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The infection comes as a fever in the night. If you take ill, watch the veins—the tributary of blood traveling down the arms. If they remain as they ever did, you have nothing to fear. If the blood darkens to an inky black, the infection has taken hold. The infection comes as a fever in the night.
Still, it was the first time I stopped fearing the Nightmare—the voice in my head, the creature with strange yellow eyes and an eerie, smooth voice. Eleven years later, and I don’t fear him at all. Even if I should.
Yellow girl, soft and clean. Yellow girl, plain—unseen. Yellow girl, overlooked. Yellow girl, won’t be Queen.
It was one of twelve different Providence Cards that made up the Deck. Chronicled in our ancient text, The Old Book of Alders, Providence Cards were not only Blunder’s greatest treasures but also the only legal way of performing magic. Anyone could use them—all it took was touch and intention.
Nothing is free. Nothing is safe. Magic is love, but also, it’s hate. It comes at a cost. You’re found, and you’re lost. Magic is love, but also, it’s hate.
Why does it burn every time? I asked. But the Nightmare had already begun to vanish into the dark chasm of my mind. My magic moves, he said. My magic bites. My magic soothes. My magic frights. You are young and not so bold. I am unflinching—five hundred years old.
I was born with the fever, my blood dark as night, With magic unflinching, power and might. My sights, they were endless, my ambition too vast, So I asked for more blessings, for power, amassed. The Spirit did warn me that nothing comes free, That bargains and barters all come with a fee. Though payment was dear, I paid what it cost. With blood and with bones and parts of me lost. So mind how you use them, and keep up your guard. Twelve blessings—twelve curses. Twelve Providence Cards.
heart of gold can still turn to rot. What he wrote, what he did, was all done for naught. His Cards are but weapons, his kingdom now cruel. Shepherd of folly, King of the fools.
and infinite. “There once was a girl,” he murmured, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same: “The girl, the King… and the monster they became.”
The Hawthorn tree carries few seeds. Its branches are weary, it’s lost all its leaves. Be wary the man who bargains and thieves. He’ll offer your soul to get what he needs.
Be wary the pink, Be wary the rose. Be wary of beauty divine, unopposed. Her thorns will grow sharp, She’ll eat her own heart. Be wary of beauty divine, unopposed.
The berry of rowans is red, always red. The earth at its trunk is dark with blood shed. No water, nor cloth, can lessen its spread. He’ll ask for a maiden… Then turn her heart dead.
Practice restraint, and know it by touch. Use Cards when they’re needed, and never too much. For too much of fire, our swords would all break. Too much of wine a poison doth make. Excess is grievous, be knave, maid, or crown. Too much of water, how easy we drown.
