The Words You WhisperMackenzie Knowles
2300 words The thrum of the market faded into the background. Sweat beaded down Morel’s neck as he focused on the air in front of him, wisps of wind twisting into themselves, knotting until the marigold in his mind was made whole. It was his finest creation for her yet. He flicked a petal, savoring the gasps of the children who had gathered to watch, and placed it behind Sheena’s rounded ear; the yellow a perfect companion to her strawberry-blond curls. “How much do I owe?” she asked. A flower that would never wilt; its cost would make a nobleman blush. “Ten silvers.” “That’s too generous—are you sure?” Morel smiled and held out his hand while Sheena’s fingers fussed over the ties of her coin bag. She made to leave, only to turn back. “The Firelight festival. I-will you be attending? If you have a companion already—what am I saying, you probably do—but if not then I was wondering—" Morel’s heart pounded. “I would love to. Only…" Words carried on the breeze. Careful, Brother. Does Father know? That voice. Morel scanned the stalls, eyes settling upon a rakish elf under the willow tree at the market’s heart. Brax. Morel couldn’t meet Sheena’s gaze. “I-I have to go.” The coin bag slackened in her hand. “Oh. I see.” “But come back tomorrow?” He tried not to sound desperate. “I’ll have another flower ready for you.” Warmth filled her voice. “I’d like that very much.” Morel apologized to his queue of waiting customers, citing family business, and made for Brax, but not before he visited the food quarter for a freshly baked chocolate twist. He took a deep bite and chewed on the image of Brax standing under the tree, glaring. Good, Morel thought, let him stew. He licked the chocolate from his thumb and, at last, approached Brax. Morel offered the remainder of the treat. “Still eavesdropping, I see.” “And you’re still wasting my time.” Brax did not so much as look at the bread. “Who is that woman with the firebrand hair?” he asked, too calm to be casual. Sheena had moved further down the cobblestone steps, towards a stall stacked with woolen blankets. “None of your business,” Morel said. “It’ll become my business if Father hears you intend to court a human.” The chocolate turned bitter in Morel’s mouth. “What do you want, Brax?” “Did you know my wedding is next week?” Morel had heard murmurs from gossip around the village. “What of it?” “My bride-to-be has heard of your--gifts—and would like you to supply the flowers. Roses, preferably.” “No.” “She’s not the only admirer of your work.” The words dripped from Brax’s honeyed tongue. “Father also personally requested your services.” A likely story. And yet, for the briefest moment, Morel’s heart held a beat. “And who is this bride?” Brax shuffled his feet. “Roslin. A love match.” Morel raised his eyebrow. “And Father sanctioned the union? Last I heard, you were engaged to a Gouldburn daughter.” Brax’s eyes swept the market, his voice low. “I’d rather not talk about it.” Morel waved at Sheena—a new gingham throw in hand—as she left the market, nothing but ice in his voice as he spoke to Brax. “If you promise to keep Sheena secret from Father, I’ll bring your flowers. But don’t expect me to stay for the ceremony.” Brax grinned. “I expected nothing at all.” *** It’d been three years since Morel had left his family’s manor, but Mother’s eyes were as bright as ever. She held Morel tight, only letting him go after fierce protesting. She kissed his forehead. “My dear boy, where have you been?” “I’m sorry, Mother,” Morel said, and meant it. For all the nastiness with his brothers and his father, Morel’s mother had only ever loved him. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. Especially for Brax’s big day.” She squeezed his hand and led him through the manor, across floors that creaked under the weight of wed-ding guests, around small glass tables that held vases of Morel’s roses. The past week, Morel had spent his evenings creating their petals, carving Brax’s and his bride Roslin’s names into each stem, until sweat had coated his palms and his temples ached. He still couldn’t decide what he hated more—that he’d spent so much time perfecting Brax’s flowers, or that he’d had to deliver them at all. Mother guided Morel to Brax, dressed in his finery. “Wait here, I’ll find your father. He’ll be so surprised to see you!” A pit formed in Morel’s stomach. “Father doesn’t know I’m here?” he hissed to Brax, who merely shrugged. “Would you have come otherwise?” Morel scowled, but noted the bronze brooch on Brax’s lapel. “Gouldburn colors. Odd choice for wedding attire.” Brax looked around. “Careful, little brother. Gouldburn sent it as a wedding gift, with a request to wear it on the day. It would be rude not to comply, in light of—” “Your recent jilting?” Morel enjoyed watching Brax squirm. “—our misalignment of interests.” Brax fixed his jacket. “Marrying a Gouldburn would have been agreeable enough, but I won’t lie; I was glad when Father reneged his trade deal with them. Sometimes, I wish I was a commoner—no need for this ridiculous endorsement from Father to court. Then I could have been with Roslin from the start.” “What are you complaining about? You got your love match.” Morel scanned the crowd—some family friends, but mainly delegates from the major estates, all except one. “Though it seems Gouldburn did not send a representative?” Brax shook his head. “No one I have seen. Though it’s odd—I can hear someone with their drawling accent around the manor. But the voice is muffled.” “Muffled?” Brax had never struggled with his power. Nor had any of Morel’s other brothers. How Morel had hated them for it. Brax must have caught Morel’s look. “Do not worry, dear brother, my magic is not as tortured as your own. The dampener today is likely from all this distraction.” Music filled the halls from the gardens outside and Brax nodded to the open doors. “Care to join me?” Morel agreed. It would, after all, be a shame not to see the flowers before he left. *** Though still beautiful, the gardens had dulled in Morel’s absence. The tall, privet hedges were no longer uniform, and a moss-green edge clung to the stone water fountains placed a few steps from the manor house. Morel doubted the guests had noticed. Their attention was drawn to the rows of white wooden chairs that dug into the grass and the gravel path that had been kept clear for Roslin’s arrival, whenever she was ready. The guests found their seats; Morel started towards Brax, who stood beneath an arbor covered in red and pink roses, but stopped at the sight of his older brothers. The louts—each granted the gift of strength—had crammed their mountainous frames into the dainty chairs, flanking Father and Mother in the front row. Mother whispered into Father’s ear and Morel braced for his father to turn, to acknowledge him. But he did no such thing. Instead, his focus remained on Brax, who adjusted his cufflinks at near-minute intervals. Unperturbed, Mother beckoned Morel forward to join the family, but he backed away to the very edge of the garden, as though such a small distance would grant him protection from those heartless souls. Between the quiet chatter of the guests, harps played a lazy tune. Each note swelled in Morel’s gut, cascading into an overwhelming urge to flee. If he left now, he’d reach the village just before nightfall. He could find Sheena, tell her he’d attend Firelight with her, and face the consequences that came his way. He would have gone right then, had it not been for the crunch of gravel along the hedgerow, the streaks of gold that vibrated in the air. A concealment spell; too subtle for the rest of the wedding guests to see so far away. Morel kept still, traced the wobbles in the air until they settled within the dense, overgrown shrubs. He scanned the crowd once more; each estate’s delegate was accounted for, despite Father’s politicking over the years. Save for one: Gouldburn. Yet Brax had said he’d heard someone from Gouldburn around the manor. Perhaps he’d made a mistake, but if not… Panic rose in Morel’s chest. His flowers could do nothing against whatever this intruder had planned, but his family could act. He started toward the wedding party just as the music reached its crescendo, and Roslin appeared on the aisle. He slid into a chair in the back row, desperately seeking anyone’s glance as she walked past in her intricate lace dress, each step long and drawn. And that’s when Morel noticed it: a cut at the base of Roslin's dress. With each step, the incision elongated. A hex. The guests in the furthest rows muttered. A few more paces, and she would be clothed in nothing more than shreds, become a laughing stock among the estates. Delicious payback for an enemy scorned. Morel looked to his family, but their attention was on the bride, no sign yet that the front of her dress had been affected. He could—should—let them suffer the embarrassment. The humiliation. If nothing else, it’d be payback for all the times his brothers had tormented him over his sputtering magic, Father’s silence on the matter their endorsement to continue. But Roslin; there was nothing but pure happiness on her face. Even Brax’s eyes had a glaze over them, as if they were both caught in a spell of their own making. Morel focused on the rip and willed a trail of roses to close the gap in the dress’s hem. At first, he thought that may have been the end of it, but for each flower he conjured, a new hole appeared. Mother gasped and Roslin stopped her march. Father glanced at the dress and, with a start, Morel realized that Father had turned his focus to him, his hard gaze transformed into a silent plea. Morel nodded and Father, with a firm gesture, urged Roslin to continue. Sweat pooled under his collar. He ignored the clamminess of the shirt on his skin and stretched his mind until it was full of roses. At once, hundreds of petals weaved across the lace, their creped white veins folding and creasing on top of each other, luminescent in the afternoon sun. To secure them in place, Morel twisted each stem until it stretched into delicate thread, caressing each rose it bound in place. He stood back to observe the effect: between the scales of white, a light green lattice laced Roslin’s dress, as though she’d grown from the grounds of the manor herself. Brax was speechless as he drank in his bride. Morel’s head pulsed, but he called to his brothers, pointed them towards the hedge. They set off in pursuit while Father stayed behind, addressing the wedding party’s concerns with short smiles and encouraging words to continue. At last, Father looked at Morel and, in that moment, Morel felt all too aware of the sweat that had painted his white frill shirt a dull gray. He braced, waiting for Father to say something, but that look of cold indifference took over and Father turned away. Brax, perhaps at the realization of what had happened, threw his brooch into the lake. He whispered on a light breeze that settled in Morel’s ear. Thank you, Brother. That might have been the first time Brax had ever said it. *** Lanterns hovered over tables of pastries and wines. Morel served himself a large helping of raspberry shortcake and sat at an empty table, taking in his brothers’ inelegant attempts to dance. Mother and Father each took a seat beside him. Morel sat to attention as Father cleared his throat. “We apprehended the culprit; Gouldburn indeed hexed that brooch to stop Brax from hearing their spell.” He drew a sharp breath. “Thank you for saving us, and Roslin, from embarrassment. If-if you’d like to stay at the estate after the wedding, I’m sure we can accommodate you.” So, that was it: his attempt at an apology. Morel watched how Roslin rested her head in Brax’s chest as they danced, oblivious to the others around them. “Thank you, but no. The estate hasn’t been my home for a long time.” Father bristled. “Then name your price, boy.” Strawberries and curls came to mind. “There is a woman in the village. I should like to return with her and receive your blessing to court.” “This woman is… human?” “She is.” Father stiffened. “Then it is out of the question.” Mother leaned in towards Morel. “Does she make you happy?” she whispered in his ear. He imagined sitting with Sheena on that gingham rug at Firelight: how their knees would touch, how they’d hold sticks of mallow beside the pyre, his face flush knowing that it was not the flame, but the company that warmed him. “More than anything.” “Then I don’t care what that old-fashioned thorn says, you have my blessing.” It was all Morel ever needed. “Thank you, Mother.” “No, thank you.” She held his face in her hands. “But don’t leave it three more years before I see you again.” “I wouldn’t dream of it.” “Good.” She faced Father. “And you, are you having fun skulking around?” Father sniffed. “What did you say to the boy?” “Nothing that concerns you. Now, come with me; your wife wants to dance.” She rose from the table. Father froze, torn between Morel and Mother. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “Whatever you say, my dear.” Mother winked at Morel, turned and walked towards the dance floor, leaving her husband to follow in her wake. Morel chuckled and summoned a handful of marigold petals. He sprinkled them over his shortcake and took a bite. Tomorrow, he would return home, to follow his heart. |
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Mackenzie Knowles
Mackenzie Knowles enjoys writing about the quieter moments in life, whether that's now or in the far-flung future. When not writing, or walking her dog, she'll likely be out sampling one of the many coffee shops in Melbourne, Australia. Her stories can also be found in Solarpunk Magazine and Elegant Literature.
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