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“See! They will be fine! Now calm down. After the ceremony, the children will be put in their graves and won’t be woken until their transition, which is the usual custom, barring special circumstances like our ceremony.”
“Will they know they’re in their graves? Will they be in pain?”
“No, Hazel, my flower, they won’t. However, since this woman would rather see the little ones dead than agree to the terms, she will be granted no peace.”
The woman let out a howling guttural moan, causing the children to cry out.
“Silence!” Manea flicked her hand toward the woman, filling her mouth with a thick putrid tar. The woman tried to call out again, but it only made her choke and gasp for breath. “Stop your infernal screaming, woman!”
“Gothel, make her stop!” Primrose pleaded with her sister. Gothel stood frozen, hard as stone, watching the scene, watching her mother to see what she would do.
Hazel took Primrose’s hand in hers and gripped it tight. “Primrose, please. Stop talking. If you don’t stop these theatrics, Mother is going to do something terrible to those children.” Primrose didn’t seem to hear her sister; her gaze was still locked on her mother. Hazel took her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly. “Prim! Listen to me! I promise you, promise you, Prim, everything will be okay.”
Primrose shook with anger and fear and whispered, “How can you say that? Nothing is ever going to be okay ever again!”
Hazel looked into Primrose’s eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
“Then, please, Primrose, trust me now. I promise you e
verything will be fine,” Hazel said just as a blinding golden light erupted around them.
Hazel wondered if her little sister Primrose was right. She wondered if anything would ever be okay again.
The brilliant golden light erupted from the conservatory, illuminating the dead forest. It was more impressive even than the legendary Lighthouse of the Gods. It could be seen well beyond the boundaries of the dead woods, and it struck fear into the hearts of the villagers nearby.
The young witches stood in the center of the room, before their mother. They were surrounded by peering skeletal faces looking in on them from outside the conservatory. The witches had never seen their forest so animated, so alive, and they had never seen their mother looking quite so dignified in all their years with her.
Manea’s skin was glowing in the light of the flowers as she reached for her small sickle knife hanging from her belt on a long silver chain. She sliced open her hand, cutting it deeply. The blood dripped down her long bone-thin arm onto her golden dress as her daughters looked at her with fear and wonder.
“My daughters! From this night forth, and upon my passing, those who languish in the woods will be bound to you by my blood!”
Manea pushed her hair back from her face, smearing blood onto her forehead and into her hair. She raised her hands, opening the skylight to reveal the inky black sky with tiny silver pinholes of light. “Girls, give me your hands.” The young witches reached out their trembling hands, exposing their palms. “Put your hands together,” their mother snapped. The witches quickly did as their mother said, moving their hands together, each slightly overlapping the other—and before they could react, their mother sliced open their palms in one quick unceremonious slash. Primrose screamed and jerked her hand away, clutching it to her chest, smearing blood on her bodice.
Manea put a large silver bowl on the floor to catch Hazel’s and Gothel’s blood. There it mingled with Manea’s. “Primrose, you must mingle your blood with ours.”
Primrose cried silently, clutching her hand. “I can’t, Mother, I can’t!”
Manea grabbed Primrose’s hand and squeezed it over the bowl, mingling Primrose’s blood with Gothel’s, Hazel’s, and her own. “Now stand back!” she said, picking up the bowl.
Manea raised the bowl above her head, offering it to the sky. The blood exploded, filling the air with crimson luminescence, and drifted up through the skylight and into the clouds, turning them and the stars a deep bloodred that glistened like tiny fragments of rubies.
Manea set down the bowl and stretched out her long bony fingers, her hands shaking with her power as lightning exploded from her fingertips, causing the clouds to burst and rain blood on the dead woods, the witches, and her skeletal minions.
“With this blood, the dead are now bound to us all. The four of us. Forever!”
Primrose screamed again, falling to the floor, and wept uncontrollably, violently shaking with each sob. “I can’t do this! I can’t.”
Gothel picked up her sister and held her tightly in her arms. “Prim! Calm down, please.”
Primrose looked terrified, her face speckled with blood. “I’m sorry, Gothel, I can’t do this! I thought I could. I tried. I promise.”
“Silence!” Manea roughly took Primrose by the hair with one hand and covered her mouth with her bleeding hand. “You will take my blood!” screamed Manea as Primrose flailed, trying to fight off her mother. Manea was too strong; she forced Primrose to the ground, still pressing her bleeding hand over Primrose’s open mouth, muffling her screams as Primrose kicked, trying to get her mother off her. Gothel and Hazel stood, paralyzed with fear, as they watched their sister convulse, trying to wriggle out from under their mother while spitting blood into her face.
Manea stood up and wiped her face, looking down on her daughter, splayed on the floor. “You think I don’t know your heart, Primrose? Look at you! Too weak to even take my blood! You’re pathetic! Even your sisters see your flaws. Even they considered letting you leave the dead woods, because they know you would only be a hindrance to them! Well, I will save them the heartbreak of seeing you leave!” Manea stretched out her long spindly hands, clutching at the air, squeezing something within them. Primrose started to cough, grasping at her throat. Gothel couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Her mother was killing Primrose.
