"And they all lived happily ever after," I read aloud and sighed inaudibly. I had come here to calm down, not to be reminded of the previous summer. I gently closed the book of fairy tales. "Mr. Hughes, do you have anything new that I can take with me?"
Mr. Hughes, Ilah's only librarian, peers down from the ladder he is perched on. His feather duster, which had been moving at the speed of light just a moment before, stilled in an instant.
"Already, Myalah?" His incredulous tone did not match the quizzical expression on his face. "I would have thought that book would last you another hour or so."
I shrugged. "My speed and skill can only grow. Besides, it was an easy book."
"Which was your favorite?" Mr. Hughes asked.
"There are so many! I can hardly choose," I replied truthfully. Well, it was half the truth. There truly were too many tales to determine one favorite, but the whole truth was that I had skimmed half of them. The happily ever afters had been too much for me, especially after the nightmare I'd awoken from that morning.
Mr. Hughes gave me a stern look, and I knew instantly that I had slipped up. "Myalah," He began in his infamous lecturing voice, "you and I both know that no number of tales is ever too large for you not to have a favorite. Now tell me, what was so horribly wrong that made you skim that book."
I gave him a sad smile and said, "Really, nothing was horribly wrong. It's just that... well, you've heard the stories circulating around the village about me, haven't you?"
"Myalah, there are always rumors about you. You have to be more specific as to which one."
I smiled again, though this one was more forced than the last. "Surely you know which ones I speak of! The ones about my love life?" My failed love life, I silently added.
Mr. Hughes' face fell. "Of course I do," he answered softly. "I am so sorry Myalah. I should have known. I should have thought it through before I gave that book of tales to you. You've just—been acting so much like your usual self, and you've always loved fairy tales—"
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. As much as it hurt to have this conversation, it was bound to happen. There was no reason for me not to forgive him. Plus, it was impossible to hold grudges against sweet Mr. Hughes, a lesson I had learned years ago.
"No need to apologize. How could you have known?"
He gave me a quizzical but concerned look. "Truly, Mr. Hughes. I am fine," I rushed to reassure him.
The expression lingered for a moment longer before he turned to face the wall again and called, "Well, I have no new fiction that does not include romance, but I do have a new book on flowering plants. I have yet to relocate it to its proper home."
I grinned as he said "home." One of my favorite things about Mr. Hughes was that he treated books as if they were living creatures. He treated them as if they had feelings and deserved utmost respect. Home to him did not mean the shelves where the books would stay; it meant home, companionship, family. The forty-something residents of this library were lucky to have Mr. Hughes, as was I. I too had began calling the library a home since they day I'd discovered it.
Mr. Hughes had presumably continued to speak as I had thought on my good memories. As I refocused my mind on the present, he concluded his speech with his usual, "Do you know where to find it?"
I only nodded in response although his back was still turned. He had not been expecting an answer anyway; the two of us knew that I could navigate the small library as well as he could.
I stood up from my seat and made my way to the shelves. On the far left, there was a small section labeled, "New Arrivals." I drew the book from its place next to two other titles. Mr. Hughes had been right; both books included romance.
I sighed and made my way back to my favorite corner which was where I had been sitting previously. As I adjusted my position in my chair, I flipped through the Table of Contents. I could not suppress the wave of joy and relief that washed over me when I saw that, yes, the book did have sections on flowering quince and calla lilies.
I turned to the page on flowering quince first. I breathed in the calming scent of fresh pages and traced the drawing of my mother's favorite flower—my favorite flower.
I felt a light breeze pull a lock of hair loose from my braid as it encircled my head and heard its swoosh as it tucked the strand behind my ear. I saw my silver mist swirl around me as a tingling sensation rushed up my arms from my fingertips. The artist must have been talented if my magic recognized my chosen flower.
My lips turned upwards as I thought of the day that I'd bound my strength to the plant. Things had been simple then. I was five. I had been at Ilah's only park with my father, under the tree on the highest hill. I had reached for one of the branches to pluck a bloom from it when my father had told me to stop.
He told me not to take one; the branches had thorns. I had been puzzled. Wasn't it roses that had thorns? My father had agreed that yes, roses had thorns, but so did flowering quince. This did not stop me from picking a bloom off the tree anyway.
My father had scolded me, but he had been laughing. He told me that the flowering quince was my mother's favorite flower, and in that moment, it became mine too.
I remembered how the tree's lifeforce had reached for me, reached for my magic. I remembered how my magic eagerly reached back. I remembered the swirl of orange, pink, red, and silver that their touch elicited and how much stronger I'd felt. The memory of my bond was sweet, and it was one that always made me smile.
However, as usual, a bitter taste followed. That same day, my father had made me promise never to pick a rose. I had promised because I'd hated roses. I thought them ugly. That promise had established my weakness.
I shook my head to clear it and flipped to the page on calla lilies. I had just put my finger down on the first word when the door to the library opened with a bang.
"Myalah!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "I knew I would find you here!"
The shout cut through the tranquil atmosphere. I shushed my best friend, my only friend. "Wynnie, this is a library. What are you doing barging in so rudely?"
"Barging? What do you mean barging? And what does this being a library have to do with anything?" Though Wynnifred Dawson sounded affronted, her brown eyes gleamed with humor.
"I've explained this to you before. When you are in a library, you must be—"
"Myalah," she interjected. Wynnie had an undertone of urgency that made me pause.
"Yes?"
"We need to go to the square now. All girls our age must be there."
"What? Why?"
"I'll explain on the way," she replied as she shoved me across the building and towards the door.
I flashed Mr. Hughes an apologetic smile. I was his only visitor, and now my time with him was being cut short. "Thank you for the book Mr. Hughes!" I called over my shoulder.
"Anytime, Myalah. And I am so—" That was all I heard before I was unceremoniously flung into the streets and swallowed by the roar of Ilah.
........................................................................................................................
"So, are you going to tell me why we are in such a hurry?" I asked Wynnie, though my attention was focused on my book. I had opened it to the pages on calla lilies and had pasted a smile onto my face that could fool even my best friend. Wynnie and my book were the only protection I had from my problems. People thought my beauty and my smile were too, but they were sources of my problems. "And where we are going and why I had to leave the library? You know I would rather be there than here."
The April breeze playfully nipped my neck and tossed my hair. I unconsciously flipped my simple plait back over my shoulder and awaited her response.
"Yes, Myalah. I know," Wynnie must have rolled her eyes. I could hear it injected in her voice. "You would rather hang out with books than with your best friend."
I noted how she skirted my question and glanced up at her to see if she was joking. I was relieved to see her eyes twinkling with humor and mischief. I gave her a small, genuine smile. "Not true, but they do increase my small group of friends."
She snorted. "Of course. Too bad none of them are real. Actually, scratch that. If they were real, I'd have too many people to compete with for your attention. Then I'd have to rely on Becca for companionship."
I laughed and looped my arm through hers. "Then it is a good thing they are not! I would not want you to rely on your last resort for company."
Wynnie snorted again. "No, you would not."
I directed my attention back to my book. I could almost feel my mother's hand on the page, even though she had been dead for my whole life. My magic could feel it too; I knew my mist was acting up, swirling about in patterns and shapes of all sizes.
"Calla lilies? I thought flowering quince was your favorite," Wynnie commented, peering at my book. That was when the comments began.
There were whispers, there were murmurs, and then there were those that were clearly meant to be murmurs but were not. Some were subtle while others were not. It did not matter. They always came, and though I did not like them, I was accustomed to them.
"Here comes the Lady of the Mist."
"Lady? She is but a lass!"
"Why not use her name? Does she even have one?"
"Ye Idiot! O' course she has one! All humans do!"
"But she is not human."
"I thought she was. Her father is Mr. Hart."
"Yeah, and was her mother?"
"She was a Lady O' Mist too."
"Look at all that mist! What is it doing?"
"Mommy, I want to look as beautiful as her when I grow up."
"She is so beautiful, Mother, don't you agree?"
"Father, why did ye not marry a woman as beautiful as her? Why did you not marry her?"
"A book, always with a book."
"Of course. She would not be our Lady O' Mist if she was not carrying a book."
"Do you not find her infatuation with books a bit odd?"
"Infatuation? It is not an infatuation. But, yes, I do find her affinity and habits peculiar."
"What is it you think she is reading?"
"I am illiterate, ye oaf."
"She may be beautiful, but she be a bit too odd for me, what with her reading."
"And don't forget her magic."
"How could I? The lass reeks of it! Do you see that mist?"
"Ah, Miss. Hart and her mist."
"I wonder what that witch is up to..."
"Why must we call her a witch? Why not an enchantress?"
"She brews potions and such. Does that not make her a witch?"
I blocked out all the remarks, all the noise, and focused on Wynnie's question. "The calla lily was my mother's flower," I finally replied.
"I thought her favorite was the flowering quince, like yours."
"It was, but my mother did not become the most powerful witch in the eight kingdoms by following the rules, did she?" I answered through a dry chuckle.
Wynnie gave my a questioning look and opened her mouth to voice her thoughts when a conversation broke through the mental barrier I had created moments before. It was a group of boys our age, and though their words were of me, they were not those I was accustomed to.
"There goes the winner," the first said.
"You truly believe she will win?" another asked.
"She is the most beautiful girl in all the land. How can she not?" the first responded incredulously.
"Ye mean in Ilah. We don't know of the other lands or even the other towns and villages. And what of 'er magic?" a third added.
"If her beauty doesn't charm the Beast, then her magic will," the first boy affirmed, exuding confidence.
Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle fit into place. Why we were in a rush. Why all eligible women were required at the square. Why Wynnie had yet to answer my questions.
I turned on her. "Wynnie, does this happen to have anything to do with the Crown Prince? And perhaps Valennia's ancient customs?"
She nodded guiltily.
I wanted to scream. I knew all about Valennia's customs, current and ancient, from a book I had read once. Officially named the Princess Picking—though it was more commonly referred to as a competition or a contest and was a picking for princesses rather than from princesses contrary, to what it seemed—was one of the kingdom's most ancient and most outdated practices.
Each Princess Picking was different, but the fundamentals remained the same. There were three to eight rounds of the competition, throughout which the prince's prospects decreased from one hundred sixty maidens to one. The first round consisted of an initial picking from all the towns and living in the castle for a week. During that week, contestants were questioned and observed. If the royals approved of a contestant, that contestant would advance to the next round. If they did not, the contestant was sent home.
There were rules and consequences as well, but I had skipped over that section when I'd read that the death penalty was applied to any competitor who either had a lover or who did not put effort into the event.
On top of all that, so much of the competition relied on beauty. Beauty! The initial picking was based on appearance, the entire first round hinged on observation, and if one was caught breaking the rules, one might go unpunished should they smile prettily. In other words, this was the tradition I loathed the most.
"And you were planning to tell me this when? Certainly not when I asked why I was rushed out of the library." I slammed the still open book shut, only feeling guilty at the rough treatment for a second.
"Myalah, I was going to tell you. I did say I would on the way, and we have yet to reach the village square," Wynnie's voice hardened as she spoke.
"The village square? They chose the most visible spot in Ilah for our initial picking?" I yelped. "And you want me to go?"
"Relax, Myalah. It will be fine. You have the option not to participate when you are chosen." I noted her use of when not if.
"That is comforting—if I'd like to live the rest of my life in disgrace," I retorted.
"It's not disgrace... Wait. You've read a book on this, haven't you." It was not a question.
"Yes, Wynnie, I have. To decline an invitation would be considered disrespectful. It would put all of Ilah in shame. Then, everyone in Ilah would turn their backs on me, and I'd rather not have that as I am already loathed enough."
"Has that happened before?"
"Yes, it has. Not with one such as myself, by which I mean a witch, but yes, it has happened."
"Which village? I've never heard anything about this."
"Not a village. It was a town."
"Was?"
"Oh yes. It does not exist anymore."
"What? Should we not have—" She was cut off.
"Hi Wynnie!" exclaimed an overly-enthusiastic voice.
"Becca," Wynnie reciprocated with less enthusiasm. "What are you doing here?" The question was rhetorical as Rebecca Windslor was the same age as us.
"I'm here for the same reason as you, of course! The Princess Picking! It's exciting, isn't it? I wonder who will win."
I cleared my throat, having gone unnoticed. "Hello, Becca."
"Oh. Hi. Myalah, is it? I hadn't realized you were here."
She did not need to ask. She was the only villager other than my father and Wynnie who knew my name. And she had known I was there. She'd simply chosen to ignore me.
"So, Wynnie," she continued as if were not there. "We should hurry. They are asking all the eligible women to line up in the square as we speak!"
"You mean as you speak," I heard Wynnie mutter before she adopted a friendlier expression and tone. "You are right, Becca."
"Of course I am!" She squealed. She wrenched Wynnie's arm from mine. "Let's go!"
As she was pulled away, Wynnie threw an apologetic smile my way. I stifled a giggle. It did not hurt to see my best friend being dragged away by Becca. In fact, I was quite used to it. I found solace in the fact that my friend did not truly think of Becca as a companion; she only humored her.
With no one there to stop me or reprimand me for my pace, I returned to my book and immersed myself in the world of flowers.