Our Lady of War: A Sisters Solstice

Novella (The Sisters Solstice Book 4)

J.L. Vampa
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To anyone who has chosen
the path less traversed.
 Works by JL Vampa
The Queen’s Keeper
The Ghost Raven
Exquisite Poison Anthology: One Pirouette
Stolen Magick
The Exorcism of Faeries, forthcoming

THE S ISTERS S OLSTICE

S ERIES

Autumn of the Grimoire

Winter of the Wicked
Spring of Ruin
Our Lady of War
Summer of Sacrifice, August 27, 2024
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by J.L. Vampa

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Phantom House Press.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For more information, address: jlvampa@jlvampa.com.

First edition February 2024

Cover Photography by J.L. Vampa — www.jlvampa.com

TikTok: @jlvampa

Paperback ISBN 9798876412645

Ebook AISN B0CPD52GRH
 Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Afterword
Mabon
 Chapter

One

Year of Our Goddess Three, 945

IGOR
“D arling?”
Igor glanced over his shoulder at his wife, the briefest of smiles tilting his lips. Even amidst the turmoil, she could
still draw joy from him.
Athania sat up in bed, blinking against the lamplight shining in slanted golden rays across the room from his desk. “Darling,
why are you still awake?”
“Go back to sleep, mi amor.” He turned back to the mess of maps and parchment strewn in front of him.
Athania cleared her throat daintily, and Igor sighed, not nearly as perturbed with her as he was feigning to be. His chair
groaned as he twisted to fully look at her, and he immediately regretted it. She’d let her delicate nightgown fall to reveal almost
the entirety of one breast—just enough to cause him to long for the rest of her. After the initial surge the sight sent through him,
a sadness crept into his bones.
They’d wed only a fortnight before Orford was thrust into war yet again, and war had been their life the three years since.
His bride had never blushed a day in her life, nor did she shy away from the battlefield, yet it still made him nervous to have
her so close to bloodshed and mayhem. Though, it never seemed to give her even the slightest inkling of anxiety. He had to
admit that it made him fight harder, having her at camp in their tent, waiting for him to return. She would bathe the blood from
him and fill him with enough courage to go back out into the fray before the next sunrise.
“Igor,” she purred.
“You’re a siren, is what you are,” he muttered as he rose to go to her, battle plans left behind.
Athania only smiled prettily at him, her dark hair falling in waves over one shoulder as she lifted the blanket for him to slip
into the bed beside her. “You’re the siren, darling.”
Igor kissed the pale column of her neck, her head tilting back to give him free rein. “Mm,” he murmured against her skin,
“because you gave up so much to be with me, sí?” He paused and pulled back long enough to look at her, a rakish grin on his
face. Her blue eyes flickered, and her attention roved from that smile up to meet his gaze.
“Precisely.” She put one hand to his chest and pushed, moving atop him, her hips straddling his. “I gave up everything.”
They never spoke of Athania’s past. Igor only knew that she hailed from a family far from Orford.
“Do you remember the day we met?” She ran a finger down his bare chest.
Igor slid his palms up her thighs, dragging her nightgown up with the motion until his hands rested hot on her hips. “Of
course, mi amor. How could I ever forget? You were soaked from head to toe standing in that fountain.”
Athania bent to place three gentle kisses on his collarbone, and Igor ran his fingers up and down her back lazily. “Is that
why you came to see if I needed help? Because my dress was clinging to me?” She smiled mischievously, her face hovering
over his, and Igor laughed.
“That certainly didn’t deter me, but—” He kissed her tenderly. “I thought you fell in the fountain. What sort of woman
climbs into one of her own accord?”
“One who is very bored and curious as to why anyone would throw coins into a fountain.”
 “Luck, mi amor. Wishes.”
She bent to press her lips against his. “Blasphemers,” she whispered with a grin against his mouth. “Luck is only for the
rich or foolish.”
“So you say.” Igor pulled down both straps of her nightgown until her torso was bared to him. “Remind me why that is
again?”
She peered down at him beneath the curtain of her hair, smug, and rolled her hips against him once. He groaned, and she
beamed. “Luck is the praise of the rich, so they can pretend they followed the rules. Luck is the excuse of the foolish, so they
can pretend they actually tried.”
Igor took a fist full of her hair and gently pulled until her lips were near his again. “The fairest, wisest of them all.” He
could drown in those blue eyes. “And what do we wish for besides luck, then, mi amor?”
Athania’s head tilted to one side. “This, darling.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “To love and be loved. There is nothing
else.” She kissed him hard but pulled back abruptly. “And it has nothing to do with luck or wishes.”
“Fate, then?” he teased.
“No, no, no. It is a choice and a continual fight for the life you want.”
“And I would fight to the ends of the realm for you, mi amor.”
She smiled and he kissed her, sweetness deepening into passion until there was no more war, no mysterious past, no day
coming that would call him back to the battlefield. There was only him and his Athania.

ATHANIA
She heard him wake before he made a sound. The subtle shift in his breathing was as loud as bells in her head. Sweet, peaceful
bells.
“Now it is you at the desk, mi amor,” Igor murmured groggily from the tangled mess of sheets behind her. “Shall I torment
you until you leave it, as you did me?”
Athania closed her eyes and smiled. There was never a moment she’d doubted her decision to leave everything behind for
Igor. But there were many days she worried her doing so had caused irreparable damage through the wars plaguing Orford.
She’d done everything she could to sway the battles in Igor’s favour, but… War was no simple thing. She could not play
favourites any longer, or her brethren would intervene. Thanasim—Lord Night—was already banging on her door and
endlessly pleading with Asteria—Lady Magic—to talk sense into their wayward sister.
Asteria was the only reason Athania had anything left from her time in The Primordial’s Void at all. When the Goddess
Three permitted her to leave her station as Lady War and return to humanity, all of her magic was to be stripped away. For Igor,
she would have gladly given it up. But Asteria pleaded with Hespa on Athania’s behalf.
It is not right to rip away her likeness with us entirely. It is no crime to love and be loved.
Asteria… The Mother had said to Lady Magic, her tone severe.
Be warned… The Maiden’s voice rang in a similar fashion.
This will mean… The Crone’s frown lines ran deeper in that moment.
I know what it means. Asteria would not take no for an answer.
Very well. The Crone had sounded almost pained, and Athania did not understand why.
But she did not care. She was getting everything she’d ever wanted.
That night, Asteria brought her a glass of wine, the notes full and peculiar in a way she’d never tasted before in all her
years. She clinked her glass against Athania’s and wished her a blessed passage. Their farewell was a tearful one, and the next
morning, Athania left the Void behind.
Alas, it was not any lingering magic that had saved Igor these last years, for she’d not yet discovered how to tap into it. No,
she had used her goddess quill to fight for Igor. But at great cost. She no longer had the ability to properly sway war and help
guide the bloodshed toward honourable and fair. It was madness in this realm because of her.
My reapers in this realm aren’t even in their flesh any longer, Lord Night had growled at her. They move about the realm
collecting souls in droves. You’ve made a grave mistake, Athania. Stop meddling.
He wanted her to return to the Void. To restore order. But she could not leave Igor defenceless.
“Mi amor?” he called to her when she did not answer, lost in her own thoughts.
“You cut off their supply lines, yes?” She turned to look at him.
 Igor rose, wrapping a sheet around his waist, leaving his tanned chest bare. He’d been dressed very little during their short
time back home in the Alban castle. She would miss this.
“I received word of the supply cut-off being completed as of three days ago. By the time they reach the pass, they will be
hungry and exhausted.”
Athania turned back to the papers and tapped her chin. She’d been pouring over the maps and plans since he’d fallen asleep
last night. On paper, they had every reason to believe their surprise attack would be successful, but something tugged at her.
Something didn’t feel right. But she couldn’t go with him—not this time.
“And you’re certain they’ll come through the pass?”
Igor rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “We sent the deceased decoy runner.”
It had been a risky plan, one of her own design, to take a fresh corpse and dress him as an Orfordian runner, then plant him
where the Hawthrin troops would find him with false intelligence correspondence. A poor soul who didn’t make the harsh
mountain journey, and Hawthrin to reap the reward for it.
“They have no reason to believe he did not die trying to deliver a message,” Igor went on. “They will think we are leaving
the area and that they will catch us from behind, just as you suggested.”
Athania couldn’t shake it. There was only a dribble of her power left to intune such matters of war, but she was positive
something was wrong.
“Igor.” She looked up at him, laying her hand atop his on her shoulder. “Be careful.”
He planted a kiss on top of her head. “Of course, mi amor. I will miss you terribly, but I’m pleased you want to stay behind
in the safety of the castle for once.” His smile was devastatingly handsome, and she tried to smile in return. Instead, all she
could do was reach up and cup his cheek, running a thumb over his dark beard.
“Come.” He took her hands and pulled her up. “Let’s enjoy this beautiful summer day.”
Relenting, Athania nodded and traded her plum silk robe for a dusky blue gown that perfectly matched her eyes. While she
dressed and brushed out her hair, Igor called for tea. One of the maids brought it up to their quarters on a silver tray with a
letter. “And who is that from?” she teased him while the maid rushed over to assist her in pinning an azure comb in her hair.
“Thank you, sweet,” she spoke softly to the young woman.
Igor’s brows were knit in the middle from the moment he saw the seal on the back. “The king.” He broke open the seal and
slid out a small parchment with what appeared to be only a few lines of script.
The maid dipped her head and left them, Athania’s pulse racing. “Has something happened?” She watched with intrigue as
Igor’s face broke into a wide smile.
“No, mi amor. Everything is perfect.”
No matter how much she begged, Igor would divulge no further information. By the time they were halfway down the
corridor, Athania’s stomach was filled with butterflies. They’d had so few days together just being. In truth, Athania had lost
count of her years long ago, and still, she could count on one hand the number of simple days in her life. She would give
anything to stop the wars, stop the conquests, and live peacefully in their small corner of the castle. Commander Igor Rodríguez
and his wife.
It was almost absurd, to be fair. The mighty Athania, Lady War, goddess of battle, birthed by Hespa from mortality unto
immortality and back again. All that remained was a sorceress—a witch, they would call her in other realms. A witch who
didn’t even know how to wield her magic apart from common hedgewitch medicines and balms.
Her hand tightened around Igor’s bicep, and she smiled up at him as they rushed through the castle.
“Almost there,” he whispered, lighter than she’d seen him in moons.
They passed the library and the public tea room that separated the common areas from the other living quarters within the
great stone castle. Deeper they went, not one guard stopping them. No one would dare stop the commander himself, but they
were dangerously close to reaching the king’s wing…
“Igor? What’s going on?”
His only answer was a grin as he pulled her along so quickly that she almost lost her heeled slipper, and a giggle escaped
her. She couldn’t remember ever feeling as alive as she did with Igor. Not in the Meadow among The Primordial’s own, and
never once before it. Before the Goddess Three hand-selected her to be one of Her own. A young, broken woman begging the
sky to let her smile. That girl was lifetimes ago. Aeons. Before Thanasim was chosen, before any of them but Nyxia. Goddess,
she did miss them. But this… Athania’s hair fanned out behind her as they ran, Igor smiling from ear to ear and looking at her
as if she were the only thing to ever exist in his realm.
He pulled her to a giggling halt in front of two armed knights. Squeezing her hand once, he let her arm fall to her side and
removed the letter from the king, handing it to one of the knights. The man handed the correspondence back to Igor, and his
armour gave an awful screech as he moved out of their way.
“Many thanks,” Igor said as he gave a salute.
“Commander,” both knights said in unison.
“You really ought to oil that armour,” Athania murmured as they passed, and Igor hauled her along, both of them snickering.
 She’d never seen the king’s wing of the castle, not in the traditional sense. The longer she was away from the Void, the less
she remembered of her abilities as Lady War. They were not gods and goddesses of all-knowing power—far from it—but they
had certain capabilities that presented themselves when necessary. Sometimes, the great orchestrator of wars needed to see the
intimate places of rulers. Alas, now all she could remember of the Orfordian King’s wing was a fountain of a mermaid
somewhere and a beautiful—
“Solarium,” she whispered as they approached a glass door.
Igor nodded at the guard posted outside and ushered Athania in. It was magnificent. Warmed by the blissful sunshine that
streamed in from above, it was a perfect glass house for all manner of plant life. The decorative ironwork holding the solarium
together was black as pitch, and it reminded her of Thanasim’s music solarium in Achlys, where he’d composed his death song.
Athania ran her fingers over the large leaf of a plant, feeling Igor’s eyes on her.
“How did you manage this?” She turned to face him.
“I called due a few favours. We have the solarium and the garden outside all to ourselves for the entire day.” Igor prowled
slowly closer, stopping only a breath from her. “This room might be made of glass, but the garden has many a secret pocket
within which we can hide.” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. “But first,” he whispered
against her lips, “a morning meal has been provided.” Just as she was about to kiss him, Igor broke away with a grin and
gestured toward the small table in the centre of the solarium. “Madame Rodríguez.” His tone sent chills up her arms.
He pulled out her chair and Athania sat, smoothing out her gown. A maid popped out of nowhere, startling her, and lifted
the lid to a tray filled with fluffed eggs, shaved ham, and myriad fruits. The young maid curtsied, and Athania thanked her,
turning to Igor as he sat. “This looks divine.”
Meals within a realm always felt ironic to her. Something so enjoyable as eating delicious food truly felt otherwordly, as if
it should only belong in the Meadow, or Achlys, or any other part of the Void. Yet, it was far more majestic in the mortal
realms. She assumed it had much to do with time trickling by so quickly for them. Us, she corrected herself inwardly. Time
trickling by for us.
As they ate, they spoke of small things. Only things that brought peace and joy. Their days were so often filled with turmoil
and difficult decisions, it was a welcome respite. When the food was gone and the tea kettle empty, Igor rose and extended his
hand. “To the gardens, then.”
The king’s private gardens were completely off-limits to anyone not personally invited by him. When they walked through
the gate, it was quite obvious why. Athania had never seen a garden rival the Meadow, or anything else among the Void, though
she’d heard Thanasim tell tales of a realm with powerful creatures, and she distinctly recalled a woodland of unimaginable
purple hues. The Amethyst Woodlands, if she wasn’t mistaken. Looking around at the King of Orford’s garden, she thought it
might be a close second. The florals bloomed in colours she’d only seen in the Meadow.
“This is magnificent,” she breathed.
Igor smiled, the dimples in his tanned cheeks melting her heart. “Here, mi amor.” He handed her a basket she hadn’t seen
him pick up. “Pick anything you’d like.”
Athania squealed like a young girl and kissed him on the cheek, one foot popping up behind her. This mortal man made her
feel alive for the first time in aeons. The paradox was not lost on her that she’d given up eternal life in exchange for one quite
short in comparison, yet—in many ways—much fuller.
She set about choosing very carefully what to harvest, with Igor trailing patiently behind her. One did not pick any plant or
flora without a precise need for it. It does not do to pluck a beautiful thing, killing it for one’s own temporary enjoyment. Now,
if it were needed for a purpose, then it gives its life with honour—a sacred sacrifice. War was really no different than
gardening: knowing when to sow, when to reap, and when to abandon the fallow ground.
Using the plants for purpose was a newer practice for her. She’d long since known what each flora or herb could do and
how to achieve the desired outcome, but she’d never cared to put knowledge into action before returning to mortality. When the
men on the battlefield were injured, the knowledge simply rose up within her, and the poultices she created worked wonders.
Asteria told her it was only a portion of the magic that still lay within her, but it was all she’d been able to find.
Still, word of her help with the soldiers had reached the king’s advisors, and she’d been asked to treat patients in the
kingdom’s healing spa. It was a high honour and one that caused her heart to swell. Still, it meant she would now be separated
from Igor for moons at a time while he went out to fight without her. It felt odd, the idea of helping those safely tucked away in
a kingdom while men on the battlefield could need the aid more.
She looked back at her husband. He was so proud of her. So thrilled by her new position…
Athania bent to pick a few blooms of Echinacea and held them to her nose. She would make a tea for Igor out of them to
ward off any sickness during his travels. It was easy to come down with any number of illnesses on a battlefield and in filthy
camps.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling his face into her neck. “I do think your basket is
quite full, and that hedge maze over there seems lonely…”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Lonely, is it? And we’re to occupy it or entertain it?”
 He kissed up the column of her neck, his hands beginning to roam over her body. “Most certainly entertain.”
She spun in his arms, and he pulled her tight against him. Bending down to kiss her lips, he lifted her up, carrying her into
the maze as she giggled in between kisses. Thrice he tripped, and Athania laughed, her heart more full than it had ever been.
They stopped at the first bench they found, and Igor made good on his promise, the two of them giving the lonely hedge maze
enough spiced gossip to send all the lords and ladies blushing.
Later, as the sun was beginning to sit lower in the sky, they lay wrapped in one another’s arms in the garden’s soft grass.
Igor broke the comfortable silence, running a finger lazily up and down Athania’s shoulder. “I have only three more years
before we can leave all of this.”
She turned her head to look at him, her hand flat against his stomach. “Leave all this? Whatever do you mean?”
“We can be done with war and conquest. Be done with High Society and living within the dreary walls of the castle.”
Athania sat up, and he followed her lead. “But you adore being commander…”
“Of course I do, mi amor. But I adore you more. I want to give you a home in the foothills. A garden of your own.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “What have I possibly done to deserve you?”
He beamed and kissed her gently. But his face faltered, his smile drooping.
“What is it?” she asked.
“We are leaving early, my men and I. Our ship is to sail out in the morning.”
Athania baulked. “No.” She stood. “No. You have four more days with me.”
Igor rose and tried to put his arms around her, but she was too frustrated. “Mi amor. I didn’t want to ruin our last day
together. I only wanted a blissful time with you without thinking of this. But it is almost nightfall…I have to prepare. Please…”
He reached for her hand. “Please do not be angry.”
“You should have told me.” She began stomping back toward the castle, ignoring her basket of herbs and flora. “I’ve
changed my mind. I’m coming with you.”
He caught up and pulled her to a stop. “No, Athania. We agreed. Your new position is perfect for you. We can handle the
separation for a time.” He moved to block her path and ran his hands up and down her arms. “Please, mi amor. Let me prepare
to leave, and then we will have every last breath of this night together, but you cannot come to Hawthrin. You must stay here
this time.”
She knew he was right. It had little to do with her position at the healing spa, but he was right.
Finally, she let out a shaky sigh, and they walked back to their quarters.
 Chapter

Two

A
thania slid open the drawer of her desk and withdrew her mauve correspondence box adorned with dainty white flowers.
The letter on top was the most important and certainly the most difficult to pen. If endless wars and endless life had
taught her one thing, it was to be through with the difficult and dreaded tasks first. The cork of her ink bottle gave a little
pop as she pulled it out. The tink of quill against glass as it was dipped to gather ink was one of her favourite sounds. She’d
lost count of how many times the goddess quill had turned the tide of war at her hand. Bringing it with her when she left behind
her immortal standing as the Goddess of War was…not her wisest decision to date. However, she had very little interest in
returning it. Powerful as it was, the quill could also be just a quill, and it was her only keepsake from her days amongst the
gods.
Dotting the last i on her letter, the candle nearest her inkwell began to sputter and smoke profusely. Athania waved a hand
over it to disperse the smoke, but it only grew thicker. Perplexed, she set down her quill and squinted curiously. A tendril of it
snaked off toward the candle’s shadow on the wall, and Athania snorted, realising what was happening. She crossed her arms
and waited.
Smoke and shadow grew along the wall into the vague shape of a man—or god, in his case—until a skeletal, hooded form
materialised enough to step out of the smog and descend to stand in her room. Without a word, he shifted into his fleshly form
and sprawled out on an armchair, his long legs hanging over one side. “Hello, War, dearest.” His smirk made her want to
pommel him and embrace him all at once.
“Thanasim.” She tried to sound nonchalant—annoyed. “You forgot Lady, you prat.”
Lord Night ran a hand through his mess of hair, black as his title and his decrepit heart. “Ah, but you aren’t her anymore,
now are you?” He eyed her like a lion prepared to pounce, but she saw right through his pompous exterior, she always had.
They’d been a true family.
Athania pushed away the grief pressing against her ribs, resisting the urge to ask after the others. “I suppose you’re right,”
she answered. “But that would mean I am no longer War, either.”
Thanasim snorted and righted himself in the chair, resting his forearms on his thighs. His eyes had always been captivating.
Like galaxies of violet starlight. In truth, he was the favoured one. They’d all been selected as mortals and given the rebirth of
god and goddess by Hespa, but Thanasim was different. Nyxia, Lady Death, had hand-selected him as a boy to be one of her
reapers long, long ago. She’d doted on him in every reincarnated life he’d led as man and reaper—the son she would never
have. When he was officially rebirthed as a lord, Hespa gave him Nyxia’s eyes doused in shadow. A perfect match for the God
of Night.
From his perch across the room, Thanasim splayed his hands. “No longer War? There, I must beg to differ—all things
considered.” His eyes narrowed, and Athania pursed her lips. He was there to argue, then. Again. To her surprise, he didn’t
wait for her to make her age-old excuses. “Yet, you are not packing this evening as the rest of the army is.” His head cocked to
one side. “Why is that?”
“Are you spying on me?” she accused.
“Athania, you’ve made a mess of things. You know that. And if it has anything to do with the darker aspects of a realm, it is
my duty to keep an eye on matters.” He put a hand to his chest, his obsidian marriage ring glinting in the candlelight. “You
cannot fault me for that. Now, why aren’t you packing?”
She scoffed. He was nearly smiling. Smug prat. He knew exactly why she wasn’t packing, or he wouldn’t have asked.
“Wipe that vainglorious look off your face.”
“Athania…”
“I am not going on this particular adventure to Hawthrin,” she snapped.
Goddess above, he looked triumphant. “You’ve finally listened to me?”
Another form materialised in the room, a hand on her swollen belly.
 “Darling Asteria.” Athania ignored Thanasim’s response and launched herself at his wife instead. The women embraced
tightly, Athania’s face buried in the fiery locks of Lady Magic. She always smelt of comfort. Baked goods and spice. Athania
knew of the fierce protector living within her dearest friend, though. Asteria would smite an oppressor just as quickly as she
would bake a pie from scratch for a weary soul.
“Admit it,” Thanasim pressed as the women untangled from their embrace. “Admit you’ve finally heeded my warnings.”
Asteria perched herself on Thanasim’s lap, and his hand immediately cradled her belly.
“Unfortunately, that will never be the case.”
Thanasim snorted at Athania’s response, and Asteria huffed a laugh.
“Goddess’ damned teeth,” he finally spat.
“Language!” Athania censured. “You and that filthy mouth, honestly.”
“Filthy mouth?” Thanasim shifted and eyed his wife hungrily. “I assure you, that is the least of my filthy mouth.”
Athania made a gagging noise. “Why are you still here? I told you I’m not going, so run along.”
“Yes, my love,” Asteria said with a grin, “why are you still here?”
Lord Night had the gall to look affronted. “That’s how it is, then?” He gently helped Asteria rise from his lap and stood
himself. “This is turning into a ladies’ evening? How grand.”
Asteria lowered herself with great effort into her husband’s vacant chair, a delicate grunt escaping her in the process.
Surely she would have the babe within a moon. “By the way,” she spoke to her husband, “your daughter refuses to go to sleep
until you’ve read her bedtime story.”
Thanasim frowned in the way of all tired yet proud fathers across times and realms. “I read to them last night. Talan or
Hissa?”
Asteria eyed Thanasim without a word, and he frowned with understanding, likely some unspoken message passed within
their entanglement bond.
“Ah. Hissa, then,” he murmured.
“Talan refused any bedtime story. She’s a proper adult now that she is eight.” Asteria adjusted herself in the chair. “Hissa,
however, is devastated because you used silly voices whilst reading last night, and I did not do said voices, so I have been
relieved of my position for the time being.”
Athania watched the gentle pride evident on Thanasim’s face. What a beautiful thing, these mundane parental moments
amongst even gods. “Stubborn as the both of you,” she quipped.
“You’re not wrong,” Thanasim muttered before turning back to his wife. “And Monarch?”
“Asleep before the second page.”
Lord Night bent to kiss his Lady Magic. “To read in silly voices and convince my eldest daughter she is never too old for
faerie tales, then.” He rested his hand on Asteria’s belly, his thumb rubbing a small circle, and then he was dissipating into
smoke and gloom, moulding into the shadows until he was gone.
Athania smiled as she watched Asteria, a deep sense of peace coating her friend. “I’m to have another goddess daughter,
then?”
Asteria chuckled. “How did you know she’s a girl?”
“Mm.” Athania picked up the stack of letters at her desk and tapped their edges against the wood until they were in a
perfect pile. “Orlan came about a fortnight ago under the guise of an antiquities dealer.” She rolled her eyes, and they both
chuckled at Lord Art’s antics. “Apparently, when he returned, Lisbeth was infuriated he came without her. She showed up a
few days later and filled me in on all the Void’s courtly gossip.”
“Ah. She’s been rather bored since fraternising with mortals has been forbidden.”
That sounded just like Lady Love. “Forbidden because of me, I presume?”
“Quite.”
Every member of The Primordial’s godly court had endless tales of inserting themselves into the mortal world. Thanasim
had been the most notorious of them all, even above Lisbeth. But that was all before he’d met Asteria. One look at her, and
he’d never considered another being.
Of course, she’d tried to kill him, and that only made him more smitten with her.
Still, none of them had given up their godly status for a mortal…and then meddled ceaselessly like Athania.
“Well,” Athania countered, “they came here, so they can’t be taking that command too seriously.”
“You aren’t exactly mortal.” Asteria shrugged. “So they found a loophole, I’m sure.”
A charged silence sat between them, a rarity in their long friendship until lately. “Do you have a name for the baby yet?”
Athania asked, trying to fill the awkward space before it festered.
Asteria smiled. She was always beautiful, but her smile was radiant. “Belfry.”
Athania startled forward in her seat. “As in—”
“Your original mortal surname.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and Athania rose to hug Lady Magic. “You cannot be serious.”
 “I am. We want all our daughters to know of you.”
Still misty-eyed, Athania smoothed out her skirt and walked to the sideboard. “All I have is wine and a foul tea I brewed
for Igor.”
“I’m not in need of any refreshments.”
Her suddenly sombre tone halted Athania’s hand hovering over the wine decanter. “What is it?” Asteria didn’t answer.
Athania poured a glass of wine with a sigh and turned to face the music. “Asteria,” she pressed.
“Are we both just going to ignore the fact that you’re lying about not going with Igor to Hawthrin?”
Athania fought the urge to frown. Instead, she kept her face placid and did not respond, but Asteria was speaking again.
“Or ignore the fact that you have a packed back hidden somewhere in this room, and those letters on your desk are
correspondence giving your sincerest apologies for shirking your new duties?” When Athania chose to remain silent, Asteria
sighed. “I’ve known you for a very long time, Athania.”
“I can’t just let him go out there alone.”
“Igor was commander of this army long before he met you, and he was quite good at it. He can handle his own. You asked
for this life—to be a mortal wife to an army commander. Be her.” Clearly frustrated by Athania’s continued silence, she
gestured noncommittally. “What are your new duties, anyway?”
“I’m in charge of producing the medicinal tonics and poultices for the healing spa.”
Asteria’s face broke into a genuine smile. She was so naturally happy for others. “You’ve discovered how to tap into your
magic, then?”
“No.” Athania hung her head. “It’s hedge witchery at best.” She sat with her glass of wine across from Asteria.
“You’ll figure it out, my sister. You’ll figure it all out.” She took Athania’s hands in hers, not an easy task around her
protruding belly. “You are prolonging life instead of plotting wars,” she mused, pulling a small smile from Athania.
She hadn’t thought of it in such a way, but Asteria was right. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
“Do that, Athania. Be that. Embrace this life you’ve asked for.”
 Chapter

Three

Year of Our Goddess Three 945

My darling Igor,
I cannot bear another moment of this torture inflicted upon me by your absence.
Lifetime upon lifetime I’d spent in perfect patience, a century but a breath to
me. Even the long-suffering of war strategy could not unnerve me.
Yet, a fortnight without your arms around me, your lips upon my skin, and I
am undone.
Nandor assures me of your return within another fortnight, but I fear I will
have despaired into dust by then.
Your loving wife,
Athania

S
he set the quill in its base with a tink, and stood to stretch. Another morning without Igor, and Athania was growing
perturbed with herself. She had been the mighty Lady War. A goddess with unshakable nerves and patience that could rival
Hespa Herself.
“Look at me now,” she mumbled to no one. “Lovesick and mortal.” With that, she held her letter to the candle and watched
the flame burn it to ash. One day, she would tell Igor the truth about her past. Until then, she had to pour out her true feelings,
burn them, then write a…more mortal letter to be sent to her husband.
Despite the gnawing absence of Igor, the past fortnight had been soothing. She’d taken Asteria’s advice and truly embraced
what it meant to be mortal again. The days were long and sometimes laborious without her goddess strength, but working in the
healing spa was fulfilling.
Athania dressed in the plain garb of the spa matrons, loathing every moment of it. She stared at herself in the full-length
looking glass. Beige was not her colour. It made her skin look sallow, her hair too dark against her cheeks. She scowled at the
loose-fitting tunic and pants for a moment longer before opening her wardrobe and selecting a dress for after her time in the
spa. It made her feel just a bit better to know she would be clothed in finery later on, and that it would lie in wait for her upon
the bed. The gown she selected was a true work of art with its voluminous plum skirt and tight, corseted bodice. The velvet
sleeves bunched just off the shoulders and clung to the rest of the arms down to the wrist, a small bit of black lace to adorn her
hands. Igor was particularly fond of the gown, his favourite part being the neckline that dipped lower than those of the other
courtiers. “Just enough to tease me, as always, mi amor,” he would say and whisper kisses along the seam where the tender
skin at the top of her breasts sat exposed.
A gentle smile played at her lips as she laid the dress out on the bed and ran a hand along the tufted lace of the skirt. “I shall
return for you, dear gown, and Igor shall return for me.”
Athania spun on her heel and bent to slip on the sandals required by the spa. Sandals weren’t particularly her style, either,
but she did enjoy being able to slip her toes deep into the warm sand on the far side of the spa. In fact, it was her day to be
stationed at the seafront portion of the spa after her morning routine of preparing the medicinal poultices and herbal teas for the
patrons.
She knew she’d better get a move on before the sun finished her rise. Athania gently folded her thousandth normal letter to
Igor and slipped it in an envelope. Gingerly, she held a spoonful of wax over her candle, letting it melt. Her favourite part of
sending a letter was always watching the wax drip, drip, drip onto the parchment envelope. She had selected blood red, of
course.
War was hard to let go of.
The bloody droplets coalesced to the perfect size, and Athania took hold of her seal—a howling wolf’s head with a
fanciful R for Rodríguez. She ran her thumb over the symbol, smiling at the hidden B for Belfry, tucked into the wolf’s fur, just
under its heart. Athania, daughter Belfry, was so many lifetimes ago, and yet, she would always be. She flipped the seal over
and pressed it to the cooling wax just as her door opened.
“Madame?” her maid called out.
“Here, Millicent.” She smiled at the kind young woman as she met her in the small foyer. “I’ve not yet made it out this
morning, but I was just leaving for the spa.” She handed the young woman the letter. “Would you see that this is sent to Igor?”
“Of course, madame. I’ll see to it right away and return to clean your chambers.”
Athania laid a loving hand on the girl’s cheek. “Has anyone told you today that you are lovely and a true treasure?”
Millicent blushed and looked away. “You’re the only one who ever does.”
Athania lifted the girl’s chin gently with her fingers until their eyes met. “That will not always be the case, I assure you.”
She winked at the young woman and left for the spa, her sandals slapping the smooth floors of the castle corridors. Asteria had
been correct again. It was lovely, this caring for others thing. In truth, Athania had always believed her duties as Lady War
were caring for others. Sometimes, war was important. It was the noble defending their land, their rights. It was one group of
mortals standing up against another who wanted to enslave and abuse.
Tipping the scales of justice to honour the virtuous would never be anything less than benevolence and mercy in her eyes,
no matter how bloody. Though, it was nice to simply love and encourage mortals, be it with kind words or with a poultice, no
blood spilled. It still took some getting used to, but it was growing on her.
Athania ran her fingers along the wall idly as she wandered toward the spa, thinking of all the times Thanasim had accused
her of meddling improperly since marrying Igor. In a way, he was right. Her conscience was no longer clean. Athania
Rodríguez, the newly mortalised wife of the great Commander Igor Rodríguez, saw only righteous indignation in the battles of
Orford—in her husband’s plotting. But Lady War—goddess born of Hespa out of her life as Athania Belfry…she saw the
measuring scale, powers lessened or not, and it had tipped far, far too much.
The King of Orford was not a bad man, but he was a foolish man. Foolishness often led to negligence and too many
mistakes to walk back from, resulting in just as much travesty as evil can accomplish. Athania did not trust the king because she
did not trust his choices. Especially that of marrying a commoner and taking her bastard daughter as his heir. She had no qualms
with commoners, not after Asteria drilled into her mind the importance of every mortal, but she did have qualms with the heir
set to rule Orford once the king perished. The girl had death shrouding her, and a thick, dark magic coursing through her veins
—of that, Athania was certain.
In his frequent folly, the King of Orford had also sent their army into lands they did not belong in, and to battles they should
not have won.
And, yet…they had. Because of Igor. Because of Athania.
She nodded kindly at a few maidservants and courtiers up and about their business in the halls as she walked. Her
meddling in the wars had begun innocently enough. When she’d given up her goddess status and married Igor three years prior,
she’d only wanted to help him develop a proper plan to confront a particularly skilled opponent. It was simply how her mind
functioned—war strategy and military tactics. It wasn’t until after they’d won that first battle that she realised they wouldn’t
have without her and that they most likely should not have. Their victory had spelled out losses for the opposing country that
they would never recover from. From her place in the Void, she would have orchestrated matters with finesse, justice, and
impartiality. And…Orford—on paper—would have lost.
“You’re the only goddess-damned one of us who is allowed to meddle at all—to orchestrate outcomes,” Thanasim had
hissed at her a few nights after another battle. “You threw it away to come here, and now you meddle improperly? It’s a
disgrace, Athania.”
Her heart ached, recalling the conversation.
“You have to stop. You know it will be me who has to stop you if you do not get ahold of yourself.” He’d put a hand to his
chest, pleading. “Please, please do not make me have to.”
Yet, he’d mostly turned a blind eye to her antics, coming regularly only to scold her with empty threats. Thanasim could
never do anything that would hurt her. He wouldn’t. By not going with Igor to Hawthrin, by not meddling, she’d bought herself
some more time regardless.
 “Blessed morning,” one of the spa matrons said with a kind tilt of her head as Athania entered.
“Blessed morning, Retta.” The scent of lavender, chamomile, and primrose melded with the hot springs’ gentle aroma and
Athania inhaled deeply. “Shall I begin with brewing the Echinacea tea, making poultices, or preparing the tea tree treatments?”
“Why don’t you make poultices, but be sure you’re done in time to enjoy the spa before anyone arrives, hm?” The older
woman smiled up at Athania. “It is your day to be near the ocean, yes?” She knew how Athania loved the sea and sand. She’d
have happily lived out the rest of her mortal days on an island in a hut with Igor if she could have. Granted, there would be no
use for her sullen, beautifully dark gowns in the sand.
Athania reached out and took Retta’s gnarled hands in hers. “Thank you, Matron Retta.”
“Oh, hush.” She pulled free and patted Athania on the cheek. “Run along now.”
The feel of working poultices with her hands was utter bliss. Every grain of the wooden spoon against her palm, the
soreness in her muscles as she mixed the herbal paste until it became nearly clay-like; the scent of the herbs relaxing her mind,
and the consistent movement, therapeutic in its monotony.
Once the many glass jars were filled, and an extra vat to the side in case they needed it, the sun was rising steadily. Athania
looked out the window as she wiped off stray clumps of poultice from her hands with a clean linen. It wouldn’t be long before
patrons would arrive and she would be spreading the medicinal paste on sore limbs, arthritic joints, and minor injuries. If she
wanted a chance to feel the sand between her bare toes without the hindrance of other mortals, she needed to go now.
Nothing in all creation compared to the ocean—to that particular seaside in Alban, Orford. It had it all. Giant, black rocks
jutting up from the crystalline water, perfect, golden sand, and tree-lined cliffs. It was all her moods in a single location.
The castle was built at the summit of the cliff, only one corridor leading out to the beach, specifically for the spa. As high
lady of war, Athania thought the spa’s beachside portion was a grave error. One entrance in was still one entrance in. Why
build a castle on a seaside summit if there was still a way inside?
When she brought this up to Igor, he told her no one had attacked the castle by sea in ages.
Precisely why someone would, she’d thought. Still, at her behest, Igor had doubled the soldiers at the spa entrance and the
corridor lading from the spa into the castle as well.
The sun was warm upon her face, and she tilted her head up toward the sky, eyes closed, to let the sun’s rays soak into her
skin as she dug her toes further into the sand, down to where it had retained its kiss from the sea. Time felt as if only a moment
had passed when one of the matrons called her name and delivered the first seaside patron.
The hot springs the castle was built over extended nearly out into the sea itself, forming a warm lagoon with medicinal
properties, tucked up against the rockface. Many wealthy patrons frequented the spa for its relaxation and comfort, rather than
for medical need, and the lagoon was most assuredly the top choice. Shut off to the common public unless referred by a
physician, the spa was generally full of pious courtiers and old lords. Occasionally, however, there were patrons like the one
hobbling toward her. Wizened, beautiful souls full of stories.
It amazed Athania that stories could still interest her. Hadn’t she seen and done and lived through…everything? Still, there
was more life to experience. Mortals lived in such awe-inspiring ways as opposed to gods and goddesses. The looming
prospect of death set fire to their fear, and they lived recklessly—beautifully. Considering she retained some of her magic,
Athania would long outlive all the mortals surrounding her, including Igor. She pushed that intrusive thought to the far recesses
of her mind and greeted Dowager Duchess Lorna, anxious to hear what wild tale the elderly woman had for her this time.
She did not disappoint. Athania found herself in stitches over the outlandish stories, spending most of her morning with the
dowager. The rest of the afternoon was a blur of patrons, poultices, gossip, and the sunny lagoon.
By the time the last of the patrons were leaving the seaside, Athania could feel the tight sting of a sunburn on her shoulders
and back where she’d discarded her outer tunic before the midday meal. Smiling to herself with the simple joy of experiencing
something so very mortal, she went into the spa to retrieve an aloe paste.
“Join me on the beach to watch the sunset?” Matron Retta chirped when she entered the storeroom. “Mercy,” the matron
gasped, catching sight of Athania’s burn. “Come, come. Give me that.” She waved her hand impatiently until Athania handed
over the jar of aloe. “I’ll help you.”
She followed the sweet matron out onto the sand, the sky already blooming with the tryst of day and night.
“Never gets old, does it?” Retta said as she spread the cool paste over Athania’s hot shoulders.
“No, no, it does not.” How many sunrises and sunsets had she seen? An unfathomable number to a mortal. But they never
lost their magic. In fact, Lord Nature and Lady Art took inspiration from the sky as often as there are grains of sand on the
seashore.
The sun reflected off the water in a strange glimmer, and Athania squinted at it. “Is that a ship, Retta?”
The older woman made a grunt, thinking deeply. “Last of the merchant ships, I’d wager. Probably got held up at the import
line.”
“Isn’t the import line further west?”
Retta made a noncommittal noise and rose from the sand with a grunt. “I’m half starved. Would you accompany an old
woman to dinner this evening?”
 Athania smiled and rose, dusting sand from her linen pants. “I’d be delighted. But you had better dress in your very best
because I have already selected my dinner gown, and it’s divine.”
A husky laugh escaped Retta. “I have no doubt.”

THE TWO WOMEN agreed to change quickly and make it to the castle dining hall before the second course was served. Retta had
not been exaggerating. Dressed in a magnificent gown, she was three stages too fancy for a non-celebratory evening in the
court.
“I’ll not be shown up by a tall, beautiful woman, mind you.” She winked at Athania, who laughed and pulled out a chair for
the older lady.
The food was nothing special, but the conversation was invigorating. Some nights, after the spa had long since been
vacated and their bellies were full, Retta and Athania would go to Retta’s chambers and discuss what the matron called
alchemy, but Athania knew was magic aligning with the natural.
“That girl the king took as his own kin,” Retta whispered over her wine glass, “she’s full of the dark alchemy, isn’t she?”
Magic had always been a sore subject for most, in all realms and at all times, but there were certain ways to traverse the
topic. One of those ways was finding a natural explanation for things and assigning meaning that didn’t frighten. In many
realms, alchemy was that way of explanation—natural things being changed by other natural forces.
Retta had an innate knack for common magic, not because she was a witch or any such thing, but because she understood the
true, natural element of witchcraft. Lavender soothes the soul if it is consumed or its aroma smelled. Gold can melt if the fire is
hot enough. Mugwort can heal minor sickness if ingested or heal if pulverised and applied as a balm. Just because something
was spectacular did not mean it was otherworldly.
Athania snorted inwardly. If only the common mortal knew how many other worlds there truly were. They wouldn’t bat an
eye at hedgewitchery.
Yet, there has always been danger in teaching others the depths of such powers beyond commonality. With Retta, she’d
simply implied that there is always darkness and light, and alchemy is no different. What the woman did with that information
was rather up to her. It seemed she had used it to label people good or bad in much too simplistic terms, as per the way of
mortals since the dawn of time.
In the current case, she was more right than she could possibly know.
“I would have to agree with you on that one.” There was no sense in explaining that alchemy was a practice , not a state of
being as for a witch. They would need to broach that topic soon, though, if she and Retta were to continue their discussions on
such matters.
With dinner concluded and the two women largely—thankfully—ignored by other courtiers, Retta retired to her chambers
to await Athania, who needed a moment of fresh air before their nightcap.
The castle had many a balcony, and they were all exquisite, but tonight she chose one overlooking the sea. Perhaps because
Igor had crossed it to Hawthrin. Perhaps because its depths reminded her of all the realms she would never see again. Still, she
was happy with her choices.
Athania nodded and wished a good evening to those she passed before stepping out onto the balcony to be alone with the
salty night breeze. The moment she reached the railing and made to lean over, she saw it. The ship from earlier, swaying in the
water, illuminated by the full moon, and its hull nearly run aground by the receding tide. It boasted a flag she had never seen
before, but the symbol was striking a chord deep within her memory. She’d seen that crest before—but where? And where was
the crew…
Her heart hammering in her chest, Athania turned back toward the castle interior. She knew with a sickening realisation
where she’d seen that crest—all over Igor’s battle plans. But her legs felt like they were wading through the sea, time slowed
to a crawl. She needed to run. Shout. Warn the guards. Why was she suddenly so useless? She was Lady War. These moments
were hers.
Not anymore. And her mortal body would not obey.
“Help,” she croaked out, stumbling for the door. “Someone!” She managed to get her voice to obey this time. “Ship! A ship
from Hawthirn!”
She’d made it within the corridor, only to find it almost vacant.
“Guards!” she shouted, her body finally catching up to her mind. “Invaders! Hawthrin invaders!”
Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she ran, shouting all the way. The first few people she encountered ignored her,
chalking it up to inebriation. But then began the screams. They were in. They’d made it through the spa entrance and up into the
castle. How, how had they known about the entrance? There had to be a rat, or they’d tortured the Orfordian soldiers—
Oh, gods.
Athania shoved past the courtiers frozen in place from fear, and ran toward the screaming. The invaders would seek out the
king, and they would cut down anyone in their path. She launched herself around a corner, the screams deafening and the scent
of blood filling her nostrils. Nearly tripping over her skirts, she found herself at the back of a line of unfamiliar soldiers
headed directly for the king’s living quarters. Though, he wouldn’t be on that side of his wing. Not yet. He always had a drink
in the solarium before retiring for the evening. If they kept going in the wrong direction, the king might have a chance to escape,
but what of everyone else?
There was no way to predict what Hawthrin wanted, be it retaliation, domination, or something in between. And Athania
had no goddess quill to turn the tide. It could all be over by the time she reached her chambers to retrieve it, and with no way
of knowing the entire situation, she could make things worse even if she did try.
She cursed her ineptitude with her worthless amount of magic as she watched the enemy soldiers round another corner. As
a goddess, she could change into a wolf or bat. Her bat form always came when justice ruled her; the wolf when the scales
needed to be tipped and war rampant.
But she was nothing now. No bat. No wolf. Not even a dagger to her name.
Fool. She was an utter fool.
Still, she had to stall them somehow.
One of the gigantic Hawrthin men had a young maid by the hair. Tears streamed down her face and he was screaming at her
to show him where the king was.
“Stop!” Athania shouted, a mere kernel of Primordial power seeping into the word, just enough to jar them.
The dozen or so men stopped in their tracks and turned as one, fluid as the sea. The maid struggled against her captor, her
face twisted in agony as she tried in vain to pull his hand from her hair. She looked up and her pained gaze met Athania’s. The
maid’s eyes went wide just before Athania felt a vicious sting across her cheek. It took a foggy moment for her to realise one of
the men had slapped her. Rough hands were grasping at her arms, but a sharp whistle cut through the corridor and they all
backed away from her.
Darting a look around herself, she took her opportunity. “Unhand the girl!” Athania shouted, wiping a dribble of blood from
her chin with the back of her hand. She threw her shoulders back, embodying every bit of who she used to be. “She doesn’t
know where the king is. But I do.”
A word she didn’t recognise was spoken by an unseen man in the throng of them, and the others began to part down the
middle. Save for the two that darted forward and clamped their hands around her arms again. Ignoring every fibre of her being
that told her to do so, she did not struggle. Instead, she listened to the thunk thunk of heavy boots thudding down the corridor.
Dressed in finer furs and leathers, the man stalking toward her was as fierce and solid as they come. Towering over her, he
looked down into Athania’s eyes. She could just make out the barest hint of grey in his beard and in the knotted lengths of his
hair. Blood streaked across his cheek, marring a blue symbol painted there. There was a cut under one of his green eyes, but
she doubted the blood was his. He reeked of sweat and deep sea, blood and gore.
“What a brave girl you are.” His accent was thick, clunky and stunted. Still, his condescension was clear as day. One of his
large hands came forward to take a lock of her dark hair between his fingers. Athania bucked against the men holding her arms
and spat at the man who must be their commander. He only chuckled, low and sinister. All of her magic pressed against her
skin in response, begging to let her try. Let her just try to stop him—all of them. If there was ever a moment for it to finally
break free within her, it had to be this one.
She held her ground, chin high and mind whirling. If she truly took them to the king, they could kill him and take the entire
country. If she led them astray, she would surely die.
The thought gave her pause. How difficult was it for her to die?
Witches had healing capabilities with their extended lifespan. If that was what she’d become, what Asteria had brokered
for her mortal incarnation, that would extend to her as well.
A wicked smile curved her lips, and she watched the Hawthrin commander’s nose flare, his eyes dilating as his gaze
landed on her mouth.
“I would advise against leading me astray, brave mouse.”
His face suddenly fell, lust replaced with curiosity that was bleeding into…triumph?
Athania fought the urge to step backward and yank her captors with her at the look in his eyes.
“Peculiar.” His voice was like gravel against her eardrums. Quickly, his hand darted out and took hold of her necklace.
Athania gritted her teeth, unable to keep her chest rising and falling evenly. He let the amulet fall back against her breastbone
and ran the pad of his finger over the skin there. “Such a unique pendant you have. A bat, of all things.” His crystal-blue eyes
snapped to hers. “The commander of your army had one just like it.”
Athania’s vision went white with rage. Her nostrils flared, and she snarled, gnashing her teeth and fighting against the men
holding her captive. “How dare you! Where is he? I demand to see him!”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “Take me to the king”—he leaned in close enough for her to feel his breath on her
face—“and I will gladly show you Commander Rodríguez.” Pulling back, he grinned savagely. “Do not think that by stalling
you will stop us, brave mouse. Our ship is one of many. Alban is not only surrounded, but my men are most certainly
ransacking the city as we speak.”
He’d won their small battle, and he knew it. She knew it. How could she have lost so easily? Had love made her pathetic?
Weak?
“The solarium,” she spat and tossed her chin in that direction. “Third right down the left corridor.”
The Hawthrin commander shouted something she didn’t understand again, and she kicked herself for not learning more
languages in all her languid time among the gods. There was a flurry of movement as they all rushed around her, the two
holding her captive lifting her from the ground and darting forward to follow the rest.
Just as they reached the corridor, Athania had pointed them toward, another band of soldiers convened with them. One, at
least thrice the size of the others, pushed through the throng to the commander, speaking in their native tongue. The leader
turned to Athania with a sneer. “Turns out you tell the truth, mouse. Aðalsteinn tells me he has found your king exactly where
you said.” He ran a knuckle down her cheek. “Good mouse.”
Athania reared her head back and flung it forward, launching a wad of spit at the commander’s face. “I am no mouse, pig.”
The burly man wiped the spittle from his face, a darkness clouding his eyes for half a breath before he broke out into
laughter, all the soldiers crowded in the hall echoing him. “That is okay,” he said darkly once his laughing ceased. “I much
prefer a wolf.” Before she could respond, he clapped his hands twice, the sound cracking off the ceiling, and they all marched
toward the solarium, dragging Athania along.
It wasn’t until they reached the solarium, with its vibrant plant life, that she realised just how terrible these men smelled. It
was a trivial, mundane thought when the King of Orford knelt bloodied and bound at a soldier’s feet, his knights lifeless on the
ground; when the Hawthrin soldiers standing sentry all brandished walking sticks adorned with the head of—
Orfordian soldiers.
Men Athania had eaten with, laughed with, and plotted battles with. Many that she had helped nurse back to health when
they’d returned to the camp after a battle. They had been killed and disgraced, their heads stabbed onto spikes and their
lifeblood running down the wood grain, leaving red, garish gashes across the solarium’s black and white checkered floor. Her
stomach roiled. Between the throng of men and gore, she could see the commander speaking with the king. She watched him
kick the old man in the face, his lip splitting in a second place. But she could hear nothing save for a ringing in her head.
She’d seen countless people die in battle. She’d swayed the tides of war for that very outcome, but she’d never known
those people. She’d never loved one—
Athania’s heart seized. Frantically, she forced herself to look at each severed head on a spike, searching for Igor. A sliver
of hope settled in her racing heart. None of them were him. Her hearing cleared just as the Hawthrin commander shouted at the
king.
“Those are your options, old man. I take your kingdom by force, or you let my men take what they desire, and we will
return to our ships and pretend your army did not try to ambush us in the pass.”
The king sagged. There were no good options. “Take what you will, but do not hurt my people.”
The Hawthrin commander chuckled. “I said my men will take what they want. I make no promises how kind they’ll be.”
The last words were a hiss as he leaned into the king’s drawn face. “Do you think your men were kind when they tried to
slaughter mine? Do you think they were kind to my people when they cut off not only supply lines to my infantry but to our
home?” He spat something in his native tongue and turned away.
Athania’s stomach flipped when his gaze landed on her through the crowd, lustful and menacing. “In fact,” he said, stalking
over to where she was still being held, her arms bruised and in pain, “I’ll take the wolf.”
The king’s eyes went wide, and he made to stand, but he was shoved back down with a grunt. “You can’t do that! You can’t
take people!”
The commander shuffled forward adder-fast and placed a kick square to the king’s chest. “I said we will take what we
fucking want!” He unsheathed his sword, and Athania tried to pull free.
“Stop!” she shouted. “I’ll do it! Just leave him alone!”
“Athania?” It was barely a whisper, coming from somewhere off to the side, but she’d know that voice anywhere. Her head
whipped around to find him. Igor. Her lips parted, and her stomach lurched again when she saw him, hands bound behind his
back and a canvas bag over his head, soaked in blood where his nose and mouth should be, and a stain crawling outward from
where the side of his head was concealed.
Before she could register how to make her body move or her mouth form words, the commander was upon her. “I told you
I’d bring you to him, wolf.” He clasped his hand around her amulet. “It is a shame you are my wolf now.”
Athania let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a scream. Using the men holding her as a catapult to lift her legs,
she kicked at the commander’s chest so hard he stumbled backward a step, her amulet breaking off into his hand and the chain
slicing the back of her neck. The commander righted himself and launched forward, slapping her so hard that her vision became
a series of star bursts. “Enough!” he growled.
“What are you doing to her!” Igor shouted, struggling against his bindings. “Leave her alone!”
The Hawthrin commander had lost all semblance of sanity. A shroud of pure, unadulterated malevolence passed over his
face as he stared at Athania. She saw in his eyes what he would do half an instant before he spun. There was no time to shout.
There was no time to warn.
The commander’s long sword sliced clean through Igor’s neck, his head tumbling from his shoulders, still wrapped in a
sack that was quickly turning more red than tan.
Athania screamed, and everything went dark.
 Chapter

Four

W
hen she awoke, Athania was bound and sitting in a scratchy pile of hay. Her stomach was horribly queasy, and it was
too dark to see much of anything. She could just make out a few other forms in the space. Calming her mind, she
listened, making out the sound of waves crashing against a hull right next to her head and the soft cry of a woman, as
well as distant shouts and stomping above her. She was in the cargo hold of a Hawthrin ship with what she could
only assume were other Orfordian prisoners.
Frustration clawed at her insides. This would be the prime time to learn how to wield the witch magic Asteria had bartered
for her. She had no quill, either. It would probably be lost to history if she did not find a way to return and retrieve it. But all
that would have to come later.
She would not panic. Mortal in most ways or not, she had been a goddess.
By any means necessary, she would escape Hawthrin’s hold and find—
The memory of Igor’s head toppling from his shoulders, the blood soaking into his tunic before his lifeless body crumpled
to the floor… It all crashed into her like the waves against the ship, a torrent of remembrance that unconsciousness had almost
erased.
Athania retched into the hay.
She felt a hand come to her back, rubbing a small circle, the touch cold through the fabric of her tattered gown. “Are you all
right?” a small voice said, and Athania’s heart sank further.
“Millicent?” She turned, wiping vomit from her mouth with her sleeve. “No…”
The young woman attempted a smile, her face smudged by the darkness of the compartment. Still, Athania thought she could
make out the marring of cuts and bruises there as well. “How many did they take?” she asked the sweet maid.
“I’ve no idea. There were at least a dozen ships.”
And they had all most likely taken prisoners aboard.
“Y–you’re to be taken out of this compartment soon,” Millicent whispered. “I heard them speaking earlier. I haven’t heard
their tongue since I was a very little girl with my grandmother, but I believe they said you’re to be taken to the commander’s
cabin.”
Athania’s stomach roiled anew, remembering more of the unfolding events. Igor was gone, and she was to be owned by his
murderer.
No.
She was no mouse. She was the Wolf of War.
Athania rose to her feet, attempting to keep her balance when the ship lurched to one side. Chin high, she forced her
shoulders back and pulled her young friend up. “Millicent, listen to me very carefully. Do not let them break you.” The maid’s
lip began to wobble as she set to wringing her hands. “We likely have many days on this ship that we must endure by any means
necessary. Once we are in Hawthrin, we will find a way to escape.”
Millicent nodded, but broken sobs began hiccuping out of her. Athania’s eyes had finally adjusted to the dark, and she
watched the girl with something akin to envy. Grief was a luxury not afforded to those accustomed to leadership—a life she
thought she’d left behind.
Athania opened her mouth to comfort the girl, but keys rattled outside the compartment’s door. Rusty hinges creaked, and
watery light filtered in. An overcast sky backlit the two men into nothing more than bulky shadows looking down on the
battered women.
“We’re here for the commander’s wolf,” one of them barked in broken Orfordian.
In that instant, something slick and foul slithered up Athania’s spine, and she nearly smiled. The commander’s wolf. Let the
prophet be heard, she thought to herself and walked toward the ladder. One of the men bent to help haul her up, but she
smacked his hand away, and they both snickered, one muttering something about no wonder the commander wanted you.
Seaspray hit her face as they walked across the deck, the little droplets misting her dark locks. It did little to cool the rage
boiling in her belly, but she remained serene. This was nothing more than another battle of hers to win. She didn’t need a quill
or magic or an immortal status.
To hold herself steady, Athania focused on the sounds around her, letting them ground her. The scuff of boots on the ship’s
wooden planks. How it contrasted with the imperceptible swish of her fine slippers. The thunk of the sails’ ropes against the
mast—a war drum keeping time with the crash of ocean waves. She heard no voices. Of a surety, they were speaking. At the
very least, the crew was whispering about her, jeering at her. Or, perhaps, they feared or respected their commander enough not
to do such a thing. Alas, it didn’t matter. In war, she saw no people. Heard no people. There was only justice, and there was
malice. The two sides of her coin. And it was time to flip it.
They reached a portion of the ship that jutted out onto the deck, and Athania realized for the first time how elegant the boat
was. It looked more like a ship for a king’s transport than a warship. One of the burly men escorting her used a skeleton key to
unlock the door they’d stopped in front of. He stepped aside and gestured for her to descend the few steps down. She hesitated
for only a breath before one of the men shoved her forward a step. Attempting not to tumble down the steps and roll her ankle,
she almost missed the cracking sound of a slap behind her. Finding her balance, she whipped around to see the commander
digging his fingers into the throat of the soldier she could only presume was the one who’d pushed her. He spoke in their native
tongue. Athania could only make out a word here or there, still cursing herself for letting dialects slip from her memory.
Embarrassed by the admonishment, the soldier ducked his head and strode quickly away. Athania stared up at the commander.
Her husband’s murderer. Her captor.
“Fire in her eyes,” he muttered, a grin on his handsome face, and she hated him all the more. “Bathe, wolf. I’ll be in
shortly.”
Opulent wouldn’t begin to describe the commander’s quarters. Somehow, it had been untouched by the salt in the air, as
everything was polished to a gleaming shine nearly impossible on a sea-bound vessel. Beneath her slippers, the oxblood carpet
was so plush that she longed to bury her toes in it like warm sand in the summer.
Shaking away that thought, she reminded herself that Igor’s body was lying cold and headless somewhere, awaiting a
grave. She hoped to the goddess he would receive a proper burial befitting his station, and a sob bubbled up in her chest at the
realisation that she’d miss it. She’d never get to say goodbye.
Swiping angrily at the hot tears slipping down her cheeks, her teeth bared and jaw tight, Athania flung open the lavatory
door so hard it banged against a wall. She was too damned ancient for tears and had seen too much to act like a lost girl. There
was only one way, and that was forward.
With purpose, she strode into the small lavatory, watching as steam arose from the bath, the water sloshing with the sway of
the ship, a miniature mimic of the vast ocean surrounding them. Athania stripped off her sodden, torn dress, surprised by the
level of sadness she felt for its loss—one of her favourite gowns. Reverently, she set it to the side and slipped out of her
underthings and into the warm water. The sting of it against her skin began to soothe her aching heart and her unsettled stomach,
but she pushed the looming serenity away. It would do her no favours until this was over.
Dipping her head back into the water until it crept up to the widow’s peak on her forehead, she chuckled mirthlessly. She
was a widow. A widow.
As she was pulling hay from her wet locks, she heard the distinct sound of weaponry being laid out on a wooden table and
closed her eyes. Grief and trauma were such dark, peculiar friends, showing their faces in the most mundane of sounds, smells,
memories. How many times had she heard Igor’s weapons thunk against wood when he returned to her, stripping them off
before he would wrap her in his arms, tangle his fingers in her hair, lead them to their bed…
The door to the lavatory opened, and the commander peered in. Too many men and women had seen her naked for her to
blush any longer, but her neck still heated at the thought of this man seeing her. Nevertheless, she did not hide herself, and she
did not look away from him. Instead, she raised her chin. “I have never been required to bathe myself, and I’m not inclined to
do so now.”
The commander let the door swing open the rest of the way, and he leaned against the frame, arms crossed and a disarming
grin on his chiseled face. “I’m afraid this ship is manned by men. I could fetch one of your little Orfordian friends, hm?”
“I meant you,” she snapped, letting the shock that rolled over his features bolster her. She would play into what he liked
and ignore the nausea roiling in her gut.
“Is that so?” His cadence was cocky, but his arms fell slack to his sides. “And here I thought you were cross with me.”
This is where you lie, Athania. She tugged at the malice in her bones, a saccharine smile curving her lips. When his eyes
landed there, she handed him the sponge wordlessly. He came forward and knelt next to the tub, letting the soapy water drip
over her bare back, and she finally spoke. “Cross with you? For killing my husband or taking me hostage?”
She’d expected him to pause the gentle washing, but he did not. Instead, he chuckled darkly. “War is a nasty business, I’m
afraid.”
War is ruthless.
 When she did not respond outwardly, the commander spoke again, still methodically—tenderly—washing her. “You do not
seem distraught about your husband any longer.” He ran the sponge over one of her breasts, then lifted her arm to wash it.
“Anyone losing their head is disturbing, but he was nothing romantic to me,” she lied, her voice perfectly steady.
“Mm. And yet, you wore his amulet.”
At this, she turned her head toward him, peering at him half over her shoulder. “He wore my amulet.” The best bluffs are
doused in truth. “My father was the keeper of our village bell tower, at home with the winged creatures who found solace
there.”
He considered her, his green eyes intense and one arm slung over the side of the tub. He looked at her that way for so long
that she wanted to look away, but did not.
The commander licked his lips and sat back, letting the sponge float along, bobbing in the sudsy water. “I am not making
you part of some harem.” The sincerity in his voice gave her pause. “I have no harem, and I have no wife. You will be my
first.” He paused. “Only. You will be my only wife.”
A torrent of thoughts assaulted her. The rage that this man thought he could take whomever he wanted and make them his
wife—make it sound like some valiant thing. The disbelief that anyone would simply select a stranger and claim them. The
intense heat coming off of him. A pull toward him that made her loathe herself.
“Why me?” was all she could choke out.
“Why not?”
“Because you do not know me.”
He heaved a great sigh and stood, his knees cracking. “I’m accustomed to getting what I want. And while I might be the
spoiled second son of a king, I’d rather select my wife than have her selected for me. You”—his gaze raked over her body
—“are not weak, and you know what is it to be the wife of a man of war.”
Fire shot up within her chest so violently she thought she would burst into flames. I am war.
“I will return at nightfall. Do make yourself at home.”
He turned to leave, but Athania spoke, slipping her voice into the most demure tone she could manage. “What is your
name?”
The commander smiled, and it appeared quite genuine. “Jónatan.”
Jónatan left, and Athania dressed in the only clothing that had been laid out for her—a faded blue tunic. It was scratchy and
clearly Jónatan’s, as it smelled of man and half-hearted wash, but it was made of finer material than most would wear on a
ship. On the table sat a glass of dark wine and a tray of cheese and bread. Though she did not relish the idea of eating, she
would need her strength and stomached what she could before settling onto a chair and letting her dark thoughts consume her.
 Chapter

Five

T
he next fortnight was spent in a haze. Jónatan would be gone until evening, when he would come in and eat a meal with
her and take her to his bed. The first time, she had to fight back tears, play the submissive, willing girl. After that, she
hated how little trouble the idea of sleeping with him gave her. He was one of the better lovers she’d had in her
unparalleled existence, and it made the entire charade even worse. Jónatan was tender and unselfish. Athania would even go so
far as to call him kind at times. Experienced, certainly, and doting admittedly.
She did know that war made men do horrible things—be horrible things—that would otherwise never cross their minds.
And she let herself believe that was what this was. Jónatan had needed to be ruthless, but she was experiencing the true him in
a cabin below a ship.
“You will want for nothing,” he whispered to her one night, running a knuckle tenderly over her cheekbone.
Athania had smiled up at him, then turned her back to him to hide her conflicted tears. When he arose and left the cabin as
he did every night, she vomited into the chamber pot and screamed into her pillow until another piece of her sloughed off.
In those first days, Jónatan locked the door when he left. Eventually, he stopped locking her in, his caged wolf. But it felt
like a test. One that she would pass. She would continue to sit in the cabin, staring at the polished brass gaslamps, the curved
walls of her cage, and the ornate mirror above the headboard. She would continue to peer out the small circular window at the
sea, looking for land.

J ÓNATAN LEANED back in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand. Athania couldn’t claim he was boring any more than she could
claim he was a poor lover. The logical, war-conscious part of her was beginning to admit he even had the signs of a decent
commander. In another life, she would have done what he had. In another life, she had made similar calls.
All lives considered, or none. There was no in-between in war.
“Athania.” Jónatan said her name as if he’d already done so multiple times. He must have asked her a question.
“Apologies. What was it you said?”
Jónatan smiled, and she marvelled at him. He was perfect with his thick beard, broad shoulders, and long hair. “You hardly
touched your food. Is it not to your liking? I will have another meal prepared for you.”
He’d truly been nothing less than a chivalrous, beautiful man since stealing her away. She’d seen prisoners of war fall for
their captors many times, and it had always boggled her mind. Now, it made perfect sense. She could be his pet. His docile
wolf.
Love never cages, Asteria had said once. But Asteria had been wrong. Wrong about not going with Igor. Wrong about
justice outweighing the sword. Wrong about putting war behind her.
Asteria was nothing to her now.
“I’m only a little seasick,” she finally answered Jónatan. “That’s all.”
His chair screeched against the ship’s planks as he stood and held out his hand to her. “Perhaps it is time to retire to bed,
then. It is after midnight.”
Athania nodded, and Jónatan scooped her up with ease, laying her down in the bed. Tucking the covers to her chin, he gave
her one of his disarming smiles. “I will return shortly.”
She reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could leave. “Please stay.” It was easier to remain in the fog when she
was not alone. Sanity was difficult to grasp in the haze, but it was the only way. She couldn’t awaken.
Jónatan’s head tilted to the side, concern clouding his eyes. It was easiest when he bedded her. So she let her doe eyes turn
sultry, one side of her mouth curving upward until it was hunger that shone in his gaze.
 The next hours were a blur of breath, skin, pleasure, and teeth. Lust and rage were willing bedfellows, but she did not let
the daze slip.
Thirsty, Athania rose and donned her borrowed tunic, watching Jónatan’s chest rise and fall. When she returned to the bed
with a glass of water, Jónatan stirred, reaching over to wrap his arm around her waist. He felt her tunic and grumbled. “First
thing in the morning, we will procure all of the finest clothing for you, my wolf.”
Athania blinked, the haze shifting. “Morning? Where will we find clothing on the ship?”
Jónatan chuckled, the sound low. “We will reach Hawthrin by sunrise.”
Her heart beat so rapidly that her pulse began to pound in her ears. The haze slunk back into something edged in fangs.
“In fact,”—Jónatan stretched—“I need to go ensure we are prepared.”
It is time, mi amor. A crack of lightning seared through her.
Jónatan sat up, but Athania moved without thinking, pushing him back down and straddling his hips. “Wait,” she purred. His
eyes sparked at her sudden shift. The veil was pulling back rapidly, and she could no longer control it. She bent down and
licked up his neck, stopping at his ear. When she bit his earlobe hard enough to draw blood, he sucked in a breath, squeezing
her hips in his hands. His anticipation was evident beneath her, and she moved to press her lips gently to his.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered against his mouth.
Jónatan obeyed with another low laugh. Athania shifted on him, making him believe she was removing her tunic. Instead,
she slammed her fist into the large mirror above the headboard, glass raining down.
“What the f–”
But she already had a jagged shard in her hand, its edges slicing into her palm. Every vein of numbness fell from her, all
her grief and rage coalescing until her teeth were bared, and she shoved the sharp fragment of the mirror into Jónatan’s neck,
right where she’d just kissed him.
Athania watched with a sick smile on her face as the light left his eyes. It had all happened too quickly for him to even
struggle.
Pity, she thought as she stood, the last vestiges of sanity finally falling off her shoulders like shedding a second skin.
She stared at the blood on her hand. A mixture of Jónatan’s and her own. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes. Malice. It
felt right to finally let her play on her own, clamping shut the mouth of mercy. When her eyes flew open, a giggle bubbled out of
her, a cauldron runneth over. But it was soon replaced by a pleased gasp. There, above Jónatan’s lifeless body, the shards of
the broken mirror were hovering. Awaiting her command.
She’d done it. She’d discovered how to wield her mortal magic.
“Come along then, dearies,” she whispered to the broken glass. “We’ve blood to claim.”
Flinging open the door to the compartment, her jagged weapons at her back, she looked up at the lightening sky and inhaled
the salty air. Barefoot and bloody, she calmly stalked across the deck of the ship until she encountered a soldier. He was
startled by her presence, demanding to know what she was doing.
Athania smiled vacantly and lifted her bloodied hand in a wave. “Hullo.”
His face blanched when he noticed the mirror daggers behind her. Before he could bellow a cry for help, one of the shards
lodged itself into his eye socket, deep into his brain.
“Bye, then,” Athania whispered over his body when it crumpled to the deck.
Giggling madly to herself, she stepped over him and encountered three more men. One took a shard to the temple, one to the
heart, and another to the hollow of his throat. “Oof.” She bent over the latter. “That might take some time to do you in.” She
ripped the shard free, relishing the bite as it sliced her palm again. The soldier’s neck gushed blood, and Athania patted his
cheek, leaving a macabre handprint. “There you are.” Throwing her head back and laughing, she drew the attention of at least a
dozen more men.
Her mirror shards had done all the dirty work before they understood what was happening.
“Oh, pity, pity,” she sang at the pile of bodies. “I’m out of weapons now.”
Tapping a bloody finger to her lip, she channeled whatever inner well that had done her bidding and was pleased to see
several daggers free themselves from the dead and come to take the place of the broken mirror shards. “Much better,” she
cooed.
“Yo ho, yo ho,” she sang out, her heartbeat acting as a pounding war drum.
“Yo ho, yo ho.
The blood, it sings to me

T HE SHIP it rocks
Tossed in the waves

YO HO , yo ho,
 But it’s the blood that calls my name.

YO HO ,yo ho,
Yo ho, yo h–

– OH, HULLO .” She beamed at a soldier who was confused by the chaos and her cloak of daggers. “Drat, have I scared you?”
She looked down at her bloodied tunic and legs, making a clicking sound with her tongue and cheek. “And here I thought a
woman in red was every man’s cup of tea.”
Three of her daggers lashed out, landing in lethal places. He fell to the deck, revealing Millicent and three of the other
Orfordian girls huddled together on the ladder that led down into the ship’s hold. Athania reached down to haul the trembling
girls up.
“Wha-what have you done?” Millicent looked around the deck, horrified.
Athania whirled on her. “What have I done? I’ve freed you!” She spread her arms wide, a dagger in each hand.
One of the girls vomited. And another began to cry.
“Wh–who will steer the ship?”
Athania followed Millicent’s line of sight, cackling when she saw land approaching quickly. Hawthrin’s shore was rocky,
boulders nearly the size of the ship jutting out into the sea. Mountains rose up just inland, and she could make out a fishing
village.
“Brace yourselves, my darlings!” Athania tipped herself over the railing of the ship, giggling like a drunkard when she
almost fell all the way over. “We’ve boulders to dock us!”
“Bolders!” Millicent cried. “My lady, please. We could die!”
But Athania could hardly hear her over the girl that would not cease her fit. She sent one of her daggers to silence the girl.
Silence was not what she received when Millicent and the other two girls began screaming and backing away from her.
She stalked toward them, perturbed by their wide eyes and trembling bottom lips. Pathetic. Athania pulled three daggers
free from her magic and held them out.
“Please,” one of them begged. “Please don’t hurt us.”
“Take the weapons,” Athania demanded. When they did not, she lashed out at Millicent. “Make them take them!”
“My lady,” Millicent begged. “Please stop this.” Her eyes darted to all the knives surrounding Athania.
“Stop what?” she bellowed. “I’m rescuing you, and this is the thanks I get? Do you really think the villagers will welcome
us with open arms?” She pointed a dagger at the village, then at the three other ships flanking them. “You will need to defend
yourselves.”
Shakily, the three of them took the daggers.
“Now, put them on your person because we’re about to—”
The bow of the ship crashed headfirst into a boulder, sending them all flying. Athania slammed into the mast and landed on
the deck with a thud. The ship still rocked and swayed, water flooding in quickly. Millicent was hauling up one of the other
girls, her head bleeding and a large piece of wood sticking out of her shoulder.
Athania, holding her bruised ribcage, motioned for the girls to follow her as they waded into the water through the broken
bow of the ship. It was only about waist deep, and her daggers followed like obedient wolf pups. Seeing the ship crash into the
shore, villagers were running onto the rocky beach, their faces stricken. Some pulled back when they witnessed the women.
Others stopped entirely and made signs of warding off witchcraft at the sight of Athania and her weapons.
Just to amuse herself, she sent them all flying out at once, save for the dagger in her hand, and watched with glee as several
bodies fell to the pebbled sand. She inhaled deeply and pulled rocks from the surrounding mountains with her magic, launching
them at anyone who came within range of her.
Slowly, painstakingly, Athania and the girls made their way inland. The other ships had docked, the other soldiers crushed,
stabbed, and bludgeoned by her.
When she turned around after the last soldier fell, Millicent was sobbing, one of the girls in her arms. “She’s dead,” she
choked out.
“Hm.” Athania looked herself over and found a cut on her forearm. “And I’ve only one little knick…ope…” She felt a
trickle of blood run down her forehead. “Two, then.”
“Please,” Millicent breathed out, now on her knees and cradling the girl. But she wasn’t speaking to Athania. She had her
eyes squeezed shut. “Please, Lady Magic. Help me.”
Athania’s blood went cold. Then white-hot with rage. Millicent was a witch. She was one of Asteria’s to keep watch over.
Athania lunged at Millicent, her magic pulling the dead girl from her arms and flinging her across the beach.
“Unfortunately,” she growled as she held a dagger’s edge to Millicent’s neck, “Lady Magic can’t help you now.”
With a sick slice, she ended the traitor, hitting an artery that sprayed.
 As soon as her blood spilled, Athania’s own life force sang. The blood called to her more than the others’. Her lips parted
in curiosity, a droplet of the girl’s blood slipping into her mouth.
Her magic throbbed.
Her heart thundered.
She brought the dagger to her mouth and licked it clean, her magic flaming to a roar.
 Chapter

Six

ASTERIA, LADY MAGIC

L
ady Magic materialised, her heeled boots squelching in the mud as she spun in a circle, frantically looking for the witch
who had called out to her. Something terrible had happened.
Peering down, she grasped with horror that she wasn’t standing in mud, but gore.
“Goddess above,” she whispered, crouching. Mortal gore.
She looked up to see the full extent of the carnage. Bodies littered the rocky outcrop. She realised with a jolt that a woman
was standing over one, her chest rising and falling so rapidly that Asteria could see it even across the distance between them.
Athania.
“Athania!” She ran, dodging the broken limbs and corpses. When she reached her friend, her sister, Athania turned on her
like a crazed animal. The look in her eyes was alarming, but Asteria reached forward, pushing back her friend’s bloody hair to
get a better look at her face. “Are you hurt? What’s happened?”
Athania flinched backward with a snarl. “Don’t touch me!”
“Sister, it’s me. Lady Magic. Asteria.” She put her hands up placatingly so as not to spook her further. “What’s happened
here?”
With a gnash of her teeth, Athania growled—the sound like something out of Hades. “You!”
Asteria’s mind whirled. She’d gone mad. None of this made sense. “Athan—”
But her friend had launched herself at Asteria, screaming and clawing. Lady Magic threw out a blast of magic so hard that
Athania went flying into a boulder at the base of the mountain and crumpled to the ground. With a gasp, she ran for her, sliding
to a stop on her knees next to her. “I’m so sorry, Athania! I didn’t think. You could have hurt the baby... Please, calm down. Tell
me what’s happened.”
Athania groaned, pawing at a deep gash on her shoulder, but her demeanor had not changed. She stood, fury alight in her
eyes. Asteria stood and stepped back, cradling her belly with one hand and the other lifted in defense. Ready.
“Tell me what’s happened, Athania.” This time, her voice was low and commanding, and it echoed off the rocks around
them.
Athania smiled, a viscous sight that almost sent Asteria reeling. Blood coated her teeth, and she had the sickening feeling it
wasn’t from an injury to her mouth, or even her blood at all.
“What have you done, sister?” Asteria’s voice was hardly a whisper, her eyes welling with tears. She felt Thanasim tug at
their bond, checking on her.
“What have I done?” Athania stalked forward. “This”—she gestured at the carnage around them—“this is all your fault.” A
dagger appeared in her hand, glowing. She held it in front of her, slowly walking toward Asteria, her head tilted at a disturbing
angle.
And all Asteria could think was: she’s learned how to use her mortal witch powers. A sense of pride settled in her heart
for it, but she knew it was misplaced. This was not right. Something was not right. Athania’s words finally registered when she
was a few steps from Asteria. “Me? How is this my fault? Tell me it was not you who did all this.”
Athania held the tip of the knife to Asteria’s chin, and Lady Magic did not flinch. “Oh, yes. I’m Lady War, remember?
Blood is my specialty. It feels divine”—the word was a purr—“to spill it with my own hands. You see, if it weren’t for you,
sister, none of this would have happened. I would have gone to Hawthrin. My Igor would still live.”
“Athania. This isn’t you—”
She dug the tip of the dagger into Asteria’s skin, drawing golden blood.
Thanasim yanked at the bond.
“Yes, it is.” She tipped her head back and cackled. “Lord and Lady Magie de la Nuit, always trying to force me into justice
and honour. But this…this is who I have been all along, isn’t it? This is why Thanasim fought so hard to control my actions.”
She leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Isn’t it?”
“Do not make me hurt you, Athania,” Lady Magic warned through gritted teeth.
“You don’t have it in you to hurt me.” She smiled, moving in so close their noses touched. A sick parody of their sweet
friendship, their sisterhood. “But I will take everything you ever cared about.” Athania lowered the dagger to Asteria’s belly.
Lady Magic tried to laugh, feigning confidence. It was no easy feat to kill a goddess, but her children were the firstborn of
two gods…they were not reborn of Hespa. They were only a step above mortals—equals to Athania; witches.
Athania pressed the knife against her, slicing the fabric of her bodice. Magic wrapped around Asteria’s body, pushing the
knife and Athania back.
Without warning, there was a roar that shook the mountains, a cloud of black smog rolling in. The sky grew instantly dark
with billowing storm clouds, thunder making the ground tremble. Thanasim was there, his skeletal fist plunging into Athania’s
chest as Asteria screamed for him to stop. He ripped Athania’s soul free from her body, snarling like a rabid beast. Her body
sagged to the bloodied ground, lifeless, but her soul screeched, trying to tear itself from Thanasim’s grasp.
“Stop!” Asteria shouted, tears streaming down her face. She knew he wouldn’t hear her, blinded by dark rage.
He pulled Athania’s writhing soul up to his skeletal face. “You dared to touch my wife?” The cadence of his voice sent
shivers down Asteria’s spine. “My child?”
My love, Asteria whispered in their bond. She saw the moment Thanasim felt her, but he did not soften. He let out a mighty
bellow, a rockslide beginning in its wake.
“My wife may have mercy on you, but I never fucking will again,” he bit out. “I don’t give a damn who you are to me. Who
you used to be.” He snapped his exposed jaw at her, just to see her soul flinch. “Do I make myself clear?”
Thanasim did not let her respond. His ghouls, his night, snaked out from his shadow cloak, wrapping around her soul from
crown to end—a binding so thorough the likes of which Asteria had never seen. She was stunned to silence, immobile.
“Thanasim,” she finally whispered through her tears as Athania struggled against her binding of night. “She is our sister.”
“Asteria.” His voice was never harsh with her and it wasn’t now, even though she’d never seen him so angry. “Look what
she’s done. Look what she did to you. If she would treat you this way, what more will she do to humanity?”
“Give her a chance, my love.” She could taste the salt of her tears as they poured. “Please.”
Asteria could feel his ire in their bond. Feel him pleading with her to let him end her. With one gentle shake of her head,
Thanasim snarled and threw Athania’s soul back into her body. He took her by her mortal arm and roughly hauled her up.
Without a word, he threw his shadow cloak until it covered them both, and they disappeared in a burst of smoke.
Asteria hit her knees, sobbing as she cradled her belly, cradled Belfry. Her oldest, dearest friend had become what? A
monster? It wouldn’t last. She was hurt, not herself. That was all.
Thanasim returned, his fleshly form stepping from the smog. He crouched down beside his wife and wiped her tears away
with his thumb. “She has been slaughtering anyone in her path, love. And she blamed you.”
“Where did you take her?”
“Threw her,” he corrected quietly and Asteria turned wide eyes on him.
“Where?”
“Another realm. Aureland. She will be amongst powerful beings there, unable to harm.”
Asteria swallowed hard. “I’ll go to her soon. We will talk, and all will be well.”
She felt Thanasim’s gaze on her as much as she felt his doubt and concern coursing through their bond, and she turned to
meet his eyes.
“My goddess, I hope you’re right, little witch.”
 Afterword

The Sisters Solstice Series concludes in Summer of Sacrifice, coming 2024

To hold you over, there is a bonus chapter about Mabon on the next page :)
For more of Orford, Aureland, and the Amethyst Woodlands, check out The Queen’s Keeper and The Ghost Raven.
 Mabon

A
ggie brushed the leaves off her pinafore. Winnie had scolded her for getting it so dirty a few days prior, but their mummy
had simply tsked at Winnie and made Aggie a black one.
“To conceal the dirt,” she’d said with a wink.
Aggie loved it. It perfectly matched her plum dress and Aggie really preferred to match. In fact, her outfit was due for a
good twirl. She lifted her little freckled face to the heavy clouds, took the edges of her dress in her hands and spun.
Sorscha giggled from across the yard where she’d been toying with the last blooms of Summer and frolicked to join Aggie.
They clasped hands and spun wildly until they fell in a heap of limbs and raucous giggles.
Seleste appeared over them, a wide smile on her face. “I should like to join you.”
Sorscha yanked her arm and Seleste fell on top of them, eliciting another fit of laughter. Aggie rolled over Sorscha to be
squished in the middle and the three of them clasped hands.
Winnie strolled in through the picket gate then, a basket of goods from the witch’s market at the centre of their village. She
smiled down at her little Sisters and promptly lay in the grass next to them. “What do you see?” she asked quietly. “Up in the
clouds?”
“Rain coming,” Seleste answered pragmatically and Winnie chuckled.
“The shapes,” she clarified.
“I see an elephant.” Sorscha pointed to a large cloud off to the side.
“You’ve never seen an elephant,” Aggie stated.
Sorscha pinched her arm. “I’ve seen drawings,” she muttered, folding her hands behind her head. “I’d like to see a real one
someday.”
“That would be lovely, don’t you think?” Winnie agreed.
The back door of their small cottage opened and their mother strode over, her bright hair floating behind her in the coming-
Autumn wind. Aggie thought their mother was the most beautiful woman the realm had ever seen.
“What do we see, then?” Lorelai said with a smile as she scooted Aggie and Sorscha apart to fit in the middle, causing
them all to giggle.
“I saw an elephant,” Sorscha answered.
“I see rain,” Seleste said.
Their mother reached over Aggie to squeeze Seleste’s hand. “The clouds don’t look quite heavy enough for that, dove, but
if you see it, I’m certain it will be so.” She reached across Sorscha to weave her other hand with Winnie’s. “And you, love?”
Winnie hummed with thought before pointing directly above them. “Yula.”
Aggie could just make out the shape of an owl there in the clouds.
“Ah, yes. I see it, too.” Lorelai rose and moved to her knees, bending to kiss them each on the tip of their noses. “Winnie,
take that basket inside and please begin peeling the potatoes.” She stood and helped Winnie up. “Sorscha, wash up and help
your father with the fire and roasting. Seleste”—she held her hands out for Sorscha and Seleste to take and rise—“I imagine
you’d like to frost the cakes, yes?” Seleste nodded emphatically and ran for the cottage.
Winnie rummaged through the basket while Lorelai pulled Aggie up, swinging her high in the air before resting her on her
hip.
“Mummy, the flour isn’t here.” Winnie’s face fell.
“Oh, dearest. That’s all right. Perhaps Tersa has a cup we could borrow.”
“Oh! Oh!” Aggie bounced in her mother’s arms. “Can I go? Can I go?” Tersa had a new black kitten that Aggie would give
anything for. “Pleeeeease?”
Lorelai frowned, then smiled, indecision twisting her mouth.
“She’s gone with me many times, Mummy, and it’s only just up the way,” Winnie jumped in, and Aggie was grateful. Winnie
always told her she needed to be adventurous. Mummy was more nervous than Winnie, but Aggie was four. And four was
nearly grown.
Lorelai sighed. “I suppose.” She placed Aggie back on her feet and belt to eye level. “But Seleste says rain is coming and
you must be back before then. Do not stay and play with that kitten too long.”
Aggie nodded emphatically and ripped at her pinafore, shoving it in Winnie’s hands. “I’ll be back before the rain!”
“Wait,” Winnie said through a laugh. “Take the basket.”
Aggie snatched it, and tore off through the yard and into the treeline, her mother yelling after her to mind her surroundings.
Her parents were always saying things like that and teaching them how to fight. Who needed to know how to fight in a peaceful
coven in Helsvar?
The leaves were just beginning to change colours and Aggie was counting down the moments until her day of birth, singing
a counting song her father had taught her as she skipped along the path to the river.
It was a small stream she often played in with her Sisters, and Tersa’s house was just around the bend, skirting the river.
Several moments into her journey, Aggie saw a massive maple leaf she simply needed for her collection. She veered off the
path and climbed over the brush and bramble. The leaf was too high for her to reach, so she climbed up on a fallen trunk,
swinging her arms wildly so as to keep her balance. She plucked it from the tree and grinned, just before she slipped and fell
hard on the forest floor.
“Ouch.” She rubbed at her bottom and looked around to find the maple leaf she’d dropped during the fall. “Hullo, fern,” she
cooed to a pretty one. “You cannot have my leaf.” Aggie pulled it from the fern’s clutches and scrambled forward to the path.
She hummed melodies and took in the trees, enjoying her solitude and adventure. It wasn’t until a little while later that she
realised she still wasn’t at the river.
“Around the bend, skirting the river,” Aggie said to herself as she walked. “Around the bend, skirting the river. Around the
bend, skirting the river.” Her words broke off into a whimper when thunder boomed above the treetops and she dropped her
basket. Her pace slowed and the forest seemed darker.
The thunder crashed again and Aggie yelped, a sheet of rain pouring through the trees and drenching her. Cold and terrified,
Agatha rushed to a tree with a partially hollowed-out trunk and hid within it.
“Stay put,” she said to herself. “That’s what Mummy says to do if we get lost.”
Her lip trembling, Aggie held out her palm, hoping she could summon some of the magic her family had. She didn’t have
hers, but it would come. It had to come. Nothing happened—no flame like Sorscha or beacon like Seleste. No locating magic
like Winnie or calming magic like Father.
Aggie broke down and cried, her arms wrapped around herself.
Over the sound of the rain, she heard a twig snap and gasped, darting out of hiding. “Mummy!”
Agatha darted back, nearly tripping over the brush. It was not her mother, but a young, beautiful woman in a cloak.
She held out Agatha’s basket. “Is this yours?”
Agatha nodded sheepishly. She didn’t like strangers.
“What is your name?” the woman asked. She seemed kind enough, but Aggie’s skin prickled.
“Aggie.” Her voice was so small.
“Ah, Aggie. That’s a lovely name. Short for Agatha?” The woman smiled, but it scared Agatha and she backed up again.
“Why don’t you come with me? You must be lost.” She held out her hand and Aggie debated. “I’m sure you’re scared, but I
know your parents. Lorelai and Ambrose, yes?”
Aggie nodded and reached out to take the woman’s hand, but a dark shape darted out of the trees and swooped down
toward the woman’s face. She screeched, swatting the air, but the fuzzy shape kept attacking. It squeaked and Agatha heard in it,
run.
So she did.
Tripping and slipping in the mud, Aggie didn’t know if she was headed toward home or Tersa’s or further into the
frightening woods.
She heard the woman cursing, close at her heels and ran faster.
The little fuzzy shape flew near her face and Agatha put her arms up to shield herself, but it just squeaked again, behind
you.
A hand reached into Aggie’s wild auburn hair and yanked her backwards. “I tried playing nice, poppet. You’re coming with
me.”
Aggie cried out, shouting as loudly as she could while her small, fierce friend attacked the woman.
“Agatha!”
They both heard the shout at the same moment and the woman froze, her grip on Aggie’s hair making her whimper.
Shout, her little friend said. Fight, Aggie.
Agatha screamed at the top of her lungs and fought with all her might against this horrible woman. She felt her nails pierce
the skin and could feel the wet on her fingers. Aggie wanted to cry, her breathing was so fast, but she would not give up.
Someone was looking for her.
“AGGIE!” The cry was pained and worried. It was her mother. Her mother would never fail her. If anyone would fight for
Aggie it would be her. Always.
“MUMMY!” she cried out just before the woman slapped her in the face and covered her mouth with a hand, trying to haul
her deeper into the forest.
But Lorelai Joubert rushed through the trees, her worry swiftly morphing into fury when she saw the woman grasping
Aggie. She slid to a stop, rain sliding down her face, her pretty dress soaked and ruined.
“Get your goddess damned hands off my daughter, Chresedia.” A ball of fire rose in her mother’s hands, undeterred by
wind or rain and the woman shoved Aggie forward.
Without so much as a sway in the flames, Lorelai launched forward and pulled Aggie to her.
“You really should mind the safety of your children better, Lorelai.” The woman righted her soaked hood, eyes darting to
the orb of flame. “Fire will be your downfall.” With that, she was gone, dissipating into nothing.
Lorelai tossed the orb up to hover over them and bent to crush Aggie in a hug. “My love, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” She
frantically searched her, until a little creature came to land on Aggie’s shoulder.
“I’m all right. He helped me.” She reached up to stroke what she could now see was a baby bat. “He saved me.”
Aggie couldn’t tell if it was the rain or her mother’s tears on her face, but she reached up to rub the little bat between his
ears. “Are you who I think you are, sir?”
The little bat squeaked, and Lorelai chuckled, but she still sounded sad. “Sweet, your magic is coming. This is your
familiar.”
Aggie gasped and looked into his big, onyx eyes. “Mine?” He nodded at the same time as her mother, and Aggie ran a hand
down his leathery wing.
“Come. We must get you home and you can name him.” Lorelai kept Aggie tucked under her arm, fire illuminating their way
back through the woods. Every so often, she would search the trees behind them, but when Aggie looked up at her, she would
only smile. “Well, what will it be, dove?”
Agatha chewed on her bottom lip. “My day of birth is coming.”
Lorelai laughed softly. “It is…”
“So, I think I’ll name him Mabon.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Killing negroes, viewed merely as an offence against property,
ii., 190.

Labour of slaves, compared with that of labourers in Free

States, i., 10, 137; ii., 382; influence of the association in
labour of slaves and free-men, i., 300; cost of, in the Border
States, ii., 380; difference between slave and free, 382.
Land, value of, i., 114; in Virginia and Pennsylvania, ii., 369.
Liberation of slaves on a plantation in Virginia, happy results of,
i., 92.
Liberia, emigration to, i., 149, 335.
Liberty, county of (Georgia), interest of the planters in the well-
being of their slaves, ii., 215; statistics of, 388.
Licentiousness, comparative, of North and South, i., 307.
Liquor, traffic with slaves, evils of, i., 251; habit of pilfering to
procure it, 252.
Log-cabin in North Carolina, i., 180; in South Carolina, 206, 213;
in Eastern Texas, 367.
Log-roads in the swamp, i., 145.
Longstreet, Judge, his ‘Georgia Scenes,’ quoted, ii., 297.
Lorettes, the, of New Orleans, i., 302; a quasi-marriage, 303;
economy of the system, 306.
Louisiana, laws of, favourable to negroes, i., 101; a negro’s
opinion of, compared with Virginia, 334; contrast of
manners in, and in Texas, ii., 31; good-nature of the people,
31; miserable condition of the poorer planters, 44; disregard
of slave-laws in, 47; Sunday-work, 47; insecurity of
slaveholding interest, 51.
Lumberers, slave, habits and mode of life in the swamp, i., 146;
superior to most slaves, 148.
Lumber-trade in the Dismal Swamp, i., 145.
Lying, almost universal among slaves, i., 105.

Maine Law, arguments for, in the South, i., 253.

Malaria of rice-fields, i., 235.
Management of slaves, increasing difficulty of the, i., 252.
Manchac Spring, a well-ordered plantation, ii., 15.
Manufactures, beneficial effect of, on the community, i., 25; ii.,
286.
Marriage, indifference of negroes to, ii., 80.
Maury, Lieutenant, on the advantageous situation for commerce
of Norfolk (Virginia), i., 143.
Medical survey, ii., 197.
Memphis, ii., 55.
‘Methodist Protestant,’ the, quoted, ii., 228.
Methodists, their opinion on slavery, ii., 140; their five ‘Christian
Advocates,’ 140, note.
Mexicans, dislike of Americans to, ii., 19.
Mill’s ‘Political Economy,’ quoted, ii., 338.
Miner, conversation with a, ii., 115.
Mineral treasures of Virginia, ii., 365.
Misrepresentation, charge of, against the author, ii., 311.
Missionary system, slavery as a, ii., 215.
Mississippi River, cotton plantations on the, i., 13, 17, note; ii.,
59; rich planters, 158; number of slaves on a plantation,
159.
Mississippi, feeling in, against slavery, ii., 98, 109; condition of
the slaves, 101.
Mississippi, Northern, remarkable plantation in, ii., 67; all the
negroes able to read, 70; their religion and morals, 71.
Mobile (Alabama), description of, i., 282; scarcity of tradesmen
and mechanics, 283; chief business of the town, 283;
English merchants, owners of slaves, 284.
Montgomery (Alabama), i., 274.
Morals of white children suffer from association with slaves, i.,
222; ii., 229.
‘Morehouse Advocate,’ the, quoted, i., 298.
Mulatto, a runaway, captured by a negro, ii., 21; their value
compared with pure blacks, 82, 211.
Murder of a young lady by a negro girl, i., 125, note.
Music, negro fondness for, ii., 73, 221.
Nachitoches (Louisiana), i., 358.
Nacogdoches (E. Texas), ii., 1; difficulty of procuring needful
supplies for our journey, 2.
Names of blacks, ii., 208.
Natchez, gambling at, ii., 154; beauty of the neighbouring
country, 165; the town described, 166; view of the
Mississippi from the Bluff, 168; conversation with an Italian
at, 169.
‘National Intelligencer,’ the, quoted, i., 143.
Nebraska Bill, opinions of, ii., 135, 141.
Negroes, numbers engaged in cotton culture, i., 17; their
increased value, 26; appearance of, in Virginia, 33; an
illegal meeting at Washington, 36; problem of Southern
gentlemen with respect to, 61; their Christmas holidays, 74;
how they live in the swamp, 96, 155; their cunning to avoid
working for their masters’ profit, 99; alleged incapacity of
exercising judgment, 100; kind treatment in Louisiana, 101,
328, 338; proverbial habit of lying, 105; agrarian notions,
106; universally pilferers, 106; their simulation of illness,
118; Dr. Cartwright’s work on their diseases, 122; runaways
in the swamp, 155; mode of hunting them, 156; superior
character of those employed in the turpentine forest, 188;
repulsive appearance of, on a Carolina plantation, 208; their
love for fires in the open air, 215; occasional instances of
trustworthiness and intelligence, 240; employed in the
cultivation of rice, 243; field-hands, 245; effect of
organization of labour, 248; permission to labour for
themselves after working hours, 251; evil effects of grog-
shops, 251; excitement at religious meetings, 259, 315;
their jocosity, 281; engaged, in cultivation of sugar, 319,
328; their thoughts of being free, 334, 339; capacity for
learning, ii., 70, 99; mode of working in Mississippi, 178;
treated as mere property on large plantations, 192; general
character of, 221. See Slaves.
Negro consumption, i., 123.
Negro slaveowners in Louisiana, i., 336; their cruelty, 336.
Negro-traders in Louisiana and Kentucky, ii., 44.
New Orleans, arrival at, i., 290; first impressions, 291; the
French quarter, 291; cathedral, 293; mixture of races, 294;
a lot of twenty-two negroes, 295; number of free labourers,
299; manners and morals of the citizens, 302; association
with mulatto and quadroon females, 302.
‘New Orleans Crescent,’ quoted, i., 300, 301.
‘New Orleans Delta,’ on justice to slaves, ii., 185.
Newton, the Hon. Willoughby, on the introduction of guano, i.,
101.
‘New York Times,’ letters to, on slave and free labour, i., 134,
135; ii., 268.
Norfolk (Virginia), its filthy condition, i., 142; natural advantages
for trade and commerce, 143; market gardens, 153; hotel
accommodation, 159.
‘Norfolk Argus,’ the, quoted, i., 154.
“Norther,” a, ii., 6; disinclination to labour caused by, 9.
Nott, Dr., his ‘Essay on the Value of Life in the South,’ quoted,
ii., 257.

Oak-woods, near Natchez, ii., 165.

Ohio, produce per acre compared with that of Virginia, ii., 255.
“Old Family,” the traditional, of Virginia or South Carolina, ii.,
335.
“Old Man Corse,” an Italian-French emigrant, ii., 32; his house
and family, 32; conversation with a negro, 34.
Old Settler’s, a night at an, in Eastern Texas, ii., 4.
Opelousas (Louisiana), ii., 30.
Overseers, character of, i., 53, 94; ii., 184, 189; a kind and
efficient one on a Carolina plantation, i., 208; stringent
terms of contract, 250; precaution against undue corporeal
punishment, 251; surly behaviour of one in Mississippi, ii.,
94; another specimen, 143; a night in an overseer’s cabin,
175; wages of, 185, 195; their want of consideration for
slaves, 189.

Passes to negroes, forged, i., 301.

Patent Medicines, ii., 175.
Patent Office Reports for 1847 and 1852, quoted, i., 115.
“Patriarchal Institution,” a favourable aspect of the, i., 236.
Peddlers of tobacco, i., 209; of cheap literature, 345.
Peripneumonia notha, or cold plague, i., 123.
Phillips, Mr. M. W., on plantation economy, ii., 186.
Physical power, necessary to maintain discipline among slaves,
i., 124.
‘Picayune, The,’ quoted, i., 343; ii., 211.
“Plank-dancing,” ii., 73.
Plantations in South Carolina described, i., 207, 233; in Georgia,
243; in Louisiana, 317; Creole plantation, 340; in Eastern
Texas, 372; ii., 9, 14; in Mississippi, 67, 90; ignorance of
proprietor, 90; the most profitable one visited, described,
193; the manager and overseers, 194; arrangements for the
slaves, 195; their rate of increase, 209; indiscriminate
intercourse, 209; statistics of, 236.
Planters, characteristics of, i., 18, 19, 137, 276, 343; comfortless
living of, in Eastern Texas, ii., 10, 14; Creole, in Louisiana,
46; their passion for increasing their negro stock, 48; life of,
compared with that of men of equal property in New York,
48; conversation with a nervous planter, 152; hospitality of,
in Mississippi, 163; general character of those of the South,
230, 272.
Plough-girls, ii., 201.
Polk, Bishop, his description of slavery in the Red River county,
ii., 213, note.
Poor whites in Virginia, i., 81, 95; their condition worse than that
of the slaves, 83; their reluctance to do the work of slaves,
112; degraded condition of, in the turpentine forest, 188;
their belief in witchcraft, 189; of South Carolina, 231; trading
with them injurious to the negroes, 252; girls employed in
the cotton-mills at Columbia, 273; in Eastern Texas, their
dishonesty, 372; engaged in iron mining, ii., 115; in
Mississippi, 196; feeling of irritation against, 355.
Preacher, Methodist, tales of “nigger” hunting by, ii., 122.
Preachers, negro, i., 309.
Presbyterian minister, employed by Georgia planters to instruct
the blacks, ii., 215; his opinions on slavery, 216 et seq.
Price-current of slaves at Richmond, Virginia, ii., 374.
Progress, comparative, of North and South, i., 25.
Pronunciation, effect of, on names, ii., 32.
Property aspect of slavery, ii., 183.
Privileged classes of the South, their condition and character, ii.,
272; their assertion of the beneficence of slavery, 273; their
two methods of vindicating it, 276; their claims to high-
breeding and hospitality generally unwarranted, 282;
instances of the opposite qualities, 315 et seq.; their
revengeful disposition, 327.
Public worship in the South, provisions for, i., 259, 261.
Purchase of a plantation, a gambling operation, i., 321.

Quadroons at New Orleans, their beauty and healthiness, i.,

294, 303; their cultivated tastes, 305; peculiar
characteristics of their association with whites, 305.
Quakers, negro opinion of, ii., 37.

Racing on the Red River, i., 351.

Railroads, in Virginia, i., 38, 55; want of punctuality, 56, 141; in
North Carolina, 161; disregard of advertised arrangements,
167; desirable improvements, 170; in South Carolina, 216;
their superiority in Georgia, 272.
Raleigh (North Carolina), described, i., 170; desolate aspect of
the country around, 171.
Rations of U. S. Army, compared with allowances to slaves, ii.,
240.
Red River, cotton plantations on the, i., 13; preparations for a
voyage up the, 343; supper and sleeping arrangements,
350; a good shot, 352.
Religion, want of reverence for, i., 262; ii., 89, 104, 220.
Religious condition of the South, i., 261; proportion of ministers
to people, 261; rivalry and jealousy of different sects, 262;
 religious instruction to slaves objected to, ii., 214; general
remarks on religious professions in the slaves, 220.
Religious service in a meeting-house in Georgia, i., 205; in a
negro chapel at New Orleans, 308.
Remonstrance by South Carolina planters against religious
instruction to negroes, ii., 214.
Revival among the slaves, ii., 222.
Rice plantation, a model one visited, i., 235; house servants and
field-hands, 236; negro-quarters, 237; nursery for black
children, 238; a rice-mill, 239; burning stubble, 243;
ploughing, 244; food of the slaves, 244; field gangs, 245;
task-work, 247; important duties of drivers, 249; limitation of
power of punishment, 251; trade on the plantation, 254.
Richmond, Virginia, described, i., 40; railway economy, 42;
negro funeral, 43; ludicrous oratory, 44; Sunday
appearance of coloured people, 45; their demeanour to
whites, 47; “Slaves for sale or hire,” 50; farm on James
River, 52; coal-pit, 54.
‘Richmond American,’ the, quoted, i., 125, note; ‘Enquirer,’ ii.,
364; ‘Whig,’ 370.
Ruffin, Mr. Edmund, quoted, ii., 303.
Runaway slaves, i., 119, 155; ii., 7; advertisements of, 157; cure
for, ii., 6; pursuit of one, 20; hunting with dogs, 120, 122,
178; stocks for punishment of, 161; conflict with a runaway,
161, note; favourite lurking-ground for, 183.
Russell, Mr., his ‘North America: its Agriculture, &c.,’ quoted, ii.,
176, note, 182, 252, 256; mistaken views of, with respect to
free and slave labour, 252 et seq.

Sabine River, country on each side described, ii., 24;

coarseness of the inhabitants, 25; a night with a gentleman
of the country, 25; “figures of speech,” 27.
San Augustin (Eastern Texas), i., 374; Presbyterian and
Methodist universities merged in a “Masonic Institute,” 375.
St. Francisville, ii., 143; neighbouring country described, 145;
appearance of the slaves, 146.
Savannah (Georgia), commerce and prospects of, i., 273.
Scripture expressions, their familiar use by the negroes, i., 262;
a dram-seller’s advertisement, 263.
Seguin, Dr., on the capacity of the negro, ii., 344.
Separation of North and South inconsistent with the welfare of
either, i., 1.
Sermons by negroes, i., 311.
Settlement, negro, described, i., 237.
“Show Plantations,” i., 230.
Sickness, real and feigned, of slaves, i., 96, 118; ii., 198, 199.
Skilled labour, negroes employed in, i., 240.
Slavery, Jefferson’s opinion on, i., 92; practicability of rapidly
extinguishing, 255; cruelty a necessity of, 355; strong
opinion against, of a Mississippi planter, ii., 98; of a
Tennessee farmer, 140; necessary to produce cheap
cotton, ii., 252.
Slaveholders, opinions of, on slavery, i., 53, 60, 332, 354; ii., 92;
American, French, and negro slaveowners, 336, 337.
Slave-mart, at Richmond, i., 50; at Houston, ii., 22.
Slaves, liberated, doing well in Africa, i., 92; prospects of those
going North, 93.
Slaves, their value as labourers, i., 16, 94; as domestic
servants, 125; causes of the high prices given for them, 16;
number engaged in cultivating cotton, 17; number annually
exported from slave-breeding to cotton States, 58;
proportion of workers to slaves maintained, 59;
improvement in their conditions, 94; their food and lodging
in Virginia, 102, 104; their clothing, 105; subject to peculiar
diseases, 122; necessity of humouring them, 128; have no
training as children, 131; work accomplished in a given
time, 133; “driving,” 135; increasing difficulties in their
management, 252; instance of their trustworthiness, 259;
best method of inducing them to exert themselves, 328; bad
effect of their association with white labourers, 330; and of
their dealings with petty traders, 331; condition of, on a
profitable plantation in Mississippi, ii., 195; worked hardest
in the South-west, 202; some nearly white, 210; their
 religious instruction, 222; impolicy of allowing them to
cultivate patches, 238; auction at Richmond described, 372.
See Negroes.
Slave States, condition of the people, i., 8; not benefited by their
cotton monopoly, 8; dearness of slave-labour, 10, 94;
antipathy of the whites to work, 22; small proportion of the
area devoted to cotton cultivation, 24; their small
contribution to the national treasury, 27; general
characteristics and features of the country, 85.
Slave trade, activity of, in Virginia, i., 57; difficulty of obtaining
statistics, 58.
Sleeping-quarters, unpleasant, ii., 87, 106; abundance of insect
vermin, 87; mode of keeping away gnats, 107.
‘South Carolinian,’ the, on planters and overseers, ii., 188.
South, danger of the, ii., 338; condition of the negro, 339;
Southern method of treatment dangerous, 344;
unconscious habits of precaution, 346; apparent tranquillity
deceptive, 348; police machinery, 350; abolitionist literature,
358; cause of agitation, 361; impossibility of acceding to the
demands of the South, 362; threat of dissolution, 363;
probable result, 363.
‘Southern Agriculturist,’ the, quoted, ii., 182, 188.
‘Southern Cultivator,’ the, on the effect of the society of negroes
on their masters’ children, i., 222, note; on allowing negroes
to cultivate “patches,” 239, note.
Stage-coach rides in North Carolina, i., 163, 174, 201; a
swindling driver, 163; cruelty to horses, 175; unexpected
comforts of a piny-wood stage-house, 177; in Mississippi,
ii., 64.
Stage-house at Fayetteville, described, i., 183.
Steam-boats: on Cape Fear River, i., 191; on the Alabama
River, 275; passengers, 276; wastefulness and joviality of
the crew, 281; description of one on the Red River, 347;
sleeping arrangements, 349; life of the firemen, 350; deck-
passengers, 350; a race, 351; gambling on board, 353.
Street-fights in Louisiana, ii., 53.
Steward, negro, on a rice plantation, importance of his office, i.,
240; privileges enjoyed by, 242.
Subjugation of the South, its alleged impossibility, i., 2.
Suffering, occasional, different effect of, on the slave and free
labourer, ii., 251.
Sugar plantation, in Louisiana, i., 317; the owner’s popularity,
318; mansion and offices, 319; arrangements for the
slaves, 320; usual expenses of carrying on, 321; ii., 236;
mode of cultivation, i., 323; planting the cane, 325; tillage,
327; grinding the cane, 328; increased labour in grinding
season willingly performed by the slaves, 328; late
improvements in the manufacture, 329.
Suggestions for improving the condition of the negro, and
preparing him for freedom, i., 255.
Sumner and Brooks, ii., 348.
Sunday, slave labour on, ii., 47, 181.
Sweep-seines, the largest in the world, used in the North
Carolina fisheries, i., 149.
“Swell-heads,” ii., 156, 166.

Task-work general in Georgia and South Carolina, i., 247.

Texas, its prospect of becoming a Free State, ii., 102; influence
of the Germans, 102, 103.
Texas, Eastern, route across, i., 359; a day in the woods, 359;
plantation described, 359; a sick child, 361; the emigrant
road, 365, 374; appearance of the emigrants, 365; the Red
Lands, 373; Christmas serenade, 375; a planter’s
residence, ii., 9; his comfortless mode of living, 10;
promising sons, 10; literary dearth, 10; interest taken in
foreign affairs, 11; domestic servants, 13; a night, with
another planter, 14; his habits of life, 14, 15; determination
of inhabitants to conceal unfavourable facts, 18; hatred of
Mexicans, 19.
Texas, South-eastern, district described, ii., 23; imperfect
drainage, 23; sparsely settled, 24; not a desirable place of
abode, 24.
Tennessee, North-eastern, contrast between the homes of a
slaveholder and a farmer without slaves, ii., 138.
Tennessee squire, a night with, ii., 128; his notion of buying
Irishmen, 129.
Tobacco, plantation in Eastern Virginia, i., 88; reasons for
growing, 88; negroes not able to cultivate the finer sorts, 89;
ii., 254; their mode of payment, i., 98, 140.
Tobacco-peddling in South Carolina, i., 209.
Treating in Mississippi, ii., 155.
Tree-peddler, his catalogue of “curosest trees,” ii., 75.
Trinity Bottom, ii., 2; fertility of surrounding lands, 3.
Turpentine forest, character of slaves employed in, i., 188.

Umbrellas carried by Alabama Indians on horseback, ii., 38.

‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ conversation on, i., 345, 354; ii., 135.

Vicksburgh, ii., 55.

Virginia, characteristics of the population, i., 39; association of
blacks and whites, 40; the Public Guard, 41; rebellion of
coloured people in 1801, 42; mode of living of Virginia
gentlemen at home, 89; treatment of negroes in, 101;
Economy of Virginia, 108; an Englishman’s impressions on
landing in the United States, 108; apparent indifference to
shabby living, 108; its causes, 108; difference of means
required to procure the same result, 108; a similar analogy
between the North and South, 109; an exceptional case,
109; high price paid for skilled labour, 110; state of the
community as a whole, 111; complaints of scarcity of hands,
111; the employment of whites in occupations usually
performed by slaves distasteful both to master and
labourer, 112; land most valuable, where proportion of
slaves to whites is least, 114; comparative cost of slave and
free labour, 117; advantages of the latter in wages paid,
118; in freedom from loss by disability, 118; frequency of
feigned illness, 118; peculiar diseases of negroes, 122;
means of maintaining discipline, 124; want of the motives to
 exertion possessed by free labourers, 131; influence of
slave system on the habits of the whole community, 131;
general want of civilized comforts, 137; waste of natural
resources, 138, 143; rule of make-shift, 138; exceptional
instances, 139; decay of its agriculture, ii., 303; mineral
wealth, 365; want of means of education, 371.
Virginia, Eastern, its resources neglected, i., 8; poverty of its
inhabitants, 10; description of a ride, 64; a strange vehicle,
65; the school-house, 65; “Old Fields,” 66; desolate
appearance of the country, 66; a farm-house, 70; a country
“grosery,” 72; the court-house, 74; a night at an old
plantation with a churlish host, 76; the “supper-room” and
“sitting-room,” 79; precarious existence of poor white
labourers, 81; the “bed-room,” 84; the planter’s charge for
his “hospitality,” 85; sparse population, 86; the meeting-
house, 86; negro quarters, 87; a tobacco plantation, 88.
Voyage from Mobile to New Orleans, i., 285.

Washington, number of visitors at, i., 28; a boarding-house, 28;

the market-place, 34; price of land in the neighbourhood,
35; number of white labourers, 35; character of the coloured
population, 36; an illegal meeting, 36.
Watchman, the, on a Carolina plantation, i., 240, 242.
Water-snakes, numbers of, ii., 24, 29.
‘West Feliciana Whig,’ account of slaughter of a runaway, ii.,
161.
Wharves, absence of, on the Southern rivers, ii., 55.
Whip, constant use of the, ii., 202.
Whipping, of coloured preachers of the Gospel, i., 226; of a
slave girl, ii., 205.
Wise, Governor, on the decay of Virginia, ii., 303.
Whites, some slaves hardly to be distinguished from pure-
blooded, ii., 210.
White’s ‘Statistics of Georgia,’ ii., 385.
Wilmington (North Carolina), i., 97; destruction of a building at,
because erected by negroes, ii., 98.
‘Wilmington Herald,’ quoted, ii., 99, note.
Witchcraft, belief in, by poor whites, i., 189.
Women employed in ploughing, ii., 201.
“Wooding” on Cape Fear River, i., 193.
Woodville (Mississippi), ii., 148; dress etiquette, 148;
neighbourhood described, 149; robberies, 149.

Yazoo Bottoms, the son of a planter in, ii., 63; journey with him
in Northern Mississippi, 64; his dislike to babies, 66.
Yellow Fever, good conduct of negroes at Savannah during its
raging, i., 259; at Natchez, ii., 160.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Many freemen have been kidnapped in Illinois and sold into
slavery.
[2] Evidently an allusion to the “underground railroad,” or
smuggling of runaway slaves, which is generally supposed to be
managed mainly by Quakers. This shows how knowledge of the
abolition agitation must be carried among the slaves to the most
remote districts.
[3] Creole means simply native of the region, but in Louisiana (a
vast region purchased, by the United States, of France, for
strategic reasons, and now proposed to be filibustered away from
us), it generally indicates French blood.
[4] I also saw slaves at work every Sunday that I was in Louisiana.
The law permits slaves to be worked, I believe, on Sunday; but
requires that some compensation shall be made to them when
they are—such as a subsequent holiday.
[5] The following resolutions were proposed (I am not sure that
they were adopted) in the Southern Commercial Convention, at
New Orleans, in 1855:
“Resolved,—That this Convention strongly recommends the
Chambers of Commerce and Commission Merchants of our
Southern and South-western cities to adopt such a system of laws
and regulations as will put a stop to the dangerous practice,
heretofore existing, of making advances to planters, in anticipation
of their crops—a practice entirely at variance with everything like
safety in business transactions, and tending directly to establish
the relations of master and slave between the merchant and
planter, by bringing the latter into the most abject and servile
bondage.
“Resolved,—That this Convention recommend, in the most urgent
manner, that the planters of the Southern and South-western
States patronize exclusively our home merchants, and that our
Chambers of Commerce, and merchants generally, exert all their
influence to exclude foreign agents from the purchase and sale of
produce in any of our Southern and South-western cities.
“Resolved, further,—That this Convention recommend to the
legislatures of the Southern and South-western States to pass
laws, making it a penitentiary offence for the planters to ask of the
merchants to make such pecuniary advances.”
[6] The Junta was a filibustering conspiracy against Cuba.
[7] Cocoa is a grass much more pernicious, and more difficult of
extirpation when it once gets a footing upon a sugar plantation,
than the Canada thistle, or any other weed known at the North.
Several plantations have been ruined by it, and given up as
worthless by their owners.
[8] See “Resources;” article, “Mississippi,” etc.
[9] At Wilmington, North Carolina, on the night of the 27th of July
(1857), the frame-work of a new building was destroyed by a
number of persons, and a placard attached to the disjointed
lumber, stating that a similar course would be pursued in all
cases, against edifices that should be erected by negro
contractors or carpenters, by one of which class of men the house
had been constructed. There was a public meeting called a few
days afterwards, to take this outrage into consideration, which
was numerously attended. Resolutions were adopted, denouncing
the act, and the authorities were instructed to offer a suitable
reward for the detection and conviction of the rioters. “The
impression was conveyed at the meeting,” says the Wilmington
Herald, “that the act had been committed by members of an
organized association, said to exist here, and to number some
two hundred and fifty persons, and possibly more, who, as was
alleged, to right what they considered a grievance in the matter of
negro competition with white labour, had adopted the illegal
course of which the act in question was an illustration.”
Proceedings of a similar significance had occurred at various
points, especially in Virginia.
[10] See De Bow’s Review, for August, 1857 p. 117.
[11] Religion in Virginia.—A mass meeting of citizens of Taylor
county, Virginia, was held at Boothesville recently, at which the
following, among other resolutions, was passed unanimously:
“That the five Christian Advocates, published in the cities of New
York, Pittsburg, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Chicago, having
become Abolition sheets of the rankest character, we ask our
commonwealth’s attorneys and post-masters to examine them,
and, if found to be of an unlawful character, to deal with them and
their agents as the laws of our State direct.”—Washington
Republic.
[12] “This latter received its beautiful and expressive name from
its beautifully variegated surface of hills and valleys, and its rare
combination of all the qualities that are most desired in a planting
country. It is a region of almost fairy beauty and wealth. Here are
some of the wealthiest and most intelligent planters and the finest
plantations in the State, the region of princely taste and more than
patriarchal hospitality,” etc.—Norman’s New Orleans.
[13] “Fine Prospect for Hay.—While riding by a field the other
day, which looked as rich and green as a New England meadow,
we observed to a man sitting on the fence, ‘You have a fine
prospect for hay, neighbour.’ ‘Hay! that’s cotton, sir,’ said he, with
an emotion that betrayed an excitement which we cared to
provoke no further; for we had as soon sport with a rattlesnake in
the blind days of August as a farmer at this season of the year,
badly in the grass. * * *
“All jesting aside, we have never known so poor a prospect for
cotton in this region. In some instances the fields are clean and
well worked, but the cotton is diminutive in size and sickly in
appearance. We have seen some fields so foul that it was almost
impossible to tell what had been planted.
“All this backwardness is attributable to the cold, wet weather that
we have had almost constantly since the planting season
commenced. When there was a warm spell, it was raining so that
ploughs could not run to any advantage; so, between the cold and
the rain, the cotton crop is very unpromising. * * *
“The low, flat lands this year have suffered particularly. Thoroughly
saturated all the time, and often overflowed, the crops on them
are small and sickly, while the weeds and grass are luxurious and
rank.
“A week or two of dry hot weather will make a wonderful change
in our agricultural prospects, but we have no idea that any sort of
seasons could bring the cotton to more than an average crop.”—
Hernando (Miss.) Advance, June 22, 1854.
[14] “Sectional excitement” had given a great impetus to
educational projects in the South, and the Mississippi newspapers
about this time contained numerous advertisements of a similar
character to the following:
“Calhoun Institute—For Young Ladies; Maçon, Noxubee
County, Mississippi.—W. R. Poindexter, A.M., Principal and
Proprietor.—The above School, formerly known as the ‘Maçon
Female Institute,’ will be reopened on the first of October, 1855,
with an entirely new corps of teachers from Principal down.
Having purchased the property at public sale, and thus become
sole proprietor, the Principal has determined to use all means he
can now command, as well as he may realize for several years
yet to come, in building, refitting and procuring such
appurtenances as shall enable him to contribute his full quota, as
a professional man, to the progress of the great cause of
‘Southern Education.’”
[15] As “A Southern Lawyer,” writing for Harper’s Weekly
(February, 1859), observes: “The sudden acquisition of wealth in
the cotton-growing region of the United States, in many instances
by planters commencing with very limited means, is almost
miraculous. Patient, industrious, frugal, and self-denying, nearly
the entire amount of their cotton-crops is devoted to the increase
of their capital. The result is, in a few years large estates, as if by
magic, are accumulated. The fortunate proprietors then build fine
houses, and surround themselves with comforts and luxuries to
which they were strangers in their earlier years of care and toil.”
[16] The following is a characteristic newspaper item of this
vicinity:—
From the West Feliciana Whig.—“On Saturday last, a runaway
negro was killed in the parish of East Baton Rouge, just below the
line of this parish, under the following circumstances: Two citizens
of Port Hudson, learning that a negro was at work on a flat boat,
loading with sand, just below that place, who was suspected of
being a runaway, went down in a skiff for the purpose of arresting
him.
“Having seized him and put him into the skiff they started back,
but had not proceeded far when the negro, who had been at the
oars, seized a hatchet and assaulted one of them, wounding him
very seriously. A scuffle ensued, in which both parties fell
overboard. They were both rescued by the citizen pulling to them
with the skiff. Finding him so unmanageable, the negro was put
ashore, and the parties returned to Port Hudson for arms and a
pack of negro dogs, and started again with the intention to capture
him. They soon got on his trail, and when found again he was
standing at bay upon the outer edge of a large raft of drift wood,
armed with a club and pistol.
“In this position he bade defiance to men and dogs—knocking the
latter into the water with his club, and resolutely threatening death
to any man who approached him. Finding him obstinately
determined not to surrender, one of his pursuers shot him. He fell
at the third fire, and so determined was he not to be captured, that
when an effort was made to rescue him from drowning he made
battle with his club, and sunk waving his weapon in angry
defiance at his pursuers. He refused to give the name of his
owner.”
[17] This may be compared with the town of Springfield, county of
Sangammon, Illinois, in which, with a population of 19,228 (nearer
to that of Natchez than any other town I observe in the Free
States), the number of registered school children is 3,300, the
public libraries contain 20,000 volumes, and the churches can
accommodate 28,000 sitters.
[18] “The Washington Remedies—To Planters and Others.—
These Remedies, now offered to the public under the title of the
Washington Remedies, are composed of ingredients, many of
which are not even known to Botany. No apothecary has them for
sale; they are supplied to the subscriber by the native red-men of
Louisiana. The recipes by which they are compounded have
descended to the present possessor, M. A. Micklejohn, from
ancestors who obtained them from the friendly Indian tribes, prior
to and during the Revolution, and they are now offered to the
public with that confidence which has been gained from a
knowledge of the fact that during so long a series of years there
has never been known an instance in which they have failed to
perform a speedy and permanent cure. The subscribers do not
profess these remedies will cure every disarrangement of the
human system, but in such as are enumerated below they feel
they cannot fail. The directions for use have only to be strictly
followed, and however despairing the patient may have been he
will find cause for blissful hope and renewed life.
“These preparations are no Northern patent humbug, but are
manufactured in New Orleans by a Creole, who has long used
them in private practice, rescuing many unfortunate victims of
disease from the grave, after they have been given up by their
physicians as incurable, or have been tortured beyond endurance
by laceration and painful operations.”
[19] “The bacon is almost entirely imported from the Northern
States, as well as a considerable quantity of Indian corn. This is
reckoned bad management by intelligent planters. * * * On this
plantation as much Indian corn was raised as was needed, but
little bacon, which was mostly imported from Ohio. The sum
annually paid for this article was upwards of eight hundred
pounds. Large plantations are not suited to the rearing of hogs; for
it is found almost impossible to prevent the negroes from stealing
and roasting the pigs.” Mr. Russell, visiting the plantation of a
friend near Natchez.—North America: its Agriculture, etc., p. 265.
[20] This would give at this season hardly less than sixteen hours
of plodding labour, relieved by but one short interval of rest, during
the daylight, for the hoe-gang. It is not improbable. I was
accustomed to rise early and ride late, resting during the heat of
the day, while in the cotton district, but I always found the negroes
in the field when I first looked out, and generally had to wait for
the negroes to come from the field to have my horse fed when I
stopped for the night. I am told, however, and I believe, that it is
usual in the hottest weather, to give a rest of an hour or two to all
hands at noon. I never happened to see it done. The legal limit of
a slave’s day’s work in South Carolina is fifteen hours.
[21] I was told by a gentleman in North Carolina, that the custom
of supplying molasses to negroes in Mississippi, was usually
mentioned to those sold away from his part of the country, to
reconcile them to going thither.
[22] In De Bow’s ‘Resources of the South,’ vol. i., p. 150, a table is
furnished by a cotton-planter to show that the expenses of raising
cotton are “generally greatly underrated.” It is to be inferred that
they certainly are not underrated in the table. On “a well improved
and properly organized plantation,” the expense of feeding one
hundred negroes, “as deduced from fifteen years’ experience” of
the writer, is asserted in this table to be $750 per annum, or seven
dollars and a half each; in this sum is included, however, the
expenses of the “hospital and the overseer’s table.” This is much
less than the expense for the same purposes, if the overseer’s
account was true, of the plantation above described. Clothing,
shoes, bedding, sacks for gathering cotton, and so forth, are
estimated by the same authority to cost an equal sum—$7.50 for
each slave. I have just paid on account of a day labourer on a
farm in New York, his board bill, he being a bachelor living at the
house of another Irish labourer with a family. The charge is
twenty-one times as large as that set down for the slave.
[23] “I was informed that some successful planters, who held
several estates in this neighbourhood [Natchez] made it a rule to
change their overseers every year, on the principle that the two
years’ service system is sure to spoil them.”—Russell’s North
America: its Agriculture, etc., p. 258.