words she didn't know. The blood soaked into the grain and vanished. The air in the cottage changed. It felt heavier, like the moment before rain. Outside, a crow landed on the ivy. Rosemary saw its shadow cross the window. Then a second shape stepped into the garden, tall in a black cloak, white hair loose at her shoulders. The witch stopped at the stone path. She lifted one hand toward the door and drew it back like she'd touched a stove. Her voice came through the wood, calm and close. "Clever girl. One night, then. We'll talk in the morning." Rosemary slid down the door beside Damien. The salt held. The witch was still in her garden.