Honey Witch
Author:© WebNovel
Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The princess, needing answers to her questions, snuck out of the castle and went to find the honey witch, at the edge of the forest.
She had not truly needed to sneak out—her mother approved of the witch—but had wanted the practice of climbing over the castle’s ramshackle rambling rooftops and turrets. At twenty-two years of age, Ursula might’ve been too old for a casual stroll out of her tower’s window and over indulgent shingles and slate; she mostly was, having taken on more and more of the responsibility for negotiations about trade and wood and apples and wheat, and the Farmers’ Guild council meetings about prices and exports and imports, when Queen Agatha needed her heir to shoulder some of the duties of rule. But she liked the exercise.
Besides, the escape was fun.
She trailed fingertips through long grass and berry bushes, along the well-worn path; she liked the sensations, the dry sun-warmed brush of leaves and the quiet rustle of sound.
The honey witch lived in gold, surrounded by gold: the blond wood of her cottage, the domes of her beehives, the changing of leaves in autumn. Ursula smiled a little, following the path toward that familiar yellow door.
The walk hadn’t been bad; the witch liked people to find her. She had been a fixture at the cottage for ten years now, having come from the witches’ academy over in Kyrie; she had not been local, not a village girl the way their former witch had been, but she’d settled into life at the cottage as if born here in Rosewood, in the shadow of the castle and the forest. She had made a point of visiting market-days and the local pub, and she was always ready to lend an ear or advice about locating a new well or bottles of honey with mysterious healing herbs or a hint of foreknowledge about the future. Villagers came and went often from the cottage and the workroom at the back, facing the deep green of the forest; they liked having a witch as well.
They liked the witch quite a lot. Or so said rumor. Ursula considered, contemplated, remembered: men and women who smiled, grew dreamy or flushed, trailed off and did not complete sentences. The honey witch worked magic, they said, in many ways: ways that sang with desire, they said, and then grew a bit embarrassed in front of their princess.
Ursula, who was not afraid of desire—and who had engaged in a few interesting explorations with willing ladies and gentlemen at Court—had questions. And curiosity.
Under sunlight, heat spilling down her back like lazy treasure, the edges of her hair curling itself into unruly brown frizz, she knocked.
“Come in.” The witch’s voice hummed like her beehives: busy, low, delicious, enticing and amused. “I’m in the workroom, Princess; come all the way through to the back, please.”
Ursula did, drawn by that voice like a compass-needle to the north; she picked her way through the spotless kitchen, small library, a playful litter of black-and-white kittens, a tall elegant harp, a pile of brilliant orange pumpkins. She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene; the honey witch, framed by green and growing herbs and silver and gold basins and knives, straightened up from tasting something in a pot and turned, and Ursula’s breath caught in her throat.
Esmerelda Grey smiled back. One hand brushed back long gold-and-copper curls; her eyes were enchanting green, and the soft shirt and trousers she wore were also green, and they hugged every luscious curve; she was not young, and not old, simply timeless and warm and glorious all at once.
Ursula had been too shy to speak to her for years. A coltish awkward teenaged princess who tripped over her own skirts at formal banquets, she’d had only a silent inarticulate longing, faced with calm clever beauty and competence. She’d grown up and learned to manage the skirts—mostly—but the longing had never gone away. She’d spent years holding that secret, a small private heart-shaped treasure-box inside her chest: she’d always watched Esmerelda Grey with hopeless yearning.
Today that would be different. Today Ursula wanted something. Desired something. Needed, perhaps.
She licked her lips. Managed, “I’ve brought you a gift…” She even held up the basket. Fresh-baked bread offered itself hopefully.
Esmerelda smiled more, and Ursula wanted to touch her, to taste her, to find out how she felt. That loose soft shirt was open enough to slide across one creamy shoulder. “And you’ve even baked it yourself. I do appreciate it, Princess, though for you I’d offer my services for free.”
“How did you—”
“Know that you had? The bees tell me things.” Esmerelda’s eyes danced. “And so does evening chatter at The Crown. Most of your people are utterly delighted to have a princess who knows practical skills. Baking. Horse-doctoring. Woodscraft. They’re quite proud to explain it all to any visitors, new and old, over a mug of ale.”
“Oh,” Ursula said, and felt her cheeks warm. She had thought her people generally liked their princess; she had not known they felt so strongly about her. She shifted weight. “Thank you?”
“You’ll be a good queen, they say.” Esmerelda took the basket and set it on a shelf, where homemade baked goods shared space with a somewhat bemused silver mirror and a cheerful pot of catnip. “We should certainly enjoy this later. I’ve got fresh butter, and of course the honey…the bees do like their sage and lavender. But you had a question.”
“A question…” Ursula, caught by the casualness of the comment—you’ll be a good queen—and the offer to share bread and honey, forgot words momentarily; remembered. “I wanted. To ask. About my future.”
“That iswhat most people ask.” Esmerelda’s tone was a little wry, but only a little; affection colored it. “The future is never set. It flows, it moves, it can be stirred up…I can tell you what I see at the moment, this moment, if nothing changes. But that’s all.”
“I just want to know,” Ursula said, and stopped, and tried again. “If it’s true. What you said. About being a good queen. And—and if I’ll be happy.”
That was not entirely what she had meant to ask; but she could not ask the honey witch to gently ease her down upon the workbench and slip a hand beneath her dusty trousers, either.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone