The Herbwitch's Apprentice Ireen Chau (best life changing books txt) 📖

My stomach turned. I was in no mood to eat, but I reached over nonetheless.

“Psst. Little flower.”

There was only one person who called me that. “Erasmus?” I scrambled to the floor and peered through the slot.

Sure enough, it was the inspector.

“I heard through the grapevine you wanted to see me,” he said, squinting through the poor lighting. He was sprawled on the floor too. There was no sign of guards around him. “They found out, huh?”

“Yes.” I shifted closer on my elbows, ignoring the straw digging into my skin. “I wanted to see you but it doesn’t matter now. They’re going to kill me in a week.”

Erasmus grumbled. “I see. To think I wasted a dose of sleeping draught to hear that.”

A thunderous snore sounded from outside.

“Thank you for visiting, anyhow,” I said. “You’re the only person in the palace who isn’t afraid of me.”

“What about that prince of yours?”

My throat tightened at the mention of Ash. I wiped the spilled porridge away with a handful of straw.

“Ah. I see.” Erasmus harrumphed. “I’ll give him a good talking to after this.”

“Don’t bother,” I said quietly. I shut my eyes and sighed. “But since you’re here I have a favor to ask.”

Erasmus left shortly after with instructions to notify the Strongfoots what had happened. Genevieve would have to pass on the news to Theodora and Rowena.

My heart ached to think how they would react. My nannies would no doubt blame themselves for not taking my magic away in the first place. Too little too late. I had made the choice to be a witch. Magic was in my blood.

And I loved it.

If only I had listened to Lana. If only I hadn’t been so stubborn, so adamant to prove to her that I could use my magic to help humans.

I curled into a ball and buried my face between my knees. Moisture soaked my dress. Whether it was my tears or the porridge I left untouched, I did not care to know.

29

I was in the ballroom again. Dancers swirled through my periphery but I was focused on someone else.

Papa.

He stood beside the refreshments table surrounded by a gaggle of women I didn’t recognize. Silver bells hung from their wrists.

I pushed forward, trying to get his attention. “Papa!”

He kept chattering with his companions. Then I noticed he wasn’t wearing his spectacles and his hair was not streaked with gray.

A woman whispered something into his ear. He threw back his head and laughed. His smile was unlined.

There was only one explanation—I was dreaming. But it didn’t feel like a dream. The floor beneath me was solid. I smelled the perfume in the air and the enticing aromas from the refreshments table. The dancers’ dresses brushed my arms. I looked down. I was wearing the copper embroidered gown Papa had given me for my sixteenth birthday.

Whether it was a dream or something else didn’t matter. Papa was paces away. I needed to speak with him. As I took a step forward, the women around him turned their heads.

Then I saw a woman in a purple dress—the woman I had dreamed of so long ago. This time, I knew who she was.

Mama emerged from the crowd of dancers and rushed toward the refreshments table. She was beaming, her face flushed and shiny from dancing as she piled puff pastries onto a tiny plate. I stared as I had never stared before. She was mere inches away from me, solid and alive.

As a child I often wondered what she looked like. Papa described her as lovely with laughter as sweet and clear as bells, which wasn’t nearly enough for a seven-year-old to paint a mental picture.

I was shocked to see how much she looked like me. The freckles on her cheeks. The thick eyebrows. The brown hair. She haphazardly stacked another pastry onto her plate. It was like looking into a mirror.

She continued down the refreshments table, now closer to Papa. His gaze was fixated on her. The distance between them shrunk as she kept piling tarts and sandwiches onto her plate until she finally bumped into him, sending her tower of snacks tumbling back onto the table.

The unknown women around him dispersed and so did the rest of the dancers. It was only Mama and Papa. His lips formed her name. The ballroom disappeared and I fell through the floor.

Then, I was back home, standing amongst the marigold bushes. Mama and Papa rushed through the gate, laughing and holding hands. My late grandparents were smiling by the door as the two of them embraced. The scene changed again.

We were in the crop field surrounding Witch Village. Papa looked around in wonder as Mama tugged him along.

Then it was another scene. Mama lay in a bed, her belly swollen.

The next scene depicted the birth of a wailing child. The rest flashed by in lightning speed.

Lana shouting.

Mama crying.

Papa alone in his study with me in his arms.

Mama in the dungeons. Then darkness.

I shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was inside Lana’s cottage. Soft daylight streamed in through the circular windows and the smell of chrysanthemum tea perfumed the air. I gripped the bench I sat on.

“Lana?” I called out hesitantly.

“Your aunt is not here, darling. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

I stared, paralyzed, as my mother walked in through the door. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. They were the same shade as mine.

“Mama?” I whispered.

The hands that took my fingers were as warm and soft and solid as I hoped. “Yes, darling. It’s me,” she said with a voice as soothing and sweet as honey.

I threw my arms around her, burying myself into her embrace. She smelled like roses.

“There, there,” she said, gently stroking my hair. “Look at how you’ve grown.”

I pulled away and blinked away my tears. Papa was right. She was lovely. “Is this real?” I said, my lip trembling.

“It’s as real as that crystal around your neck,” she said, seating herself beside me. The