The Witch's Candelabra

Chapter 12 - Shadows and Whispers

Braids

In those serene moments just after waking, when the world is still a blur and my surroundings are a mystery, there's a sense of contentment. Everything in my room looms in a tranquil, beautiful reality, free from judgment. It's a moment where reality and self are distinctly separated. But as the world gradually floats back into memory, I find myself yearning, if only briefly, for that ignorance again. To not know who I am or the meaning of the things that surround me, like the old books and trinkets on my shelves, bathed in the faded light seeping through silk curtains from the world outside.

Why do we endure it? Day after day, floating through existence without clear purpose. Today, I wandered the streets, my eyes falling on the unremarkable faces passing by. Men in hats and polished suits, their fingers adorned with rings, canes in hand. Women in flowing dresses, rippling in the November breeze. This town offers me so little.

Dressed in my usual black frilled skirt, button-down vest, white gloves, and frilled top hat, I prepared myself for the day. My belt, filled with various spices, clinked softly as I moved across the room to light the candelabra. The large, leather-bound spellbook on the table served as a haven for spiders, a testament to its age and disuse. The days have become routine, even with the minor disturbance caused by that man, Damian. It was still shocking to think that someone had come looking for the candelabra. But then again, it must have come from somewhere, and its previous owner must have known its specialness, even if they never delved into creating a spellbook fueled by curiosity like I did.

Feeling a sense of loneliness, I sought camaraderie from the only ones I could trust, the ones who listen but cannot act. I sprinkled cinnamon and tree bark bits into the candelabra's cylinders, watching as the small fire crackled to life. I placed a vine leaf, pulled from my neighbor's garden, over the fire. The leaf began to burn, emitting a popping green flame. I bathed my right hand in the green fire, watching as it glowed momentarily, green ash building under my fingertips. Then, with my other hand, I repeated the ritual with a crunchy dead leaf picked up from a previous walk. This time, the flame burned a rusty brown, and I carefully placed my left hand underneath, keeping the right behind my back to avoid cross-spell contamination.

Whispering an incantation, "Oh heavens, give me a kiss," I felt a sudden transformation. Black wings burst forth from my back, stretching high and wide in the dawning light of a new day. This ritual, part of my routine yet always magical, was a reminder of the extraordinary hidden within the ordinary. It was moments like these that kept the mundanity of life at bay, a small rebellion against the unremarkable existence that the town offered.

***

Walking home, my mind wandered through a maze of thoughts, reflecting on a lesson my father once shared. "Trust," he said, "is giving someone the power to hurt you." This notion lingered in my head, weaving through my consciousness. Trust involves sharing a secret, something deeply personal, and in doing so, you hand over a piece of your vulnerability. That shared secret becomes a tool that could be used for emotional embarrassment or worse. We don't entrust others with information that we don't mind being spread; it's the secrets that matter, the ones that could wound us if revealed, that truly test our trust.

As I walked, the silhouettes of the buildings and trees around me faded into the background, mere shadows against the tapestry of my thoughts. In my world of magic and secrecy, trust becomes an even more complex concept. But then, there are the Gemool. They exist in a realm apart from mine, unable to influence anything or communicate with anyone in my reality. In their ethereal state, they are as removed from the consequences of the living world as one can be. I can confide in them, share my innermost thoughts without fear of repercussion, for they are inconsequential to the tangible reality.

In their passive existence, the Gemool are probably the closest to what one might consider trustworthy, even more so now than when they were alive. In life, they were passive, unassertive, and now, as mere echoes of their former selves, they wield even less influence.

These thoughts brought a sense of solace, a realization that in a world where trust is a rare commodity, I had found a safe haven in the company of spirits. They were my confidants, the keepers of my secrets, in a world where such a role was too risky for the living. As the city lights began to flicker on, casting a warm glow on the path ahead, I felt a sense of peace, knowing that in the midst of complexity and caution, I had found a simple, albeit unconventional, form of trust.