Chapter Text
Carol locked the door to her cottage behind her. She looked up at the sky; beams of a watery morning sun were shining down on her face through the leaves of the forest. And as Carol looked towards the path ahead, she saw that same sun over the fields in the distance. Perfect weather for a walk to the city; if Carol weren’t Carol, perhaps she’d have even enjoyed it. As it was, however, she dreaded the whole thing. She took a deep breath, tucked her key into the pocket of her gown, and began her walk. Her dog padded ahead, disappearing around a bend in the path. Carol whistled for her to stay near. Her house was surrounded by forest on the one side and rolling hills with fields on the other. Hundreds of them. On their slopes were grassfields with flowers and cattle. Some of the cows approached the fence as she passed on the dirt road winding its way through the fields, hoping Carol would offer them a treat. Some farms were scattered in between, small steadings consisting of only one or two buildings, and bigger ones where farmers ruled over their tenants like lords. The birds whistled lovely tunes, unbothered by the noises of the nearby city that had been Carol’s world as a child. She passed through fields of golden grain, the sun beating mercilessly down on her nose. Carol wiped furiously at the sweat on her brow. She had often tried to enjoy this walk, but she had never succeeded. She took the same detour she always took, avoiding as much of civilisation as she could. Anything so that they could not say their cows fell ill after she looked at them too long or that their crops had all withered after she had passed the field. The people in the villages surrounding her house were suspicious of her already; they called her a witch behind her back, but until they found something to blame her for, they mostly let her be. And so Carol had withdrawn to her cottage in the woods decades ago with nothing but her imagination and her animals to keep her company. Occasionally, someone would come to ask her for a spell or a potion. Carol did not comment when they did, not even when they sneered at her next time she went into the city or when they whispered among their friends as she passed. She had made peace with her solitude many years ago.
Before long, the city appeared; buildings made of clay and timber for the less fortunate and stone houses with towers - each trying to be the highest - for the rich. Carol remembered living in one of those herself. The crowning glory of the city’s skyline were the belfry and the cathedral. They stood taller than any of the other towers - this, Carol knew, was the law. The city stretched past its walls. It had outgrown them a long time ago. Carol’s father used to tell her it had boomed shortly before she had been born until the walls meant to contain it had become unable to. Beyond the city, the sea stretched out to the horizon. Many ships were weaving their way in and out of the harbour today: cogs carrying wares in and out of the city for its many traders, galleys with long oars and smaller pleasure barges with brightly coloured sails. Carol squared her shoulders before entering through the southern gate, building herself up into the intimidating witch they seemed to think she was, and retreating behind the protective walls that that created. As she crossed the market square today, however, the usual stares were conspicuously absent. Instead, people gawked at something - or rather someone - else; a litter was stuck on a muddy street on the other side of the square. Inside sat a woman, obscured by the shade her litter offered and the curtains in front of its windows, but unmistakably elegant. The carriage wheels had gotten caught in the mud created by yesterday’s downpour. Carol watched as several people tried - and failed - at freeing it. She bit back a chuckle as a man she despised fell face first in the mud. And then the door to the litter opened and the elegant woman emerged, refusing the hands stretched towards her to help her down and carry her over the puddle. Instead, Carol watched as she stepped into the mud, the train of her gown getting dirty within seconds. Carol observed her from a distance: her dark hair done up in a way that signified she was married - or had been married at least - the clothes and litter that showed her status and at last, when she turned her face slightly towards Carol, her freckled skin and blue eyes. Carol remembered that face though the last time she had seen it had been thirty-five years prior: Lady Helen Umstead, though it was not Umstead anymore now but some other name Carol had never bothered to learn.
Carol had last seen Helen on her wedding day all those years ago. She remembered her beautiful deep blue gown and her tearstreaked face. Before Helen had entered the cathedral, she had looked back towards the city as if she was bidding her life goodbye and her eyes had met Carol’s, an unspoken request for someone to understand her. Then Helen had turned away, she had squared her shoulders and walked into the church with her head held high, and Carol’s friends had dragged her away from the church. On the way back to their homes, they had talked about Helen and the tears in her eyes. “It’s ridiculous,” Laxmi had said, “she’s a noblewoman, of course she has to marry young and well. I have only heard good things about her husband. She is fortunate.” All their friends had agreed, but not Carol. Helen’s tearstained face was burnt into her mind and a feeling of dread had settled on her chest; her father’s business was booming and he was a wealthy merchant. She had wondered if she would be standing in front of that church a year after that, to marry a man she did not want to marry - or to marry at all, because the thought of spending a life with any man made her stomach turn.
Helen had left the city after that and Carol had not seen her since, but she had never forgotten that moment and what it had made her realise. Not so long after that, her parents had tried to force a first suitor onto her. Carol had made sure to ruin the courtship and every courtship after that until one of them had brought his pretty sister and Carol’s mother had caught them kissing in the garden. They had locked her in her room after that and for days, Carol endured as her parents called her names and tried to figure out what to do with her. Then she escaped with the help of a servant who took pity on her, taking as much of her jewels and expensive clothes as she and her horse could carry. She had ridden to the same cottage she lived in today, the cottage everyone in town had whispered about because a witch lived in it. Back then, she hadn’t really thought about the reason she had sought refuge with the witch. In retrospect, it had been an instinctive move—after all, she had been an outcast just like the witch. The witch, it had turned out, was not as evil as the local stories told. She had always been kind to Carol. She’d felt for her - so young and so alone - and she’d taken her in and had taught her everything she knew. When she’d died, Carol had been truly alone for the first time in her life.
Helen spotted Carol then and she cocked her head, smiling at her with a raised eyebrow. Carol quickly continued walking, pretending not to stare as Helen continued the rest of her journey on foot - despite the clamoured protests of bystanders. She thought of Helen’s smile while she went about her day, while buying candles and ink and while retrieving the new shoes she’d had made. It had been a very long time since anyone had smiled at her, let alone someone as beautiful as Helen Umstead, and Carol couldn’t help but feel a little warm as she thought about it. She had not realised how much she missed small kindnesses like these until now.
On the way back, she was so lost in thought that she did not hear the approaching hooves, nor the voice calling out to her. Only when the horse slowed beside her did she notice its presence. Slowly, she looked up at the rider and for the second time that day, her eyes met Helen Umstead’s, this time smiling down at her from her chestnut gelding. Carol noticed that she did not ride astride the way she had often seen her do when they’d been younger, nor did she wear breeches today.
“You seem to be in a world of your own,” Helen teased, a smile playing on her lips. “I must have called out three times to wish you a good day.”
Carol opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again and shrugged. She seemed to have forgotten how to have a polite interaction with a former acquaintance or friend - had they been friends, she did not know. “I’m not used to people bidding me a good anything,” she said eventually, trying a smile of her own.
Helen chuckled. “I see.” For a brief moment, they were both quiet, Helen still on the back of her horse, riding at Carol’s pace.
“I saw you watching me today.” Helen was the first to break the silence.
“Everyone was watching you,” Carol shrugged.
Helen seemed almost disappointed at that answer as if she’d been hoping for something else.
“I thought I recognised you, so I watched you to see if I really did.” It was only a half-lie.
Helen nodded. “I see.” She tilted her head to the side. “And did you really?
“It’s hard to forget Lady Helen Umstead.” Carol looked up at Helen again. “You’ve hardly changed, my lady.”
Helen laughed at that, a real laugh, the kind that made one throw their head back. “Now you are just lying.” Her eyes twinkled down at Carol.
Carol did not shake her head, nor did she insist that lied she had not, though she truly hadn’t. Helen still looked beautiful. The years had not touched her beauty. Time had only hardened her features and carved some wrinkles into her face, but she still had the same lovely face, freckled where the sun kissed it regularly.
“I haven’t forgotten you either, Miss Sturka—or is it Mrs something now? I noticed you do not live in your father’s house anymore, so do you live in your husband’s instead?”
Carol noted Helen had not corrected her when she called her Helen Umstead still, yet she now asked about Carol’s married name. Still, she shook her head truthfully. “Still Ms. Sturka,” Carol replied. “The house is my own. I was gifted it by the previous owner.”
Helen nodded. “The local witch. I remember her.”
Carol turned to her fully now and Helen halted her horse. “I am the local witch now, did no one tell you?”
Helen shrugged, petting her horse’s neck. “They did tell me,” she admitted, “but I wanted to see for myself… hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” She smiled lightly at Carol. “Besides, I never much cared about such things. Witches do not scare me.”
Carol gave a curt nod in response to that.
“Well it depends on what kind of witch you are, of course,” Helen teased. “Are you a mere kitchen witch making potions and charms or have you truly sold your soul to the Devil?.”
Carol raised her brow. “Perhaps you should ask those who secretly come to me for my help.” She turned away from Helen, stomping up the little path that led to her front door. Helen had only meant to jest, but Carol didn’t like to be reminded what people thought of witches?
“Well, goodbye,” Helen called, still sat on her horse. “Until next time. We are, after all, certain to run into each other again sooner rather than later.”
Carol didn’t know if the prospect of that made her feel happy, anxious or both. She had become so accustomed to her solitude that company had become an almost fearful thing. “Yes,” she said eventually, turning slowly back towards Helen by her now opened door. “Goodbye to you too, my lady.”
Helen shook her head. “Helen. Call me Helen.” And with that, she spurred on her horse and raced down the path. Carol watched until she had disappeared from her line of sight, then she closed the door to her cottage behind her and locked it.