Chapter 26: A Good Witch

Third POV

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Hecate's studio, casting pale golden rectangles across the stone floor. Shelves of dried herbs lined the walls, their fragrant scent filling the air with something wild and ancient.

A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, covered in mortars, pestles, glass vials, and bundles of roots tied with twine.

Ysabella stood near the window, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression a careful mask of reluctance. She had been assigned to assist the new healer, and she had made it abundantly clear that she was not pleased about it.

Every time Hecate asked for something, Ysabella complied with an exaggerated sigh. A pinch of lavender. Crush these seeds. Heat this water. Each task was met with a roll of her dark eyes and a sharp exhale through her nose.

Hecate worked in silence for a while, grinding dried leaves into a fine powder, her movements precise and unhurried. Then she set down her mortar and turned to face her reluctant assistant.

"You do not need to like me, Lady Ysabella," Hecate said, her voice calm and even. "You only need to tolerate me. That way, we can work together without making every moment unbearable."

Ysabella's jaw tightened. "How generous of you."

"I am not being generous. I am being practical." Hecate picked up a vial of amber oil and held it to the light. "The queen needs help.

You want her to recover because her suffering burdens your husband and your king. I want her to recover because I was brought here to do so. Our reasons may differ, but our goal is the same."

Ysabella stared at her for a long moment, her eyes searching Hecate's face for something. Sincerity, perhaps. Or deception. Finally, she gave a curt nod.

"Fine. Let us get this over with."

They gathered the supplies and made their way through the castle corridors toward Odette's chambers. The queen lay in her bed, her breathing shallow, her face pale as winter snow. She did not stir when they entered. The maid who had been sitting with her rose and curtsied before slipping out.

Hecate approached the bed and placed her hand on Odette's forehead. The skin was cool, almost cold. She turned to Ysabella.

"I need you to massage her legs with this oil." She handed Ysabella a small clay pot filled with a thick, golden salve that smelled of rosemary and something sweeter, like honey and distant rain. "Work from the feet upward. Firm but gentle. The oil will help draw the stagnation from her muscles."

Ysabella hesitated. She had never touched the queen before. Odette had always been distant, cold, wrapped in her own suffering. But Ysabella knelt at the foot of the bed, poured some of the oil into her palms, and began to work.

Meanwhile, Hecate placed both hands on Odette's forehead. She closed her eyes and began to murmur in a language that made the air in the room feel heavier. Ancient words. Words that seemed to come from somewhere deep in the earth, from roots that stretched back to the beginning of all things.

Her fingers began to glow with a soft amber light, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The light spread across Odette's face, sinking into her skin, flowing down her neck and into her chest.

Ysabella watched from the corner of her eye, her hands never stopping their work on the queen's legs. The oil warmed beneath her fingers, and she could feel something shifting beneath Odette's skin, something that seemed to resist and then slowly, reluctantly, release.

After a long while, Hecate withdrew her hands. Her breathing was slightly heavier, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her brow. But Odette's face had changed. Color had returned to her cheeks. Her lips were no longer cracked and grey. She looked almost peaceful.

"It is as if a poison is spreading through her body," Hecate said, her voice quiet. "The king may believe his rage caused her condition, but I sense something deeper. Something darker. There is magic in her. Powerful magic. Black magic."

Ysabella's hands stilled. "What do you mean? Who would curse the queen?"

"I do not know yet. But the poison is not natural. It is woven with intent." Hecate stared down at Odette's sleeping face. "Someone wants her to suffer. Or someone wants the king to suffer through her."

Ysabella felt a chill run down her spine. "Will she recover? Will your treatments work?"

Hecate sighed softly. "Who knows? We will try to expel the poison from her body, session by session. Some poisons can be drawn out. Others have roots that go too deep." She wiped her hands on a cloth. "That is enough for today. We will return tomorrow."

They gathered their supplies and stepped into the corridor. The castle was quiet, the torches flickering in their iron sconces.

And then a small voice called out.

"Mama!"

Aileen came running down the hallway, her dark hair bouncing, her chubby legs carrying her as fast as they could. Her maid followed behind, trying to keep up, apologizing under her breath. Ysabella knelt and caught her daughter in her arms, lifting her onto her hip.

"You are supposed to be in the nursery," Ysabella said, but there was no anger in her voice. Only love.

"I wanted to find you!" Aileen declared, wrapping her small arms around her mother's neck.

Hecate watched the scene with an unreadable expression. Then her gaze softened. "I did not know you had a pup."

Aileen turned her head and saw the healer. Her eyes went wide. She pressed herself closer to her mother, her small fingers clutching Ysabella's gown.

"Who is she, Mama?" the girl whispered, her voice full of suspicion.

Ysabella stroked her daughter's hair. "She is the new healer. Her name is Hecate."

Aileen buried her face in her mother's shoulder. She would not look at the strange woman with the dark eyes and the black cloak.

Ysabella lifted her chin, her expression guarded. "She is afraid of you. Understandable. Who is not afraid of witches?"

The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate.

Hecate did not flinch. She did not defend herself. Instead, she smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that softened the sharp lines of her face. She raised her empty hand and closed her fingers into a loose fist. When she opened them, a small cloth doll rested in her palm. Button eyes. Stitched smile. Hair made of golden yarn.

She held it out to Aileen.

The girl peeked over her mother's shoulder. Her eyes fixed on the doll. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and took it. She turned it over in her small hands, studying its face, its tiny stitched heart on the chest.

A smile broke across her face. "Thank you," she whispered.

Hecate inclined her head. "You are welcome, little one."

Then she looked at Ysabella, her dark eyes steady and calm. "Not all witches are bad, Lady Ysabella. Some of us simply want to help."

Ysabella's expression flickered. Something passed between them, something unspoken and fragile. Then she turned, holding her daughter close, and walked away down the corridor. Her maid followed.

Hecate stood alone in the torchlight, watching them go, the echo of their footsteps fading into silence. She looked down at her empty hand, then back at the empty hallway.

And for just a moment, something like sadness crossed her face.