Chapter Text
Mildred tried to sneak out the next few nights—her broomstick in hand, unlaced boots on, and the slip of paper she had received tucked in a pocket—only to be caught every time by a stern Hecate who added another day of her punishment for every time she caught her. Mildred ended up with an entire week under relative house arrest rather than the original four days that would have ended the week.
Eventually, Mildred resigned herself to her supervised existence, settling into a new routine with first Hecate and then both Hecate and Pippa. Pippa had arrived at the cottage one morning, a day after Mildred’s adventure into the woods, and disappeared into the study with Hecate. When they had emerged, Pippa was beaming and Hecate looked considerably more at ease. Pippa had sat down with Mildred at the breakfast table, snagging some fruit from a bowl in front of Mildred, and after a moment’s hesitation, Hecate had joined them.
Since then, Pippa visited most mornings, waiting in the living room for Mildred and Hecate to return from their morning ingredient collections. Sometimes when Hecate sent Mildred off alone, watching her from the kitchen window, she and Pippa cooked together, or, perhaps more accurately, she cooked while Pippa stole the occasional taste and supplied Hecate with easy conversation.
Reaping the fruits of all her hard work, Pippa then ate breakfast with Mildred. Hecate often sat with them, listening to their chatter with the smallest of smiles and a cup of tea in her hands. After breakfast, they all went out to the garden together to work—Hecate working silently on one side and Mildred and Pippa on the other, both wearing floppy sun hats, one grey and the other pink. As they worked, the two called to each other whenever they found a leaf that had a particularly distinctive shape and occasionally engaged in impromptu water fights Hecate always pretended she couldn’t see.
After lunch, either Pippa or Hecate took Mildred for a lesson, following a schedule Hecate had prepared. The first day they implemented the new school-like schedule, Hecate and Pippa attempted to teach together, but to say that their teaching styles clashed would be an understatement. It was decided by all involved that one-on-one lessons might be better, for Mildred’s sake, of course.
They had begun with Modern Witching History, believing the subject to be neutral ground, but, if she were to be perfectly honest, Mildred couldn’t remember a thing she was supposed to have learned from that lesson, having spent the entirety of it looking back and forth between her teachers with wide eyes as they exchanged barb after barb, some more subtle than others.
Mildred couldn’t entirely claim to mind the new schedule; she didn’t have much else to do while grounded, and the new material to absorb helped keep her mind from focusing on that which plagued her. For now when she retreated to her room, her eyes aching and chest heavy, she found that the quiet scratching of pencil against paper or strokes of paint appearing beneath her brush no longer brought her the ease they once had.
Now, all they did was remind her of the silence, of how, sometimes, she forgot it was there.
Every day brought one more minute of relief than the last, one more minute where she could forget how loud the silence was. But with each passing day, each gained minute, the wave of silence grew. And when it crashed down upon her after that new minute, that new great height, as it always did, Mildred didn’t know how she hadn’t drowned long ago.
Her thoughts grew deafening, amplified in the empty silence, neither Puss nor Tabby enough to scare them away. They were always there, but sometimes, when she could forget the silence, the thoughts lay dormant, not gone, never gone, but inactive, their whirlwinds of chaos calm.
It was better with Hecate. Perhaps it was because her presence proved Mildred wasn’t as alone as those thoughts claimed, or perhaps it was simply Hecate who, each day, dragged out that new minute with books and impromptu cooking lessons and midnight tea and those poorly hidden smiles Mildred sometimes caught (and returned in full force).
Some nights, when Mildred was fighting to stay afloat, she would stumble down the stairs to find Hecate already there, waiting for her in the dimly lit kitchen, two cups of tea beside her.
Other nights, when Mildred was shaken awake among the tattered remains of her room, destroyed by a force unseen, Hecate’s hand on her shoulder, the two made their way to the kitchen together to dance that oh-so familiar dance around each other. With freshly brewed tea between them, Mildred would assure Hecate that yes, she was alright; no, no, there was nothing to talk about; she hardly even remembered anything really. They both knew it was all a lie.
The tea that sat virtually untouched between them was only ever a simple herbal tea, for Mildred was denied the dreamless sleep she asked, begged for night after night. It was too soon, too dangerous, or so she was told.
At the end of all those nights, they sat in silence, one staring into the depths of her tea while the other gazed out the darkened window, her reflection all she could see. Still, those nights, the kitchen became her lonely isle amongst the waves.
It was better still when she studied, until everything she had learned began to slip away, losing a pointless battle against the thoughts that invaded her mind.
In the early mornings, when the world was still covered in a layer of fog and Hecate roused Mildred to stumble out to the garden with her and collect dew from the grass and fallen leaves, adjusting Mildred’s technique and lecturing her on the different properties and uses of plants they passed, Mildred felt almost completely at peace.
Most days, when collecting potion ingredients, they stayed in gardens around the cottage, but one morning, just the one, Hecate led Mildred to the outskirts of the woods to collect the dragonwort that grew beneath the shade of the towering trees.
As Mildred crouched to cut off parts of the plant’s leaves as ordered, she hesitated, glancing up at Hecate for a reminder of the proper size, but Hecate was oblivious to the questioning look. She stared into the shaded depths of the forest, her gaze soft, searching, focused on something only she could see, for when Mildred tried to follow her gaze, she saw nothing but the leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.
For the briefest of moments, Mildred could have sworn she caught a glint of gold among the leaves, but when she blinked, it was gone. She searched the foliage for that gold shining from the darkened woods but saw nothing. She wondered if the dragon was watching, if she saw them at the outskirts of her woods and thought them to be stealing from her. Mildred glanced nervously back up at Hecate, but Hecate didn’t seem worried. Still unaware of Mildred’s gaze on her, Hecate frowned, the corners of her mouth tugging downward as her brow creased.
Hecate blinked, and her mouth returned to its typical thin line. She looked down at Mildred, that misty sort of look still there, lurking, and raised an expectant brow. Mildred glanced down at the plant she was meant to be cutting sheepishly and raised the clippers again.
But before she was about to make the first cut, clippers positioned to slice through a leaf, Hecate stopped her with a raised hand, Mildred’s hand halting accordingly. Mildred frowned, a grumble escaping her.
“Do speak up,” Hecate remarked haughtily, her hand falling back to her side. “I do not speak…mumble.”
After a moment’s deliberation, Mildred glanced up, tilting her face up to see her guardian, the glaring summer sun bathing Hecate’s pale skin in its warm light and softening the severity of Hecate’s disapproving look. Still, Mildred scowled, squinting against the light. “I don’t like it when you do that.”
“Do what ?” Hecate asked, her control over her temper thinning in time with Mildred’s own.
“Use your magic on me like that,” Mildred said, waving her hands aimlessly as if the movements were supporting her point. “They’re my hands.”
Hecate opened her mouth, but stopped herself before the caustic words could escape, her jaw snapping shut. She stared down at her own hands, watching her skin stretch across her knuckles as she curled them into fists, before looking into the forest again.
“Er, Hecate?” Mildred called, clearing her throat awkwardly and fiddling with one of her plaits as she waited for Hecate to come back to herself.
When she did, Hecate sighed softly, her shoulders growing tense, and sat down beside Mildred, her legs curled beneath her. Mildred’s eyes went wide, and she hardly dared breathe lest she shatter the surreal moment.
“I must apologize, Mildred,” Hecate said finally, turning her head to meet Mildred’s gaze. “There are certain things I fear I must unlearn...for you; it is not uncommon for parents—or guardians” she added, “—to use their magic where they might their hands, especially when it comes to…correcting and educating. It was not my intention to make you feel as if you—I didn’t mean to scare you,” she murmured softly—too softly.
Mildred swallowed and stared down at the ground, one hand still gripping the clippers. She nodded but said nothing. She remembered the few times Hecate had used her magic like that before, usually to prevent a disaster, and though she couldn’t fault the reasoning, Mildred couldn’t forget how her hand would freeze, sometimes for less than a second. But in that moment, it wasn’t hers anymore.
She could still feel it, in that aspect it was hers, but it didn’t obey her, didn’t resume motion when she told it to nor uncurled when she stared and willed it to move. She could still feel the thick, wrong layer that clung to her hand, sometimes coaxing it into movement, her arm pulled along with it, a puppet dancing on strings. And when the strings were cut, she would drop whatever she held and flex her hand, watching her fingers curl and uncurl as she bid.
Mildred felt a cool touch to the back of her hand, drawing her from the quickly rising wall of memory. She shook herself and stared down, Hecate’s pale hand over her own. Mildred reddened, half-expecting a comment about how childish the need for handholding was, but Hecate said nothing and merely positioned Mildred’s hand so she held the clippers correctly before lifting their joined hands to the plant.
With a long, pointed nail, Hecate tapped the leaf. “Each sample should be exactly 4 ½ centimeters long and 1 centimeter wide at the center.” At Mildred’s blank look, she shook her head in exasperation and waved her hand with a murmur, a grid appearing on the leaf.
Mildred nodded and moved to squeeze the clippers, but Hecate stopped her again, this time with a gentle squeeze as she moved Mildred’s hand away from the plant, her hand still covering Mildred’s.
“I’m not done,” she chided, a fraction of her usual snip returning as she released Mildred’s hand, a welcome return to familiar ground to Mildred. “Now,” Hecate asserted, “do not simply go cutting every which way; the art of potion making relies on precision , a sense for which you would do well to develop.” Checking to ensure she still had Mildred’s attention, Hecate continued, grasping a leaf and motioning for Mildred to look at it. “When collecting ingredients such as this one, always follow the venation.”
“The venation?” Mildred asked, staring down at the leaf in Hecate’s hand as if the answer would be written among the diverging slim green lines marking the leaf.
“Quite. You see how these lines branch out from the middle? Do not cross them; cutting such a vein will significantly lower the potency and...ruin the section for further use,” Hecate warned.
“Okay,” Mildred answered slowly. “Er, could you show me?” she squeaked, her words jumbling together as she thrust the clippers at Hecate.
Hecate stiffened and eyed the clippers for a moment before accepting them hesitantly. Rising to her knees, she made three neat cuts, a heavy silence falling over them, broken only by the soft snips. A segment of the leaf fell into her palm, and she held it out to Mildred to see, handing Mildred the clippers with her other hand. “Try.”
Mildred took them from Hecate with clumsy fingers, worrying her lip in concentration as she neared the plant, her grip tight on the clippers. Hecate watched Mildred closely, her lip almost curling each time the cuts were too messy, though she had to admit Mildred had done a better job than expected.
That being said, the bar hadn’t been that high, and some part of Hecate wondered why—after all the time spent watching Mildred, both in and out of school, improving under Hecate’s instruction, watching Mildred set her jaw and refuse to give up a task until she saw it through—Hecate’s first instinct was still to expect failure.
Mildred was nowhere near her peers in terms of the basics, skills she should have been proficient at before she could even walk, but nor was she the inept girl who had floundered about in the shallow pond at Cackle’s that first day they had met.
They gathered the leaf segments into the small bag Hecate had brought along, Hecate offering an offhand remark about how it hadn’t been an entirely pitiful effort. Mildred grinned at the meager praise and leapt to her feet, moving to help Hecate up and receiving a glare for her efforts. Hecate stood, her knees protesting in a way that, unfortunately, was not a recent development.
The two made their way back to the cottage in silence, a mere minute’s walk. Mildred kicked off her shoes and dashed to the kitchen, missing how Hecate stifled a sigh and snapped, the shoes rushing to tuck themselves neatly to the side.
In the kitchen, Mildred waited impatiently for Hecate to join her, standing on the tips of her toes to peer into the cauldron Hecate had prepared prior to their little expedition. It was the first time during these summer lessons Mildred would actually get to brew something; usually, Hecate just made her prepare ingredients, chopping and crushing until her hands were sore.
Hecate finally joined her a few moments later, carrying a slim book she had retrieved from her study and the small bag of newly gathered ingredients. Putting down the book and bag, Hecate snapped, and the cauldron disappeared from the counter and reappeared on the kitchen table in front of Hecate.
When Mildred spun around, a wide grin splitting her face and her hair fanning out around her, Hecate smiled, the corners of her lips twitching before she glanced away, busying her hands with emptying the bag of ingredients out on the table. Joining Hecate at the table, Mildred eagerly reached for the book Hecate had brought and flipped it open.
The first page she flipped to had surprisingly few steps and a small cartoonish drawing of a bubbling cauldron beside the title, the Roman numeral X. Mildred scanned the page quickly, her cheeks reddening when she came across the ingredient list, each ingredient accompanied by a simple illustration.
“But—” She slammed the book shut and backed away, folding her arms across her chest with a glare at Hecate. “I’m not a little kid! I-I can do level…one spells,” Mildred defended herself, stumbling over her words, her cheeks flushing further when Hecate hardly reacted.
“Indeed,” Hecate replied, arranging the ingredients into neat piles beside the cauldron and opening the book to the page she wanted. “To varying degrees of success,” she added levelly. “You have no foundational skills; you rely wholly on luck and your innate magical ability.” Mildred’s cheeks burned, and she ducked her head. “As the levels progress, you will find that that will no longer be enough.”
She finally turned, raising a brow at Mildred and giving her the barest hints of an approving smile when Mildred nodded slowly, her shoulders drooping.
“Does it have to be a book for five year olds though?” Mildred mumbled, stepping forward and staring down at the open book, her lips twisting into a frown.
Hecate sighed. “Mildred, you are years behind your peers. Now, that is...no one’s fault ,” Hecate said, her final words seemingly forced out. “But...you must learn this now, even if you believe it to be too juvenile.”
“It’s got pictures,” Mildred muttered petulantly, not quite willing to let it go.
“Do you not benefit from visual aids when it comes to memorization and information absorption?” Hecate asked, her voice thick with exasperation.
Mildred shrugged, and Hecate suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. With a wave of her hand over the table, a small cutting board appeared, and Hecate tapped the book, gesturing for Mildred to step forward. “Let’s begin.”
Mildred did as she was told, sighing softly and turning her gaze to the pages before her. Rather carelessly, she grabbed a sprig of sage and, glancing between the herb and instructions, crushed it beneath her palm on the board, standing on the tips of her toes to leverage more pressure, then pressed her nail into each leaf twice. She glanced up at Hecate, receiving an approving nod, before turning her attention back to the book, her brow furrowed in concentration.
As Mildred carefully added the three drops of morning dew to the cauldron, Hecate stepped away, taking up residence on the other side of the kitchen with a cutting board, some fresh fruit, and an eye on her young charge.
Following the instructions carefully, however childish the large, color-coded font was, Mildred stirred clockwise once and counter-clockwise thrice. She frowned, peering into the cauldron; nothing appeared to be happening.
Mildred checked the instructions, but they offered no information on the physical appearance of the potion, so she turned her attention to the ingredients list. Had she added one or two pieces of dragonwort? Deciding that she had perhaps forgotten to add the second, Mildred added another and waited.
Sneaking a look at Hecate, who appeared to be absorbed in her breakfast preparation, Mildred silently pled to anyone who might be listening to please, please make something happen. She couldn’t possibly fail a potion meant for children who should only hardly be able to read.
There was no chant, but as she stood there, gazing into her failed potion, she thought, perhaps, her pleas had been answered. The liquid turned a murky purple with streaks of brown and grey curling through it. Mildred frowned; she could have sworn she had stirred the right number of times. Clockwise once and counter-clockwise thrice. Or had she only stirred twice counterclockwise?
Weighing the risks, Mildred decided stirring once more couldn’t possibly do too much damage. As she pulled the ladle through the potion, again she silently hoped for it to react as it was meant to, for its magic to be realized.
She had barely taken the ladle out when the potion erupted. The liquid frothed and expanded, eager to escape its cast-iron confines. It surged forth, the force shattering the glass that made up the cauldron, and sizzled when it hit the table, the wood giving way as the potion burrowed into it.
Almost as if in slow motion, Mildred watched the potion fly toward her, glass dragged along in the suddenly vicious substance. She ducked with a yelp, covering her head and bracing for the inevitable. But it never came. Mildred suddenly felt someone at her back, and everything went still.
She peeked around her shoulder, her eyes going wide when she saw Hecate, who had, in the split second before the potion disaster had landed on Mildred, appeared at Mildred’s back, her body covering Mildred’s own protectively and her hands raised at the incoming liquid, a protection spell already sparking to life between them.
When the potion hit the spell, it crackled and spattered, seeking for a path past the barrier it now found itself against, but before it could find such a path, Hecate, with a vehement proclamation, banished it.
The potion gone, Hecate stayed frozen a moment longer, her hands trembling as the shield faded, the magic seeping back into her. She exhaled, and her hands balled into fists as she twisted to look at Mildred, her almost wild-eyed gaze darting from Mildred’s face to the exposed skin on her arms and feet.
Once her examination was over, Hecate’s expression hardened, and Mildred swallowed. “Sorry,” she squeaked.
“How did you—” Hecate began in exasperation, sitting back on her heels and rubbing her temple.
Mildred cut her off before she could finish, the young witch’s cheeks going red as she stared resolutely at the ground. “It wasn’t doing anything,” she mumbled. “I—”
“Nor was it meant to.” Hecate was the one to interrupt this time, the sigh that escaped her almost a hiss.
“But…” Mildred looked up, her head tilting as she gave Hecate a questioning look. “…it’s a potion,” she said slowly. “Don’t potions…do things?”
“Yes, potions do typically…do things,” Hecate replied, using Mildred’s words as she stood and dusted herself off. Mildred followed suit. “However…this is not a potion.”
“What? But—” Mildred’s jaw fell open.
Hecate frowned, running a finger over the small, new holes in her kitchen table with a sigh before taking the cauldron to the sink. While she had vanished all of the purple substance, the cauldron would have to be thoroughly cleaned before it was next used so that no lasting traces of anything would interfere with the next potion.
“The book is, as you said, intended for young children,” Hecate said, pulling up her sleeves and running the water. “As we have discussed, the…fundamental skills necessary for brewing a successful potion are precision and control. The only way to develop those is practice. That is what you were meant to be doing, developing technique and discipline, and your evident lack of both precision and control is the cause of the…explosive consequences.”
“Oh.” Mildred deflated and wrapped her arms around herself before taking a hesitant step toward Hecate. “Do you…need help? It-It was my fault; shouldn’t I be cleaning it up?”
“Nevermind.” Hecate shook her head, already scrubbing the cauldron. “Eat. You’ll try again after breakfast,” she told Mildred, her tone brooking no argument.
Mildred nodded and drifted over to the bowl of fruit Hecate had prepared, picking out a few pieces and popping them in her mouth. Sneaking a guilty glance over at Hecate, who was scrubbing the bottom of the cauldron vigorously, the water turning a worrying shade of green, Mildred shuffled to the stove, beside which sat a neat plate of eggs and toast.
When Mildred was finished, she hesitantly set her plate beside the kitchen sink, where Hecate was still scraping away dried bits of the failed potion. Hecate straightened and dried her hands with a flick. With another gesture, she summoned another cauldron to the kitchen table and motioned for Mildred to begin again.
This time, when Mildred completed the final step, she took a quick step back, putting her hands behind her back and leaning to the side to watch Hecate inspect her work. Hecate turned and gestured for Mildred to join her.
After taking a moment to point out where Mildred’s technique could be improved and demonstrating said technique for Mildred, Hecate offered her an approving nod. “It’s a good start.” Mildred beamed, bouncing slightly on her heels—the most Hecate was typically willing to offer was an “adequate”.
“You may go do whatever it is you do all day, Mildred,” Hecate told her, already turning away to return to the cauldron in the sink she hadn’t yet succeeded in completely cleaning. Mildred nodded and wandered to the door, pausing for a moment and glancing back at Hecate, a certain lost look about her.
“Is Pippa still coming this afternoon?” Mildred asked.
“No. She has work to do at Pentangle’s. You will be reviewing the fundamentals of Spell Science with me today,” Hecate replied, finally deeming the cauldron clean and turning, a small crease in her brow. “I…apologize for not telling you earlier. It must have…slipped my mind,” Hecate mused, Mildred glancing away awkwardly, her fingers fiddling aimlessly with the hem of her t-shirt, when that misty sort of look returned to Hecate’s eyes.
“It’s okay.” Mildred shrugged. She fell silent but still didn’t move, trapped within the doorframe. Hecate gave her an expectant look, brows raised, and too stayed where she was, the two frozen a mere six paces apart. “Are you…can I—nevermind.” Mildred shook her head, her arms wrapping around herself, and forced herself to move from her place in the doorway.
As Mildred regained movement, so did Hecate. Hecate took a hesitant step forward, her arm raising at Mildred’s retreating back before dropping abruptly, her hand curling into a fist. She watched Mildred disappear up the stairs, listening to the young witch’s sock-clad feet against the wood, her brow furrowed in thought.
It was over half an hour before Hecate was standing in front of Mildred’s door, two books tucked under her arm, rapping sharply on the door. (Over half that time had been spent striding back and forth within the confines of her study, books clutched against her chest and her pocket watch in one hand, though she’d never admit to that). The door swung open, and Mildred smiled bemusedly up at Hecate.
“Here.” Hecate held out the books: the larger of the two, an encyclopedia of potion ingredients, complete with illustrations, and the other, a slim, worn book of witches’ tales, once passed down from parent to child. “These will aid in your studies of both Potions and Witching History, and I… hope you will also find some enjoyment with them.”
Already having cracked open the book of old stories, Mildred grinned as she flipped through the pages, fingers dancing over the faded illustrations. “Thank you!” She beamed up at Hecate, snapping the book shut and hugging it to her chest with the other.
“You are quite welcome,” Hecate replied shortly, hovering a moment longer as she watched Mildred’s gaze return to the books. “If you wish to begin reading those now, you may…join me in my study,” Hecate offered, faltering only slightly when Mildred looked up. “…If that is something you would like,” she tacked on hastily.
“Really?” Mildred asked, something suspiciously akin to hope flickering to life in her eyes.
“What reason could I possibly have for suggesting it if not?” Hecate asked a tad testily, exasperation rising to smother the anticipation tightening in her chest. Her fingers ached to wrap around her pocket watch, but she held her hands down at her side, her fingers flexing subtly.
“Er, well, I just didn’t really know if you were being serious.” Mildred shrugged, a small grin still at her lips. “I’d, erm, like to though,” she said, smiling hesitantly up at Hecate as if she still expected a cruel rejection.
“Very well. Come.” Hecate took a step back, waiting for Mildred to go in front of her before making her way to the stairs. “I am very busy and will not tolerate any senseless chatter,” she warned as they descended. “However,” she added after a long moment, “you may, of course, ask questions if the need arises.”
They reached her study, and Hecate held the door open for Mildred, motioning for her to go in. The two settled in their usual spots: Hecate at her desk and Mildred on the small sofa.
The two spent a quiet afternoon together, taking a break from their respective work to review the fundamental building blocks of every spell: intent, the invocation of potion ingredients, and the directionality. Mildred even found she quite enjoyed the subject when she wasn’t sent off on her own to analyze and even create spells while missing around six years of key instruction.
When Mildred got into bed that night, she didn’t stay for long. Once Hecate left the room with a quiet ‘goodnight, Mildred,’ Mildred threw the duvet back and slid out of bed. She pulled her book of tales out from where it lay slotted just between her Spell Science and Potion books on her desk, almost toppling the stack. After putting it on the floor softly, almost reverently, Mildred darted back to the bed and grabbed her pillow, tossing it on the ground by the window.
She went to sleep that night curled up on the floor, her cheek pressed against the open pages of the old book, no longer illuminated in a silvery patch of moonlight.
As she slept, her hair fluttering away from her face with every breath, the window slid open, and a purple shadow flitted in, papery wings flapping noisily in the otherwise silent room. Landing mere inches from Mildred’s face, it cocked its head and exhaled, warmth spreading over Mildred’s face. Her lips tilted up slightly, and she shifted but otherwise did not stir.
The dragon let out a silent huff and shook itself, its wings stretching out and the thick spines that stretched along its back in a neat line from head to tail standing to attention in indignation. Creeping forward, its wings refolding and spines settling, it nosed at Mildred’s face before rearing up on its hind legs, wings snapping out once more, and roaring, a rasping screech of paper protesting its crumpling.
Mildred awoke with a shock, jerking upright, her heart beating in double time. “What—I…”
Apparently satisfied, the dragon took flight, papery wings beating against the air as it hovered in front of her face, paper rustling as eyes narrowed at Mildred.
“Oh…” She sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly with one hand, the other occupied with massaging out the crick in her neck. She yawned, shifting so she sat cross-legged, and waved tiredly. “Hi.”
Wings still flapping steadily to keep aloft, the dragon peered at her expectantly, Mildred marveling at the expressiveness a piece of paper could convey when she could discern a look of distinct annoyance from the dragon. After a moment, she blinked and shook herself with a sheepish look.
“Right, sorry,” she said, holding out her palm for the purple dragon to land on. But as it dropped into a bow, just as the first had done, she snatched her hand away with an exclamation of ‘wait,’ guilt flashing over her face as it tumbled gracelessly onto the floor.
“Sorry.” She winced as the dragon scrambled onto the open book, noting that it did, in fact, have incredibly realistic claws that were currently digging into the old paper. “It’s just, er, after you unfold…” she yawned, “can you…refold?” she asked, the dragon’s unblinking eyes fixed on her.
It didn’t reply, and she blew out a breath, looking around her. “Right. Erm…just—just wait here.” She scrambled to her feet, shaking out her legs and lurching over to her desk. Grabbing a sheet of scrap paper, she scribbled out a note and folded it in half.
She sat back down and held it out for the dragon. “Could you take this,” Mildred made little flapping motions at the dragon and pointed to the window, “back to your…er, maker, dragon person.” The paper dragon didn't move. “…please?”
Still it didn’t move.
“Oh, come on, please?” she asked. “I’ll give you, er, I don’t really know what paper dragons like, but we can figure that out later, right?” The dragon cocked its head and stared at Mildred’s note.
The dragon strode forward and opened its mouth, but when Mildred held out the paper, it exhaled a thin stream of white-blue fire. The note immediately caught fire, and Mildred yelped, dropping the paper and trying to stomp it out, forgetting for a moment that she was barefoot. The fire spread to the nearby rug, and she grabbed a pillow to beat it down, watching the flames with wide eyes. The dragon, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying the scene immensely, watching, untouched by its flames, with a sort of smug satisfaction.
Before Mildred could react, still staring at the flames, Hecate transferred into the room, her arm swooping in an arc, the fire dying down accordingly and Mildred’s burning items hissing in objection as they erupted with steam. Another wave of her hand had each item restored to its former glory.
“What is the meaning of this?” Hecate asked, her dangerously raised brows counteracted only by her stride forward and quick inspection of Mildred for damage.
“I, er,” Mildred nudged the paper dragon under the bed with her foot, “had a…nightmare?”
Though distress of a volume to warrant such an explosive reaction from Mildred should have activated the protection spell in place and alerted Hecate (as it had time and time before) and though she didn’t miss Mildred’s slight uptick in octave, Hecate softened and raised a hand in question.
When Mildred nodded, Hecate twisted her fingers and transferred them to the kitchen, where they fell into a familiar rhythm. Hecate busied herself with brewing the tea while Mildred took a seat at the kitchen table. As she waited, Mildred traced over the new divots in the table with a twinge of guilt. When the tea was ready, Hecate set a mug down in front of Mildred and took a seat across from her.
“This must stop,” she said abruptly, breaking their usual routine of midnight silence.
“What does?” Mildred asked before taking a sip of her tea, wincing when it stung her tongue.
Hecate sighed in exasperation and waved a hand, Mildred’s tea cooling at once. “The accidental magic. You must learn control.”
“I thought I was,” Mildred answered.
“Hmm.” Was all the response Mildred received at first. Hecate sipped at her tea and considered Mildred for a long moment. “Perhaps it would be advantageous for you to…talk to someone about these dreams you’re having,” Hecate finally said, unable to hide her…slight contempt at the idea; it had been years since Ada had tried suggesting the very same thing to her.
“I don’t really want to talk to anyone.” Mildred stared down at the table, fingers still dancing over the new holes in the table. Hecate followed the path of Mildred’s hand with a small frown. For some silly, sentimental reason, she had left the holes alone. Too many times before had she repaired inconsequential blemishes—chips of paint off the wall, splinters off the table—and it was beginning to feel like she was erasing all that they were.
She took a breath. “Very well.” Hecate continued. “Pippa also believes, though I am not…entirely convinced it is a good idea, that we should begin to focus on…non-verbal magic so you will become more attuned to your magic.”
“Non-verbal?” Mildred’s gaze shot up to Hecate’s. “Like the kind you and Pippa do?”
“Yes,” Hecate replied, somewhat hesitantly. “Though it would be foolish to presume you would be able to do what we can.” When Mildred drooped again, Hecate backtracked. “Mildred, you are not without power nor potential. As a witch matures so does their power. It would be…unfair to compare yourself to us as we are,” she sniffed,” older.”
“So…does that mean you’ll teach me?” Mildred asked hopefully.
Hecate gave her a long look before nodding curtly. “I will. We will begin with a brief history.” She frowned at the look on Mildred’s face. “It is important, in all fields you may study, to understand where our magic originates. You may practice after.”
Mildred nodded and yawned, covering it behind a hand as she fixed her attention on Hecate.
“As I do hope you have learned in your magical history class, every witch has a magical core of…varying power, from her their magic stems. The first of witchkind were unable to consciously summon their power without words or phrases to focus it as we are now able.” Hecate snapped her fingers, and a candle appeared on the table between them. Another snap and the candle was lit. “It was not until there was peace among witchkind and the dov—”
“—who are the dove?” Mildred asked.
“Do not interrupt,” Hecate reprimanded Mildred with pursed lips. “The dov, not dove , are what many call…dragons.”
“Dragons?” Mildred straightened, and Hecate caught a glimpse of that familiar gleam in the young witch’s eye.
“Indeed.” Hecate nodded curtly before raising a brow pointedly at Mildred. “If I may continue…the dov and witchkind have one, significant difference…”
“Dragons are big, flying lizards, and we’re human?” Mildred piped up, recognizing the pause as one of Hecate’s more subtle ways to test Mildred’s knowledge (though she hadn’t expected much in this instance and was merely curious to see what the non-magicals taught).
“Not quite,” Hecate replied with a not insignificant level of amusement. “And the dov are not…lizards,” she curled her lip. “You would do well to remember that, though…nevermind. The biggest difference,” she began again, returning to the topic at hand, “between the dov and witchkind is whereas we have magic, they are magic.”
Mildred puzzled over the statement for a moment, frowning and discreetly mouthing the words to herself, before Hecate answered the unasked question.
“Magic courses through our blood, but it does not sustain us. While true that magical exhaustion takes its toll on the body, a witch can be stripped of their magic and survive.” She paused. “A dovah cannot.”
“So if they lost a duel…like Agatha did, they would just…die?” Mildred asked.
“In…theory,” Hecate replied slowly. “However, the dov do not duel as we do and any witch would be foolish to challenge one to do so.”
“Why?” Mildred perched on the edge of her chair, her whole body shifted toward Hecate, forearms braced against her knees.
Hecate leaned in as well, the pitch of her voice dropping as if she had some invaluable secret to share. “They would eat you,” she whispered, the corners of her mouth curving up into a smirk.
Mildred’s eyes widened, and Hecate let out a huff of laughter, leaning back and extinguishing the candle with a wave of her hand. “Now, I will…summarize; then, we will begin. After an age of war, when it had been all generations of both witchkind and dov knew, peace was found. And through that peace came an...understanding of each other. The dov taught witchkind to access their magic in the dov way, and witchkind returned the favor by teaching the dov to walk amongst them.”
“That means dragons can look human…right?” Mildred asked.
“To a…certain extent, yes.” Hecate nodded. “Never their eyes; it's against the peace between witchkind and the dov to do so. The eyes of the dov are...distinctive; no other has that color, like...molten gold,” Hecate mused. She blinked and exhaled. “To continue, chants and potions draw the magic out of you, so…to perform non-verbal spells, you must do so…manually.”
“How do you do that?” Mildred asked eagerly. “And how come...if it’s so hard to do, accidental magic happens?”
“As to your second question, witches’ magical cores remain relatively…stable at all times. During periods of great distress, your magic…erupts; it is near uncontrollable. As to your first, you must first be able to access your magical core.” She raised a hand, stopping Mildred’s next question. “We will go through each step…together.”
Mildred nodded, face drawn in concentration as she watched Hecate intently. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” Hecate almost smiled at Mildred’s solemnity. “Now, dov magic is not easily learned. Where we rely on precision and technique to build our craft, the dov rely on intuition. And unlike the stability of our cores, dov magic is volatile; it lurks near the surface. First, close your eyes.”
Mildred did as she was told, shutting them firmly. With a small smile, Hecate closed her eyes and reached out with her magic, brushing against Mildred’s own. Mildred jolted, and her eyes shot open. “What’s that?!”
“Relax,” Hecate ordered. “And close your eyes. It is merely my magic, no need to…overreact.” Keeping her eyes closed, Hecate waited for Mildred to shut her eyes again before continuing with a satisfied nod. “Tell me what you can feel.”
“It’s, er,” Mildred hesitated, scrunching up her face, her eyes squeezing shut, as she tried to pinpoint the feeling, “prickly.” Hecate’s brows shot up. “But also sort of…familiar? I don’t know why, just like I’ve felt it before. And not—not prickly bad,” Mildred hastened to add, “just like sort of soft prickly…if that makes sense.”
Ignoring Mildred, Hecate continued. “The next step is to…lure your magic out.” Hecate pulled her magic back to her. “Reach out to me as I did to you. Look for my magic rather than for your own.”
Mildred’s brow furrowed in concentration and slowly, her hand began to rise.
“With your magic, Mildred, not your hand,” Hecate told her, exasperation overshadowing the lingering amusement. “You’ve done it before, just this morning, in fact, when you decided my kitchen table didn’t have nearly enough character.”
“I’m trying,” Mildred mumbled, reddening. “I just—I don’t feel anything. I can’t do it.” She slumped in her seat defeatedly, rubbing at her eyes tiredly.
“Of course you can, Mildred Hubble,” Hecate said icily. “I did not take you for one to give up so easily.”
“It’s hard! You said that!” Mildred exclaimed accusingly. “And I’m still the worst witch, aren’t I? I can’t even do normal spells!”
“Mildred Hubble, listen to me,” Hecate hissed, each word bitingly sharp. Where had that stubborn desire of Mildred’s to prove Hecate wrong gone? “You are...more than capable.” Her voice gentled somewhat. “I…understand that, at first, I didn’t recognize your potential. You may not succeed tonight, but that does not excuse a lack of trying.”
“I was trying,” Mildred bit back.
“You were not,” Hecate asserted, and Mildred scowled. “Regardless, I have no doubt you will…one day, master this form of magic. Your magic is naturally volatile; you have not learned the control our—witching children do, so it...lurks just beneath the surface, like the dov's," Hecate mused, her lips quirking up into a faint smile before she frowned again. "Or have you never questioned why you walked away from that accident with little more than a scratch?”
Mildred’s face fell. “What?” she asked quietly.
“I—” Hecate froze. “I…apologize, Mildred. I shouldn’t have—”
“Shouldn’t have what?” Mildred shot to her feet, her chair toppling behind her. “So…so it was my magic that saved me?!” She ran her hands roughly through her hair, barely registering the sting of her fingers catching the tangles. “Hecate?!”
Hecate sighed, her hands reaching blindly for her timepiece as she gazed up at Mildred. “Yes, Mildred. It was…your magic that saved your life.”
“You—You lied to me!” Mildred exclaimed, her breath coming out in angry gasps, though her eyes stayed dry.
“I did no such thing.” Hecate gritted her teeth but stayed seated.
“Yes, yes, you did! You said it wasn’t my fault and—and there was nothing I could’ve done. But there was! There was .” Mildred’s voice shook, and she cleared her throat.
“No.” Hecate finally stood, taking a step around the table. “There wasn’t,” she said firmly. “The magic that saved you was wild, uncontrolled magic that acted in a…split second to protect itself.”
“But…but if I could’ve just—”
“No,” Hecate interrupted her, not quite sharply, but still she commanded Mildred’s attention with her quiet order. “Let us consider the hypothetical. Even if your magic had extended to your mother, there was nothing more you could do. Nothing,” she repeated quietly.
“But that would’ve been everything!” Mildred yelled, her voice cracking. “That could’ve saved her, and I would be home with her and not here with you!” she spat out.
Hecate didn’t flinch. “The odds are that if your magic had extended over you and your mother, you would have both been...killed that night.”
Mildred scowled, her hands tightening into fists by her sides. “I—I know you think I’m the worst witch, but I’m not as weak as you think.”
Sighing, Hecate took another step forward, her intent gaze fixed on Mildred’s own. “I have never thought you to be weak. Out of control, reckless? Yes. Undeserving? At first, perhaps. But you are not and have never been weak, Mildred Hubble.”
Mildred froze, her eyes wide and hands still balled up at her sides. “I—”
Hecate sighed for what felt like the umpteenth time and pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to stave off the imminent headache. “It’s late.”
Mildred deflated and nodded. Her arms wrapping around herself and her shoulders hunching, she turned and shuffled to the door.
“Mildred.” Mildred stopped but didn’t turn. “No part of your mother’s death was your fault.” If anything, Mildred’s shoulders slumped even further. “I understand that you feel guilty, but…given the situation, you did all you could.” Hecate made an attempt to soften her voice, though a hint of steel still ran beneath it. “No, perhaps, it’s not enough, but remember that if nothing else.”
From where she stood, Hecate could see Mildred’s harsh swallow, the clenching of her jaw. After a moment, Mildred glanced over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Hecate.”
“Goodnight, Mildred,” Hecate replied quietly.
Pushing open the door to her room, Mildred blew out a breath and sagged against the doorframe. Her things lay scattered across the floor and a newly acquired army of paper dragons waited for her atop the old story book.
Since the fire, four more had arrived: two green, one blue, and another white. They stood differently, their wings sat upon their backs differently, some had spines, some horns, others both. All had the same unnerving, unblinking intent gaze.
“What do you want?” Mildred groaned. The purple dragon stretched its wings and pushed the blue dragon off the book before resettling its wings atop its back with satisfaction. Rolling and shaking itself off, the blue dragon took off and hovered in front of Mildred’s face until she huffed and held out a hand.
But when it landed, dropping into a graceful bow like the others, wings fanning out to the sides, no note unfolded. Instead, Mildred felt the telltale signs of a transference, her skin tingling, before she faded out of the room.
She rematerialized in the clearing she had first met the dragon, though she didn’t have much time to look for the dragon in question, for the moment her feet were solidly on the ground, the grass cool to her bare feet, she lurched to the side and heaved.
“Forced transfer.” The voice came somewhere from behind Mildred. “Sorry about that; it’s always a bit…unpleasant,” the dragon said, sounding only moderately sorry for the…inconvenience. She, like the previous time, looked almost entirely human, her golden eyes boring into Mildred’s back. Again, she was clad in the same nondescript clothes, though tonight her hair hung loose around her shoulders.
Mildred coughed and wiped at her mouth before straightening with a scowl. “What do you want?”
“Oh, someone’s grumpy,” the dragon replied teasingly, waving a hand. Suddenly Mildred’s mouth was minty clean again. After a long moment, during which Mildred stayed stonily silent, the dragon raised her brows. “Something the matter?” she asked, somehow managing to both sound concerned and as if she couldn’t care less about the answer.
Mildred shook her head. “Sorry, it’s just—nothing, nothing; it’s fine.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I tried to come here before, you know.”
“I’m aware,” the dragon replied, sitting on a conveniently placed, surprisingly comfortable looking boulder Mildred could have sworn hadn’t been there before. Cocking her head, she peered up at Mildred with a raised brow. “May I remind you that you are on my land, Mildred Hubble. There is little that happens without my knowing.”
“But the…cottage isn’t, is it?” Mildred asked, tentatively sitting on the ground across from the dragon.
“Hmm. Perhaps I’ll leave that for you to figure out.” She smirked. Mildred frowned but nodded.
“Can I ask you something?” Mildred asked, tilting her head back to gaze up at the dragon, who waved her on. “Why’d you have to do the, er, forced transfer? I could’ve come by myself...eventually.”
The dragon shrugged. “You have a spell on you.”
“What? A bad one?!” Mildred launched herself up and frantically began inspecting herself, the blue dragon slipping out of her hand. But before it could fall, the living dragon darted at her, grabbing Mildred’s hand and pressing the paper dragon to it.
“Keep a hold of that,” she warned. “If you want to stay, that is. And obviously you won’t be able to see the spell, so you might as well stop looking.”
“Oh, er, right. But how do you know?” Mildred asked, her hands falling back to her side.
“I can feel it,” the dragon replied, as if such an answer were to be expected. After a moment, she let out a chuckle, low and dangerous. “You’re worried. Don’t be; it’s harmless, a simple vigilance spell.”
“Er, okay,” Mildred said warily. “What does it do?”
The dragon waved a hand lazily through the air. “Much the same as any protection spell, without the…immediate protection.” Seeing that her words did nothing to alleviate Mildred’s confusion, the dragon continued. “It alerts the caster to threats and high levels of distress.”
“So it’s a…good thing, right?” Mildred ventured a guess.
Another shrug from the dragon. “Depends on your definition of good. A bit suffocating maybe, this one in particular. This one would alert the caster if you left the cottage at all.”
“But then how—ohh.” Mildred looked down, the paper dragon in her hand now still, lifeless. “That’s what this is for? You did a magic thing?”
Golden eyes amused, the dragon nodded. “I did, indeed, do…‘a magic thing’. My spell tricks yours into thinking you’re tucked into bed, all safe and warm,” she said smoothly with the slightest hint of smugness. “Any distress you feel will not be registered by the spell. In case anything…should happen.” The dragon smiled, and Mildred shivered at the glimpse of those bared teeth.
“Okay!” Mildred squeaked, looking down at her feet and shuffling backwards a few steps. Feeling the dragon’s stare, heavy and knowing, she glanced up again. “I’m not scared of you,” she asserted boldly.
“Oh?” The dragon raised a brow, the rest of her face carefully neutral.
“I’m not.” Mildred nodded resolutely and stepped forward again. “I don’t think you’d hurt me, and if you really wanted to, wouldn’t you have already?”
The dragon hummed. “And you’ve already ruled out the possibility of a waiting game? That I’m just luring you into a false sense of security before I strike?”
“Well,” Mildred fiddled with the tail of the paper dragon in her hands and shrugged, “would there be any point? If you’re this big, powerful dragon, why wait; couldn’t you just eat me?”
The dragon in question exhaled in amusement. “It’s not the best practice to goad a dovah; you might want to keep that in mind. As far as we have come from our earliest history, pride is not something the dov lack. But,” she inclined her head, conceding the point, “you’re correct; I won’t hurt you.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” Mildred pointed out.
The dragon blew out a breath and shook her head, her lips curving up slightly. “That’s another thing to avoid when speaking to a dovah. It’s a pride thing. We don’t lie, and an accusation that says otherwise would be taken very…poorly, to say the least.”
“Oh, sorry! I didn’t—” Mildred rushed to apologize. She paused. “Wait why didn’t you take it, er, poorly then?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time around you humans; such accusations mean nothing to you, so…” the dragon shrugged. “Anyway, weren’t you the one just making the point that if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done already? No harm will come to you by my hand in these woods.”
Mildred cracked a smile. “That was very specific.” She giggled when the dragon scoffed in exasperation. “I believe you though,” she offered and received a half-smile in return. After a beat, she asked, “can I ask you something else?” Again, the dragon waved her on. “I have this…guardian called Hecate.”
The dragon’s gaze fixed on Mildred intently, her pupils contracting. “That doesn’t sound like a question.”
“Right.” Mildred reddened slightly. “Anyway, she was telling me about the, er, protector of the woods and said that he wasn’t good or nice or anything, and I-I, er, didn’t want to assume, you know, but, er, is that you? ‘Cause you seem nice.” Mildred blundered her way through her question.
The dragon exhaled, a breath of amusement escaping her nose. “Hecate Hardbroom,” she began slowly, savoring the name, “is a bit behind the times, so to speak. I recently acquired these lands from their…late possessor, and she wasn’t informed. But she is correct in saying that the protector of these woods isn’t, what were the words you so eloquently used? ‘Good or nice or anything’? I am none of those things, with the exception of ‘anything,’ I suppose. I am something, after all.”
“Oh, okay…cool,” Mildred said awkwardly.
“Any other questions?” the dragon asked wryly.
Mildred thought for a moment before she glanced at the now-stationary dragon in her hand. She held it out to the dragon and grinned. “Can you teach me?”
The dragon’s brows rose. “ That’s your question?” she asked.
“Yes?” Is it the…wrong question?” Mildred asked carefully, her brow furrowed.
“No,” the dragon answered slowly. “I guess I had just thought you might like to know my name first,” she said somewhat pointedly, and Mildred flushed.
“Oh, oh, I do! Sorry, I just…didn’t know if I could ask?” Mildred answered, her voice pitching higher. “Or-or if it was rude…”
The dragon let out a puff of incredulity but shook her head. “Ask me then.”
“Er, what’s your name?” Mildred asked, her cheeks still burning as she turned her sheepish attention to the dragon in her hands, running a finger along the rough edge of the paper.
The dragon stood and strolled toward Mildred, her hands in her pockets, each step unhurried, deliberate. “You’ll need to be more specific than that. Which name would you like, Mildred Hubble?” she asked, her face stony though her eyes lit up teasingly.
“You have more than one? Like, er…like a human name?” Mildred asked. She received a short nod in response, the dragon halting a few paces in front of her, staring down at Mildred. “So…what’s your human name?”
“Why am I not surprised that that’s the name you chose?” the dragon mused. At Mildred’s questioning look, she shrugged. “It’s a name that doesn’t hold the...power my other does. But you’re just curious, aren’t you? You couldn’t care less about who I am, what power I might hold.”
“Er, no?” Mildred couldn’t quite tell if the dragon was still talking to her.
“Very well.” The dragon nodded. “Helena. Given that you aren’t my mother, you can call me Hela.”
Mildred grinned and pressed her palm to her forehead, bowing deeply. “Well met, Hela.”
Offering a wry smile in return, Hela stretched her arms out to the side and inclined her head. “Drem yol lok, Mildred-kiir.”
Before Mildred could speak, an earth-shattering bellow sounded from the far side of the forest, and she yelped, clapping her hands over her ears.
Hela, for her part, simply straightened and brushed an imaginary wrinkle from her shirt. “That’s my cue; time for you to go home.”
“Okay,” Mildred managed through a yawn, her tiredness returning with the reminder of the late hour.
“I’ll transfer you back. If you do want to return, remember to bring the dragon,” Hela reminded her.
“I can keep it?” Mildred looked at the little dragon in awe.
“You can even name it if you want,” Hela replied with a shrug, glancing into the woods behind Mildred.
“What’s a good dragon name?” Mildred didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of Hela by giving the paper dragon a name she might not deem fit.
“Our dov names are difficult for humans to pronounce; you can’t produce the same sounds we can while in our other forms,” Hela began. But seeing Mildred’s face, she sighed. “Something like…Sufoluftahin would not be out of the ordinary for a dovah, but this is why we have human names. I can’t even say that properly at the moment.”
“Sufo—Sofufal—Sufol…” The sounds lodged themselves in Mildred’s throat.
“Charlie is also a perfectly acceptable name,” Hela commented dryly.
“Yeah, I think it looks more like a Charlie anyway.” Mildred grinned sheepishly. “‘Kay, I’m ready to go back. Goodnight, Hela!” she chirped, holding the newly dubbed Charlie to her chest.
“Night, Mildred.” Hela twisted her hand, and Mildred reappeared in her room, wearing a fresh pair of pajamas, her face and feet scrubbed clean.
The other paper dragons she had received had made themselves comfortable on her bedside table, piling atop each other until Mildred could hardly tell whose tail was whose. Climbing into bed, Mildred carefully put Charlie down with the others and grinned softly when it regained motion, shaking itself and climbing over paper limbs to curl up on top of one of the green dragons, its head resting on the purple’s.
Mildred went to sleep for the final time that night, cuddling Puss against her chest, Tabby on her feet. And when she dreamt, for the first time, she dreamt only of flying amongst the stars in the darkened night skies suspended on those forbidden walls.