Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore by Emily Krempholtz - 7

Violet was an early riser, but not so early as her new landlord. Each morning, she found him already in the greenhouse when she came downstairs from the little suite of rooms above what would become her shop, frowning over a cauldron or measuring pots of dried herbs on the brass scales that winked in the glare of the sunrise.

After the third or fourth time his eyes skittered away from hers when she looked up, she realized he was watching her. Did he think she was going to steal something? Knock over more of his belongings, which he’d now stacked carefully in the farthest corner of his half of the greenhouse? Did he think to scare her off?

She supposed in a way she understood. She didn’t know the particulars of the Marsh twins’ situation, but it was clear that Violet renting the shop had been more Pru’s decision than Nathaniel’s. Having choices thrust upon her was something Violet could relate to, and she knew it wasn’t always comfortable. It made sense that he would chafe at the restriction.

But she wasn’t used to being looked at this way—not with fear or envy but with such blank indifference that she could not read it. He looked at her like she was nobody, and she hated the way it nettled her.

Don’t you know who I am? she wanted to ask in a seething hiss. Don’t you know who you’re dealing with?

But no. As Violet left the greenhouse that morning, shaking off the weight of his stare, she reminded herself that she was a nobody now. And being a nobody in this town—being a nobody to Nathaniel Marsh—was a good thing.

Violet pushed open the back door to her shop and forcibly pruned away further thoughts of her inscrutable landlord and his inkwell eyes—they couldn’t watch her here. She took a deep breath and looked around the open space, marveling again that she was really giving this dream a go.

Potential bloomed in every corner of Violet’s new shop. The rounded oriel window with its mullioned panes was lined with shelves that would let in the perfect amount of light for plants, and the beams above her head looked plenty strong enough to hold more of them as soon as she had time to make some woven hangers. The space was airy and bright, with plenty of room for her to work—and now if Violet could only master the skill of conjuring plants without drawing on dark magic, she’d be up and running in a matter of weeks.

It turned out that while using the Thornwitch’s near-inexhaustible spring of power was like dunking her head beneath a waterfall to drink her fill, Violet the Recovering Villain had to haul this new magic up by the heavy bucketful from a deep well. It was growing easier the more she practiced, but there was no eager jolt of magic through her veins, no flood of vicious joy like she usually felt. She hadn’t realized until she left Shadowfade Castle just how much she’d come to revel in the evil within her. Being good felt hollow by comparison.

She held out a hand to try it once more, picturing a lily, imagining silky, freckled petals and a long stamen dusty with pollen. The Thornwitch’s magic leapt to her fingertips, eager and thrilling, but with it came the familiar sensation of thorns that prickled beneath her skin. Violet stanched it and forced her eyes to remain their golden brown, but it was like a tap had been turned off.

“Come on,” she muttered. Finding the other spring took concentration. It helped to imagine she was running her hands along a rope in a dark room, her fingers blindly but methodically searching for a place where it knotted.

There.

Violet grabbed hold of the knot and hauled on the rope, bringing the magic into her and bracing against the sudden sting in her fingers. After a moment, a lily appeared dutifully in her hand, though its petals were a touch wilted. Violet stared at it, wondering if she could supplement with dark magic, at least until she got better at going without. But no—that was the point. She was done with all that. No exceptions.

Using this morally virtuous brand of magic felt like she was exercising a muscle she hadn’t realized she even had.

“I just need to practice,” she reasoned aloud to Bartleby, who was idly attempting to juggle a letter opener. She flexed her hands, trying to rid them of the nettle-like sensation, and squinted at the lily, breathing a bit of life into it until the wilted petals perked up. There. She conjured a full bouquet of colorful blooms, each a little easier than the last, though the stinging in her hands increased to a dull burn.

“See?” she said through gritted teeth, showing the flowers to Bartleby, who had begun using the letter opener to fence with an invisible opponent. “Practice! A bit of that every day and I’ll be ready.”

She arranged the bouquet in a little glass vase and placed it in the window, smiling at her handiwork. She’d have to find a supplier for pots and vases, she realized. And for ribbons and paper and twine and all the other supplies she couldn’t just grow from the ground with her magic. How much would that cost? And how much would she have to charge for her floral arrangements to turn a profit anyway? That seemed the sort of thing a proper non-evil shopkeeper needed to think about.

Violet wasn’t too worried about funds—the jewels she’d taken from Guy’s treasury would tide her over for years, once she was able to trade them for coin at the bank. Oh dear, she’d have to set up an account in town, wouldn’t she? Violet had never had a bank account before. Would she need a letter from one of her landlords to vouch that she lived here?

And speaking of living, the sparsely furnished little rooms above the shop that she now called her own could use a touch of something. The tiny sitting room had an armchair and a writing desk where she could do her bookkeeping, and the kitchen, clearly converted from some other purpose, had a woodstove and a little round breakfast table, with a hutch she planned to fill with colorful, mismatched dishware and as many varieties of tea as she could get her hands on. The bedroom with its big double window and faded quilt on the bed, and the cramped copper tub in the washroom, were nothing compared to Violet’s apartments at Shadowfade Castle, but they were hers in a way nothing had ever been before. Perhaps she should brighten them up a bit and put her own stamp on them.

Violet stopped, broom in hand, pile of dust unswept on the floor. She had dreamed of finding a place to call home, of course—a cottage deep in the woods, perhaps, with a cheerful fire in the hearth and a gated garden out back. An apartment in a bustling city and shopkeepers who knew her name and greeted her with a smile. A ship with purple sails and a captain who— But no. Home had never been anywhere but her master’s castle. Nerves grew over her like weeds then, and their taproot dug deep. What was she doing?

Guy had told her dozens of times: She was good for one thing and one thing only, and this? Opening a flower shop? This was not it.

She looked at the broom, which was beginning to sprout thorns that pricked at her palms. She startled and they disappeared, the handle budding with leaves instead.

“Just be a broom ,” she grumbled, huffing until the broomstick was just a broomstick once more.

This was what happened when she stopped paying attention. Her magic was always itching to leak from her, as if all her broken bits could never mend and the darkness at her core was constantly oozing from the cracks. She was trying to stop, but how , when it was so easy to let it out?

Violet was evil, and Guy had known it from the moment he found her. Four years old and abandoned by your mother on an island in the Stained Glass Sea , he’d told her. You were too powerful, and you couldn’t control it. She must have thought you too much of a risk to keep. As she grew up under his care, Guy reminded her often that if she didn’t master her dark magic, it would master her instead.

Your mother didn’t understand you , Guy had cooed. The rest of the world will never understand you.

But he had. He’d kept her isolated throughout much of her childhood until they were certain Violet could control her powers, and then her training had really begun. Violet had lived among other murderers, ones who were proud of their deeds, who would laugh at her if she showed shame for her own. By all rights, Violet should have grown to be just like them, and for a while it seemed like she might have.

She was an angry young woman with an incredible amount of magic, and Guy had encouraged her to use it to his advantage.

We are building our future, petal. Securing our power. With you by my side, we’ll be unstoppable.

It was all he wanted—to be unstoppable, to defeat even the threat of death. In exchange for helping him hunt down legendary artifacts like the Tideheart and the Eye of the Serpent, he’d offered Violet exactly what she wanted most in the world: A place where she wouldn’t be alone anymore. A place to belong.

So she’d worked for him, using her magic as he taught her to. No siege could stand against an enemy who could putrefy the food supply, after all, and the dreaded Thornwitch, who could destroy a way of life with a twitch of her fingers, quickly became Shadowfade’s most trusted pet. There was a time when Violet even liked it, found that she could channel out all the busy thoughts in her head while she was using dark magic. Violet had been horrible enough to drive away her own family, but she didn’t have to be Violet when she was the Thornwitch.

Then came the sack of Silbourne and the collapse of everything Violet had thought she knew. And now Guy Shadowfade was gone. All his talk of immortality, his quests for greatness, his experiments with alchemy and his endless hunt for the Eye of the Serpent—gone.

Violet could feel her dark magic calling to her as always, seductive as a ripe berry on the vine, singing sweet sounds of despair and the euphoria that would come from letting loose a volley of the power she knew lived within her. She wanted to be good, like the Tempest had told her to be. To try for something more. To create happiness rather than misery and to grow roots rather than rot, and if this new magic hurt her instead of other people, then she would accept that. She didn’t want to be the Thornwitch anymore, and so she wouldn’t be. Maybe it was as simple as that.

Maybe Violet Thistlewaite could simply live out her days here. At peace.

A crash from outside the shop broke her from her thoughts. For a moment, her body tensed, the broom falling at her feet as she freed her hands, her mind halfway to conjuring thorns beneath her skin or calling the roots of the trees in the Green to lift from the ground and crush the life from her attackers.

No.

No one here is trying to kill you , she reminded herself, forcing a breath into her lungs and some pliability back into her stiff limbs. No one knows who you are. The broom had sprouted thorns again, which she quickly banished as she turned her gaze to the front window and drew the curtain. She was surprised to find stalls and carts had appeared as if by magic, dotting Wingspan Green in orderly rows.

“A market!” she marveled aloud, eyes darting to the woman in front of her shop whose overturned cart had been the source of the noise. She had a large, twisted bun of snowy white hair, dark brown skin, and wide eyes beneath pinched, concerned brows. Her mouth was as overturned as her cart, though her frown shifted to an “Oh!” of surprise when she noticed Violet through the window. Someone who was good would go out to help, so Violet opened the door.

“Are you alright?” she asked, crouching down to help the woman retrieve the ceramic jars that were rolling around the cobblestones.

“Quite alright,” confirmed the woman, gesturing to the broken wheel. “Just frustrated. Not exactly sure how I’ll manage this one.”

“Let me help.”

She and the woman righted the cart, and Violet placed her hand on the wheel. She closed her eyes and urged the dead wood back to life, to grow and mend until the broken pieces were whole once more.

The woman was staring at her, mouth hanging open, and Violet blushed under her scrutiny.

“Sorry about the leaves,” said Violet, swatting one of the twigs that had grown out the side of the wheel. “I’ll fetch some shears so you can trim them off.”

“Well now.” The woman blinked at her thoughtfully a few more times, like she was trying to puzzle out whether what she’d seen was real.

Violet’s cheeks heated even more. “It’s nothing.”

“No, I’d say that was something . Thank you.” The woman’s gaze turned studious in a way that began to make Violet uncomfortable, and she repeated to herself once more, like a mantra, that no one here could recognize her without her face full of thorns and that vile purple cloak.

“Oh, you’ve a—” Violet gestured to the honeybee that buzzed near the woman’s head, but then noticed several more. “Bees.”

“Almost thirty years together and my wife still claims she’s not used to them, but it comes with the territory.”

Violet’s eyes dropped to the jars that had fallen. One of them had shattered, and a sticky, golden substance was oozing into the cracks between the stones. Honey.

“You’re a beekeeper!”

“Yes!” Whatever spell the woman had been under seemed to break. She beamed at Violet. “I’m Quinn, of Quinn Bee Honeybees. You’re new here.” Her eyes were friendly, but Violet immediately felt defensive.

“Yes, I’m—I’m Violet. I’m opening a flower shop.” Her hands were suddenly clammy. Quinn’s eyes followed Violet’s to the storefront behind them.

“Ah, so you’re the Marsh twins’ new tenant,” she exclaimed. “I’d heard they’d fixed up the place enough to let. And a flower shop! What will it be called?”

Oh, right. A name. “I…”

“No matter! It will come to you when you’re ready. But you simply must let me talk pollinators with you sometime. Will you import flowers or grow them in your back garden? If you’re interested in a hive, I can get you set up. They’re great for flowers, which of course you must know already, being a florist.”

As Quinn chattered on, Violet felt a thrill at being called a florist by anyone besides herself.

“Oh, but is this one of yours?” Quinn rushed to the big oriel window and marveled at the bouquet Violet had placed there, evidence of her hard-earned practice. She inspected one of the spiky, colorful flowers that nestled among the lilies with awe. “But these—what are these?”

“It’s called a protea,” Violet explained. “They grow in the Shards.”

Quinn marveled at the yellow-and-orange blooms. “Gorgeous! I’ve never seen their like. And you imported them?”

“Not exactly.” Violet wiggled her fingers like she was performing a spell.

“Of course!” Quinn let out a laugh. “Oh, this is wonderful. You’re going to do so well here. No one will have seen anything like it! I can’t wait to tell everyone. How much for this? I’ll draw more customers at market if they have something to look at besides jars of honey.”

Violet’s eyes flitted to the simple arrangement. “I don’t have prices for them yet.”

“Two silver stelle,” said Quinn, her eyes flashing. “And I’ll tell any of my customers who ask where to find you.”

Excitement, tinged with more than a little panic, crawled its way up Violet’s spine. “I—yes, okay.”

Her first sale.

Violet was a florist. She was really creating her own life, and on her terms, not Guy’s. She fetched the bouquet from inside, smiling at the flowers as she relinquished them to a real customer from her new home. This felt different. This felt good. Dragon’s Rest would be a place to start over, to build something of her own, away from the taint of her past.

“It’s early for flowers,” said Quinn, her nose buried in the blooms, “and I just know my bees are going to love having you around. They usually have to fly all the way to Shadowfade Castle for nectar this early in the season. The Thornwitch was a lot of things, but she kept flowers growing year-round, she did.”

“What?” Violet nearly jumped out of her skin at the mention of her past life. She felt like she’d just finished one of Guy’s training “games,” which generally involved running for her life after he set something unpleasant and deadly loose in her bedroom after she fell asleep.

Best to be prepared for anything, petal , he’d always said.

Violet did not feel prepared for this.

“The Thornwitch,” Quinn continued, peering at her. “Oh, but don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her. One of the Dark Lord’s most trusted servants. Devastated crops, trapped entire armies in fields of poisonous thorns. Once used her vines to pull a man’s entire estate into the sea because he owed Shadowfade money.”

That last one was a lie, Violet was tempted to tell her. An earthquake had taken down the entire cliffside before she’d even arrived; she just hadn’t denied the rumors. We are thieves, petal , Guy had told her. And if our reputations are in part stolen, well, they still line our pockets.

Quinn was still talking. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of her since he was defeated. Most likely she’s gone just like the rest of them. But I’ve heard her gardens were beautiful.”

Violet looked at the crates of honey on Quinn’s cart, and another wash of homesickness overtook even the shame of hearing Quinn recount her past deeds, real and exaggerated. A little piece of her gardens, here in a jar. All she had left of it.

Build a new one , she repeated to herself. Build a better one.

“I’d love to talk about installing a hive once I’ve got everything set up,” Violet said with a smile. “And I’d love your thoughts on what I can do to plant flowers the bees will love best.”

“Anything’s better than nothing at all,” said Quinn cheerfully. “But we’ll talk. I’ll find you!” She managed to make it sound vaguely ominous. But in a good way? Violet thought. She got the sense that Quinn was a walking, talking information machine. Violet would be more concerned if she wasn’t already being careful of her words around everyone she met.

Quinn continued. “I should get going. I need to claim my spot by the trees before Fallon and their ceramic bowls take it again. Corrin—that’s the glazier, you’ll love her—says they bet her three stelle they could usurp my place! But here.” Quinn shoved a jar of honey into her hands. “As a thank-you.”

“Oh, I—” Violet held the jar awkwardly. No one had given her a gift in years; even Guy’s “presents” were thinly veiled rewards and bribes to keep her in line.

“Come visit my stall once I’m set up,” said Quinn, oblivious to the tangled weeds of Violet’s thoughts. “I’ll introduce you to some of the others.”

Violet dragged a shaky smile to her lips. “That would be lovely.”

“We watch out for our own here.”

She tried not to hear the words as a threat.