The Sword of Straw by Amanda Hemingway Read Free Book Online Page B

the mirror. Mist coiled behind the glass, slowly resolving itself into a face—a face that wavered at first, as if unable to decide how it should look, then settled into a slim, pale oval, with silver-blue eyes and silver-blond hair that fanned out in an intangible breeze. A face curiously resembling one on a magazine cover that stared up from the floor—but Hazel didn’t notice that.
    “You have called me,” said the face in a voice that echoed strangely for a second, then grew low and soft. “I have come.”
    “Who are you?” Hazel whispered. She had once seen the spirit with whom her great-grandmother had had dealings—the same malignant water spirit whom both Annie and Bartlemy had encountered—but it had looked nothing like this.
    “I am Lilliat, the Spirit of Flowers,” said the face, and scattered petals seemed to flutter through her fanning hair, and pale blooms opened in a garland about her neck. “What is your wish?”
    “Do you—do you grant wishes?” Hazel stammered, doubting, incredulous, trying to quell the leap of hope inside her. She was no fairy-tale heroine, rubbing a lamp to get a genie. This was the real world (or at least, this was
a
real world) where rubbing a lamp gave you nothing but a cleaner lamp.
    Lilliat laughed—a laugh as silvery as her hair. “Sometimes,” she said. “It depends on the wish—and the one who wishes. You are young for a witch, very young, but there is power in you. I can feel it. Green power, new and untried. Between us, we will try your power. What do you wish?”
    “There’s a boy,” Hazel said, too quickly, rushing into the fairy tale before it could evaporate. “I want him to—to notice me. To like me. Me and no one else.”
    “Yes…” Lilliat closed her eyes, though it made little difference. The lids, too, were silver-blue. Sparkles danced on her eyelashes. “I see him. He is dark, very dark, with hair as black as a crow’s wing and—”
    “Wrong boy,” Hazel said hastily. “That one.” She pointed to the photograph she had placed beside the candle.
    Almost, Lilliat frowned. “Show him to me.”
    Hazel picked up the photo and held it out in front of the mirror. As Lilliat studied it the flowers at her breast seemed to wither, and the blue shadows on her skin deepened, and her lips grew pale. But when she spoke again the fairy colors returned, and there were wild roses in her hair.
    “What is his name?”
    “Jonas Tyler,” Hazel said, and somehow, saying his name made the magic real, and she knew she had taken an irrevocable step, though in what direction she couldn’t guess.
    “It shouldn’t be difficult for a girl like you to enchant him,” Lilliat said sweetly. “A girl with youth in her eyes, and power in her blood…Look at yourself!”
    Hazel’s face appeared beside her in the mirror—a different Hazel, beautiful and aloof, changed and yet the same, with her hair lifted off her face by Lilliat’s phantom breeze and silver shadows on her skin…
    There was a long pause. Then Hazel said: “I found these potions—” She indicated the bottles on the dressing table. “—I thought they might help. What do I do?”
    Her reflection faded.
    “What need of evil medicines?” Lilliat said. “You have seen yourself—yourself as you truly are. I will do the rest.”
    “
Thank
you.” Hazel felt grateful, hopeful, doubtful. Little showed in her face, but Lilliat saw it all.
    “A favor for a favor.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Don’t you know the stories?” Her tone was still soft, still with an echo of silvery laughter. “There is always a price. The mermaid who sold her voice to turn her fishtail into legs, the prince who toiled seven years to break a witch’s spell…But what you ask is a little thing. The price will be small, no more than you can afford.”
    “Money?” Hazel said. “I don’t have much money.”
    Lilliat laughed again—laughed and laughed—and the flower petals turned to banknotes that scattered