“What does that even mean?”
“Witches are limited in our choice of payment methods. Why mortals insist on paying us back when they don’t have to is beyond me. It’s why I stopped doing the traveling-witch circuit. No health benefits, just clumps of hair and rotting hearts.”
Risa tripped over a root, but it didn’t stop her from asking, “Why not go for the hair first? Seems a lot easier.” Though her hair was currently tied at the nape of her neck, Risa usually possessed an unruly mane of dark, frizzy hair that shed far more than she liked. So she could imagine how unsavory random clumps of hair could be.
“There’s an order to things. Firstborn child, followed by a still-beating heart, then a sizable clump of hair. That’s why witches don’t demand payment, unless they’re into the villain thing.”
It didn’t help to hear the explanation after all, mostly because it didn’t actually explain anything. Who had come up with the system anyway? It only made her angry at her parents and their choices. Her parents didn’t have to make some stupid deal with some stupid witch. In their eagerness, they had accidentally bartered her away.
“Perhaps you should meet with your witch council and rewrite the laws,” she said, rather unhelpfully.
The witch cast her a strange look that made those black, fathomless eyes flash yellow, but said nothing.
Risa huffed at the witch’s stubborn silence. “What will you do with me, then?”
“I obviously have no use for a girl.”
“Obviously,” Risa parroted.
“And I don’t need a roommate—my last one had a hoarding problem.” Brunhilda did not pause as she tapped her knobby chin, then stroked a particularly long, wiry hair that grew from her jaw. “I’ve decided you’re going to a wedding.”
“I beg your pardon?” Risa could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Though she had no idea what being in an ocean felt like, she knew there was a wave threatening to drown her right there in the Bosque. She’d been joking about being a bride—she was too young! She hadn’t had her first kiss. She wasn’t sure she would even enjoy kissing.
“This is my last project for the king, and then I’m retiring,” the witch said, as if that answered everything.
“But I’m bad luck,” Risa whispered, unable to stop the wordsfrom rushing out. She had no desire to be the one to blame when an untimely earthquake interrupted the wedding.
“You can’t see beyond your own nose.” There was a hint of sadness in the witch’s words. “Bad luck isn’t even real.”
“Oh, I can assure you it’sreal.” Risa pointed at herself, then at the witch. “But if you help break my curse—”
“What curse?” the witch asked, with a curl to her thin lips.
“The one that got me stuck here with you,” Risa mumbled to herself, because it was clear that Brunhilda was going to be impossible.
Brunhilda dismissed her words with a wave. “You will accompany Prince Javier of Kheadon to his arranged marriage. Once he arrives in one piece and marries his betrothed, I will consider your parents’ agreement settled.”
Risa stopped short and released a loud guffaw of disbelief.
Prince Javi was gettingmarried?
The seventh and youngest son of the Kheadish king—el principito, as he was affectionately called—whose philandering ways were fodder for the rumor mill. After Risa, he was the town’s second-favorite person to gossip about. When he wasn’t darting between theaters and pubs and the houses of the noblesse to do his flirting, he was avoiding royal responsibility by escaping to his summer home in the green meadows outside the capital, or by heading to a nearby spring for weeks of debauchery. Occasionally, he’d stumble into some far-reaching village and choose one lucky commoner to chase, until they inevitably fell for his charm and he grew bored and left.
Given his reputation, this wedding was difficult to believe. Prince Javi settling down was a dream that those between the ages of nine and sixty could only hope to be a part of.
Risa wasnotone of those people. She didn’t hate Prince Javi, but she certainly couldn’t tamp down the flare of jealousy she felt at his sheer good fortune. The prince could do as he wished, responsible for nothing except his own entertainment, adored despite his many flaws. No cloud of bad luck hanging over his head and darkening every doorstep he stood before.
To be loved by all. To go where he pleased. To be free.
“What on earth am I supposed to do?” Risa asked, arms crossed as she went back to stomping through the Bosque.
Brunhilda’s wiry brows drew together in consideration before she offered a shrug. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“But why?” Risa moaned. “He must have a personal guard who can better protect him than a newly turned seventeen-year-old girl.”
“You’re definitely right about that,” Brunhilda observed, though her tone carried something strange in it. The back of Risa’s neck tingled as she tried to place it, but the witch moved on before she could. “I’m just too old and tired to gallivant across the kingdom. I should have retired years ago.”
“Centuries,” Risa agreed.