The Scandalous Confessions of Lydia Bennet, Witch

by Melinda Taub

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Classics; Coming of Age

Synopsis

A sparkling, witchy reimagining of Pride and Prejudice, told from the perspective of the troublesome and—according to her—much-maligned youngest Bennet sister, Lydia.

In this exuberant retelling of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Lydia Bennet puts pen to paper to relate the real events and aftermath of the classic story. Some facts are well known: Mrs. Bennet suffers from her nerves, Mr. Bennet suffers from Mrs. Bennet, and all five daughters suffer from an estate that is entailed only to male heirs.

But Lydia also suffers from entirely different concerns: her best-loved sister Kitty is really a barn cat; Wickham is every bit as wicked as the world believes him to be, but what else would one expect from a demon? And if Mr. Darcy is uptight about etiquette, that’s nothing compared to his feelings about magic. Most of all, Lydia has yet to learn that for a witch, promises have power . . .

Full of enchantment, intrigue, and boundless magic, The Scandalous Confessions of Lydia Bennet, Witch, has all the irreverent wit, strength, and romance of Pride and Prejudice—while offering a highly unexpected redemption for the wildest Bennet sister.

Release date: October 3, 2023

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

I suppose if this were a proper book I’d begin it something like, “Miss Lydia Bennet, youngest of five daughters to a father hopelessly entailed, had few advantages in life, but not too few to squander.” That sounds fine, and important, and promises that no matter how exciting the story may become it will all resolve with a tidy boring moral at the end. That is why Kitty and I prefer to skip the last chapter of novels.

However, that bit about squandering isn’t true. Oh, I daresay many in Meryton would whisper that I had indeed squandered all my advantages of birth and position; and that much is true, and Lord knows I have shed many a tear over it. However, I was born with greater gifts than one silly girl can use up in a lifetime. Kitty is proof enough of that. For another thing, I am not the youngest of five daughters. I am the youngest of seven.

Those who knew me in Meryton would frown over this, and perhaps discreetly count on their fingers. As far as the public remembers, we Bennet sisters number but five. There is beautiful Jane, the eldest; Lizzy, second in beauty and first in her own mind; dull, moralizing Mary, so mortified by her own lack of beauty that she was doomed to become clever; my darling Kitty; and me, Lydia, the baby.

This count is wrong in two respects. Firstly, three of my elder sisters died shortly after birth. No doubt the world scarcely remembers them, for unless Mamma wanted something from my father and wished to remind him of all she had gone through on his behalf, Charlotte, Anne, and Sophia were rarely spoken of in our household. Quite right, too. Deceased progeny are hardly a jolly topic of conversation, I think.

Nevertheless, this makes me, Lydia, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Strange, is it not, that being born so late and a girl should be a source of both my misfortune and my strength?

Those readers diligently counting Miss Bennets will have noted that the count is still off by one. Five living girls and three dead ones bring the total to eight, not seven. Is all this arithmetic making your head ache? It is mine. Perhaps I’d better begin again.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter must be a witch.

My earliest memories are of my sisters’ backs. I remember toddling along after them, calling for them to wait. Jane was always kind, and Lizzy only slapped me if I tangled her embroidery; but Mary loathed me. She would begin to cry and whine to our mother the moment I came near. “Mamma, Lydia pulled my hair! She stained my dress! Take her away! Mamma!”

Quite often I did pull her hair and stain her dress, but I was only trying to get close to her. I adored her, and yanking on one of her long, neat plaits was one of the most reliable ways to get her attention. I thought of nothing but attracting attention in those days; in our large family circle I was often forgotten. They do not remember it so, of course—in a large family, every child is sure that they alone were uniquely neglected. Lizzy says I was Mamma’s favorite from birth, which is quite possible, but Mamma was often abed with her nerves or another failed attempt to produce an heir, and quite often no one was looking after me at all. Once my mother, after bringing me on a morning visit to show me off to Lady Lucas, forgot me in the carriage, and no one found me until tea-time. Another time I fell in the stream that ran through the garden, and despite my cries no one came. It was one of my father’s tenants who fished me out, and that, I believe, because he heard my cries and thought me one of his lambs. Jackson brought me into the house, dripping and sobbing, and then the house was set in as much of an uproar as I could wish. I spent the evening on my mother’s lap, being squeezed and kissed and lamented over, while my sisters petted and caressed me and brought me sweets and bits of ribbon.

The next day, I threw myself in the creek again. Well, what did they expect? A good thing witches float.

I wanted hugs and sweets and smiles from them all. Failing that, I would accept scolds and slaps. Mary was my primary object. I adored her, worshiped her, thought she was beautiful. (She should have enjoyed it while it lasted—I was the only one who ever thought so.) In my foolish baby mind, if I glued myself to her side firmly enough, she would eventually return my regard, and we would form a pair like Jane and Lizzy. Alas, even then Mary loved nothing but solitude and study, and her legs were long enough to escape me.

And so I found myself, in a house crowded with sisters, servants, and visitors, usually alone. It did not suit me. Mary is born for solitude, but I am born for company, as much and as merry as possible.

I took to spending my time with Mamma’s cat. My father gave the little gray kitten to Mamma after one of her indispositions, and for a time she enjoyed cuddling the sweet little ball of fluff. But it soon grew into a stringy, mottled gray cat with a piercing yowl, and Mamma took no further notice of it.

I began to follow the cat about as I had my sisters. At first I had no better luck winning its heart. Indeed, when it saw me reaching my jammy hands toward its fur, it would make a sound of dread low in its throat and leap for the nearest open window. But cats are simpler creatures than sisters. Neither scratches nor howls deterred my lavish embraces and sticky kisses. My love needed an object, and the family cat could not escape. Generous gifts of cream and kippers soon had the creature following me from room to room, much to Mary and Papa’s disgust. Indeed, Papa would leave the room when he saw us coming, claiming that my pet made him sneeze.

I did not care. I only hugged my cat close, glorying when she purred instead of fleeing, and whispered my secrets into her fur.

So far, ordinary enough. Many a lonely young girl makes a companion of a pet. What happened next, though, was far from ordinary. I made believe that my cat was my sister, and my family indulged me, as one does with an imaginative and spoilt child. “And how is Kitty today?” they would ask me.

“Kitty is hungry,” I would say, or “Kitty wants to go to the market,” and my elders would nod solemnly. Do you know the difference between pretending to believe a witch, and truly believing her? There isn’t one. Kitty this, Kitty that, was the refrain in our house, until one day, they were not humoring me—they saw her, too.

From that day forward, my parents had not four daughters, but five. The world saw Kitty as a tall, thinnish girl, not terribly bright, but with a great gift for learning things she wasn’t supposed to know. She had a rather carrying voice, and spoke almost exclusively to me.

This was my first spell. I thought nothing of it at the time. All small children think they can control the world around them. Years later, my aunt explained to me what a tremendous working my first one was—I would not match it till the events of my sixteenth year. Later still, we talked of the price of it. All magic carries a price, of course, and if you do not pay up front and in full, it will extract the cost in its own way.

My aunt’s theory on the price for that first, unconscious spell was an heir. Perhaps my mother would have had one more child, maybe even a boy to save us all; but my unknowing childish gluttony for love snatched its soul from her womb to fashion Kitty. I tend to disbelieve this theory. On the day my father first referred to Kitty as his daughter with no hint of mockery, his favorite horse dropped dead at four years old and he could never afford such a fine one again. No further explanation, I believe, is necessary.

If you were to tell Lizzy’s story, or Jane’s, I suppose you would begin with when they met their husbands. I don’t say that to slight them! I’ve often wished that my own life had turned out like theirs. They seem very happy with their rich husbands, and though neither man is to my taste, who am I to judge? I am a foolish wretch and usually racked with misery of my own making. Ask anyone. Ah well! At least I’ve known such fun as they will never come within a hundred yards of. La! Imagine what Lizzy would do if she knew I made that spot on her chin pop back out whenever she vexed me.

The story of Lydia Bennet must linger in her childhood for a while (but take heart, dear reader, there are handsome rakes and ardent suitors to come). Luckily for me and my family, I was not the only witch in our connection. My aunt Philips, my mother’s sister, lived in Meryton and she had the gift. When all the town began referring to a ragged mouser as Miss Kitty Bennet, she realized that one of us must have it, too. Shortly after that, she cornered me after a family supper.

“That is a very pretty bit of magic you worked, my girl,” she said. “They all see Kitty as your sister now, even your father, who still sneezes when she comes near.”

“I know,” I said complacently. I was too young to be astonished at the mention of magic. “Papa thinks he avoids her because she is so stupid. He dislikes me for the same reason, so it’s easy for him to believe. Pooh, I hate sherry.” I withdrew from the scent of sherry on her breath. I had not yet learned to be polite. (Some would say I never did.)

My aunt merely chuckled, sending more clouds of sherry breath my way. “Careful, my girl. If you’re to be a witch, you needn’t hold your tongue generally—it’s the good Christian folk who must take care not to offend you. But I’m a witch myself and you’d better mind me, or I’ll disenchant that cat of yours and the Bennets will find themselves with only four daughters again. There, don’t cry.” She chucked me under the chin, which had begun to tremble, and glanced nervously over her shoulder at my mother sitting by the fire. I had a piercing voice when I cried.

“Don’t take Kitty away,” I whispered. My mother still hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but Kitty, curled up next to her, narrowed her eyes at us and came stalking over.

“Take me where?” she said.

“Nowhere,” said my aunt hastily. “I’m proud of the glamour she cast over you, Kitty dear. And as long as you both behave I’ll do nothing to alter it.”

Kitty slipped her hand into mine and squeezed it. I was glad I’d made her my older sister instead of younger. Lifting her chin, she was nearly as tall as my aunt.

“As if you could,” she said scornfully. “I’m in this shape because I choose to be.” But I saw a flash of doubt pass over her face. We had never met another witch before.

My aunt laughed. “Isn’t that just like a cat. Everything has to be your own idea. I believe I’ve frightened you two, and that’s the last thing I would wish, my dears. Come, let me make it up to you. Let’s have some fun, eh?” And from the depths of her dress she produced two lengths of lace and handed one to each of us. We gasped.

“This is the new lace from London! Mrs. Pierce said she wouldn’t have any till next week. How did you get it?” I demanded.

She looked sly. “When you’re a witch, there’s much folks will do to oblige you, if you know how to ask.”

That was enough for me. The promise of new lace made me clamor to learn all she had to teach, and she readily agreed.

“I’d better train you up, yes, for Lord knows who you’ll kill, else. I’ll teach you. You too, Miss Kitty. You won’t be able to work human magic, of course, but Lydia’s power is bound up with you.”

Naturally I agreed. From then on Kitty and I spent all the time we could in the village with my good aunt. She made me promise not to tell anyone of our lessons; however, I think she must have laid a powerful silence spell on me as well, for I was such a chatterbox in those days and never could have kept mum on my own. I suppose she had to do it, but I’m sorry for whatever alley cat or street mongrel sacrificed its life’s blood so that a middling witch like my aunt could perform such a spell. I have always been powerfully fond of animals.

Aunt Philips was no seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. She was a simple hedge witch, with a little talent for the craft supplemented by a great deal of guile. Her first Great Working did not come until she reached the age of seventeen, and was mortified to discover that her younger sister—my mother—was considered far more beautiful than she.

Up until then, as the eldest, my aunt had been first in everything. And so she had assumed it would always be, for my mother admired her as much as she could wish. When my mother came out, and suitors flocked to young Anne Gardiner while ignoring Margery, the elder Miss Gardiner’s rage was so wild that it forced her gift into full flower.

For many of us, you see, the first working is one of the greatest. The power of dammed-up youthful passion is considerable. So it was with Miss Gardiner, although even at the height of her powers, she was not strong enough to cast a glamour on herself that would make her appear a beauty to the whole town, or even just the young men. But what her gift lacked in power, she made up for in deviousness.

“My father was an attorney in town, and very prosperous for his station,” she told me. “Our brother had no wish to succeed him, so Papa established him in manufacturing in town and prepared to pass the business to his clerk, a handsome young man named Philips.”

I can remember sitting at my aunt’s knee, the ruddy light of the fire playing over her face as she told me the story. Even years later, it filled her face with glee. “My sister adored Philips,” she said with a chuckle. “From the time she was a tiny girl, she followed him about, declaring that she would marry him. A childish passion, but it did not fade.

“The young man did not object to the affections of his master’s daughter. They would have been married, I suppose. But when Anne came out, the attentions of other young men turned her head, and she became a great flirt.” She shook her head. “For what came next, she has only herself to blame.”

She stirred up the embers with a poker. “My girl, here is the truth about witchcraft: We have been given immense power, and we must use it. To squander it would be wicked—especially if we do not use it to right wrongs, such as the wrong the world had dealt me. Well, use it I did. I cast a glamour, and young Philips found himself ten times as devoted to me as he ever was to my sister.” She chuckled. “You should have seen Anne’s face when we announced our engagement! It was as though I had slapped her. I’m sure she thought that when she had had her fill of flirting, he would still be waiting for her. Let that be a lesson to you, Lydia. The power of beauty is considerable, but it is no match for the craft. Now cast these bones and tell me if it will rain tomorrow.”

Luckily for family harmony, my mother’s respect for her older sister was stronger than her passion for her father’s clerk. After a brief outcry when she learned of their engagement, she found comfort in half a dozen new flirtations, until finally marrying my father. She never seemed to bear my aunt any ill will, perhaps because in the eyes of the world, my father was the much better match. Still, sometimes when we were all together, I would catch her looking at my uncle, a little knot of worry between her brows, as though she was trying to remember a pleasant dream long forgotten.

Anyway, that’s my aunt in a nutshell. And that, pray, is the woman who shaped me! I do think that excuses some of what followed, don’t you? I could not help but turn out terribly wicked and selfish when guided by such a woman. Lord, even she thought me wicked! Most of her stronger spells required an animal sacrifice of some sort, and I refused outright to take part. Indeed, she once bought a snow-white kid goat to sacrifice at the full moon, and I snuck out while she was asleep and stole the kid away. I brought her to one of our tenants and said she was a gift from my father. When Aunt Philips found out what I’d done, she boxed my ears and said I was the most selfish creature she’d ever encountered, and it was my fault if the harvest was blighted that year. I’ve no idea if it was blighted, but Papa still receives regular gifts of goat cheese.

La, how my hand hurts! I have been writing for two hours together and I have never felt such an ache in my life. My hand is smeared in ink, too, for I’m left-handed. And fancy, I have just counted and only ten pages are done! This writing is the dreariest business I have ever undertaken. But I did promise to do it, and every witch knows the importance of keeping one’s promises. (Promises to people who matter, I mean. I promised to pay Jane back for lunch and I never shall.) I know what: Our bargain was that I must write an “account of my experiences,” so I shall fill these quires of paper till the last page and then stop—even if that leaves off in the middle of the Battle of Brighton. That would serve you right.

Where was I? Oh yes, my aunt. After her great triumph of landing my uncle, they took a house in Meryton. She still practiced the craft, and often bragged to me that she had brought the rain for the farmers; but only after the rain was already falling.

Her house was like a second home to me and Kitty. At her knee I learned all she knew about the craft and, I thought, all there was to know. I learned herb lore and glamours, knot-magic and mirror-magic. Before I was ten years old I knew how to spy on any household in town that had a mirror. I couldn’t do it very often, for our mirror was in our front hall, and I could rarely be alone there, but once I saw the vicar picking his nose, and another time I caught Lady Lucas saying that Mamma was an “empty-headed, vain peahen,” and I was overawed to learn that adults were as rude as children when in private. Magic was immense fun to me then. When Mary fell in a patch of nettles and got a rash across her neck and cheek, I told her, quite seriously, that I would fix it. I pestered my aunt to tell me what herbs would cure it, and snuck out at midnight and sprinkled them into a pool of water reflecting the full moon, and the next morning Mary’s rash was gone. She didn’t believe that I had fixed it and refused to thank me, so I pushed her into the nettles again. I would also tell fortunes for my sisters and girls of our acquaintance.

Our parents thought this was harmless make-believe and allowed it. If only they knew! I told my sisters that Jane would marry a beautiful fool, and Lizzy the most disagreeable man she had ever met; and wasn’t I right?

My magical education was rather patchy, but my aunt did teach me the most important thing a witch must know: the law of sacrifice.

“Some spells are more difficult than others,” she explained, “and some witches are born with more power than others. Being the seventh of a seventh, and having a familiar, my dear, you’ve a tidy little sum of magic to your name. If magic were coin, I should say you had about ten thousand pounds. But there are other things that will affect your success—your skill, and the quality of your herbs, and the position of the moon, and so on. But most of all, every magic you do, Lydia, you must pay for. The more difficult the magic, the more you must sacrifice.” And she leaned over and plucked a hair from my head.

“Ouch!” I said.

She ignored me. “Try that spark spell again now.”

I did so, and found that I could raise a spark from my fingertip. It fell on my apron and left a little black spot. I had never managed real fire before, only illusions. “Gracious!”

I plucked three more hairs from my head, expecting to be able to produce a whole shower of sparks, but again there was only one.

“Three hairs do not hurt more than one, do they?” she said. “The magic knows that.”

“How does it know?”

“Little witches should not be so inquisitive.” (It took me a few years to realize this is what she said when she had no idea.)

“But then how am I to do great magic without plucking my head bald?”

“Ah.” She looked sly. “There are all kinds of sacrifices, are there not? What matters is not what the sacrifice is, but what it costs. And it need not be you who pays it.”

I pondered her words. This, of course, accounted for my aunt’s habit of slaying small animals. “If magic keeps such minute reckoning of the cost, why does it allow you to make others pay?”

She shook her head. “It is the way of the world, child. Farming your father’s lands requires a great deal of sweat, but how much of it is his own?”

None, of course. “Oh, I see.” I said the spark spell again, then, just before sealing it, reached over and ripped a handful of hairs out of her head. She cried out in pain. A whole shower of sparks burst from my fingertips. My aunt’s hair had begun thinning, causing her great distress, so I suppose it was a greater sacrifice.

“Now you’re thinking like a witch,” she said, “but I am not your black cockerel.” And she boxed my ears.

My aunt didn’t teach me much protective magic. Her own talent was paltry enough that she never attracted much notice from anyone who might endanger her, and I suppose she did not know that my case was different.

She did, however, offer one piece of wisdom that I should perhaps have taken more note of, although at the time, she never made much of it.

“Never offer an open boon to another witch, niece. Your word is your bond where magic is concerned,” she told me. I nodded solemnly, but I was not even sure what a boon was. I vaguely pictured a sort of exotic animal. As if I would give one of those away if I had it!

I soon had reason to wish she had spent less time teaching me parlor tricks and a bit more time preparing me for the actual dangers of being a witch. I had never so much as heard of the Great Powers up until the day I met one.

It happened on the way to Meryton when I was seven and Kit eight. Kitty did not like magic lessons above half. She didn’t enjoy the walk to Meryton, which was often muddy and soiled the hem of her gown or—if she was in cat-form, as she often was if we were alone—caked the fur of her paws.

“Drat this walk,” she said one particularly cold March day as we picked our way across the Lucases’ south field. One of her hands clutched at her bonnet strings and the other held back her skirts. I saw her then as others did—a girl of eight in a fine dress and a handed-down bonnet. She preferred to take human form when we passed near Lucas Lodge, so the dogs would not chase her. If I let my eyes relax with a certain laziness, I could see through the disguise to what she really was: a mottled gray cat hopping between puddles with weary distaste, shaking one paw and then the other. “Why must we go so often to your aunt? The hearth is quite as warm at home, and though nobody strokes me anymore, Cook will give me all the cream I want now that I am a Miss Bennet. Come, let’s go home!” Her voice rose to a plaintive yowl.

I focused my eyes and Miss Kitty Bennet snapped back into place. “You may go home,” I said, “but I shan’t. Aunt is teaching me tea-reading today. Fancy being able to tell the future whenever someone comes to tea! You’re just jealous, Kitty, that she won’t teach you.”

Kitty put her hands on her hips. “We cats know things of magic that your aunt can never teach you,” she said loftily. “And if I go home, Mamma will scold me for leaving you to walk alone, and send me to bed without tea. How cold it is. And there’s Sir William’s dratted dog. Come, Lydia, let’s go home.” She continued in this vein for some time. If you ever have the chance to give your cat the power of speech, I strongly advise against it.

I was trying to raise little whirlwinds as we walked, by knotting the ribbons on my purse. It was my latest trick, and not an easy one—it’s far easier to change the way things seem using magic than the way they are. Kitty’s whining upset my concentration. Besides, if she did go home, my spells would not work nearly so well. My magic was always strongest when she was by my side, as well she knew. “If you know so much magic,” I snapped, “why don’t you tell me my fortune now?”

“I could,” she said. “Cats can tell the future, you know. Haven’t you ever heard of how we can predict earthquakes? Or how we crouch at the bedside of those about to die?”

I snorted. “There’s never been an earthquake here, so I suppose you’ve never been wrong. But when the old groom died of fever last winter, you slept soundly in your bed all night.” She pushed me into a mud puddle at that, and I launched myself back at her and grabbed a handful of her curls and yanked. We often had such scraps in those days. We never felt easy when we were apart—my magic weakened, and she had a harder time remembering not to have a tail. All that enforced sisterly closeness found an outlet in fighting, especially on the way to my aunt’s to spend the night. We knew that she would wash our gowns for us, and would not betray us to our mother.

Eventually I got the upper hand, for though she was taller I was more ruthless. I sat astride her. “Do it then,” I said. “Tell my fortune with your cat-magic.”

She scowled. “Shan’t.”

“You mean can’t.”

A flash of claws across my arm left me with three bright scores of pain. I fell back and Kitty got up, trying in vain to brush the mud from her dress. “Very well,” she said. “But remember, you asked for it. Cats care nothing for anyone’s feelings. Cats are honest, and so is our magic.”

I would have scoffed at this, but just then she grabbed my hands in hers.

We often held hands when I was doing magic, or when one of us was frightened, or so we could squeeze each other’s hands in warning when it would not be polite to giggle aloud. I knew the feeling of her palms well. But this felt different. Though she still wore a girl-shape, she no longer looked human to me. Her face went blank, her eyes far away. Then she spoke—but the voice was not her own.

Well, well, said the deep voice that came from her mouth. What tender young lambs have wandered onto my lands?

Her lips shaped the words, but the sound seemed to come from all around us—if it was a sound at all. It was as though the earth itself was speaking, the words vibrating up from deep underground to rattle my bones.

“Stop it, Kitty,” I said nervously. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s not me,” she said in her own voice. I could see the fear in her eyes. I tried to pull my hands away.

Ah, ah. Her hands gripped mine even tighter. Hold still, witchling and witch-beast. Let me have a look at what’s been creeping across my territory.

It was as though red-hot claws raked through my brain—a bit like the three scratches Kitty had left on my arm, but deeper and more precise. Bits of memory flicked lightning-fast across my brain—the thing in Kitty was examining my life.

So that’s how it is now, said the voice in disgust. Courtesy and lace caps. Visiting cards and dancing slippers. You foolish folk have forgotten the deep, wild power in this land.

“Who are you?” I said. My voice was shaking now. My aunt had never told me of anything like this. “I warn you, I am under the protection of the witch Philips.”

The voice laughed so loud it made my teeth ache with the hum of it. You mean that hedge witch who lives up yonder? Yes, I can feel her. Her power wasn’t even enough to stir me. As to who I am—bah, what an impertinent question. I am your liege, of course. You may call me Lord Wormenheart.

My father has a book in his study that has illustrations of exotic animals. I used to sneak in and look at it sometimes—a great risk, for if any small fingerprints were found on his precious colored plates I’d have my ears boxed, but the illustrations were irresistible to me anyway. There was one that fascinated me—a man being slowly strangled by a boa constrictor. The way I felt now reminded me of that picture. Wormenheart’s tendrils of power seemed to be wrapping themselves around the heart of me, slowly, even lazily, but I could not escape.

Do you know what poaching is, little one? he asked conversationally. It’s stealing game from the lord of the land. Your own people frown on it most harshly. Well, I am the rightful lord of this land, and you have been poaching its magic from me.

“You’re not the lord of this land,” I gasped. “This is Sir William Lucas’s land, and he does not hunt game here anymore, because of his gout.”

Wormenheart chuckled. Such spirit you have. You certainly speak your mind, child. Is it bravery or idiocy? Ah well, in many folks they are the same. I felt the mental coils constrict. Enough chatter. Nourish me.

“Wait,” I gasped. “I—I—if you have waited this long, surely you can wait till I make more of a meal.”

The squeezing slackened, just a little. More of a meal?

“My—my aunt says witches don’t come into their full power till they’re women. I’m j-just a little girl.”

Hmm. There was a long pause, and I held my breath, hardly daring to hope. If he ate me, what would happen? Would my body drop lifeless to the path? Or would I disappear, erased from the world as wholly as Kitty had been imprinted on it?

Very well, it said. A few years are as nothing to me. I will let you go—if you apologize for your discourtesy.

“Discourtesy?”

You did not make yourself known to me when you came upon the county, witchling. As lord of this land, all magical creatures within are my subjects. The coils flexed. Make it right.