Chapter 1
The land of Tulberry was a superstitious one. Black cats, twins, sidewalk cracks-- these were omens that the fair folk avoided like the plague. To be unlucky in Tulberry was to be diseased, and no one was unluckier than Maisy Thorn.
Maisy was born just before supper—unlucky, since it ruined everyone’s appetite. She was a middle child—destined to be ignored. Her hair was coppery red, like the rust on an old kettle—the devil himself had marked her. Maisy was lefthanded, always spilled the salt, and the only flowers she could ever grow were chrysanthemums—unlucky, unlucky, unlucky.
After several years of poor harvests, her parents could no longer afford to feed all three of their children, so they sent Maisy away and into the city to find work (her baby sister was too young to go, they said, and her older brother far too integral to the farm). She found a job at Jacob’s Tavern, on the outer rim of Kitlin, a traveler’s town with a bustling marketplace and dirty gray cobblestone streets. Maisy began as an under cook, but after thirteen or so patrons got food poisoning, she was demoted to scullery maid.
It was now late autumn, and the night air had enough of a nip to freeze any passerby to their bones. Inside the tavern, beer was flowing, and the kitchen was churning out bowl after bowl of lamb stew to warm weary travelers. Maisy minced onions and diced rosemary sprigs with bandaged fingers as fast as she could to avoid the ire of Edna, the head cook. She looked up from the cutting board when the kitchen door swung open.
“Did you see her? In the corner booth,” one waitresses said to another, as she refilled her tray with bowls of steaming stew. “I heard she’s a witch. Just set up shop on the corner of Main and Vine.”
“A witch? I can’t serve her! What if she curses me?” Replied the second waitress, following close behind the former.
“Well, I don’t want to do it either! What if she curses me?”
The sudden clanging of pots made Maisy and the two waitresses jump. Edna’s wrinkled red face appeared from behind an aromatic cloud of steam. “Quit your yapping and get back to serving! I don’t care who she is as long as she pays!” She barked. The waitresses hesitated and shared a look. Edna crossed her toughened, bare forearms, eyebrow arched. “Well?”
“But Miss Edna—”
“Maisy!”
Maisy, fearing Edna more than she did hexes, scampered over. “Yes?”
Edna plopped a hot bowl of stew in Maisy’s hands, uncaring of the oily broth that sloshed over the side. “Take this to the woman in the corner booth, and be quick.” She gave Maisy a once over, and threw a kitchen towel at her as well. “Cover your hair before you go out.”
The bar side of the tavern was a noisy affair. Patrons sitting on high wooden stools spilled as much beer as they drank, while those clustered around tables chowed down and laughed. Maisy’s legs shook as she marched over to the corner booth, bowl clasped tightly in her grip. Some of the regulars who saw her approach leaned out of the way. The Witch sat alone, aloof to the ruckus. A velvet, dark, wide-brimmed hat obscured most of her face, but even from a distance Maisy could tell she was beautiful. Raven curls hugged her sharp jaw and rested on her shoulders. Her dress, the color of forest leaves, was cut to reveal milky skin and an ample bosom. Maisy, mesmerized, set the stew in front of her as if she was presenting a priceless treasure to a queen. The Witch looked up and smiled. Her eyes glowed like luminescent pearls in the dim light. Blushing from the roots of her hair to her neck, Maisy stammered out some pleasantries before scurrying back to the kitchen.
That night, tossing and turning in her cot, Maisy couldn’t sleep. Her threadbare blanket didn’t warm her, her lumpy mattress agitated her back, and the Witch wouldn’t vanish from her mind. Perhaps she did curse her. Maisy sat up and tossed her blanket aside. Checking that Edna’s snores were still as loud and steady as ever, Maisy slipped on her shoes and gingerly crept out the door.
The corner shop at Main and Vine was just a few blocks down from Jacob’s Tavern. Its stone façade matched that of the other storefronts lining the street, but there was a glow and waft of incense peeking out from underneath the door. Maisy knocked once, twice, and hearing no answer, decided to let herself in. A bell chimed to announce her entrance.
The shop was a mess. Flasks of mysterious bubbling liquids and parchment scraps filled with doodles and chicken-scratch notes were strewn about. In the far corner was the Witch, standing over a steaming cauldron, stirring languidly with one hand on her hip. Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder, and her dress from before was replaced with a pink robe that barely came to her knees. Maisy, feeling much less brave, turned to leave, but bumped the table with her hip, sending several flasks tumbling to the floor. They shattered instantly.
“Going already?” Called the Witch, not looking up from whatever potion she was brewing. Her voice was thankfully full of amusement, not anger. Maisy stopped, slowly turning back around. “That’s some awful bad luck you got there. Don’t you at least want to try to change it?”
“I—yes. I want a potion. A potion to change my luck,” Maisy said, looking at the floor. When she brought her gaze back up, she was nearly nose to nose with the Witch.
“Yes, a luck potion. Doable, but expensive,” the Witch replied.
Maisy’s face fell. “I don’t have any money.”
“And I don’t work for free. Unless—” The Witch paused, eyeing Maisy as she stroked her chin in thought. “—unless you can pay me with something else.” Maisy took two steps back, but that only made the Witch take two steps forward. “You can pay me with my heart.”
Maisy raised an eyebrow. “Your…heart?”
“Yes, my heart,” the Witch sighed, moving away from Maisy and flopping dramatically onto a nearby stuffed armchair. Her robe had slipped down, revealing one creamy, soft shoulder. Maisy’s face suddenly felt quite hot. “It’s been broken, you see. The pieces scattered throughout Tulberry. Bring me my heart, and I’ll change your luck.”
Maisy, trying to tamp down her blush, nodded in agreement. The Witch smiled wide and cat-like.
Armed with the Witch’s map, Maisy left Jacob’s Tavern and the town of Kitlin for the far corners of Tulberry. The Witch’s heart, she’d said, was in three pieces. Maisy first traveled to the Northern Lakes, where like a pearl in an oyster, a piece of the Witch’s heart was buried in the sandy depths.
The Northern Lakes were known for their calm, albeit cold, waters, filled with fish. Upon her arrival on the tranquil shore, Maisy begged a small boat off of a local fisherman who was more than happy to help. The only comment he made was about the unusually dark clouds swarming in the sky that day.
The fisherman was right to warn her. The further Maisy rowed from the shore, the choppier the waters became, tossing the boat back and forth like a cat batting its prey. Maisy clutched the wooden oars in a vice grip. Suddenly, a wave like a black wall crashed into the boat, sending her overboard.
Beneath the waters, Maisy felt like a piece of laundry in the wash. Her lungs burned for air, and all seemed for nought until a glimmer caught her eye. Half-hidden in the lake’s muddy bottom was the piece of the Witch’s heart, glowing a faint pink and cut like a gemstone. Gathering the last of her strength, Maisy kicked her legs furiously until she reached the bottom, and the gem-like heart piece was in her grasp.
When she finally returned to shore in her water-logged boat, soaked to the bone and still coughing up freshwater, the fisherman from before ran to meet her. He was shocked, eyes wide as he took in Maisy’s miserable appearance. “I’ve been fishing this lake for nearly three decades, and I’ve never witnessed a storm like that!” He exclaimed, twiddling his mustache. “You’re lucky, young lady.”
Maisy, thoroughly chilled and exhausted, didn’t quite share his sentiment.
The next leg of Maisy’s journey took her southward, toward the Wandering Forest, called so because of the frequency at which travelers found themselves lost within. Maisy too was soon lost, and was quickly growing tired of walking in circles. Thirsty and tired, she passed a tall, aged oak tree for what seemed like the thousandth time when birdsong, delicate and high-pitched, caught her attention.
In the boughs of the tree a nest sat, guarded by a magpie. Tucked into the twigs and leaves and tidbits, a piece of the Witch’s heart shone next to three white eggs. Maisy, elated at her discovery, began to scramble up the tree. Just as her hands were within reach of the Witch’s heart, the magpie began furiously pecking at her fingers. Maisy lost her grip and crashed to the ground.
But years of terrible luck and growing up on a farm had made Maisy quite hardy. She tried again, and then again, and then again, only to be fought off by the magpie each time, leaving her with a sore bottom and bloody fingers.
The day had grown long, and Maisy had grown irritated. Sucking on her pecked fingers to relieve the sting, golden light filtered through the tree leaves as the sun set. Without warning, the magpie alighted from its nest to land on Maisy’s head, plucking at the strands of her hair. She yelped and shooed the bird away, but not before it snagged several coppery strands. Maisy watched, first angrily and then awestruck, as the magpie carefully wove her hair into its nest.
Up until now, Maisy had always seen her hair as a manifestation of her bad luck. Now, she saw her fiery red, shiny locks as a bargaining chip. Pulling a dagger from her travel sack, she sliced off a fistful of hair, and again scaled the tree. She sat on the branch next to the nest and made a trade with the magpie. Once she had the piece of the Witch’s heart in her hands and both parties were satisfied, Maisy climbed down the tree and used the sun’s dying rays to lead her out of the Wandering Forest.
With two of the three pieces of the Witch’s heart tucked snuggly in her travel sack, Maisy arrived in Tulberry’s capital, Berryton, and found herself faced with a burly foe. Henry was a chef at Berryton’s largest inn, with muscled arms from stirring stews all day and a perpetual scowl on his face that reminded Maisy of Edna. His most important feature was the gleaming piece of the Witch’s heart that hung from a cord around his neck, layered over his grease-stained apron. Maisy asked politely for the heart piece, only for Henry to spit next to her shoes.
“Absolutely not!” Henry shouted, crossing his arms over his barrel-like chest. “I won this in a bar fight fair and square. ’S my good luck charm.”
Maisy, spurred by his rude words, responded, “Well, what if I win it from you, then? We’re both cooks. If I can cook a better lamb stew than you, I win your charm.”
Henry snorted. “Fine. But don’t start bawling like a baby when I wipe the floor with you!”
Within the hour, a panel of judges was chosen, a time limit was set, and both cooks got to work. Maisy summoned Edna’s teachings as best she could as she diced and minced carrots, onions, and celery. She was sweating profusely, unable to tell if it was from nerves or from the heat of the kitchen fires. Henry occasionally gave her dirty looks from across the kitchen.
The clock was ticking down and Maisy was putting the finishing touches on her stew when disaster struck. As she turned to sprinkle some rosemary into the simmering pot, she knocked over the salt cannister, and could only watch hopelessly as the white granules spilled into her stew. Maisy sank to her knees in front of the stove, heartbroken, just as one of the judges announced that time was up. Unable to do anything else, Maisy ladled the ruined lamb stew into bowls, and brought it out before the judges.
The panel tried Henry’s stew first, a hearty concoction with large chunks of meat and oil floating on top. Maisy’s heart sank as the judges hummed in approval. She hung her head as she served the judges, looking at her feet so she didn’t have to see Henry’s smug face. It hurt to know she was so close.
“My god!” One of the judges exclaimed. “This stew!”
Maisy braced herself for the tirade.
“Why, this is the best stew I’ve ever had! The seasoning, the saltiness, it’s perfect!” The other judges, after they finished their first spoonfuls, were quick to agree. Both Maisy and Henry’s mouths were left agape at the declaration, but for different reasons.
The people of Berryton, as it turned out, indulged in a very sodium-heavy diet.
The bell chimed when Maisy opened the door to the corner shop on Main and Vine. The Witch, dressed more appropriately to receive customers in a blue, smocked dress, looked up from the notes she was scribbling on a spare piece of parchment. “Well, it certainly took you long enough,” she said with a smile. “Give me my heart and I’ll give you your potion.”
Maisy took the heart, held together by a spare bit of twine, still pink and glowing faintly, from her travel sack. She gazed at it fondly, but didn’t hand it over. “I don’t need the potion,” she declared, “not when I have a witch’s heart.”
The Witch threw her head back and laughed, sounding like magpies, like waves, like the bell that chimed in her shop. She drew close Maisy, close enough to count her eyelashes. “I guess that makes you the luckiest girl in Tulberry,” the Witch said.
Maisy still blushed, but not a viciously this time.
