Two and Twenty Dark Tales by Georgia McBride Page A

Cedric into a frog.
    But none of those enchantments had lasted more than a minute or two. Time ruled the spells it lent its power to, always. Only the Witch had ever been able to make any spells last. Only her castings had ever wiped the hands off the face of the great clock.
    “If you didn’t turn me,” Amarind said, almost steadily, “who did? Who else has that kind of power?”
    “I am hardly the most powerful of my kind,” the Witch said. “Someone trapped me here , after all.”
    “Who?” Amarind asked.
    The Witch’s mouth went flat, and the small, hunted creature in Amarind cringed back, recognizing a powerful predator when it saw one.
    But Amarind wasn’t a mouse anymore. She could be a predator too, even if her strength was only a fraction of the Witch’s. And she still had a knife strapped to her leg. She forced herself to meet the Witch’s eyes, and hold herself still.
    She had never before defied the Witch in even the smallest of ways. Just the touch of anger in those black eyes made her feel she was about to die. But by now she was used to that feeling.
    At last, the Witch looked away, and Amarind found that she could breathe again.
    “I cannot speak of that one,” the Witch said flatly. “Nor should you. You were a mouse; now you are human again. You need to regain your place in the castle, do you not? I have spells that can help you with that.”
    That was why Amarind was here. But it made her suspicious, that what she wanted should come to her so easily. Slowly, she shook her head.
    “I need to know who did this to me,” she said.
    “Why?”
    Because someone had made her small and afraid and helpless, and she needed to do the same to whomever that person had been. Someone had killed her parents, had ended forever her sister’s laughter, and that someone must be punished.
    None of which the Witch would understand. So Amarind said, “Because they might try again.”
    The Witch was silent for a moment. “You don’t remember any of it?”
    “No,” Amarind said.
    “That can happen, with transformations.” The Witch’s voice was smooth and ice-sharp. “I could restore your memory. But it would require much power.”
    And I would have to pay for it. Amarind didn’t know what the Witch would want, but she knew enough to shudder. “No.”
    “You cannot do it yourself, you know. Enchantments cannot be broken from the inside.”
    There was a hint of bitterness in the Witch’s voice, and Amarind didn’t dare look at her. She turned and started for the door.
    “As you wish.” The Witch’s tone didn’t change. “Leave the knife here, and I will use it to find out who changed you.”
    On the threshold, Amarind stopped and turned around. The Witch was still smiling.
    In the ten years she had labored here, the Witch had never offered her any sort of aid. And there was something… hungry… in her eyes.
    She wanted the knife.
    Where had the knife come from? Amarind was a princess, not trained in knives; she could as soon have wielded it effectively as shot an arrow. So it must have been used that night, by her attackers. Somehow—with magic, no doubt—she had taken it from them.
    By her attackers…
    Who hadn’t attacked only her.
    Amarind’s stomach heaved. The deathblood of a virgin princess. Lily, so young and trusting. And the blade that had soaked up her blood was only a leather sheath away from Amarind’s calf.
    She wanted to unstrap it and fling it away. But she met the Witch’s eyes, so vast and hungry, and felt like prey. The feeling was familiar; she had sensed it every time the Witch looked at her in this vast room with its silent clock. But until now, she had not recognized the feeling for what it was.
    She remembered the cat’s breath wafting hotly over her body, and with the greatest effort, managed to meet the Witch’s eyes instead of turning and scrabbling away.
    “No,” she said.
    The Witch stood.
    Physically, that was all she did, but suddenly Amarind felt