The Apothecary and the Cursed Prince

By the time Eleonora had reached the little cottage seated at the edge of the Spirit Forest, the reddish hue of dusk in the sky had receded, leaving behind a blanket of dark adorned by the swarm of tiny dots shimmering high up in the air. It was a moonless night, amplifying the darkness that brought together with it a hazy mist — like a fallen cloud with its arms reaching every nook and corner. It blurred her vision and pricked her skin; the cold creeping deep into the bones, alerting her of the incoming winter.

The only visible light was pouring out of the windows of the small cottage, golden and faint. With the Spirit Forest standing tall behind it, the trees attempting to reach the sky and the ashen mist appearing to cling around its feet, the sight was almost picturesque. Like a painting on a canvas, crafted with skilled strokes by a master artist.

They called it the witch's coven.

For Eleonora, it was simply home.

Despite her cottage being on the outskirts of the resident village, away from the normal folks — the isolation being more for their peace of mind than her own — Eleonora couldn't drive away the hate. For it came with her, breathed with her, traced her steps everywhere she went.

With gentle steps, she walked up to her cottage and pressed an ear to the decaying door.

Silence.

Eleonora bit her lip in anticipation of the incoming challenge.

If there was anything worse than the villager's curses, it was her step-mother's anger. For even the villagers cowered away and chose to keep their words to themselves when her step-mother — with a tongue as sharp as dagger and a glare that worked better than a shiny spear — walked their streets.

A deep breath in; a deep breath out. Eleonora pushed the door open and walked in.

Oozing light from several oil lamps stung her eyes that had adjusted to the darkness outside. Eleonora closed her eyes, waiting for the change to settle as she took off her green apothecary robe and turned to hang it on the hook by the door. The smell of bubbling carrot soup and roasted pheasant that rose from the pots in the kitchen and floated around the cottage, tickled her nostrils like a soft feather — making her stomach grumble and reminding her of her poor diet and schedule.

It all felt like the usual supper routine. Her father was stirring the cauldron of vegetable soup on the hearth. Mary, her step-sister, was adding firewood to aid him. Her step-mother was setting the table. And yet, the thick tension in the room could be easily cut by a blunt knife.

Someone had made a huge mistake; Eleonora was confident it was her.

A saucer rattled on the table — her mother's way of greeting her. Eleonora dared not look in her direction. Since her father was avoiding her gaze, a clear tell-tale of him taking her mother's side, Eleonora went to help Mary with the firewood.

She drew the basket away from her. 'Go talk to mother,' Mary whispered.

'She's angry. Help me,' Eleonora pleaded, whispering back.

'It's your fault. I take no part in it.'

Eleonora pressed her lips together. 'Traitor.'

Drawing courage, she looked at her step-mother. Mother. Eleonora corrected herself. She had never considered the additional word anything more than a triviality. It was just a way to explain the relationship a little easily, making it more clear for the understanding of others. It, by no means, made their relationship any distant. But there were times when caution was a necessity.

This particular moment was one of them.

'I'm home, Mama,' Eleonora said, tailing her to draw attention as she set the cutlery down the table with visible animosity. The table was only set for only three. Was she planning to starve her?

'Am I really your Mama?' Margaret asked, refusing to look at her.

'Of course.'

'Then why is it that it was from your father that I heard you went for a stroll in the village all alone?' Margaret turned around, leaving the cutlery on the table in a mess and pinning her at her place with her eyes.

Eleonora took hold of the cutlery and took over the work. 'You were resting after the day's work. I did not wish to wake you up,' she smiled, hoping it would ease some of the anger. 'And I did not create any trouble. Just bought some herbs to take to Albert and checked his condition. He's not doing well, but I'll make some tonics for him tonight. They might help.'

'I care not about anyone else,' declared Margaret, her voice stern, her eyes sharp. 'You are not to go anywhere near the village without me or your father. We left that place to be away from those people so that you can have your peace.'

'What they say about me does not bother me, Mama.'

'But it does to me!' Margaret's hand slammed on the wooden table, making the dishes atop shiver as if with fear. Mary and her father exchanged glances among themselves before silently returning to their respective chores. They knew better than to intervene. When Margaret exploded it always came down to Eleonora to calm her down, including the special incidents when it was herself who had lit the fire.

'No daughter of mine will be a subject to anyone's loathing,' Margaret seared.

Fire blazed in her eyes, but Eleonora took her mother's hand in hers and traced a line over the long scar running down Margaret's palm. It was old and healed and nearly unseen at the first glance, but it was still there. And it must have hurt. Though Margaret would never admit that.

At seven, when Eleonora's father, Hugh, introduced her to Margaret for the first time, she had hated the sight of the woman. Her mother had died at childbirth and her father used to spend his days either working on the farm or downing bottles of ales in grief — or both. Childhood for her was spending her days playing with self-made clay toys, sneaking around the house to explore her mother's herb cabinets, and waiting for her father to return from work.

She was forbidden to go out of the house for reasons she understood much later, and Hugh was barely home during the day to give her company. But she looked forward to the nights when Hugh would sit by her bed at night and tell her stories about her mother. For even if she hadn't met her in person, she had come to love the woman her father had fallen in love with once. In those moments, life had felt like a little bubble with only the two of them inside, happy and safe.

Then Margaret had come along.

By that time, Eleonora had gotten accustomed to the villager's bullying. Being cooped up in her house that was once a choice had become a necessity. And with Margaret coming to live with them in what had become her safe place, made her feel like an intruder in Eleonora's eyes. A needle that was going to burst the bubble she resided in.

With her arrival had come fear. Fear that she would be like the people outside her house, fear that she would steal what little time she got with her father for herself, and fear that she would take her mother's place — even if that place only existed in the stories of the past.

With that fear had come resentment. And Eleonora had left no stone unturned to let Margaret know how unwelcomed she was in her life.

You surely were a difficult child to manage, Margaret would laugh and admit that to her years later when Eleonora would come to love the woman. But before that, Margaret had been patient.

She never scolded her for her shenanigans. She never imposed herself in their father-daughter moments. And she never tried to take her mother's place. Instead, Margaret stayed silent when Eleonora lashed out at. She cooked her favourite meals to ease her anger. She sat by her bed to read her bedtime stories. She even convinced her father to spend more time with his daughter, and bring toys whenever he went to the market. Instead of stopping her from rummaging around her mother's herb cabinets, Margaret bought her book on medicine to learn how and what they were used for. Instead of being the needle that would burst the bubble that Eleonora had formed around her house, Margaret had become a shield, protecting her from the disturbances outside.

The scar on her hand was the substantiation.

Eleonora remembered the day vividly, like it had happened only yesterday.

In their old house in the center of the village.

Its busted door frame.

The broken windows.

Shards of glass scattered on the floor.

The villagers screaming "burn the witch".

And Margaret standing tall with a kitchen knife in her bleeding hands, shielding a nine year-old Eleonora behind her, and daring anyone to do as much as touch her daughter.

'I'm sorry,' Eleonora whispered as she stared at the healed scar on Margaret's hand. It had needed five stitches for it to close. 'I shall not do that again.'

Margaret placed her other hand over their joined ones and sighed. That was all she wanted: an apology and some reassurance. 'All I need is for you to bring me with you when you go out,' she in a soft voice, as if she could tell what Eleonora was thinking about.

'I will, Mama.'

'Good.' Margaret smiled as she pulled a chair out for her. 'Now sit down and eat. You must be starving.'