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“Father,” I smiled back, hoping that he didn’t need me for anything. I had to be gone for another whole day, and I was running out of excuses.
“Have you seen Adrian today?” he wondered.
“Adrian?” I echoed. “No, no I haven’t. Why?”
“Well, I’ve been really thinking about what you mentioned, and…”
“Oh, that,” I interrupted him, not wanting to worry him even more than we all already were. “I haven’t tested him yet. But I plan to. Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I’m exaggerating.”
He frowned, not liking what he was hearing. But I couldn’t stay here and explain that I needed to see a witch. Again. My father would never let me go alone.
“That wasn’t what you said the last time,” he reminded me.
“I know, I know,” I quickly nodded again. “Just… please, trust me. I have to go now, and sort this out.”
“Go where?” he asked, his eyes widening in shock.
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Please, make sure that Cass is OK. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
With those words, I turned around and rushed down the stairs. His question where are you going, Lilith, still lingered in the hallway even when I left the castle and headed towards the stables.
My horse galloped as if he were aware of the gravity of the situation, without any need to force him to go even faster. He maneuvered the path knowingly, remembering it from the last time. I always wondered how animals remembered a path after treading it only once. I didn’t count the minutes or the hours. It didn’t matter how long it would take me, as long as I got there.
With the journal of my husband’s youth in my backpack, I once again stood in front of the witch’s cottage. I held my breath in anticipation as I lowered my backpack and took the journal into my hands. I wanted it as close to me as possible. This was my husband’s most prized possession. He would be devastated if something happened to it. I knew I had to take it back home, where it belonged.
I knocked on the door, but this time, there was no reply. Anger stirred inside of me. Was she gone? Didin’t she tell me to come back as soon as possible? Disregarding any courtesy, I pushed the door open. As I entered the cottage, the flickering candles and the scent of herbs and dried flowers greeted me like old friends. The witch, her eyes ancient and knowing, regarded me with a sense of somber understanding.
“You’re here,” I said with relief, closing the door behind me.
“Where else would I be?” she asked.
I didn’t respond to that. With reverence towards the item I was holding, I placed the journal on the weathered wooden table before her.
“Would this do?” I asked.
The witch’s eyes bore into the journal, her gaze unwavering. For a moment, time itself seemed to stand still, as if the forest held its breath in anticipation. She placed her open palm upon it, tenderly, as if she were caressing a sleeping kitten. Then, with a subtle nod, the witch confirmed what I had hoped for. The journal was indeed a piece of my husband’s history, a personal possession that carried his essence.
“You won’t destroy it, will you?” I asked, hesitant to hear the answer.
She lifted her eyebrow at me. “Wouldn’t it be a worthy cause, to get your husband back?”
I knew she was right. I would do anything to get him back. Even this. So, I nodded.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to it. I can sense its importance in his life.”
I smiled back. “Thank you.”
“You should really learn not to be thankful to those who have not done anything to deserve your gratitude yet,” she pointed out, but I knew that there was no ill will behind it.
She left the journal on the table, then got up. Slowly, she walked over to the shelves. Her finger traced the edges of each of them, until it finally stopped.
“Ah,” she said. “This one.”
She took a jar with trembling fingers that resembled old branches. The powder inside was a bright yellow, almost as if she had gathered the rays of the sun itself. She opened the lid slowly, carefully.
“What is that?” I asked, curiously, wondering what she would do with it.
“Powder made from the petals of the rarest flower in the world,” she explained. “A flower that has been bathed in the first spring dew of the tenth year of the tenth century.”
