The necromancer has branded me with his kiss, and while my body bears his mark I know it goes deeper than that. My soul bears it, too.
Seven winters later
“Get to the back of the line, witch.”
A hard elbow jabs me in the ribs and pushes me out of the queue. Penra Griegal takes my place in line for the bakery, the spot I’ve been shivering in for nearly two hours. The crops were poor again this year and there’s little grain being milled. The crops are poor every year, actually.
Penra’s hard eyes dare me to challenge her. I glance at the long line of silent villagers and there’s not one friendly face looking back at me. I could leave, cloaked in my own cowardice as I have so many other days, not wanting to make a fuss, not wanting to upset the people who already hate me so much.
If I go to the back of the queue there’ll only be burnt loaves by the time I reach the front and Papa can’t chew them as he’s only got three teeth left. Or there’ll be no bread at all after waiting for so long in the cold.
I’m just so tired of the unfairness of it all. “This is my spot. You’ve no right.”
Penra’s always been a heavyset girl and she knows how to throw her weight around. Securing her shopping basket over her arm she shoves me hard. I’m ready for her and I grab her by both wrists, forcing her to the side. My left hand touches her sleeve.
My assailant immediately begins to wail, drawing back in ostentatious horror. “Heaven preserve me! She nearly touched me with the evil eye!”
I can feel everyone’s loathing gaze on me, but I don’t move. Stupid girl, I can’t hurt her. The mark on my hand does nothing but cause me trouble.
Penra sees that I’m not going to back down and a nasty glint comes into her eyes. “Dirty witch. Sorcerer’s slut.”
Blood rushes to my face. I’m used to people calling me unclean or saying that I bear the evil eye but only I know what he did to me as I lay upon the bed. Only I know about the kiss.
Penra sees that her words have hit their mark and her face lights with triumph. She opens her mouth to say again, louder, that I’m the sorcerer’s slut, and I see red.
I pull back my hand and slap her across the face. Hard. With my left hand. I’ve been left-handed since that day. He changed me.
The instant I feel Meremon’s mark connect with Penra’s flesh I know I’ve done the wrong thing.
Everyone around us gasps, hands to their mouths. Penra staggers back a step, real fear in her eyes now. I touched her with my mark. I hit her with my mark.
There are angry faces all around me and I turn tail and run, tears blurring my eyes. I hate Meremon. I hate him so much for what he’s done to me.
That night I prepare a pathetic dinner of vegetables and the last of the dry cheese for my father and little brothers and sisters, not speaking to any of them, wishing Mama was still alive to tell me that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, that it’s not my fault, that the mark is just a mark and nothing more. I wouldn’t believe her, but it would be a small comfort. We all go to bed hungry and unhappy.
In the morning, things take a turn for the worse.
We’re awoken at dawn by hammering on the front door. I ease the sleeping Ilsa aside, my youngest sister who is just six years old, and clamber out of bed, making it to the door at the same time as Papa. When he opens it a flurry of snow greets us along with two angry faces.
Penra and her father.
Mr. Griegal points a shaking finger in my face. “Your daughter has cursed our family.”
I stare at him, bewildered, and then at Penra. Her cheek where I touched her is unmarred.
“Gillie is going to die,” Penra sobs. “You witch. You evil witch.”
Gillie is Penra’s baby brother. Papa closes the door on them and turns to stare at me with milky eyes. He’s so old now, and very weak since Mama died. He doesn’t understand what is happening and I’m too ashamed to tell him what I did.
I only slapped her. I didn’t curse her.
I looked down at the star burned into the center of my palm like a malevolent eye.
Did I?
A few hours later Ilsa falls ill with a fever and we know right away that it’s no ordinary malady. As she tosses about on the bed she mutters strange words and sickly colors flash across her skin. It’s the same thing that happened to me when I fell ill. I sponge her forehead with a damp cloth, dread boiling in my belly.