The Native Star by M K Hobson Page A

It’s not doing any harm where it is … none we know of anyway. And we know taking it out would do harm. So maybe leaving it in—”
    “Leave a rock in my hand?” Emily said. “It’s not natural!”
    Pap chuckled. The sparkle in his eyes made Emily almost think that he could see her.
    “Ain’t much that’s more natural than a piece of rock,” he said.
    “Not a piece of rock that’s stuck in my hand!” Emily wailed. “There’s got to be more to it.”
    “I’m sure there is,” he soothed. “But, Em, there are bigger magics in this world than I know about. An old Kentucky goomer doctor like me don’t have any call to meddle with things like that, so I never set myself to learn about them.” Pap stroked his grizzled chin. “But maybe that educated young Warlock feller, Mr. Stanton—”
    Emily snatched her hand away. She was about to give Pap a piece of her mind about Dreadnought Stanton (who had cashed in his small store of goodwill by lecturing her all the way down the mountain about how a woman her age should know better than to grab willy-nilly at mysteriously glowing objects) when a knock came at the door. Emily threw the door open and was not pleased to see that it was the very Mr. Stanton of whom they had been speaking. One of his pair of fine black horses was hitched to a nearby tree. He carried a saddlebag over his shoulder and sported a richly variegated black eye.
    “Good morning, Mr. Stanton.” She stared at him coolly. “What happened to you?”
    “Well, someone had to alert the town about what happened up at the mine. I explained the situation to Mr. Cunningham at the general store—I thought he might be able to get word to the mine’s owner. Mr. Hansen happened by, heard that we’d gone up to Old China together. One thing led to another.”
    Dag! Emily put her hand over her mouth, as if to hold in a groan. She’d forgotten all about Dag.
    Stanton took a seat at the table across from Pap. Absently, he filched a piece of Pap’s cornbread and devoured it in three large bites.
    “What’s wrong with Dag?” Pap asked.
    Stanton dusted cornmeal from his hands. “Your girl makes her love spells too strong,” he said. “Too much lavender.”
    “Love spells?” Pap’s brow knit. “Em, what’s he talking about?”
    “Ashes of Amour,” Emily murmured hesitantly. Then she pressed her lips together and was silent for a long time—a silence Pap interpreted with terrible accuracy. His face fell.
    “Oh, Em … you didn’t.”
    “I thought if …” She paused. “It’s been so hard. He would have … helped.”
    Pap sighed. “Emily, I’m ashamed. Sore ashamed.” These five words were the entirety of Pap’s remonstration, but Pap’s remonstrations didn’t get much harder than that. The deep disappointment in his voice and the tired slump of his shoulders made hot tears sting her eyes.
    She turned abruptly and went into the screened cooking area. Pap wasn’t able to see her tears, but she’d be hanged if she would embarrass herself in front of Stanton. Angrily, she dashed a drop from her cheek.
    Poor Dag! She’d promised to meet him for a walk and instead ended up going off with another man. That it was to battle a pack of rampaging zombies wouldn’t make a bit of difference. He’d be hurt and furious.
    She got out herbs from earthenware pots on the windowsill, thinking absently of Stanton’s bruised eye, wanting mostly to give her hands something to do. She put a clean piece of white cheesecloth into a blue-enameled bowl, and on the cloth she sprinkled willow bark, nettle, thistle, and a good deal of black tea. Then she poured warm water into the bowl and let it all steep, watching the herbs swirl in the water. They were turning widdershins. A bad sign.
    “Perhaps this is a punishment,” Emily said, softly. “Besim called me a bad Witch. Bad magic always gets its comeuppance.”
    “Ever mind the Rule of Three … Three times what thou givest returns to thee.”