Bereft: Foretold

7 | A Wayward Word

While the storm raged and the rain painted Verweald in its darkening influence, Saule Ozlin sat behind the counter in Baba Yaga's Inkwell and was none the wiser to what was happening in the rest of the city. She was content to have her headphones on, to turn up her music, and to forget everything else as she stapled labels to different pouches of herbs and hummed the techno beat.

The parlor was warm and pungent with the aroma of tropical plants and the perfume of far too many witches crammed into a small space. The storm had them all on edge, and some of the enchantresses couldn't help but throw sparks of animation into everything they touched—which meant half the store's stock was now floating toward the ceiling or winging through the air like an unleashed flock of birds.

Saule grumbled under her breath at the thought of the mess they'd leave behind once morning came—but, for now, she ignored the inevitable disaster and hoped the coven Mistress wouldn't blame her for whatever was damaged.

She slipped from her stool when a potted rhododendron flew by and collided with the back wall.

"Oh, twist my twig—Saule!" The girl responsible for the plant's wayward journey crawled part way over the counter to find Saule sprawled on the floor in a puddle of fertilizer and pot fragments. The girl was only fifteen and had almost no control over her own spark. "I'm sorry!"

"You're cleaning this up, Tanya," Saule grumbled as she got to her feet and fixed her headphones. The rhododendron's roots flailed when they found purchase on her leg and tried to scale the short witch's body. Saule yelped and beat at the aggressive plant. "What did you even do to this thing?!"

From the other end of the counter came Yavanna's ill-mannered tsk. She sat upon a stool like Saule's, her wizened legs bent at the knees and crossed beneath her diminutive weight. The old witch was hunched over a basket of withered roots balanced on her lap and was working the dirty strands into a series of complicated knots.

"Like a spooked cat, this one," Yavanna said with a glance in Saule's direction. "Riled up as much as the others, say one word to her and she'll scratch your eyes out."

Saule's face turned a delicate shade of pink. "I'm not riled." She whacked at the bush and ripped out handfuls of fleshy mauve flowers, pulping them in her hands. Her sisters watched with blatant amusement as their coven healer succeeded in decapitating a plant. 

"Riled. The whole mess of you!" Yavanna directed her glare out over the other witches as they returned to either their conversations or ruining Saule's store. "Ill omens abound, I say."

"Ill omens, Grandma Yavanna?" Tanya asked as she adjusted her glasses and tossed a sympathetic glance Saule's way. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the feeling of ice drippin' down your spine, girl," Yavanna snapped. "Like a Lich's breath pouring over your skin. Spring should be outside our door—and we wake to this calamity, this storm ragin'. Nataliya needs to initiate a viewing with the other sorceresses of the coven and scry for changes in the world's weaving."

"I'm sure Mistress Voronin's busy enough without starting up a scrying scare," Saule said as she pulled the last of the sharp leaves from about her thigh. An orange mana pot zoomed by and clipped the side of her head. "Oi! That is expensive! Put it back!"

Muttering muddled witch swears, Yavanna tossed the root she'd been manipulating to the floor. The hulking malamute below scarfed it up, leaving behind a wet stain on the hardwood from his incessant drooling. His coat, once a mixture of soft white and black fur, had been replaced by glossy navy feathers. The poor beast appeared like a grounded, wingless crow with a pair of bright blue eyes.