Chapter Text
The day dawned blustery, and the kind of medium, pedestrian cold that made you feel a bit embarrassed to be so chilled. Matilda was jolted awake by a mixture of rain and snow bestrewing through the window that didn’t quite close all the way, blowing her red wool curtains to and fro.
She had the faint recollection that Imogen had snuck out earlier than one should ever wake up, in order to get dressed for one of her endless clubs. Matilda had felt her rise, but the movement hadn’t really woken her enough to do more than mumble a sleepy “g’morning, darling” before lapsing back into slumber. She had the embarrassing feeling, upon rousing to a more aware state, that they had been closely tangled together for warmth, and felt a bit of shameful regret that she wasn’t able to wake to it. The fact that they’d still inevitably found their way to each other’s arms in the middle of the night soothed Matilda’s worry that there might be some ire left over from whatever had been plaguing Imogen after dinner.
Matilda left her hair down, picked her skirt and blouse for the day, and wrapped two shawls around herself in order to go out and scatter grain in the bird feeder, which she ordinarily enjoyed, but had a markedly less good time doing so when she was being buffeted in the face by sharp sleet. Father hadn’t let the cows out to graze as a result of the weather, so she set to feeding them in the barn as well as milking the heifers. She assumed her mother would be out later, when the rain died down, to weed the garden and gather mushrooms, and judging by the little light she could see through the gray, she had woken up a bit late and had to be off to school anyway.
When Matilda went back to gather her school bag, the house was filled with the hiss of cooking bacon and the hot fragrance of rose-hip tea. It seemed like her mother had woken up and started breakfast in the time it had taken Matilda to battle through the elements and do her chores. Matilda stood in the entry for several moments, brushing ice crystals from her arms and hair, but Mother continued her business, unaware of Matilda’s arrival, until she cleared her throat pointedly. Her mother let out a startled peep and whirled around.
“Oh! Good morning, dear. Hiding in the shadows again?” Mother said cheerfully. “I made you some tea. I hope you didn’t stay up too late now.” She winked at Matilda. “Take some scones for Imogen, since you pulled her away before she could have one.”
Matilda let out an indignant sigh, quickly crossing the well-trod boards, all the while worried about how late she was going to be. Mother shot a disapproving glance at Matilda’s feet, scathed that she was wearing boots in the house. “Mother… you can’t say things like you did yesterday around Imogen. You’re going to scare her. I don’t want her to feel… weird being around me.”
Mother simply clucked dismissively in response. “Imogen is a devoted friend. And that girl clearly adores you, trust me. I don’t think you could do anything to drive her away.”
“I consider that a challenge.” Matilda plucked a few meager pieces of bacon from the plate on the counter and inhaled them, then scorched herself trying to drink as much tea as she could in one gulp.
“Oh, I have no doubt in my mind.” Matilda took a scone for herself and wrapped another one in a napkin for Imogen. Mother shooed Matilda away from the food with a flick of her tea towel. “Your hair looks nice. You must be off, or you’ll run late, my darling. Can you grab me something small from the butcher’s on your way home?”
Matilda took another slice of bacon before Mother could react and dashed back towards the door. “I’ll see you later, Mother!”
“Have a good day at class, little thief,” Mother chirped after her. “Butcher’s!” Matilda grabbed her school bag off of one of the pegs by the door, slipped Imogen’s scone inside, and, with her head down like a bull and both hoods up, charged outside into the cold.
If she hurried, the walk to school took about 25 minutes. Some of the more well-to-do students took bicycles, or rode horses like Imogen did, but much like her chores, Matilda enjoyed the walk when it wasn’t raining icicles. The path through the outskirt farms, colloquially called Whitestone Way, made a circle around the Parchwood Timberlands, and smaller paths into town stood perpendicular to it, cutting through the Timberlands like the spokes of a carriage wheel.
As Matilda went further into town, breaking pieces off of her scone and popping them in her mouth, the rolling, windblown tall-grass hills and family-owned farms turned slowly into thick, frosted, lush forest, which in turn evened out into dilapidated roads and townhouses. The streets went from packed dirt to hewn, cracked cobblestone, and the buildings grew slowly closer and closer together until instead of fields and fences, houses were separated by dark, crooked alleyways and trash bins. More and more people joined Matilda on the main road from the Timberlands into town, a slow march to their jobs and schooling, heads down and hoods up to avoid sleet and scrutiny. Lining the sides of the streets were several Briarwood Guard soldiers, watching like hawks, and occasionally grabbing passersby and hassling them. It was anyone’s guess whether they’d committed an actual crime, or if the Guard were just bored.
Towering above them all, the Sun Tree came into view; it grew from the center of the town square, impossibly old, its black, bare fingers clawing at the overcast sky. Whitestone had been built around it, to shelter the people trading, traveling, or playing in the square. But, ever since Matilda was young and the Briarwoods had rolled into town, the Tree had served as more of a bitter reminder than a symbol of prosperity.
Matilda squeezed her eyes shut as she walked past the Tree, letting herself be taken by the back-and-forth brush of people purposeful in their own lives, their own missions, instead of being taken by memories. The Conservatory loomed just behind the square, tall and once proud at the entrance to the Northern Ward— a vaulted stone-brick building of about three stories, unkempt and overgrown with moss and vines. She ducked her head and blended into the last few stragglers, making it across the threshold of the double doors right as the second bell rang. She shook the ice off of her leather boots in the corner, glancing around the entryway for Imogen, but she saw no flash of lavender in the hustle and bustle of students. Several arched stone halls led off to different classrooms, and a once-grand marble staircase, now somewhat dusty and in disrepair, snaked up towards the dark mezzanine.
Matilda’s feet automatically took her down the leftmost hallway to her first class, Common. The right wall was painted in a chipping, years-old mural of the rolling Whitestone countryside, and was mostly covered up with different posters for school events, each stamped with the approving seal of the Briarwood Guard. She walked along the other wall, under the sconces, where shadows were thick and no one paid any mind to her. In fact, Teacher Oberon, who was a pale, stringy man only about ten years Matilda’s senior, didn’t seem to notice her walk in the classroom at all, and called her name soon after. He acknowledged Matilda only when she raised her hand for roll, which was fine by her.
The teacher started talking about the project Matilda hadn’t started yet, and she tuned out, setting her chin in her palm and staring at one of the posters on the wall (a list of conjunctions). She wished Imogen was in this class so it wasn’t so boring; unfortunately, they were in different tracks, so, while they had generally the same classes, they had different lesson times for most of the day.
If a student so chose to go to the Conservatory after graduating early school (not that it was much of a choice on Matilda’s part), students had to pick a track: art or science. Imogen had always had a mind for numbers and wanted to study animal medicine, so she was in the science track. Matilda never fancied herself anything other than an artist. It was unfortunate that they were different in this respect, since it wound up with Matilda missing her for the majority of the day.
Her classes drifted by with minimal parchment-ball tossing. Everyone was too abuzz regarding the school dance coming up the Folsen after next to torment Matilda too much. Matilda didn’t care for dances. She had been asked to one too many of them as a joke, and besides, at the only dance she had gone to, back in 8th year, she’d mostly sat in the corner all night. Perhaps, if she had someone to go with… in that case, matching outfits, cheap finger food, and dancing with too many people around didn’t seem altogether bad. She wouldn’t even mind sitting in the corner if she had someone next to her to make fun of her classmates’ ridiculous formalwear choices.
Matilda and Imogen only shared one class all day long, and that was their last class, 7th-hour Exandrian History. Matilda was early for once, tapping her charcoal on the edge of the desk and hoping against hope Imogen would appear. And she did, sliding into the empty seat left of Matilda as the class bell chimed in the distance.
“Long time no see,” murmured Matilda to her as the beginning-class shuffle of books and papers started up.
“Hi,” Imogen said back quietly, bending down to pull out her materials. “Sorry I left so early.”
“I understand why you had to.” Matilda watched Imogen rummage through her bag. She seemed cheerful enough, albeit tired, her eyes a bit distant. “I missed you today, though,” Matilda offered, sliding the napkin-wrapped scone across the table. It had grown a bit crumbly from being in Matilda’s bag all day, but was still good.
Imogen finally looked up at Matilda, and smiled in earnest, accepting the treat. “I missed you, too.”
“Would you ever consider giving me that shirt back?”
“Never,” Imogen said, aiming a gentle kick towards Matilda’s leg, and everything felt a little bit more normal.
Teacher Slate interrupted the muttered conversations throughout the room by letting them know they were going to be moving on from Ank’harel and learning about the founding of Emon for the next few classes. Throughout the hour, Matilda kept dozing off on her parchment and accidentally hitting her forehead on her hand, and Imogen studiously took notes and nudged Matilda every time she fell asleep for longer than a few seconds. Imogen was a better farm girl than she, since Imogen always seemed to be able to run decently off very few hours of sleep— certainly less sleep than Matilda had gotten.
Then the day was done, and Matilda expected Imogen to say her goodbyes and head off to the stables for her riding club, but as everyone else packed up, Imogen turned to her and said, “We’ve got errands. Wanna come with me?”
“Of course I will,” Matilda said. “But don’t you have your club?”
“I wanna walk you home today, just in case. I need to go to the apothecary before it closes, too. And plus, we have to get supplies for the project, remember?”
Matilda had nearly forgotten about the project already. She was lucky Imogen was so capable when it came to schoolwork. “Certainly. It’s only a quick jaunt to the shops from here.” Imogen nodded, picking up her bag. Slinging her own satchel over her shoulder, Matilda suddenly remembered the errand her mother gave her. “Oh! And the butcher is just a few doors down.”
“The butcher?” Imogen’s mouth twisted. “I don’t like going in there.” The two of them began to head out. They went mostly unnoticed in the slow bottleneck exiting the school’s doors.
“Mother wanted me to pick something up for her. She makes me get a thing or two from town every time I go to school, I swear it. I promise you don’t have to look at any of the dead animals if you don’t want to.”
Imogen gave in. “Fine. We can pick up Flora a little later, then.”
It was almost a culture shock walking from the school doors, as it fed directly into the town square. It was always a whirlpool of perpetual motion, right up to the curfew, and Matilda and Imogen entered into this fray, traveling clockwise with their peers. It had gotten warmer as the day went on and stopped sleeting, but Matilda still wrapped her shawls tighter around herself.
Dawnfather Square was mostly full of students darting along the cobbles, in and out of the shops. The regular folk would often clear away before the College got out, lest they be caught in the crush. As Imogen and Matilda trod the edge of the square, they walked past the red-headed apothecary woman hanging new bundles of herbs out on her awning, her little son playing around her legs (Imogen, Matilda, and the boy were the only ones who didn’t give her a wide berth); further, she saw the butcher in his shop window with his cleaver, his twin daughters sitting in front of the shop, each darning a sock from the same pair; Andy’s crew of lackeys from school howling with laughter next to the Sun Tree (well, as near as anyone would get to the dilapidated thing, which was longer than a stone’s throw); and, squeezed between an all-but-abandoned hand pie stand and the smithy, the stationery store.
A bell chimed merrily as Matilda and Imogen pushed their way into the shop. Cozy and smelling of leather and parchment pulp, the walls were lined with shelves and displays of notebooks, sketchbooks, loose-leaf, stationery, and wrapping paper; painted wooden cups of pens, quills, and charcoals; and all manner of other paper crafting supplies. A community board hung crookedly over the till counter. Dusting the displays in the far left corner was Samantha Oberon, the proprietor, who turned with a start to see who had just walked in. Her dark, cloudlike hair was pulled back from her face in two poufs that day, and her blue-striped button-down was spotless as usual. She adjusted her spectacles, grinning, and Imogen mirrored her subconsciously. “Well, if it isn’t Whitestone’s most notorious partners in crime.”
“Oh, Mrs. Oberon!” Matilda greeted her cheerfully.
“Matilda, you’re going on two years as an adult. You can just call me Sam,” Mrs. Oberon responded, with a kind indignation. “You’re making me feel old.”
“But your husband teaches us!” Matilda protested. “It would simply be wrong to not pay you the proper respects!”
Before Mrs. Oberon could respond further, Matilda’s attention was quickly caught by a new display rack of colored parchment squares, and she immediately rambled over to inspect it. The dyes were so vivid! So many options to choose from!
“Fill up your sketchbook already?” Matilda barely heard Mrs. Oberon’s voice, too engrossed by the smell of fresh paper pulp and the different floral pigments.
“No, ma’am. But she’s tryin',” Imogen cut in. “We just need some parchment board for a school project.”
“Oh, parchment board? I have plenty!” Mrs. Oberon indicated one of the displays in the back, and Imogen followed her hand, picking up and carefully weighing what she determined were the best boards for the two of them. “Stan told me about the project. I haven’t had anyone come in yet. The students in your class must be real procrastinators.”
“They’re all much too excited about the winter dance to be worrying about Common homework, it seems,” Matilda said, a red piece of parchment in one hand and green in the other.
“I expect I’ll be getting an influx of kids making signs, then.” Mrs. Oberon moved around Imogen and began to drag the rack of parchment board to the center of the store. “Thinking of asking anyone, girls?”
“Why is everyone so concerned with my love life all of a sudden?” Matilda said exasperatedly.
“Come again?”
“What she means, ma’am, is that we don’t have ideas about askin' anyone,” Imogen said. “We just wanna do our project.” Matilda nodded in agreement, dropping her dyed parchment on the shop counter.
Without missing a beat, Mrs. Oberon said cheerfully, “Well, if you do, you know where to go for a sign board.” She stepped behind the counter with a few purposeful strides. “Three copper for everything, lovelies.”
Matilda reached into her pouch and produced the coins. She still had a silver jingling around in there, left over from a combination of her monthly chore allowance and the various knit items and art pieces she’d sold, which would probably cover the butcher meat.
“You don’t have to pay,” Imogen protested.
“Consider it even for the bones and the eggs,” Matilda said, sliding the small stack of copper across the counter. Mrs. Oberon dropped it into her till, put Matilda’s paper into a folder stamped with the store’s logo, and slid the folder into a thin cloth bag.
“You’re impossible,” Imogen grumbled, picking up the parchment board.
Matilda gave her a sunny smile. “Well, thank you kindly.”
“Have a good day, lovelies. Be safe.” Mrs. Oberon waved as the two girls picked up their wares and headed out towards the bustle of the square again. They had about an hour before sunset, so they hurried over to the butcher as quickly as they could, fighting against the stream. The daughters, seemingly having finished their tasks, were nowhere to be seen. Imogen avoided eye contact with the chickens hanging in the window. Unlike the tinkling of the stationery shop bell, the rusted bell over the butcher’s door clanged once before falling silent.
“Oy, bless me eyes!” The mountain of a man behind the counter crowed. He was nearly seven feet tall, with a magnificent, tangly beard, arms of coiled muscle, and the figure of a man whose wife was a fantastic cook. “That can’t be little Matilda. She’s much too tall, innit?” This second bit he directed at Imogen, who might have shrugged had her arms not been full of parchment boards.
“Dave! You saw me last week,” Matilda said.
“An’ still, I’d swear on me mother you’s a foot taller!” Dave the butcher laughed his infectious laugh, the one Matilda so loved to imitate when she was pretending Pâté had a voice. “What can I do ya for? I’m reckoning your mum’s sent ya for dinner? Yeah?”
“You know her well! I’ll take whatever’s freshest.”
“Wey-hey. Let me see ‘ere.” The butcher turned to the bloodied shelf behind him, dripping racks of ice underneath to keep the salted cuts of meat even fresher. “Adaline’s boy just brought in a rabbit not an hour ago. Big one at that. Think it was ‘is first catch ever, I do.”
“How much?”
“Put it at five copper. Friends an’ family discount for ya, luv.”
“I’ll pay,” Imogen piped up over the parchment board.
“Wait, wait, darling,” protested Matilda. “You mustn’t.”
“Your mama and daddy made dinner for me yesterday, so I’ll buy y’all dinner today.”
“You really don’t need to. I have the silver for it.”
The butcher’s head bobbed between the two of him like he were watching a sports match, his grin patiently unchanged on his face. “Someone’s gotta pay, eh.”
Imogen looked up at Matilda from under her eyelashes, tilting her head ever so slightly, and Matilda knew she was about to fold. “Please let me pay?”
“Fine! Fine,” Matilda relented. “But you can’t stop me from making you a plate.”
Imogen smiled. “Deal.”
“The two of ya just have the wonderfulest friendship.” Dave turned back to the shelf and took the skinned thing that might have resembled a rabbit in his hands, bringing it over to the counter with the brown paper to wrap it, so the gore didn’t stain Matilda’s shawls. Imogen averted her eyes. “‘Fore I forget. The wife was askin’ after me if you could draw up our Winter’s Crest cards with that nice little painting you did for us last year. She said ‘a gold for twenty’, I thinks. Yeah.”
“I would love nothing more!” Matilda exclaimed, thinking of the lovely presents she could buy for Imogen and her parents with all that money. “Tell her I’ll get right on it.”
Dave slid the brown paper package across the glass counter, and Imogen slid the coin back. “A pleasure like always, luv. Both of ya.”
“You’re just friends with every shopkeep, aren’t you?” Imogen said as they left the butcher’s. The square was less busy now, what with the sun just beginning to dip below the tops of the buildings.
“I much prefer the company of adults to college kids,” Matilda responded. “People our age call me ‘freak’. Adults prefer to term it ‘eccentric’. And they have the coin to buy my crafts. Yes, I like grown people much better, and they seem to like me, at least outwardly.”
Imogen looped her arm through Matilda’s as best she could as they walked.
The next stop was the apothecary. Matilda unfortunately didn’t know the shopkeeper's name, despite having bought medicinals from her for years, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The apothecary woman was slight and elfin, with flame-red hair so long it passed her waist, and a patient smile eternally crossing her face. Her son Edward had just started his first year of early school while Imogen and Matilda were on their last, and Matilda could see him peeking curiously from the back room. The walls of the shop were a light spring green where they were not covered by shelves of other types of greenery, and bottles were crammed everywhere— on racks, on the windowsill, on the front counters, and even lining the wooden floors. Herbs hung from the ceiling in bundles, which reminded Matilda faintly of Imogen’s kitchen.
The townspeople of Whitestone had been taught not to take too kindly to magic users other than the Briarwoods, and while there was no proof that the apothecary woman was a witch, her shop was still usually quiet and empty. The apothecary woman wasn’t chatty— in fact, Matilda didn’t think she’d heard her speak more than five words before— so they were in and out quite quickly, Imogen’s hip bag heavy with a new bottle of tincture and bar of face soap, and lighter a bit of coin.
Now the square was nearly completely empty, save for a few stragglers already leaving, shopkeepers closing up, and, of course, Andy’s little gang still having a raucous conversation near the Tree. Matilda was surprised the Briarwood Guard hadn’t hassled them yet; indeed, it was likely they did, and the boys simply didn’t listen to them. Unfortunately, Matilda realized they had to walk past the group of five boys to get to the stables behind the school, and those same boys had kicked her around like a ball the day previous. Fionn, a squat gnomish boy in the grade below them, was telling the others a story, gesticulating madly as the other boys snickered at his excitement.
“I swear I saw it! A wolf the size of a horse!” Fionn said, watery blue eyes widening.
“We need to talk about our revolution, not fake monsters,” Andy said dismissively, running a hand through his scraggly mop of red hair. Allin, a quarter elf with milky blond hair he kept up in a silly little topknot, scoffed at the mention of a revolution, but Tomas, quiet, brunet, and a foot taller than the other boys, nodded.
“No, it’s real, aye! I saw it with me own two eyes! Prowling around outside the woods. Its face was fierce odd, longer than they normally are,” Fionn insisted.
“Do you think the Briarwoods know there are wolves about?” Joss, the more timid follower of the group, piped up.
“Who gives two bits what they think?” Fionn said dismissively.
“The Lord and Lady are off in Emon this week on a very vital diplomatic mission,” Allin cut in, importantly. “But I’m sure they are aware. As they are certainly aware of any talk of brewing revolution.” This last piece was aimed pointedly towards Andy and Fionn. He was future Briarwood Guard material to the very tips of his pointed ears.
“Wonder whose fault that is,” Andy muttered.
As Imogen and Matilda grew cautiously closer, hearing all this, Imogen’s arm looped through Matilda’s for comfort and support, the boys spotted the two of them. Andy’s eyes immediately flashed wide with a sinister glee.
“Well, if it isn’t the Conservatory’s very own circus freak,” Andy jeered. “I thought after yesterday I wouldn’t have to see your creepy face for a while. Guess I was wrong.”
“We don’t want any trouble,” Matilda said quietly.
“Grow up, Andy,” Imogen spat.
Andy ignored Matilda and turned to Imogen, who had her hand against her thigh. To anyone, it might have looked casual, but Matilda knew that was where her dagger was, harnessed under her skirts. Andy spread his hands, trying his best at a charming smile. “Imogen. Why do you hang around with this…” He gestured to Matilda up and down. “…weirdo?”
“Yeah,” Joss said, puffing his chest out, though there wasn’t much there to puff. “You’re, like, cool and hot and stuff.” Fionn and Allin laughed and nodded in unison, agreeing. Matilda looked to Imogen hopelessly, but she wasn’t swayed. Of course, Imogen was much too smart to fall for college-boy flattery.
“Because I like her,” Imogen responded simply. “And I don’t much like y’all.” She tried to step around Andy, but he blocked her way.
“Oh, come on, you don’t mean that.” Andy took a long stride toward her, backing Imogen towards the Sun Tree. Imogen let go of Matilda’s arm as he shoved his way into her personal space, forcing Imogen to move away from him. “Go to the dance with me. Or one of us.” With each word, he stepped forward, and Imogen stepped backward to match, eyes alight with malice, clutching the parchment boards against her chest with one hand. They were getting a little rumpled at the corners. Matilda followed them anxiously, not sure what to say, while the other boys watched, snickering like dopes. “You have your pick, and all you have to do is stop hanging out with graveyard girl over there.” He stepped forward again, and Imogen didn’t move this time, staring him down, to which he simply led with his shoulder, and forced Imogen back with a thwump into the black bark of the Sun Tree.
Matilda wasn’t violent at all. Like Pâté, she was a lover, not a fighter. Their insults and attacks simply fell off Matilda like rain after so many years. But seeing Imogen, back shoved against the Tree, nowhere to run, eyes wide in fear and anger and lip curled in disgust, made Matilda’s blood start pounding in her ears. It was primal, hot, a sensation she’d never felt before at this intensity, but somehow she knew what it was urging her to do. She dropped her bag of wares.
“Andy!” Matilda yelled. It was somewhere between a shriek and a roar. One of the boys, Joss maybe, started to scream in confusion as Matilda stalked towards Andy. She was too angry, too focused to question why. By the time Andy had turned in confusion to see where these nearly unrecognizable noises had come from, Matilda was upon him.
And Matilda reared back with her uninjured arm, mustered all the strength she had, and punched Andy across his simpering, terrible little face.
Her form was likely awful, it hurt like all nine hells, and she wasn’t strong whatsoever, but it was surprising enough to send him reeling and groaning across the cobblestones.
Imogen and the boys all stared at her in abject surprise. The boys looked… frightened. Like they were about to turn tail and sprint. Imogen looked a little starry-eyed, as if she had been sucker-punched instead of Andy.
Matilda snatched her bag, grabbed Imogen’s hand, and, ignoring the hot feeling of her own blood on her fingers and the smarting that was beginning in her arm, dragged Imogen away from the shell-shocked boys and towards the stables.
“Grab her, idiots!” shouted Andy from behind them, voice thick. Maybe swollen, maybe bloody. Had Matilda done all that?
Imogen stumbled after her, still slow-moving from shock. She let out an incredulous laugh as they ran. And how they ran! Matilda didn’t think she’d ever run this fast in her life. They raced around the school, dodging through the tree-belt separating the Conservatory from the side road, and into the stable. The stalls were bare, save for Flora, who looked a bit bored and indignant to be left so late, and reared a little when they ran to her.
“I don’t think I can reign her up quickly enough,” Imogen said breathlessly, skidding to a stop and dropping the boards in the dust.
The two of them listened for a moment, panting, but heard no pounding of boots on the dirt outside.
“I believe we’ve lost them,” Matilda said.
Imogen slumped against the post next to the stall. “Ho-ly shit , Mattie,” she crowed. “Where’d that come from? You looked so… wow. You done made me cuss, I’m so… Gods! Why’ve you never done that before?”
“Well… I suppose it’s because I’ve never seen them bother you,” Matilda answered honestly.
Imogen stared at her for a second before her face broke into a grin. “You’re the most amazin’ person I know. I don’t think I tell you that enough.”
Matilda gave a flustered little curtsy, glowing with pride. But with the adrenaline wearing off, her hand was starting to really sting. She held it out in front of her. She’d split more than one of her knuckles on Andy’s face, and badly bruised the others, but she couldn’t tell which was which under the blood smeared over the top of her hand. “Worth it,” she said aloud.
Imogen turned from reining Flora to see what she was talking about. She winced in sympathy when Matilda presented the battle wounds to her. “I’m gonna be patchin’ you up for the rest of our lives, aren’t I?”
“Only because you do it so well,” Matilda teased through gritted teeth.
Imogen took off her yellow kerchief, patted away the blood, and left it draped over Matilda’s right hand as she pulled the tincture she’d just bought out of her hip bag. She broke the seal and spread some of it on Matilda’s stinging knuckles, and then, slipping the bottle back away, she tied the kerchief carefully around Matilda’s hand. It stung and stuck and soaked through in spots, but it put pressure on and stopped the blood from dripping. “There, my knight in shinin’ crochet,” Imogen said tenderly. “Let’s get on home.”
Matilda worried the knot in the kerchief as Imogen finished reining Flora. Then, with much less struggle than it should have taken, Imogen lifted Matilda onto Flora’s back, in front of her this time, since both of Matilda’s arms were out of commission. Matilda was confident that with the horse’s help that they would outpace the group, but not so confident that she would allow them to take the main road, back the way they walked for school.
Imogen’s arms were around her waist, holding the reins in front of the two of them. Matilda fluttered her hands for a second, not sure where to put them, but settled on setting them against Flora’s soft mane, the bag of wares and parchment boards awkwardly between her knees. They moved at a steady trot, the icy wind like tiny daggers against Matilda’s face. Matilda spent most of the ride trying to calm herself down and ignore the beating of her heart in both her knuckles and her chest— one from injury, and one from Imogen’s chin resting on her shoulder.
“That looked painful,” Imogen said, indicating Matilda’s hand.
“It felt painful,” Matilda confirmed. “Well, it still does.”
“Didn’t teach you how to punch soon enough, I guess.”
“You can teach me for next time,” Matilda told her. “I’m not sure there will be a next time, hopefully not, but just in case.”
“Will you be alright at school tomorrow? Reckon they’ll leave you alone?” Imogen asked.
“It’s likely it’ll be the same as it has always been. I’m worried about you, though, darling.”
“Me?”
“Andy all but confessed his love for you on hands and knees! He must be angrier than a kicked nest of hornets right now,” Matilda exclaimed. “I may have attacked him physically, but you attacked his heart, Miss Temult.”
“Hm. Hardly,” Imogen said, voice dripping with disdain, leaning her head against Matilda’s. “I didn’t think to see it that way. Well, he’s a somewhat grown man. He should learn to get over things.”
“Andy is not a man. He’s still a little boy. Which is why you shouldn’t go with him.”
“Gross. I wouldn’t be sweet on him if he were the last boy on Exandria,” proclaimed Imogen. “And ‘sides, I don’t think it was his heart he was thinkin’ with…”
“Imogen!” laughed Matilda.
“What? It’s true!”
Matilda shook her head. “Simply unladylike.” Imogen blew a raspberry into her neck, and Matilda shrieked and almost fell off of Flora, only staying on because of Imogen’s arms wrapped around her waist. Flora let out a chuff that sounded not unlike the noise Imogen had just made. Matilda blushed. “Oh, quiet, both of you.”
It only took about ten minutes with Flora going at a light trot to make it home. They saw no sign of the boys nor the Briarwood Guard on their way back, but Matilda did count three ravens, hopping and going about their day as if it wasn’t bothering Matilda like a constant itch to see so many in such a short period of time. Imogen idly pointed one out, so clearly they weren’t hallucinations, but Matilda was certain it was some kind of ill omen. She didn’t bring that up to Imogen, however— the poor woman had enough to deal with, and Matilda didn’t want to burden her with more, no matter how endlessly capable she was.
As Imogen brought Flora trotting up the Bradburys’ path, Mother opened the door and leaned her head out, as if she’d been waiting for them. “Did you go to the butcher’s?” she called out.
“ Hello, Matilda.” Matilda imitated her mother’s voice, quite passably, if she did say so herself. “ I love you. It’s always so good to see you. I’m glad you’re home safe from school . All of these would be suitable greetings after having someone run an errand for you.” She let Imogen hold her non-injured hand as she slid down Flora’s side, only tweaking her ankle a bit upon landing. At this point, she felt like one giant bruise.
Mother peeked back inside. “Stefan! It appears we’ve raised a smart-aleck.”
Father said something unintelligible from inside, but it sounded like agreement.
“Thank you, darling,” Mother said as Matilda handed her the rabbit, wrapped in brown butcher paper. “Oh, this will do nicely! I put some copper on your desk for it.”
Matilda handed her the bag of paper and the parchment board, which had seen better days, as well. “Can you put this on the table for us?”
“Of course. Will you two be out long?”
Matilda turned to Imogen, who was lashing Flora to the post on the other side of the fence. “Are we going to your house?”
Imogen stared over at the Temult farm for a long moment. “No,” she decided. “I'd rather not go home right now.”
“Why not?” Matilda asked. “It’s cold.”
Imogen was standing between the fence and the willow tree, the clothes on the line occasionally whipping in the wind and blocking Matilda’s view of her. “I don’t wanna,” Imogen said simply. Matilda knew that she was dreading going back to the lonely house, with no one to keep her company. “The cold is fine. I’ll just stay over here until I gotta go home.” She squinted up at the sky. “Reckon we have another ten minutes or so.”
Matilda sighed and turned back to her mother. “We’ll stay out for now.”
Mother nodded. “If you see any Guard, run inside, fast as you can, okay, girls?” Matilda gave her a little salute, and Mother slipped back through the front door, holding the rabbit to her chest. She hadn’t seemed to notice the kerchief, but certainly she would during dinner, and Matilda wasn’t sure what to tell her. Matilda’s parents knew that students at the College didn’t quite, well, get her, but Matilda tried her best to hide any evidence of altercations from them. She thought maybe her father would be proud she’d hit Andy. Her mother would lecture her about how violence was never the answer, but hide a smile. But she knew they would worry if she told them.
Matilda walked over to the tree so she could see what Imogen was doing. She had finished tying Flora to the post and was talking softly to her now, running a hand over Flora’s velvety nose. Matilda watched for a moment, appreciating how gentle Imogen was, despite the meanness of the world around them.
Then Matilda unwrapped her hand and held it up to the dying light. The bleeding had stopped and the wounds had already begun to scab. It seemed like she had split two of her knuckles on Andy’s face. She leaned up against the willow tree, exhaling for the first time all day and letting the orange light warm her skin. “That’s going to leave quite the mark.” She looked over at Imogen, who was now studying her softly, head cocked just the slightest bit. “What?”
“You just… you looked so pretty and grown all of a sudden.” She gave Matilda a wicked grin. “I almost believe you’re three days out from twenty, ‘stead of a twelve-year-old the candyman left on the taffy hook for too long.”
Matilda threw the kerchief at Imogen. “You ass!”
Imogen leaped out of the way, giggling. “What? I was payin’ a compliment!”
“If that’s your idea of a compliment, I never want to be the target of your insults.”
“Wah, wah.” Imogen pinched the kerchief between two fingers and tossed it back. “Now try n’ hit me.”
Matilda held up her blood-crusted hand indignantly. “I’d rather not.”
“Well, don’t actually hit me. Just wind up, and act like you’re about to.”
“Alright.” Matilda held back her fist menacingly, then dropped it. She picked up the kerchief. “Wait. Would you like this back?”
Imogen shook her head, grimacing. “I have ‘bout five. I don’t need one with your gross blood all over it.”
“Fine, fine, that’s fine.” Matilda wound up again. It hurt to even make a fist. She couldn’t really remember how her arm had been positioned when she hit Andy, since it had been very spur-of-the-moment, but she tried her best to replicate it, to muster up some of that anger again. It wasn’t difficult, really, not when she pictured him flirting slimily with Imogen, and backing her into the Tree.
Imogen walked around her, inspecting the angle of her arm. “Gods, you’re tense all of a sudden. First off. Take your thumb out of your fist. It’s a wonder you didn’t break it.” Matilda obliged. Imogen stood behind her and started adjusting her arm, calloused fingertips sometimes finding bare skin under her crocheted shawls. “Keep your arm at shoulder height and your wrist straight.” Matilda nodded, barely hearing her. Imogen reached her other hand around and took Matilda’s left forearm gently, bringing Matilda’s fist up to her chin. “Keep this here to protect you from getting hit. An’ swing your whole body, not just your shoulder.” Imogen’s chest pressed against the small of Matilda’s back. One of her legs was between Matilda’s. Her warm breath ghosted over Matilda’s ear, her hair tickling Matilda’s neck. Matilda might have crumpled if not for Imogen holding her arms. “So try punching now,” murmured Imogen, after a moment of the two of them just standing.
“Yes! Sorry.” Matilda stepped forward and mimed a punch, accidentally pulling Imogen’s body taut against her. Imogen squeaked and stumbled. “Sorry!”
“It’s fine, that was good. Real good,” Imogen said quickly. The tips of her ears were going pink.
“It was?”
Imogen cleared her throat and stepped back awkwardly, dusting herself off, even though Matilda couldn’t see any detritus on her brown pants. “I should probably get on home,” she said, and indeed, it was now past sunset.
“You can stay over if you like—” Matilda started.
“No, no, I shouldn’t.”
Catha hung full and pale in the sky. The second moon, Ruidus, a smaller hole of red in the dark, was out tonight, as it was wont to do every other week or so. Smoke curled from the Bradburys’ chimney, and the smell of cooking stew wafted through the windows in the wind, which was chilly, but not cold enough for Matilda to shiver. By all accounts, a perfect night.
But Imogen was backing away from her.
“Okay,” Matilda said, lowering her arms slowly. “I’ll bring you a bowl tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Imogen started unhooking Flora, avoiding her gaze. “That’d be nice.”
“Be careful of the Guard?”
“I always am.” Imogen finally looked at her, and smiled distantly. It was the storm, there in her eyes again.
“Love you a lot,” tried Matilda. “Please don’t die.”
Imogen hoisted herself onto the fence, then swung her leg over Flora. Matilda could tell she was trying her best not to withdraw. “I love you, too,” she said. She blew Matilda a kiss. Matilda could imagine it floating toward her on the wind, looping the loop. “Thanks for… y’know, kicking someone’s ass for me.”
“Hardly,” Matilda said. She waved meekly as Imogen gave Flora a nudge, and horse and rider cantered off across the windblown field towards the Temult farmhouse.
Because what else could she say? That she’d do it again in a heartbeat? That she’d punch a hundred boys and split a thousand knuckles if Imogen would look at her again the way she had in the Square?
Matilda sighed to herself and flexed her hand. The tincture had already caused the injuries to scab over. She picked up the kerchief and looped it through her belt. She felt a bit… untethered. Like she was standing in a different universe, and when she entered the house, it would fade away. She pulled her shawls around herself and began to walk aimlessly with no heed to where she was headed.
A moonbeam fell on her favorite flat rock, in the middle of the two neat wooden raised beds that made up her mother’s herb garden. She eased herself down onto it, in between the lavender and the rosemary. Matilda sat silently in the dark, letting the cool, dim light from the moons dapple her forearms.
She sat, and she thought. She thought about Imogen’s arms around her, showing her so deftly what to do. How Imogen had stumbled back when they got too close. How had her arms betrayed her? Was it for Matilda’s comfort that she moved away, or her own? They’d been much closer than that before. They were the best of friends.
Matilda touched the lavender, idle fingers along the stem, and cringed when it drooped. There was a reason her mother didn’t like her being in the herb garden. She had the opposite of a green thumb. Half of the lavender bud crumbled before it could have even bloomed, and scattered.
“Oh,” she said sadly to the lavender plant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” The plant did not respond.
Matilda heard a caw and, looking up, saw a raven hopping along the fence gate, pecking at the knotholes. She sighed. She was growing so fearfully tired of ill omens.
“Shoo. Go away,” she hissed. Then, louder: “Go away!”
The raven flew off in a flurry of black feathers quicker than Matilda’s eye could follow. In fact, she could have sworn it simply disappeared.
“Matilda?” her mother called from inside the house, her voice drifting through the perpetually open window. “Did you say something, darling?”
“Not at all, Mother,” Matilda called back. She stood up and let the rest of the lavender fall from her fingers.
The stew really did smell quite good. She looked over at the Temults’ property, the farmhouse standing dark and monolithic against the night. Not even Imogen’s bedroom light was on. She banished any worried thoughts about her best friend from her mind, and went inside to help her mother with dinner. She only realized how cold she had been once the swell of warm air from the hearth beckoned from the open door. She heard her father’s gentle, reedy voice say something from inside, and headed towards the sound.
Mother was sitting on a stool by the fire, giving the pot of stew an occasional stir, chuckling at whatever joke Father had just made. There was a stack of wooden bowls next to the stool, and a few pillows on the floor for sitting by the fire and eating, as they sometimes did when it was particularly chilly outside.
“Hello, parents,” Matilda said.
“Hello, child,” Father responded without missing a beat.
“I haven’t heard Imogen’s voice in quite some time,” Mother said. “What were you doing all alone out there? Here, try this.”
“Just thinking.” Mother raised an eyebrow. Matilda accepted the ladle she was offering her and sipped the stew. The broth was rich and spicy and just hot enough to make Matilda feel warm without burning her. “Oh, that’s good. That’s incredible, actually.”
“Don’t try and distract me.” Mother took the ladle back and gave her a look. “Tell me you weren’t sitting in the herb garden.”
Matilda winced. “I’m sorry, Mother. Only a bit of the lavender died this time.”
“It’s alright, darling, I know that rock is perfect for sitting. Just try not to touch the plants anymore. I spend quite a lot of time weeding them.”
“You’re far too superstitious, Eleanora,” Father said. “She can’t possibly be killing the plants just by touching them.”
Mother just hummed, doling out servings of rabbit stew into three bowls.
“No, she’s probably right,” Matilda said despondently. “I definitely killed the lavender.”
Father didn’t seem to know quite how to respond to this. His brow creased over his newspaper. “Well,” he said. “Don’t fret about it too much, Tillie. You’re too young to be worrying so often.”
Matilda wished she could oblige him.
Mother handed her the bowl of steaming stew, then passed one to Father. Matilda sat down on one of the pillows in front of the hearth next to her mother and took a bite, the spiced rabbit and carrots and potatoes melting in her mouth and warming her pleasantly.
Outside, the wind howled, the moons glowed, and Matilda tried very hard not to think about her best friend sitting alone, in her great big empty house.