CONTENT WARNING: familial death, and a pretty crude joke.
Credit goes to Yimi for one of her insights on the story being brought up in this chapter.
Owen
During my five years spent in San Myshuno city, I came to miss the greenery of Henford. I came to miss the clean air and the sounds of the rural birds outside of my window.
The winter feels as if it's gradually on its way out. It is a beautiful morning- twice as beautiful without my father around. I have no idea if he was still alive, but considering how many people in Henford wanted him dead, I have little doubt that someone would have taken advantage of the moment. I haven't felt this overjoyed in years. Once I am fully convinced of his death, my next letter to my beloved Lydia will be one inviting her here to work alongside me- and, perhaps, I can finally do what I'd intended to do years ago- ask her for her hand in marriage. My father wouldn't have approved of her not being Henford-born - in fact, he'd told me specifically not to go seeking romance in San Myshuno - but without him around, it didn't matter. If I don't have him constantly lingering over my shoulder anymore, then everything is fully in my hands.
Despite this burst of excitement, I cannot help but feel frustrated lingering on the edge of it. I can't do anything I want to do unless I am entirely certain that Samuel is dead, after all.
It's a quiet day today, for once, and I don't have much in the way of appointments. I'd spent some time putting up some artwork made for me by Violeta. She'd made two small versions, and two larger versions- beautiful monochrome paintings of majestic gryphons surrounded by vegetation and strange creatures. As someone who is only able to draw from stark reality, I was amazed by her vivid imagination. She'd designed them specifically to not look like the domineering monsters my father saw them as, but as powerful, stoic creatures at one with the mysteries of nature. She said in her letter that she was forever grateful for what I'd tried to do for Oskar.
It always weighs upon me when I cannot cure or save someone, and not just because it feels like a personal failure even working within the limits of knowledge and known science...and magic. I cannot help but be reminded of the death of my mother Liza, and Samuel's descent into the draconian man everyone knows him as today when he himself could not save her. She'd died when I was in my mid-teens, not long after Eli had been born. I remember how much I hated Samuel for what he did- how much I screamed at him and called him a failure for 'letting her die'. I sometimes think to myself...Is there a chance that I may have had a part to play in Samuel's descent into what he eventually became? No, I cannot blame myself for that. I was merely a grieving child. No matter what I do or don't manage to achieve, I cannot become like my father, in any way.
Violeta had said in her letter that she intended to visit me with some important news. I have two possible conclusions to come to.
First of all - I do wonder if it was her who killed my father. I knew that she would be patrolling the skies on that night, for certain, and that she'd likely be somewhere near the main town on the hunt for witchfinders. It was yet another reason to leave him outside- easy pickings for her. After all, he was responsible for what happened with Oskar- it's only natural she'd scrape at any chance to end his life.
Second of all- and this is not a conclusion I hope is true- is that Oskar has passed. I pray that he is doing alright. He hadn't come to me in a while asking for any kind of remedies or medication. I hoped that meant he was doing well, and not that he was no longer with us.
On top of that, Father Morgan had sent a letter thanking me for the donations, telling me that the children of Withernham live and eat well on the money- and, interestingly, asking to book an appointment with me. Given all he's done for Henford, I told him to drop in where he can - we're both busy men, after all. I do wonder what would be ailing him; he always seems so bright and healthy.
There's a loud knock on the door- familiar enough. The last person I want to speak to at this moment. I know he's here to speak to my father, but I'm sure I can think of something to fool him. Even when I was completely on my father's side, I never liked Volpe, not since I was a teenager. He was always so overbearing, and I tired of hearing his tirades about what happened to his family in Tartosa and how he excused his violent qualms with magic-folk with it. I'd have had some sympathy for him had he not used it as his reasoning for all the bloodshed.
He would almost try to act like an uncle to myself and Eli. Eli never liked him either, but we had no choice but to be polite to him when we were younger. In part, it was because Samuel respected Volpe, and felt some level of sympathy for what had happened to his family. In part, it was because Volpe knew our secret, and we knew his secrecy was entirely conditional.
"Owen! A pleasure. Is your father around?"
"He's resting in bed. He's unwell."
"Well, I have news that'll certainly lift his spirits- and perhaps yours as well!"
If it's news that will lift my father's spirits, then I dread to think how it will make me feel.
"What news could you possibly have?"
"The man who assaulted your father is reported dead! Isn't that fantastic? Justice has finally been served- and now maybe I'll be able to keep some of my men around."
The moment he says those words, there's a sensation like shattering glass in my mind. I didn't want to believe it. Justice served? Was Oskar murdered?
I try to withhold the sudden flood of rage and grief that courses through me.
"What happened?"
"I hired an old witchfinder of mine back into my service temporarily, specifically to kill him- and he succeeded. My payment to him was the freedom of his son from his apprenticeship to me."
"From his servitude to you, you mean? You have half of Henford's youth doing all your dirty work for nothing."
Said with a little too much vitriol, it seems. Volpe may have the air of a tough man, but his delusion of grandeur is easily hurt.
"My, my, Owen. Someone's in a rotten mood, hm? Luckily, I bought something to ease the tension. Shall we sit for a while?"
He lays a bottle of wine on the table near Violeta's gryphon paintings. Samuel and Volpe always had a drink together at least one afternoon a week. Not sure I want to, but I may as well let him speak, I suppose. I don't take a sip until he does; since I don't have anything important to partake in, for once, I decide to indulge myself. The wine goes down a treat- warming notes of oak and vanilla against a backdrop of red berries.
"What has your father come down with, anyhow?"
"Some kind of winter flu," I tell him, "something I do not care to catch and spread to patients. He's staying in his room until he's clear of it."
Volpe ignores the glass and takes a long swig from the bottle itself. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Owen."
Is that so?
"Which is?"
Volpe adjusts himself in his chair, evidently trying to intimidate me. He thinks I'm still the fifteen-year-old he used to lecture on manners years ago- and I wasn't scared of him then, either.
"Samuel told me that you tried to cure Oskar using the cure to his condition that Samuel crafted many years ago...I must say, I'm disgusted. Trying to cure the man who almost murdered your own father, Owen?"
And I would have possibly succeeded, too, had Samuel not have destroyed it in an act of vengeance!
"I cure whoever needs curing. Half the people I've saved tell me in detail how it doesn't change the fact that they want me dead. I don't get to choose who I heal. It's my job and my duty, and you know that."
Volpe had lost everything but his title when his Tartosan mansion burned down- yet he's still convinced he has something left to be proud of. I sometimes wonder what he misses more- his family, or the glory and power.
"It's a spiteful betrayal, is what it is. Your father made you what you are now, and that is how you repay him? It's bad enough you played a part in ruining his reputation at his own celebration of his achievements!"
"Oskar and Katlego found proof of my father's wrongdoings. Proof is proof, is it not? You can't argue with the truth, can you?"
"Not even for the benefit of your own father?"
"No."
"It's no good asking a man of science to meddle with fact, Eduardo."
"A man of science? Or a man of magic?"
I take another sip of the wine to take the edge off the heightened emotions. Volpe looks up and down at Violeta's gorgeous artwork- the mighty gryphon, tangled amongst grotesque creatures and various plants. Enough to remind myself of the pride I ought to take in my arcane gift, whilst being nothing more than a domineering familial symbol to everyone else. Enough to remind Volpe of who and what he was dealing with.
"Both," I reply. "Is that a problem with you?"
"For me, no, not at all, but you're falling out of line, aren't you?" he says, staring intently into the gryphon on the wall. "You'd better start behaving unless you want everyone in Henford to find out your dirty little secret. Wouldn't it be a shame for everyone to know that almost all of your scientific success has been largely supplemented with something so scandalous as magic, Owen?"
Wouldn't it just? My father feared being labelled a quack far more than he feared being hung by his neck for his blood. Myself, I couldn't care less about what label people give me. A quack, a fraud, a liar- they can call me whatever they like. The intertwining of magic and science have saved countless lives. Anyone who thinks to criticise me on such a merging of worlds is either jealous of my discoveries, or not in the field of medicine for the right reasons.
"You may be a rich and successful man, but as far as my witchfinders are concerned, your life is worth as much as any peasant woman performing moonlight rituals in the forests. You'll be hung like the rest of them if you don't learn to show some respect towards myself or your father. How would you feel about that?"
"Well, I'd be hanging by a rope, wouldn't I?" I ask him, laughing. "One could argue I would feel nothing at all."
With a growl, Volpe lifts himself slightly from his chair with a cackle-worthy fury. His face almost resembles a toddler's when he's told he isn't allowed the toy in the shop window. "At least let your father know of the news, will you? And try not to save the lives of people who try to murder your own flesh and blood from now on. Take a leaf from my book, Owen- anyone who does harm to your family- especially with killing intent? They deserve nothing less than death. This is why every true witch must pay for what happened to my lineage."
"I see," I say to him. "So which of the thousands of witches of Henford you've had killed were directly responsible to what happened to your own in Tartosa?"
My favourite sound coming from Volpe...dead silence. A sore spot, I'm certain, but a man so obsessed with blunt truth ought to understand the necessity.
"Besides, haven't you already beaten them? At least here in Henford, you have. Those that didn't flee are dead, aren't they? What's left to fight for, at least for the moment?"
That gets through to him, it seems.
"I suppose you have a point...but there will always be witches in hiding, Owen. And whilst they quietly plan their rebellion, I'll be doing the same. All of this mess has no doubt made people twice as fearful of them. Now, if you don't mind, I have work of my own to do. Keep the wine- give some to your father. Might give him a little boost of energy. Give your father my regards."
"Much appreciated. Remember what I said- don't waste your time on the witches whilst their threat is minimal. A waste of men as well as a waste of time."
Volpe would never dare to out our secret. He and Samuel have - had - a false yet seemingly-important closeness- and Volpe fears magic more than anything. He believes himself simultaneously untouchable and vulnerable, but I suppose most men of his stature do.
There's a softer, more polite knock at the door almost immediately. Even on my day off, I can't catch much of a break- then I remember what I'd said to him in the letter. At a first glance, he seems fine- but I can't help but noticed how dejected he looks- and slightly pale.
"Apologies, Dr. Annorin- I know it's late. It's been...a day, that's for certain."
"No need for apologies, Father. Come on in."
I'm not sure if Reynold's gawking around is in awe or disgust. I wouldn't blame him for the latter. I pour some tea for us both.
"First of all, thank you for all of your donations. The children are doing much better, families can afford to eat, some are learning to read and having better luck finding work."
"That's quite alright," I reply. "But what brings you here?"
He seems hesitant to tell me.
"If it's something of an intimate issue, I assure you, I deal with such cases all of the time. There's no judgment here, and it's all in complete confidence."
"I wouldn't say intimate, but still a little strange to discuss," Reynold replies, in an unsure and awkward tone. "I just don't know if you'll believe me. Or you might think I've gone mad...which at this point, I might have," he adds, with a pained chuckle.
"Whatever it is, Father Morgan, you needn't be embarassed."
What starts off as embarassment and awkwardness soon seems to fade into something deeply painful. The longer he talks, the more his confused-yet-cheerful voice slides gradually into monotone, then into heartache.
"I...I used magic the other day, and something completely unexpected happened."
Magic? Father Morgan is a bloodline caster- or even a witch? An interesting development. I'd assumed his stances on witchcraft were just part of typical Peteran philanthropy and nothing more. I don't know if Father Morgan trusts me much outside of the fact I donate to his monastery, but just knowing that he and I are of the same arcane blood, even if just a little- how odd. Is that what he was feeling awkward about, I wonder? Because even if he is, to just admit to that so freely, even in confidence- that's a lot of trust for such a distant relationship.
"I'm not really used to it. I had to protect people during the storm of witchfinders the other night, but I overdid it- had a very bad case of overcharge and fell unconscious. Apparently there was blood dripping from my nose and mouth before I passed out. Woke up four hours later, fell unconscious later, and...now I can see ghosts."
That was hardly what I expected to come out of his mouth. This was the problem with treating witches- it wasn't just as simple as biology. Magic is both a help and a hindrance to medicine. Raises survival rates tremendously, but makes a solid diagnosis much more difficult. I do what I always do- start with the science first.
"To be truthful, Father, I know little of the human mind- outside of a few old men in Windenburg, not very many do even in this day in age. What I do know is that visions aren't as uncommon as you might think, by any means. My first thought is that it could be from stress."
"I have no way to change that at the moment, Doctor," Reynold replies, with an air of aggressiveness that I don't take personally. "My partner and daughter are missing, and the other regulars at the monastery don't like covering for me, especially not in the long term. And they aren't visions- they're ghosts. I saw the ghost of my old cat at the monastery- I touched it and felt a strange sensation. I know it sounds implausible, but it's true."
"And can you see a ghost now? Can you describe it to me?" I notice he's been staring at the empty seat next to me in the sofa, his eyes flicking between me and the empty space. He narrows his eyes at the spot.
"It's a dog," he says, studying the empty space intently. "It looks like some kind of hunting dog- floppy eared. Looking up at you, longingly. It's monochrome, so I might be wrong, but one of its eyes is a different shade ever so slightly."
It can't be, can it? That very much fits the description of Merry, our old flushing spaniel from my teenage years. She was the last dog we ever owned. She had a brown eye and a blue one... Still, not enough proof that it isn't his mind playing tricks on him- not for me, at least.
"Sometimes illnesses of the mind are influenced by the state of the body. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to perform a completely-thorough examination. Is that alright?"
"Of course," he says. "Go right ahead."
* * *
"That was certainly much more thorough than I'd expected, Dr. Annorin, but I appreciate you being so careful, I suppose."
"Indeed! You really do have to check everything sometimes- better to be too thorough than not thorough enough, hm?"
"I suppose, but I don't think you would've found answers- never mind. You're the physician, not me. I apologise."
My goodness, a patient without my years of work and without my qualifications admitting that they don't know more than I do about medicine? Am I dreaming?
"For the most part, you seem to be healthy- what I have noticed is that you're a little on the cold side to the touch, and you're awfully tense as well. I'm sure the tension is stress-related, but your body temperature...Could possibly be something to do with your blood, though I'm not entirely sure what..."
"We went through all that so you could tell me I was cold? In winter? After lying on a table wearing almost nothing?"
"May I politely remind you who holds the degree here, Father Morgan?"
"I apologise," he says, recoiling like a sad puppy. "What do you think?"
"If magic is in your blood, and overcharge is a dangerous buildup of magic in the blood- there's a possibility it might be what's affecting your body temperature. It's a long shot, but it's a possibility. On the other hand, the overcharge may have caused some issues with your brain. It's hard to say. Though, come to think of it, you may be correct. Exposure to the cold for prolonged periods of time can cause confusion, and I'm sure it isn't particularly warm in the monastery-"
"Dr. Annorin-"
"Owen will do."
"Well, Owen, these ghosts aren't visions. I know that," he says, changing back into his robes. "When the cat visited me in the monastery, I put my hand through it by mistake- I felt it."
I don't know what to believe. His description of my little Merry was spot-on, but...I don't like admitting to being lost, but I'm lost. His body temperature is unusual, and yet he seems to be otherwise functioning fine for the most part. He's speaking coherently, he's breathing fine, and he's not shivering at all. Quite the conundrum.
"I understand that you're science first and magic second, Owen-"
What?! How does he know that? I told Eli not to breathe a word to a single soul!
"What did you just say to me?"
"I'm sworn to confidentiality, Owen, as you are. No-one told me you had magic. True witches can sense magic in others...which brings me to something else, actually. I can't sense..." He looks down at the floor with wide eyes, and his voice returns to a monotone. "I can't sense your magic at all right now."
I think I've done all I can on my end. The best I can do for him now is send him to someone with much more knowledge of the arcane than myself. I wonder if it's something only those with strong blood can sense? I certainly cannot pick up on his magic at all. I'm a little unnerved that he knows, but it's lucky he's a priest and therefore sworn to keep his lips sealed, at least.
"I'm sorry that I am not of much help. I'm going to make some notes on my predictions and findings, and if I come up with anything I'll let you know. You're free to visit again if you like, if your 'symptoms' get worse. For now, my suggestion would be visiting the cunningwoman Katlego Anansi. Do you know for her?"
If anything, this visit has left me with a dull sensation in my chest. If I were not expected to hide my magic...how much more powerful would I be? How many more people could I save? All I can manage is cleaning my hands, lighting candles and some weak jolts of the Fulguris spell- though restarting the human heart is quite the feat in itself. The strongest my magic ever was, was when I'd aimed a killing shot at my own father. Liza had taught me my magic, and I've had to spend my entire life unlearning the gift that my mother gave to me.
Perhaps I owe it to her to relearn it, but I can't really do that if Volpe is on my tail...
Father Morgan gives me a solemn nod, and quietly thanks me for my work.
"Father, whatever help you need, all you need to do is ask. You may have to wait some time, but I don't want you giving me a penny. You do enough for the community, and you've done enough for me. You're the last person I expected to co-operate with an Annorin."
He turns around, and a warm smile appears on his face, though his voice suggests it's a forced one.
"Reynold is fine, Owen. And you're most welcome. After all, all anyone has ever done is give me a second chance. It's only right that I do the same for others now and again."
Katlego
Tonight, Ellie and I thank the universe for our survival.
We survived. We survived because we stayed in our cabin, hiding some of the witches until it was safe for them to flee. We survived because we patched the minor wounds of the women and children who'd injured themselves running towards safety.
We survived because we are cunningwomen- the only acceptable kind of sorcery, it seems. When my divination abilities tell people whether they'll succeed or fall in love or live long, I am an asset. If I use my magic to defend myself or assist my fellow magic-folk, then I'm wicked.
It isn't until today that I realise...Iris may have been correct all those years ago. Maybe we don't have a choice. Maybe we do have to eventually fight back, after all. I do not wish to turn my back on the words of my mother- but I know she wishes me to return home in one piece, which won't happen if I don't defend myself or Ellie.
"Kat, I think it might be time to-"
"Ellie, we can't leave again!" I reply, in desperation. "I cannot keep running. All I've been doing is run, run, run- I'm tired, and I'm sure you are too. We've found a home, and we should stay in it."
"But it's not safe here, Kat! You saw what happened out there!"
"It is safe enough for us. They wouldn't dare lay a finger on cunningwomen when they rely so much on our remedies and divination. We have to remain here, where we're considered a low threat, and where we can help the witches in relative secrecy."
"If I'm going to be honest, Kat, I think you feel you owe Henford. To be blunt about it, you owe Henford nothing. We have to do what's best for us."
"You may be right," I tell her, "but a lot of people here in Henford are just like us, and they need us."
Even with the help of Owen Annorin's attempts to take the people of Henford under the gryphon's wing- and even with his various reforms, there were plenty that couldn't afford that kind of care, still. Henford is full of people like Ellie and I used to be- with powers they must keep hidden, and who are too scared to go to a traditional physician in case they are caught for their power. There are people new to the country, like I was, with little in the way of Simoleons, who don't deserve to become sick or perish. There were people here who stood up for me when Annorin tried to have me exiled, after all. I don't owe Henford, but I owe the innocent people who have no-one else to turn to.
"We can't become selfish like the people of Henford, Ellie. Where I'm from, we look after each other, and I'm sure the same goes for you- and that can't change here, no matter what, no matter how bleak things get."
Ellie thinks to herself, and gives me her signature loving smile.
"You have a point, Kat. You have no space for hate in your heart. Just one of my the many reasons that I treasure you so much."
Hatred might be what motivates everyone else, but I can't let it be what motivates me.