Jennifer Adam - The Last Windwitch

A BREEZE TUGGED dark strands of Bridas hair across her eyes and tangled them around the rosebud shed stuck behind her ear. With a sharp, impatient yank, she shoved the hair out of her face and dashed down the road, following the murmur of voices.

Shed never been allowed to participate in the Day of Remembering because Mother Magdi said it was too dangerous, but the hedgewitch had gone to nurse a child with lung fever, so Brida seized the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity.

She knew, of course, that the Day of Remembering was also forbidden by Queens Law, but Oak Hollow was in a forgotten corner near the farthest rim of Fenwood Reach, so what did it matter? Mother Magdi and the town goodwives might whisper about the queens spies, but everyone in town would be heading for the crossroads.

Brida swallowed the lemon-sour pucker of guilt and promised herself shed make up for it later by sweeping the barn or cleaning Mother Magdis saddle.

Right now, she needed to hear the stories for herself. Twelve summersnearly thirteen!was old enough.

Clenching her fists, she raced through a tunnel of arching trees and past Wayfarers Well, where tired and thirsty farmers or traders could pause in the shade to sip cool water from a battered tin cup. Today a handful of unfamiliar people clustered around it, cheeks gaunt with hunger and eyes dull.

Bridas feet slowed. The women looked old enough to be goodwivesone even bounced a babe on her hipbut they didnt wear the red shawls customary in Oak Hollow. Instead, black vests laced across their ribs before flaring slightly at their hips. Though their skirts were drab and dust colored, frayed remnants of rich embroidery swirled from their tattered hems to their waists.

The mens trousers were tucked into their scuffed knee-high boots, and they wore battered high-crowned hats with feathers in the brim rather than the simple flat caps Brida was used to seeing. Like the womens skirts, their faded shirts displayed intricate embroidery at collars and cuffs.

Bridas fingers twitched at the thought of how much time and needle skill it must have taken for each garment. Her own stitchespracticed only when Mother Magdi absolutely insistedwould look unbearably clumsy in comparison.

She wondered where these travelers came from, what stories they carried. The valley that held Oak Hollow was an isolated wrinkle of land tucked between forbidding hills and dense forests. It wasnt the sort of place people stumbled across by accident, and these strangers had clearly endured a difficult journey to reach it.

According to Mother Magdi, visitors used to be a rare occasion, but for the last couple of years theyd become more common. She called them refugees, people fleeing famine and hard times from across the queens realm. A few settled in the valley, but most stayed only a day or two before drifting farther away, eyes haunted and lips whispering nightmares.

Brida smiled at the travelers by the well. She could hardly imagine how terrible things must have been to make them leave their homelands with nothing but the packs they could carry. Perhaps theyd find comfort in sharing their experiences, though they didnt return her smile and simply huddled closer together.

But before she could welcome them and explain the Day of Remembering, a burst of familiar laughter from behind the trees sent her skimming past. Dev, the butchers boy. She was in no mood for his trouble, especially when the Voices stories awaited her. When she glanced over her shoulder, the travelers had already turned away.

Maybe she and Mother Magdi could look out for them later.

Dodging past the blacksmiths yard, she hurried down Trade Row, where the craftspeople and shopkeepers lived. Oak Hollow was a small, circular village of stone cottages springing like thatched-roof toadstools from the rich earth, but it boasted some of the best crafters in the region. Their wooden signs swung proudly in the wind: a stack of painted bowls for Goodman Potter; baskets for Goody Withy and her widowed sister; and a needle and thread for Goody Thimblewicket and her son, who sewed clothing so fine it was sent to manor houses for lords and ladies far outside the valley in wealthy cities across Fenwood Reach.

Brida glanced in the empty shop windows as she passed. Everyone had already headed to the crossroads.

Shed heard that in years past, blue streamers and white banners would have fluttered from roof to roof, with garlands of ivy, wild rose, and wisdomflower hanging over every door and window to celebrate this day. She wished she could have seen the traditional decorations before the queens edicts outlawed them, but even so Brida glimpsed scraps of festive blue silk tied to a gate here and there.

And as she approached a small knot of people, she noticed stems of ivy slipped in the goodmens pockets or rosebuds bound in the goodwives braids. Blue ribbon peeked beneath kerchiefs and vests, pinned in brave defiance of Queens Law.

Brida dragged her steps, letting the group round the corner ahead. She wasnt hiding, precisely, but she wasnt all that eager to draw attention to herself, either. Wishing shed thought to wear her cloak despite the warmth of the day, she pinched the hem of her tunic and hoped she could reach the crossroads without anyone deciding they needed to tell Mother Magdi where shed been.

Trade Row ended across from Goodman Hoopers workshop, barrels stacked beside his doorway. Here the town green spread like a mothers apron. Brida and Magdi often came to the weekly market to exchange fruit, vegetables, goats milk or cheese, and magical remedies for things they needed, but today the grassy square was empty and silent.

The inn across the way was doing a brisk business, though, and laughter spilled from the open doorway. Tell us another and Ill buy you a pitcher of ale! someone roared cheerfully. Voices rose and fell in the ebb and flow of conversation.

The Day of Remembering was a day for stories. Small ones, secret ones, sad ones, spooky ones.

True ones.

Bridas heart swooped like a chimney swift and she hurried past the inn toward the bakery. The air held a warm cloud of sugar, spice, yeast, and cream and she couldnt resist following a young couple through the door.

Despite the queens prohibitions, Brida had heard that the baker still observed the old traditions. On the Day of Remembering, he gave away storycakes free to anyone with a tale to tell. Brida wasnt sure what story she could offer, but her stomach rumbled and her mouth watered. Shed begged Mother Magdi to let her taste a storycake for