The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 2041: Gathering for the Trial (Part Two)

At the next fire, Micheline spotted a flash of brilliant orange and pale yellow among the drab wool and furs. Anne and Mary sat close together on a folded blanket, their new silk scarves wrapped about their throats in plain sight, where anyone could see them. When Mary heard Elgon’s words, she reached over and squeezed Anne’s hand without a word.

"Has she eaten, my Lady?" Anne asked, peering up at Micheline from beneath her hood. "Properly, I mean. Not just picking at a plate. She looked better than she had when we saw her yesterday but," she said, allowing her voice to trail off without saying the rest of it.

Anyone who had been close to Jocelynn in Lothian Manor knew that she’d struggled to take care of herself ever since Eleanor’s death, and they’d all been watching her waste away before their eyes, but there was little any of them could do about it. Now that her mother and cousin had arrived, Anne wasn’t the only one hoping that having family close at hand would help to pull her back from the brink.

"Sir Ollie made sure of it," Micheline said. "I don’t think he’d let her leave the room otherwise."

"No," Mary said quietly. "I don’t suppose he would."

"And her hair?" Anne pressed, fretting over the smallest of details to distract herself from the sense of dread that had settled into the pit of her stomach ever since Jocelynn had brought them gifts yesterday. "Who’s to do her hair? Lady Eira was meant to, but she..."

"Aunt Maela is taking care of her," Micheline said patiently. "She’ll be fine. You know how my aunt is," she added in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. "She wouldn’t let Jocelynn show up tonight looking out of sorts."

"That’s true," Anne said, letting out a relieved sigh as she forced herself to relax. "The Countess always used to take care of Lady Ashlynn, or, um, Empress Ashlynn’s hair when she was younger. Wouldn’t let any of us near her precious little miracle," she said, remembering her earliest days serving at Blackwell Manor.

"If Lady Maela is watching over her, then I’m sure Princess Jocelynn will be fine," Anne said, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anything else.

Captain Albyn stood behind them, the hilt of a new knife jutting from his belt, gleaming in the firelight. He gave Micheline a short, respectful nod.

"If you see her before we do, my lady," Albyn said, "tell her the crew’s all here. Every last one of us."

"I will," Micheline promised, and the captain went back to watching the path.

Inwardly, however, Micheline couldn’t help but marvel at the attitudes of the Blackwell retainers. She tried to imagine which of her attendants would have come out here, in the freezing cold, to witness a ritual of witchcraft while fretting about her safety... And she struggled to name a single one. A few among them might even turn informant for the Crown or the Church, hoping to make a small fortune by selling the secrets of their lady’s treason.

She’d known the Blackwells were different. She’d heard the stories at the Gilded Horns and in the long, quiet evenings since. She’d heard the phrase ’one ship, one crew,’ several times since she followed her Aunt Maela here.

But hearing about loyalty was not the same as seeing it, here in the frozen dark, written plainly across the faces of men and women who had left their homes and families on the other side of the world to follow her cousin into danger.

Micheline moved on along the ring of fires, walking silently with Adala and Charlotte, and the crowd seemed to grow thicker with every step.

The knights of Dunn had claimed two of the great bonfires for themselves, and their families had come with them. Micheline recognized Sir Padraig Wyndan by his lanky build and Sir Brennus Thorne by his broad one. She’d been working hard to become familiar with the noblemen who were both important enough, or simply fortunate and well connected enough, to be among the first to visit the Vale of Mists.

Their wives stood together in a little knot of fur-lined cloaks while a pair of boys, who could only be Eira’s younger brothers, elbowed each other for the best spot near the flames.

"Idris, Bran, stop that this instant," Lady Seren hissed. "This isn’t a tourney."

"But we can’t see anything," the taller of the two complained.

"There’s nothing to see yet," his mother said firmly.

"Will there be lightning?" a dark-haired boy of eleven or so asked as he tugged on Lady Rhiannon’s sleeve. "Cadeyrn says when Sir Ollie became a witch, there was lightning, like there was at the gates of Lothian when the Southern Steppe arrived."

"Cadeyrn says a great many things, Taliesin," Lady Rhiannon replied, casting a stern glance at her older son, who stood beside his father in his best squire’s tabard, trying very hard to look as though he hadn’t said anything of the sort.

Morwen spotted Micheline and the other ladies first. She waved from beside her mother, then flushed scarlet as though she’d done something terribly improper, and came hurrying over with Eira close behind her.

"Lady Micheline," Eira said, a little breathless. "Is she... is Princess Jocelynn well? Sir Ollie sent word this morning that I wasn’t needed after all and that Lady Maela would help her prepare instead. I, I heard that yesterday, Lady Jocelynn was like a ghost, visiting old friends and giving away her treasures," she said, biting her lower lip while her hands clutched her fur cloak.

While most people dismissed the rumors, she’d been there when the Princess received the Ancient Oak’s warning. While many people seemed confident that the ritual would succeed and Jocelynn would simply become the next person that Empress Ashlynn would welcome into her coven as a new witch, Eira knew how deeply uncertain Jocelynn was.

And it wasn’t just Jocelynn who was uncertain. Even Sir Ollie and the rest of the coven seemed worried that Jocelynn would fail and lose her life here.

"Jocelynn is fine," Micheline said. "Or as well as anyone could be, I think," she added, glancing around the gathering and lowering her voice.

"My aunt didn’t go to her because she was unwell," Micheline said quietly. "She went because they had a small fight yesterday and my aunt wanted to set things right. "It wasn’t anything serious," she said quickly as she realized her statement might be misinterpreted. "Just a few old hurts between mother and daughter, flaring up again. Nothing that an hour over tea couldn’t sort out."

"Oh, I’m so glad," Eira said, pressing her gloved hands together. "I’d have been happy to help, truly, but it’s better that she got to spend the day with Lady Maela."

"Much better," Morwen agreed softly.

Micheline looked past the two girls, past the knights of Dunn and their families, toward the far side of the ring. More people were still coming down the path from the fortress, and from somewhere out in the fog beyond the stream, she could see the bobbing glow of lanterns. Not a few. Dozens.

"Who else is coming?" Charlotte wondered aloud.

As if in answer, a great shape loomed out of the mist at the head of the lantern procession. It was taller than any man and longer than any horse, with scales that gleamed in the firelight, and for a moment, Micheline’s heart froze in her chest as every story she’d heard as a young girl about demons who lurked in the mists galloped through her mind at once...