The Hawkweed Prophecy Page 7

The boy smiled as if he knew how unused she was to saying that. “Where does it hurt?”

  Poppy remembered her knee and opened her coat. Her tights were ripped and soaked with blood. The boy gently pushed the material away. Then with one quick movement, he tore the rest so he could peel it down to her boot. Then his fingers touched around the wound as he examined it. Every nerve ending in Poppy’s leg was firing . . . cold, hot, pain, pleasure.

  “The cut’s deep. You might need stitches.”

  “No,” Poppy retorted quickly. It would mean her dad knowing, and she couldn’t face that. The boy looked surprised but didn’t argue. “My bag, could you get it?” she asked.

  Her bag was lying close to where she fell. Some of the contents were scattered around, and Poppy watched as the boy carefully picked up each item, returning them to the bag. While he was distracted, she took her chance to study him, her eyes straining to make out his features in the darkness. He was much taller than her, but it was hard to judge his age. His appearance made him look older, but she felt instinctively it was only by a year or two. His hair was long and shaggy, his cheeks hollow, and his cheekbones high, and he was olive skinned, his face glowing gold and bronze when caught in the glimmer of the street light.

  The boy turned and Poppy quickly looked away, wondering if he’d felt her stare. As he walked back toward her, Poppy glanced at him, and his eyes locked on hers and she felt herself flush. Then she realized—there was no fear in him. His eyes looked straight at her, freely, without inhibition. Silently the boy handed over the bag and Poppy looked inside until she found the jar with the poultice she had made. He raised his eyebrows, and Poppy shrugged as she scooped on the paste, then covered it with a leaf that she pressed to her knee. She felt a tinge of pride as it actually began to work, the relief spreading through her knee and down her leg.

  “It’s helping?” the boy asked, and Poppy nodded. “I could do with some of those,” he added.

  Poppy’s eyes flicked to him. He had a scar on his forehead. “You fight a lot?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “But you’ve got a knife.”

  The boy hesitated as if not sure whether to lie.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Poppy quickly added. She didn’t want him to lie. She’d prefer him to be a knife wielder, not a liar.

  “Yeah. I have a knife.”

  “You ever stabbed anyone?”

  “Not to death.”

  Poppy blinked. His tone was wry, but she knew he was telling the truth.

  “So you make medicine?” he asked, and it was Poppy’s turn to hesitate. “I saw the book in your bag,” he explained. “Natural remedies?”

  “Oh, that. A friend lent it to me.”

  The boy studied her face, searching for clues to her sincerity. “It looks old,” he said.

  “I think it’s like a family heirloom. I’m supposed to be taking very good care of it.”

  He seemed to be waiting for her to say more, but when she didn’t he pressed on. “I grew up with all of that. My mother was into it, herbs and healing stones. Tarot cards too.”

  He gave a half-laugh and Poppy touched his arm without thinking. “I’m sorry,” she said, and suddenly her hand on his arm felt momentous and she quickly removed it. “She died, didn’t she?”

  He shut his eyes for a second before answering. “A few years ago. She wasn’t my real mother,” he said, like he was confessing a secret. “But it felt like it.”

  Poppy kept her hands in her lap, fighting the impulse to touch him again.

  He insisted on walking her home, even though it wasn’t far and Poppy told him she’d be fine on her own. She was limping, and he took her arm and she leaned on him. Despite the pain in her leg, Poppy took him the longest route. They walked without words, as if not wanting to puncture the promise that floated in the air. The silence was soft and silky, and they glided through it, letting it caress their skin. She got used to the boy’s warmth and felt the chill as soon as they parted. They stood there outside her house, looking at each other. Suddenly the silence seized them, tethering them too tightly.

  Say something, Poppy wished to the boy. And then she couldn’t bear the wait and spoke herself. “So now you know where I live.”

  The boy smiled, and she saw a hint of satisfaction there.

  “What about you?” she continued.

  He shifted from one foot to another, and Poppy couldn’t work out what was wrong but then he answered, “I live in town,” and she thought nothing more of it.

  The boy was looking at her like he wanted her to read something in his eyes, but Poppy tried and found herself illiterate. All at once she felt overwhelmed and she turned to go.

  “See you around, then,” she muttered, but he reached out and took her hand in his. She glanced back at him apprehensively. But they just stood there, her hand in his until everything became about their two hands, joined, melded. Poppy looked from their hands to his eyes, and this time she could interpret what she saw there and her heart beat faster.

  “I just wanted to know what it felt like,” he said. Then he let go and Poppy felt bereft. “Good night, Poppy Hooper.”

  “How d’you know my name?”

  He was walking away but he called out, and the word hung in the air: “Magic!”

  It was when Poppy put her bag down on her bed that she saw her name tag hanging from it. She shook her head, smiling to herself, then realized she’d never asked the boy his name. As she fell asleep, she focused her mind away from the dull ache in her shoulder and knees to her hand until she felt his hand there once again. She slept a dreamless sleep and awoke feeling truly rested and content and knowing, somehow, that his name was Leo.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sorrel and her friends were picking the last of the autumn fruit when one of the younger girls came running up.

  “Your mother’s looking for you.” There was trepidation in the girl’s face, and Sorrel tossed her an apple in thanks for the warning.

  Her friends looked at Sorrel with concern.

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured. “It’ll be nothing important.” But Sorrel knew it must be and wondered what displeasure she’d caused now. She crossed the orchard and headed down the forest path, preparing herself for the onslaught to come.

  Raven was plucking a goose when Sorrel reached her, her wiry arms working fast, the feathers collecting at her feet to be stuffed into a cushion, the bird becoming balder by the second. Sorrel placed the basket of fruit in front of her mother like an offering to a god.

  “Not near the bird,” Raven complained, and Sorrel quickly moved it. Her mother didn’t stop working while she talked, her hands and mouth both plucking away. “Where’s Ember?”

  Pluck.

  “With Charlock.”

  “No, she’s not.”

  Pluck.

  “She told me she was baking bread with her mother today.”

  “Oh, she told you, did she?”

  Pluck. Sorrel’s skin began to smart.

  “And what has she been telling you these last three weeks?”

  “She’s been unwell. Charlock kept her inside.”

  Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

  Sorrel looked at her arm and saw the red pores emerge. “Mother!”

  Raven stopped and looked at Sorrel. “You said you would follow her.”

  “She didn’t go anywhere.” Sorrel could hear her voice whining.

  “How would you know? You weren’t following her.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Sit outside her caravan all day?”

  Before Sorrel had a chance to regret taking such an indignant tone, Raven had flung the featherless bird down. Its long neck, loose and limp, flopped heavily to the ground. Sorrel looked into its pink, glassy eye with a feeling of empathy as her mother rose roughly from her stool.

  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do. Do I have to stop all my work and trail the girl myself? What do you think your aunt would think about that?�
�

  Sorrel wanted to argue—what about lessons, what about food, what about me?! But she hung her head and said nothing.

  “Get some calendula for your arms,” her mother ordered.

  That was typical of Raven, first doling out the injury, then the salve. Realizing she was dismissed, Sorrel stomped away, swearing she wouldn’t eat a mouthful of that goose. But by dinner, the smell of it roasting was wafting in the air, and she couldn’t resist just a taste, then a second helping.

  Ember sidled onto the end of the bench and put her bowl down on the table. The coven tried to eat together whenever the weather allowed. Ember remembered brushing the snow off the bench last winter and eating with frostbitten fingers, her spoon hardly finding her mouth past her scarf. Tonight was mild for this time of year, though. A golden autumn day, where the ambers and bronzes of the trees blazed in the light. The powder-blue sky had darkened now; lamps hung from the lower branches of the trees and the tables were lit with candles. Tomorrow the frost would fall, promised the elders. Today, it was agreed, was a last encore of summer’s show before winter took the stage.

  “Did you have a good bake, then, Ember?”

  Ember looked to her left and saw her cousin’s sharp features cutting into view. “I did, cousin.” She started to eat, hoping that might be the end of the conversation. It wasn’t like Sorrel to address her at these gatherings. Her cousin rarely even sat near her if she could help it.

  Sorrel cracked open a bread roll and fished out the middle, dipping it into her sauce before plopping it into her mouth and chewing audibly. “Mm-nn. What is it I can taste? What did you put in this one, Ember?”

  Ember felt a rising panic. She forced herself to carry on with her meal as if unaffected. “I’m not sure which batch you are trying from,” she replied, rather proud of herself.

  “I think it is the taste of truth. That’s what it is. Honesty and truth. Delicious.”

  Ember willed her hand to stop trembling. She stared at Sorrel fearfully.

  “Eat up, little cousin. Your goose is getting cold.”

  The meat stuck to Ember’s tongue, clogging in her throat and making it hard for her to breathe. She gulped down some water to help her swallow, but with Sorrel’s eyes on her, she had to lift her fork to her mouth once more and begin to chew again. She must do nothing to cause suspicion. For that afternoon Ember had broken the greatest of the clan oaths. She had told Poppy who she was and where she came from, and it had felt good. Even now, sitting here, feeling scared, she was glad she had done so. She would never regret confiding in her friend, no matter what might happen.

  Ember hadn’t intended to tell Poppy. The two girls had decided to leave the dell that afternoon, and it had felt like an adventure, hiking through the bracken and along the stone wall that stretched uphill and down, stitching the landscape into a vast patchwork. Poppy had asked about her family, and Ember found herself describing each of her three relatives—her mother, aunt, and, lastly, her cousin. She left out Sorrel’s harsher traits, trying only to mention her more flattering characteristics. It hadn’t been easy, but Ember had made sure to expose nothing of their craft.

  “So you’re an only child, like me?” Poppy said as she marched up the flank of the hill, Ember hurrying to keep up.

  “All of our clan are supposed to be sisters. That’s what we call one another,” Ember replied, her voice breathless from the exertion. “But I don’t think any of them see me like that and . . . well, they’re not my real family, not like my mother and Raven and Sorrel.”

  “What about your dad?” Poppy asked.

  “We don’t know our fathers. None of us do.”

  Shocked, Poppy stopped and turned to look at Ember. “There are no men in the camp?”

  “None,” Ember answered emphatically. “It’s forbidden.”

  “So you’ve never met a man?!” Poppy uttered in amazement.

  Ember shook her head. “Not close up. I told you what my family think of men.”

  “I know, but I didn’t realize . . . I mean . . . ” Poppy paused as if to give herself a chance to take this in. “No wonder you want to leave,” she tried to joke. Then she added more seriously, “Not that I know much about men either.”

  “What about your father? What’s he like?”

  “He’s . . . he’s simple.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Poppy pushed herself up onto the wall behind her and sat there with her legs dangling. “I don’t mean he’s stupid. He’s actually really smart. It’s just he doesn’t understand much . . . not about what people feel, anyway. He wants things to be straightforward and easy, and he tries to pretend they are.”

  Ember searched Poppy’s face, but she lifted her head to the sky, avoiding Ember’s gaze. Up there on the wall she seemed so remote and unreachable. “Does a father not love as a mother does?” she asked, but Poppy didn’t answer. She just shut her eyes, the air hitting her face, fanning her hair. “I’m sorry,” Ember apologized quickly. “I don’t know much about . . . about anything.”

  Poppy nudged her with her foot. “Hey. You do too. You just know important stuff, not the useless trash that the rest of us fill our lives with.”

  Ember smiled up at her, relieved Poppy wasn’t mad at her.

  “So why are men forbidden?” Poppy questioned.

  Ember trailed her fingers across the rough edges of the stones lodged in the wall, some gritty, others smooth like satin. “I don’t think men have been so good to my clan over the years. At least that’s what I’ve been told.” She smiled ruefully. “Maybe the sisters are trying to protect themselves. Or maybe they just prefer to do without. They don’t trust any chaffs.”

  “Chaffs?” Poppy retorted, and Ember tensed, realizing she shouldn’t have used that word.

  “The wheat and the chaff—it’s what we call those . . . it’s what we call everyone else.”

  Poppy made a face and jumped down from the wall. “Like me, you mean?”

  “You call us worse,” Ember retaliated, hearing with surprise the “us” come out of her mouth.

  Poppy looked hurt for a second and then hit back. “When are you going to tell me?”

  “What?” Ember felt her cheeks flushing as she tried to feign ignorance.

  “Who ‘us’ is? You and your clan and your sisters living up in the hills away from the men and the . . . the chaffs.”

  Ember couldn’t speak and she couldn’t move. She simply stood, stock-still, waiting. If she had an ounce of magic in her, she might conjure up some spell as her escape, but she had none, and her mind felt like the sludge that lined the riverbed.

  Poppy seemed to take her silence as refusal. “Forget it,” she snapped. “I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t even care, you know. Whatever you guys are, it makes no difference to me . . . to me and you.” She strode away and the wind whipped up, causing the autumn leaves to crackle and lift around her like a fiery coat of armor.

  Ember’s eyes widened. She held out her fingers, wondering if this display had come from her and searching her mind for any subconscious spell. “Come back,” she called, but her words were lost on a gust of air. Released from her trance, Ember chased after Poppy, pulling at her arm. “Stop,” she begged. “Stop!”

  Poppy turned and the leaves were carried off by the breeze like a flock of burnished birds.

  The truth tumbled out of Ember, fast, before she had a chance to hold it in. “We’re witches. That’s who . . . that’s what we are.”

  “You’re a witch?” Poppy asked, and Ember nodded quickly, hardly able to look Poppy in the eye for fear of her reaction.

  “I’m not a very good one. In truth, I’m a terrible one. But the others, they have great powers.”

  Now it was Poppy’s turn to stand and stare.

  “Say something,” Ember pleaded.

  Poppy looked across the hills as though seeking a distant truth. Finally she responded. “I think I knew that,” she said. “I think somewhere inside me, I knew that al
l along.”

  “And it makes no difference still?”

  “What . . . that I’m a chaff?” Poppy retorted with a smile, and Ember’s heart sang to see it forming on her face.

  “I’m not like the rest of my clan,” Ember told her.

  “And I’m not like my clan either,” Poppy replied.

  It felt like a vow of sorts, and Ember threaded her arm through Poppy’s and they started walking again, their steps matching each other’s as they trod over the flinty fields.

  “Will you tell me?” Poppy asked so quietly that Ember nearly didn’t catch it. “About the magic, I mean?”

  Ember nodded. Above them a flight of swallows peppered the sky, each bird so light and tiny but swirling together in a colossal kinetic cloud. They both stopped and looked up at them, watching in amazement.

  “They’re off to Africa,” Ember said. “That’s the very last of them. They read the stars, you know, to help them find their way,” she explained.

  “Can you read the stars?”

  Ember shrugged. “The sisters have tried to teach me. I know some of the constellations.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “You need someone better than me to teach you.”

  “I’d like to know everything. If you’ll tell me.”

  “But what about you? I’d like to know everything about your world too.”

  Poppy started to walk again, and Ember moved with her, staying by her side.

  “You can ask me anything you want,” Poppy said, but Ember sensed a slight reluctance that belied her words. Suddenly she felt unsure what question to pose first.

  “Well,” she said. “You told me a little of your father. But your mother—what is she like?”

  Ember realized her mistake before Poppy even replied. Poppy’s body had tensed imperceptibly and there was an edge to her tone.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “But I do,” Ember said encouragingly, trying to make everything right.

  “She’s brave and . . . and true to herself.”

  “Like you.”

  Poppy looked away before she spoke and Ember had to strain to hear.