The average onlooker would easily guess Elisabetta Bonora for a witch. Her luscious brown hair always billowed wistfully in the wind, even if the wind wasn’t out and about. Her bangles, rings and necklace were the opposite of fashionable. Every gem was cut , and every loop was shaped, into mismatched and arcane geometries. She was beloved by both dogs and cats! No mundane human could so easily earn the adoration of both in just an instant.
More than anything else, though, she exhibited a certain occult je ne sais quoi… Her eyes always loosely focused behind her conversation partner, as if she stared through their flesh and bone and soul. Her voice was always soft but her words always dangerous. It didn’t surprise anyone when she offered to read their fortune. Begged to warn them of their impending doom.
But nothing about her – the smoothness of her skin, the tidiness of her dress, the calmness of her palms – spoke of habitual indulgence in narcotics. The woeful scum of Five Sails didn’t quite know what to do about her wandering down the dock, testing product and haggling distribution on behalf of the Red Hand Gang. Some prayed, some closed up shop, some gripped cold iron in hopes it would ward off any curses. Everyone assumed that Don Constanzo had witches at his disposal, of course. Those rumors had circulated since the day he ascended his blood-soaked throne. It was deeply discomforting to see his sorcerous signorinas operating openly, though.
Elisabetta wasn’t particularly comfortable about the matter herself. Cesca Del Rosso’s vanity had gotten the best of the coven. The Witchmother grew sick of hiding, and seemingly that meant all the coven sisterhood must feel the same.
As such, she’d rounded up a squad of thugs (Alcee, Dante, and which was the densest one? Butino? Something like that…) and began to pull fate strings in broad daylight. Still careful, still subtle, still leaving the ignorant only suspicious instead of aware. They’d sweat themselves to fainting, unsure whether they were bewitched or not. That doubt, on its own, made every merchant a bad negotiator. As part of the Festival of Fools, Mayor Claude de la Roche temporarily lifted legal constraints on the sale of tobacco, cocao leaf, and exotic incense – meaning there was no better time to negotiate with distracted, superstitious smugglers than here and now.
She had no interest in such habits. Reading the whims of Fate was a murky enough process without dulling or abusing the senses. But she found herself in front of another grinning merchant, looking down at another tight-paced brick of dried herb from across the sea. Reluctantly, she pinched at the corner, and took a sniff at the stodgy clump. Sharp notes of cloves, a color like mud, and a miasma that settled like a stone at the bottom of her lungs and stomach. Disgusting.
She placed the pinch between her teeth and bottom lip, already feeling the irritating and heady buzz of previous samples. Softly, vengefully, she tugged at the merchant’s fate strings. Unbalanced his emotions and mushed his mind. A moment later, she chastised herself. She’d clearly pulled too fast and too ruthlessly. The man’s eyes were glued to her lips. He’d started drooling.
“Twenty percent to Don Constanzo, seven percent to the Red Hand who carries the product for distribution. Revenue. Not profit,” she demanded. It was a steep and unfair pay structure. But she’d been at this for hours. She was losing her patience. The buzz of tobacco and the buzz of exhaustion and the buzz of bubbling fury were getting the better of her.
The salivating smuggler, weak-willed on his best days, mumbled his acceptance. She shook his hand, spat the tobacco insultingly close to his boots, and walked away without so much as giving her name. His eyes followed her until the dockyard crowd blocked his line of sight.
She marched onwards with Alcee and Dante, far too aware of the flies buzzing around, of all the sweating bodies of sailors, of the morning’s fishing catch quickly losing its freshness. She’d have to speak with Cesca about these assignments. She was a humble witch, as far as witches went, but enough was enough. She could look a man in the eye and instantly know the measure of his soul. In four Arcana cards, she could accurately predict the future of any woman. This was beneath –
“Have you seen Buratino?” asked Dante. He was a handsome man, his voice musical and friendy, his disposition cheerful. He was grating on her nerves.
“I’m sorry, who?” She asked.
“Your other bodyguard, Buratino?” Alcee, the tarty little street rat, explained. Her tone was accusatory. For a moment, Elisabetta felt guilty for forgetting his name. She wanted to apologize, but the flies were buzzing in her ears and they’d already reached the next victim for their scheme.
“Good morning, Captain Sorridi” she locked eyes with her target. He looked at her with open hostility and suspicion. She expected as much. The infamous pirate spent years working with Gustave de Ladera and the Don. He’d met his share of Streghe. His fingers, calloused from years of sword fighting, flew up to the Maghreb charm dangling around his neck. It wouldn’t save him.
She gritted her now stained teeth, and began the negotiation without magic. Did her best to be polite, even though it wasted her time. The flies buzzed and her mind buzzed. Why was the sun so bright today, cutting directly through the sea of awnings that normally kept the docks shaded and cool?
“Madam?” Asked Sorridi.
“Sorry, I seemed to have lost myself. Where were we?” She asked.
He shook the open ivory box he’d apparently been holding out.
“The cocoa,” offered Dante.
“Mixed with crushed sugarcane and sun-dried peppers,” Sorridi explained again. “The final grind is sweet and spicy. Makes for a wonderful winter drink, if I do say so myself.”
These little bricks were even denser than the last. Wherever he’d bought the stuff, it looked like glossy rock instead of a compressed, leafy blend. Impatiently, she reached into the box, grabbed a pre-portioned cube, and popped it in her mouth. Had he said sweet and spicy? The stuff was more bitter than raw dirt. Her face puckered from the astoundingly awful taste. Everyone looked at her like she’d made a fool of herself.
“As I said,” Sorridi smiled in apology. “It’s meant to be mixed with boiled water. Boiled milk if you’re feeling rich about it.” Theus help her, had he said that? Why did she miss it?
“I’m sorry, Captain,” she said. “I think I’ve tested too much product too early in the day. My head is…. Not quite spinning. But I seem to be scattering and misplacing my thoughts. I’ll come speak with you tomorrow.” In apology, she offered him a coin for his time and walked away. She only realized she’d given him gold instead of copper once she was ten steps off.
Theus help her, what in the nine hells was going on?
“Elisabetta!” Dante stepped in front of her, palms waving, to catch her attention. She’d almost walked face first into a fishmonder’s stall.
“It’s Signorina Bonora to you,” she snapped before she could stop herself. Were there always this many flies on this forsaken, stinking dock?
Overconfident and improper, he grabbed her by her shoulders and rattled her. It absolutely did not help the buzzing in her head.
“Alcee and and Buratino are missing!” he hissed.
“Shirking their duties, those rotten rats,” she assumed. “Off to fornicate among the fishes.”
Face pre-emptively brimming with regret, he grabbed her wrist with his right hand. Smacked the fingertips of his left hand across her open palm, hard and fast enough to hurt. To turn bright red with the sting. She opened her mouth to yelp, and he smacked her palm again, even harder.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you today, Betta, but we are under attack!” he hissed. “Focus!”
That couldn’t be! Her palm stung so badly but she remembered clearly that there was a peace proclamation which meant no one was running around town making attacks anymore, and besides she was the Don Constanzo’s Streghe so no one would dare, and besides she was the nicest of the Streghe and never hurt anyone like Cesca or Dondalo so why her, specifically, that made no sense-
“Betta!” A third smack hit her palm.
It stung hard enough for her to look down at the smarting meat of her thumb. Look down and find out what was wrong. The string of her fate wasn’t floating off into the horizon, twisting and swaying with slack. The string of her fate was pulled tight as a violin. Theus help her, someone was ensorcelling her! Oh, Theus help her twice over, is this what it felt like? To have another witch attack you? Not just wind the strings together in learning, but to treat you like a puppet? Is this what she was doing to everyone else at Cesca’s command?
Panic overtook her, and she ripped her hands away from Dante. She spun wildly, frantically, trying to figure out who – couldn’t be one of her sisters, right? – who would be – no, that wasn’t safe. She was panicking and that wasn’t good and she needed Dante to get her to safety right away. Cesca would help because she knew everything and was the strongest witch in the City or even the continent and where was Dante? Dante was gone? He’d been behind her, holding her palm, hitting her palm, but she was turning back around and where was Dante?
She ran. She didn’t know where. The docks were full to bursting with boatmen and captains and parrots and salesmen and fishmongers and buyers and decking boards and seagulls and so many flies and she had to get away from here and find – oh, Theus help her, what was his name? Dino? Her head was buzzing just like the flies were buzzing, oh Theus-
“Good afternoon, Fraulien,” someone said.
One of those Eisen soldier-women was standing in front of her. It wasn’t the right thing to focus on, of course, but Elisabetta was instantly entranced by her beauty. This woman was her senior, but the lines of age had only sharpened her. Made her fierce and grand. The little wrinkles at the corner of thin, pale lips. The way her nose crinkled when she snarled. Black eyes like a hawk, black eyes as hard as stone, black eyes she could stare into forever- except why was she snarling? Did Elisabetta do something wrong?
“You’re under arrest for witchcraft,” said the Eisen woman. Elisabetta recognized her. It was Lady Dietrich. Stunning, powerful. A veteran of love and war. It was an honor to meet her. Well, no. She’d met Lady Dietrich before, read her fortune, but that was back a year ago before the occupation of the forum, right?
“I’m sorry, it’s been a doozy of a day,” admitted Elisabetta. She tried to brush the billowing hair out of her eyes, so she could make a real apology. She found out she couldn’t. She looked down and saw that her smarting palms were in manacles. Someone had put manacles on her. Who would do that? Surely, not the mesmerizing Lady Dietrich? She looked so vicious and godlike, and a goddess would never betray Elisabetta because she would always fall to her knees in worship like a good woman ought to.
Lady Dietrich looked at her with equal parts guilt and pity. Oh, no. Oh, no. She must have done or said something very, very wrong.
A man approached them from around the corner. The Lord Dietrich. He looked so handsome, with his silver beard and newfound strength after his injury. She heard about his injury. He’d been shot. Someone she knew had shot him, right? He looked handsome, but then he put his hand around Lady Dietrich. Snatched her waist, like it was his to fondle. Jealousy as hot hellfire burned in Elisabetta’s heart. She wanted to touch Lady Dietrich, too. Hold her hand and beg forgiveness.
Kaspar Dietrich looked at her, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.
“Did you hit her in the head?” he asked. What a wild question. Elisabetta would never dare to strike Lady Dietrich? That would be sin.
“She’s a witch, husband,” Lady Dietrich said. Her voice was gold and honey. “I couldn’t let her keep her wits. Too risky. The concussion was necessary.”
“Katain and Terrel already captured her thugs,” Lord Dietrich said. Oh. Oh! That’s where Aimee and Dindo and Burrata went and got off to. That explained it. They must have insulted Lady Dietrich which meant they should hang and probably burn, too.
“I knew the witches would come out to misbehave the moment Claude the Clod announced this stupid festival. The impure can’t help themselves.”
He reached out to grab her manacles, to pull her away. Elisabetta saw a sharp outcrop of Syrneth silver jutting out of the back of his palm.
“Magic!” She spat. “Magic!”
“A necessary evil, to aid my recovery,” Lord Dietrich said. He looked her in the eyes. Instead of hate, she saw concern. She had a really hard time maintaining eye contact, but she definitely saw glimpses of concern. Elisabetta understood him. She was also very, very concerned. Something wasn’t right, here. Someone had put her in manacles!
“How hard did you hit her?” He asked.
“I seem to have… Overdone it,” Lady Dietrich said.
That couldn’t be, Elisabetta knew. Something was very wrong here. Noone had hit her in the head. Why were they leading her back away from the docks? Away from the crowd? They weren’t in public anymore, he was taking her somewhere. To a doctor? She didn’t need medical attention, no one had hit her, someone had done something -done something -done something –
“Witchcraft!” Elisabetta pointed out. “Witchcraft!”
“I suppose that will do for a confession,” Lord Dietrich said, his voice laced with sarcasm and worry.
“Witchcraft,” Elisabetta insisted. She was looking down, and the string of her Fate was still pulled completely taught. You weren’t supposed to do that. You were supposed to pull lightly, little by little, one nudge at a time. Yanking on someone so hard and so fast, Elisabetta had been warned plenty of times, made a right mess of things. Made it obvious sorcery was at play. That something was wrong. Cesca always told them not to let it show, to hide, not to let the world know they were pulling on strings and that something was wrong.
Stupedified, she followed her own string of Fate, trying to understand who was pulling it. And as she followed the thread, it led right to Lady Dietrich. Obviously, that made no sense at all, because Lady Dietrich was stunningly beautiful and kind and godlike and oh, Theus help her, the string was wrapped several times around Lady Dietrich’s clenched fist.
“Witchcraft! Steghe!” Elisabetta whined, eyes welling up with tears at the betrayal. Why would the beautiful Lady Dietrich ensorcell her? The woman was so charming, so commanding, just absolutely divine. Elisabetta didn’t need tampering with just to see that.
Lord Dietrich stopped all three of them. “Is she admitting,” he asked his wife, “or do you think she’s warning? Why is she so far out of sorts? Is her coven melting her mind? Do they know we’ve caught her?”
Lady Dietrich, with a guilty look on her face, relaxed her grip. Tried to assure her husband. Clarity creeped back into Elisabetta’s addled brain. Theus help her, Lady Dietrich, the infamous witch hunter, was witchily bewitching her like a goddamn witch.
Lady Dietrich couldn’t split her focus. Couldn’t hold a conversation with her husband, and figure out the precise leash to keep on Elisabetta. Clarity kept creeping in.
“She’s the witch,” Elisabetta insisted. “She’s the streghe. Not me. Well, also me! But also her, is what I mean.” The words were so hard to find. You weren’t supposed to pull on someone’s string so hard and so long. It turned their minds to mush. Made it obvious. Didn’t Lady Dietrich know that?
The fate string tensed, caught her about an inch before she hit the earth. Lady Dietrich stumbled forward from the force of the pull. The fate string, wrapped so tightly around her knuckles and palm, cut into Lady Diterich’s flesh like a garrote. Sunk past her skin, exactly like a garrote. Elisabetta had seen the Don at work with his wires before, knew how badly that must have hurt. Even now, she wanted to beg absolution for harming the object of her affection.
Blood welled up in Lady Dietrich’s palm, ran down her fingers. It took every bit of iron Elisabetta had to keep the fate string solid. Her head was pounding. She could barely breathe.
The drops of blood slid on and down the fate string. They caught the afternoon sun and twinkled.
“She’s holding my fate,” Elisabetta pleaded. “She’s a Stregha, too.” She was crying now, ashamed to have betrayed such an awe-inspiring goddess. Oh, Theus help her, why had she done that?
The connection between them slackened as Lady Dietrich tried to let go of Elisabetta’s heart and soul. Elisabetta collapsed. Caught a final look af the bloodied thread trailing from witch hunter to witch. For a brief moment, the blood rendered the magic visible to the naked eye.
Her willpower shattered. Her spell fell to pieces. Her fate string lost its physical body, returned to a matter strictly divine. The fat drops of blood splattered down between all three of them.
“She’s. Also. A witch,” managed Elisabetta. She heard one last set of words before the strain of her casting – combined with the strain of having her fate string tugged on so harshly for an entire morning – combined with the buzz of the tobacco and sunlight and flies – made her pass out…
“Daniella, darling… I believe you have something to tell me?”