She turns to the next page, which shows another – larger and more detailed – drawing of the same thing: a woman is sitting with sticks or poles impaled through her in several places, and the construction seems to be keeping her upright.

  “It worked. Derian couldn't escape. She was trapped alive, with no way of escaping. The prison even rendered her essentially invisible to anyone who wasn't highly sensitive to her presence. She had no allies, no friends, no-one to come and rescue her. I can't imagine what must have been going through her mind, I can't imagine the agony, but the witches believed it was their only choice. They were desperate to control her powers, and they thought they were working for the good of the whole world. There have been arguments ever since about whether or not that's true, but nothing can change the fact that she was trapped forever. And there were grave warnings that if she's ever released, the whole world will burn.”

  I watch as she runs a fingertip over this drawing too.

  “Do you believe it?” I ask finally. “The story, I mean.”

  “I do. Most of it, anyway. But as you'd expect, there have been numerous wild versions told over the years. People tend to add fantastical bits to the story.” She pauses, and I sense a kind of sadness now in the way she's staring at the drawing. “The true version, as far as I understand, is that Derian eventually died. That prison was too strong, even for her. After a few hundred years, the witches guarding her determined that she'd faded. Eventually the prison was taken apart, and Derian's body was burned to ash. She was no more.”

  “So witches can die?”

  “Of course. It just takes a lot of hard work.” She stares at the drawing for a moment longer, before suddenly slamming the book shut. “It's a sad story,” she continues, with a hint of tears in her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she'd been allowed to live. Her power terrified all the other witches, and I know they had their reasons, but the world would have been a very different place today if Derian had remained at large all those years ago. We'll never know what she would have achieved, though. And no other witch has ever come close to matching her powers since.”

  “Can I take a look?” I ask, reaching over for the book.

  “Best not to,” she replies, pulling it away and sliding it back into her bag. “You have just enough strength to cause trouble, but not enough to know how to fix things.”

  “But -”

  “Trust me, Sebastian,” she continues, “you really need to explore your powers at your own pace. If I'm even right about you having them. And as the story of Derian goes it's probably for the best to not be too powerful.” She smiles. “Not that either of us have to worry about that. Compared to Derian, I'm just a third-tier carnival act, and you're...”

  She laughs.

  “I'm what?” I ask.

  “You're Sebastian,” she says, “and that's wonderful. And you shouldn't want to be anything else.”

  “What if I could make my farm grow?” I ask.

  “The way I did?”

  “What do you -”

  Before I can finish that sentence, however, I remember the first night we met. She was hurt, she was bleeding, and she let some of her blood run into the soil. The following summer was the greatest harvest any farm could ever know, and then the years after that saw the land return to its previous, fading state. I want to believe that it was my hard work and new ideas that caused the bountiful harvest, but now the truth is clear.

  Angela must have been responsible.

  “Don't feel bad,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Of course you can make your farm a success again. I can help you.”

  “I want to do it all by myself,” I tell her.

  “It would be a lot easier for you if you let me help,” she explains. “You probably want a more sustainable kind of growth.”

  “But I could just look at that book and find out how to do it,” I say, before reaching over to grab the bag. “Just let me -”

  “No!”

  She slaps my hand away, and for a moment she seems angry.

  “I'll stay and help you,” she continues. “For a while, at least. I should have done that in the beginning, but I was too eager to get going.” She looks out across the fields. “Right now, with those witch-hunters running around, I should probably keep my head down anyway. So I can stay and show you how to get the farm back on its feet, and this time I promise that it won't be a flash in the pan.” She turns to me again, and then she reaches a hand toward me. “Do we have a deal, Sebastian?”

  I hesitate for a moment, but then I shake her hand. I'm willing to try anything, and I'm also hopeful that Angela will come to understand that I'd make a good husband.

  “So I think it's fair to say that you believe in witches now,” she adds. “Right?”

  “I suppose so,” I reply, and I must admit that a shudder passes through my chest as I realize that it's true. She has me – at least partially – convinced. Or if not convinced, then at least curious.

  Last night, I was ready to end my life. Now here I am, sitting in the morning sun with the most beautiful woman in all the world, eyeing the bag on the ground and wondering what other secrets might be contained in that marvelous tome.

  Eleven

  Sebastian

  One year later

  “This is a potato,” I say, holding the firm, round tuber in my hands. “It is neither the largest I have ever seen, nor the prettiest, but by God it is a potato. And it grew right here, in my soil.”

  “There will be a harvest,” Angela says, wiping sweat from her brow as she gets to her feet. “I promised you a steady, sustainable crop, and that's what you have.”

  “You didn't even have to spill any of your blood into the soil to get it.”

  “That was a foolish move on my part. I was showing off.”

  “It certainly did the job,” I point out, still marveling at the potato.

  “Flashy attempts to show off are all well and good,” she replies, “but a less theatrical approach is sometimes best.” She reaches out and takes the potato from me, giving it a good squeeze. “Next year's crop will be even better. And the next year's, and the year after that too. If you follow the guidance I've suggested, this farm can be wonderful again.”

  “And you're sure it's not possible to have the larger, fuller potatoes every year?” I ask.

  “Be happy with what you've got, Sebastian,” she replies, with a hint of sadness in her voice as a cold wind blows across the field and ruffles her dress. “It's a lot more than some ever even dream of.”

  ***

  “Thoughts are given form in the world through channels from the mind,” I whisper as I read another page of Angela's sacred book. “These channels permit magnification of ordinary powers, and as Derian herself proposed it is possible to influence the physical world with just the barest of touches.”

  I turn and look at the potato on the nearby table. I have been practicing for so long now, yet I have never been able to manifest any of the powers suggested by this book. Even now, the simple act of making this potato roll seems to be beyond me, despite my best efforts to follow the book's teachings to the letter. Of course, the task would be easier if the instructions were clearer, but now as I sit here and focus I find that the potato remains resolutely unmoved.

  Sighing, I turn back to the book and -

  Suddenly I hear footsteps out in the corridor. I quickly close the book and slide it back into Angela's bag, before taking a set of papers and pretending that I am hard at work. A moment later, Angela steps into the room and I feign some degree of concentration as she comes over to the table.

  “Busy?” she asks.

  “Hmm?” Looking up at her, I realize with relief that she still doesn't know I've been looking at the book. “Oh, just making some plans, that's all.”

  “Good,” she replies. “Careful planning is key, it'll set you up for success long after...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment, and she seems somewhat trouble.

  “Is something on your mind?” I ask.

  “You're very perceptive.”

  “Is that a witchy power,” I continue, “or something more human?”

  “Witchcraft is human, in a way,” she replies. “There's no great divide. I'm human, after all.”

  “Very much so,” I tell her. “I hope so, anyway.”

  “But you're right, there is something I've been meaning to talk to you about.” She makes her way around the table, and then she sits next to me. “When I chose to stay here last year, it was for many reasons. One was that I was surely being chased down in the countryside, and another was that I wanted to help you. I felt partially responsible for your problems with the farm. But all those things are done and dusted now, and in truth this is the longest I've ever stayed in one place since I was a child.” She pauses, and I think now there are tears in her eyes. “Sebastian, I promise I'll come back to visit sometimes, but -”

  “Please don't go!” I blurt out. “Not yet!”

  “Sebastian, I -”

  “You must stay!” Reaching out, I take hold of her cold hands in mine. “Just one more year! Please!”

  “And then we will have to have this same conversation again.”

  “Another year will make all the difference,” I tell her, which is true. Another year, and I will have convinced her to become my wife. “Please, Angela. I need you.”

  She hesitates, and then she sighs. Looking down at her hands – which are still held in my own – she seems undecided, and I am momentarily filled with panic at the thought that I might lose her.

  “Marry me,” I splutter finally.

  “Sebastian?” She stares at me with an expression of shock, and then she pulls her hands away.

  “If that's what it takes,” I continue, “then marry me! You can have half the farm! You can have anything you want, just so long as you stay here!”

  “Sebastian, I...”

  Her voice trails off, and I wait for her to accept my offer.

  “You don't need to ask me to marry you,” she says finally, “to get me to stay. I can delay my departure by one more year, if you really think it'll help with your work. Just know that after that year is over, I shall have no choice but to leave. I have places I must go, and people I must see.”

  “People who are waiting for you?” I ask, and for the first time – yes, truly the first time – I begin to consider the possibility that she might have a family out there. “People who even now are missing you?”

  “It's complicated,” she replies, “but let's just say that I can't afford to get too attached to anywhere or anything.” She pauses again, staring into my eyes. “Or anyone, Sebastian. It's very important that you understand that.”

  “Of course I do,” I tell her, even though secretly I am already trying to think of ways to make her love me. I need to make her feel about me, the way I feel about her. We can be so happy and successful here on the farm, if only she'll realize this fact. “I'm not some weak fool, you know,” I continue. “One more year of your help, and I truly believe I shall have the farm back on an even keel. And then whatever happens next year... Well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “You're very sweet,” she says, reaching out and putting a hand on the side of my face for a moment, with a degree of tenderness that I have long awaited. “You're a good man, Sebastian Staiter. An honest man. A kind man. I'm so pleased that you're devoted to your farm.”

  “Of course I am,” I reply, even though deep down I feel a flicker of doubt. Is the farm really enough for me, now I know that there is so much more in the world? “How could I not be?”

  She smiles, then she lowers her hand and kisses me on the cheek and gets to her feet.

  “What was that for?” I ask.

  “It was to seal our deal.”

  She takes her bag and walks away, heading to the hall.

  “What deal?” I stammer.

  “The one we just made, silly.” Stopping in the doorway, she turns to me. “I'll stay for one more year, to help you truly get on your feet.”

  “And what do you get in return?” I ask.

  “Company. Safety.” She pauses. “Time to think. And now I must rest, Sebastian, because I'm so tired. I'll see you later in the afternoon.”

  “You will,” I reply as she steps out of view, and a moment later I hear her bedroom door bump shut.

  Reaching up, I touch the spot on my cheek where she kissed me. That was not the first kiss, of course. There have been several, dotted here and there throughout the year. And as each kiss fades over the span of a few minutes, I always worry that it might have been the last. At least I know now that Angela is going to stay for another year. I planned to make her my wife during her first year here, but now I shall have to redouble my efforts and secure her during her second.

  And I know exactly how I shall achieve that aim.

  Twelve

  Sebastian

  Another year later

  The potato rolls across the floor at a steady pace, headed straight for one of the table legs. Then, just as it's about to strike the table, the potato changes direction and comes toward me, rolling a little faster now until it reaches the shadow of my shoulder, at which point I focus extra-hard. Suddenly the potato leaps up and lands on the counter, before rolling to a stop just a few inches from my hands.

  There.

  I did it.

  For the first time, I put together all the little tricks I've learned, and I put on quite the display. I cannot help but feel proud, although I also know that I have a lot more work to do yet. The simple manipulation of a potato is not enough.

  I want more.

  I turn to another page in Angela's book, and I see another illustration of the woman trapped in her throne of impaling sticks. This drawing pops up every so often in the book, like a recurring theme to which the writer returns, and it is clear that the fate of the great witch Derian is meant as a warning against the accumulation of too much power. I, of course, am nowhere near the point where such a warning would be relevant to me. All I can really do, so far, is roll a potato around the room.

  Suddenly I hear the front door open, and I quickly put the book back into Angela's bag before returning the bag to its customary spot on a shelf under the counter. Then I get to my feet and straighten the creases from my new shirt, just as Angela reaches the doorway with a shovel in her hands.

  “Sebastian, I -”

  She furrows her brow.

  “Sebastian, what are you wearing?”

  “It's a new shirt that I picked up in town,” I say with a smile, stepping forward and then giving her a twirl. “It cost a lot, but I can afford good clothes again, now that the harvest is looking good. Aren't you impressed?”

  “It's... interesting,” she replies, sounding a little out of breath, “but you must come quickly. I've found something outside.”

  “What -”

  “Hurry!”

  She turns and heads back to the front door, and I have no choice but to follow. When I get out to the yard, I see that she has made great progress on the new irrigation ditch she has been digging all morning. As I reach the edge of the pit, however, I see that her progress has been almost too great. Indeed, looking down I realize I can see a patch of stonework far, far beneath the surface.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “I think I finally understand why you were having such trouble with your land,” she replies. “Sebastian, there are tunnels beneath your farm. Lots of tunnels.”

  ***

  “Careful!” I say as I help Angela down. “Watch yourself!”

  She hops down the last little distance, landing next to me. I reach out and grab her waist, to steady her, and the candle in her hands almost snuffs out. Once she is sure of her footing, I keep my hands on her waist for a moment longer than is strictly necessary, and then I let go as she turns and looks both ways along the tunnel in which we now find ourselves.

  “I found evidence of more tunnels at the top of the nearest field,” she explains. “No-one would build tunnels for just a short distance, Sebastian. I suspect that these might stretch for quite some considerable distance. Did you really have no idea that they were here?”

  “None at all,” I reply, as the candle flickers and casts our shadows against the rough walls. The air down here is icy, and the darkness in either direction is far from inviting. “It does explain the trouble with the land, though. The only mystery left is why my father did not know that these things were here.”

  “They seem to be just a little deeper than one would ordinarily dig,” Angela replies, stepping past me and starting to make her way along the tunnel in one direction. “Someone obviously -”

  “Wait!” I hiss, grabbing her bare arm and feeling her cold, pin-pricked skin. “We don't know what's down here!”

  “What could there possibly be?” she asks, turning to me. “You're not afraid of monsters in the dark, are you?”

  “Of course not, but someone built these things,” I point out. “Unless you're suggesting that they went to all the trouble of building the tunnels, only to completely abandon them.”

  I wait for her to reply, but suddenly I realize there's a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  “What do you think they are?” I ask finally, convinced that she has some idea. “Angela?”

  “I might be wrong,” she replies, her voice trembling with sorrow, “but... I wonder, have you heard of the underground passages that were constructed recently to enable freed slaves to pass through dangerous territory?”