witchtrinkets

[witchtrinkets]

The Trinket Witch

Chapter 1 - The Girl Who Was a Crow

Corva had always been rather good at stealing shiny things — which, considering she spent the better part of ten years as a crow, was hardly surprising.

Even after she was turned back into a girl (a complicated affair involving a stubborn witch, a broken clock, and a rather bad-tempered oak tree), she kept the habit. Trinkets, scraps, curious little objects — anything with a bit of gleam to it — seemed to find their way into her pockets.

The curse had been placed on her long ago, back when she was still an ordinary girl — or, at least, as ordinary as any girl who could talk to ravens and collect thunderstorms in jars could be. Someone — no one quite remembered who — had been irritated enough to turn her into a crow, a spell so thick and tangled that Corva herself forgot she had ever been anything else.

She might have stayed that way forever if not for Maeve the Hollow Witch. Maeve found her one particularly drizzly afternoon, pecking furiously at a broken compass in the roots of a twisted pine. One glance — and witches are very good at glances — and Maeve knew exactly what Corva was. "A-ha," Maeve said. "You're not fooling anyone, you know. Stand still."

Before Corva could even squawk properly, Maeve flicked her wrist, muttered something extremely rude-sounding, and pop — where the crow had been stood a very muddy, extremely confused girl with twigs in her hair and an alarming fondness for anything shiny.

After she stopped shrieking (which took some time), Corva fixed Maeve with an enormous, unblinking stare and said, "How did you do that?"

Maeve, who had planned to bundle the girl off to the nearest sensible village, realized with sinking certainty that she had just acquired an apprentice.

From that moment on, Corva pestered her relentlessly: — How did curses work? — Could she learn to lift them too? — What if she wanted to turn into a crow again, but on purpose this time? — Could she enchant spoons? (Maeve said no, but Corva did it anyway.)

"You're supposed to be learning spells," Maeve would sigh, whenever she caught Corva dangling a thimble from a bit of string instead of studying. "I am," Corva said reasonably. "I'm learning how to find the things that want spells put on them." Maeve, who was very famous and very tired, usually waved a hand and said, "Fine, fine, just don't enchant any more hedgehogs. The last one is still spinning."

Corva lived, quite sensibly, deep in the Verdantwood where few people bothered her. Her house looked rather like a particularly large bird’s nest, full of woven twigs and baubles hung up on every available surface. Inside, there were even more things: shelves groaning under old buttons, baskets stuffed with broken jewellery, and one suspiciously lively trunk that rattled ominously if left unattended.

Her magic was a peculiar kind. Most witches wove spells out of complicated diagrams and long-winded chanting. Corva preferred to do it the crow way — quick, clever, and slightly sideways. She would take a rusty key and charm it so that it could unlock any door, provided you didn't mind the door occasionally arguing with you first. Or she would patch a chipped cup so that anything drunk from it tasted faintly of summer strawberries.

Most important of all was Morrin, her familiar, who had once been her best rival when they were both crows. Morrin was cleverer than most people and took a dim view of anyone who suggested otherwise. He could fly ahead and see things for Corva — not just in the looking-at-them sense, but in the really seeing sense, which is much harder and generally involves a lot of wing-flapping.

Occasionally, brave souls wandered into Verdantwood in search of her. They brought her dented brooches, or the hilt of a broken sword, or even once (and this was very awkward) an entire grandfather clock. Corva would turn the objects into little bits of magic: charms for luck, keys to lost places, tiny pockets of hope stitched into worn-out mittens.

Most of the villagers called her the Trinket Witch. A few called her the Crow Girl, though not to her face if they were sensible.

Corva didn’t mind. She liked being slightly alarming. It meant people didn’t ask too many questions about why, on full-moon nights, feathers still sometimes sprouted along her arms, or why she still tilted her head to listen the way a bird might, as if the wind was telling her secrets.

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It was some years — and several regrettable experiments with animated teapots — before Maeve decided Corva was ready to be recognized properly as a witch.

"You'll need a title," Maeve said, one morning, as if she had just remembered it was something witches were supposed to do. She was stirring a cauldron that smelled suspiciously of burnt socks. "Every witch worth her spells has one. It's how people know what dreadful thing you’re likely to do to them."

Corva, who had been balancing a spoon on her nose to see if she could charm it into singing, looked up at once. "A title? Really? What sort?"

Maeve shrugged. "Usually something to do with your worst habits. Take me — Hollow Witch. Hollow, because I specialize in illusions. Nothing I make is quite real. Now you — what would you say your worst habit is?"

Corva thought about it. "Collecting things," she said finally. "Stealing things," Morrin corrected from the rafters. "Borrowing them!" Corva insisted. "And giving them a little magic. It's not my fault if the things don’t want to stay where people put them."

And it was true. Corva's particular talent — her true magic — lay in breathing spells into things. Not in grand, blustering ways like hurling fireballs or raising storms. But in sly, secret ways: coaxing power into ordinary objects until they remembered they had once been special.

A battered ring could be taught to whisper the truth. A forgotten coin might call luck back to its owner. A single feather, properly charmed, could carry a letter across mountains.

The strength of the magic, of course, depended on the thing itself. The more precious the item — precious in the deep, secret way only true owners understand — the stronger the enchantment.

But every bit of magic had its cost. Charm a broken locket to find a lost love, and you might forget something dear to you in return. Enchant a child's lost toy to come home again, and the next thing you owned might wander away without explanation. Magic was a bargain, always. Corva had learned that the hard way, and carried the lessons with her like invisible scars.

"You," said Maeve, eyeing her over the cauldron, "will be the Trinket Witch."

And Corva grinned so widely that for a moment you might almost think she still had a beak hidden somewhere in her smile.

From that day, the name stuck. In the twisted paths of Verdantwood, in the little villages beyond the hills, and even whispered among the quieter corners of the High Council, they spoke of the Trinket Witch — the one who could breathe magic into broken things, for a price.

Corva didn’t mind. She thought it suited her.

After all, everything valuable is a little broken, if you look closely enough.

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It wasn’t long after she received her title that Corva was given her first proper commission.

A girl came to her — a little thing in a patched cloak, carrying a necklace so tangled it looked more like a knot than a charm. She had walked alone through half the Verdantwood to find Corva, which was impressive, considering the wood usually arranged itself to send unwanted visitors into bramble patches or back to their own front doors.

"I heard you can fix things," the girl said, breathless. Corva peered at her. She had a way of seeing things people didn’t say. This girl was carrying sadness so heavy it made the trinkets in Corva’s pockets shiver. "Fixing things is easy," Corva said lightly. "The trick is making sure they stay fixed. What is it?"

The girl held out the necklace. "It was my sister’s," she whispered. "She — she’s gone. I want it to remember her for me."

Corva, being still somewhat foolish in certain ways, thought this sounded simple enough. She took the necklace — an old, silver locket, bent slightly at the hinge — and felt its heartache hum against her palms. Precious, she thought at once. Precious enough to hold a powerful spell.

She worked late into the night, weaving magic into the locket: a charm of memory, of love, of holding-close. It was some of her finest work. Even Morrin, who usually muttered darkly about sentimentality, watched in grudging approval.

When the girl returned the next morning, Corva gave her the locket. "It will keep your sister with you," she said. The girl slipped it over her neck, and her face lit with the kind of smile that could mend the cracks in anyone’s heart.

Corva was rather proud of herself — right up until the girl took three steps away from her cottage, clutched her head, and promptly forgot her own name.

Morrin landed on Corva’s shoulder with a heavy flap. "You forgot to tell her," he said. "Tell her what?" Corva demanded, panic bubbling in her chest. "That magic takes payment," Morrin said grimly. "Always. Memory magic most of all."

In fixing the locket — in stitching the sister’s memory so tightly to it — Corva had taken something from the girl in return: a piece of her own self, bartered away without her even realizing.

Corva ran after the girl — and after much fuss, tears, and several mild curses (none of which stuck properly, thank goodness), she managed to untangle the spell and set things right, more or less.

The locket, in the end, could only hold a single, fragile memory — a faint scent of lavender and a song half-remembered. Not much. But sometimes "not much" is enough.

Afterward, Corva sat on her doorstep, Morrin preening irritably beside her. "You’ll have to be more careful," he said, yanking at a feather. "You’re not just mending teapots anymore. People have cracks you can’t see."

Corva nodded, feeling the lesson settle into her bones. Magic could fix things. Magic could break things worse. And there was always a cost — whether you saw it or not.

Still, she thought, as she watched the necklace gleam faintly in the dawn light, it was worth it, if you knew how to pay properly. Everything precious is a little broken. And sometimes — just sometimes — broken things are the strongest of all.

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After the business with the locket, Corva did what any sensible young witch would do: She made some Rules.

They weren’t written down properly, because paper tended to vanish in her house (the animated teapots had gotten into a habit of eating it), but she kept them in her head, where they rattled around like loose marbles.

Corva’s Rules for Magic:

Always tell people the price. — If they don't know what they’re paying, the magic will take whatever it likes.

The more precious the object, the deeper the cut. — Magic loves important things. It will sink its claws in. Handle with care.

Never mend something that doesn’t want mending. — Some things — and some people — need to stay broken for a while.

A spell is like a crow: it goes where it pleases. — No matter how clever you are, magic will find its own way. Don’t fuss too much.

Never, ever, enchant anything that can talk back. — (Looking at you, animated teapots.)

If in doubt, ask Morrin. — Crows are very good at spotting trouble. Especially the sort that's shiny.

Maeve, when Corva recited these to her, laughed so hard she spilled her tea. "That’s all very well," Maeve said, wiping her eyes. "But rules are like shoelaces, dear. Sooner or later, you’ll trip over them."

Still, Corva kept her rules close. Every time a trembling customer brought her a cracked ring, or a broken music box, or a battered photograph, she would sit them down, make them a cup of bitter nettle tea (it encouraged honesty), and explain in a very firm voice exactly what sort of bargain they were making.

It didn’t stop people from wanting magic. People always want magic, especially the kind that mends things. But it did mean Corva slept a little better at night, knowing the magic wasn’t creeping around taking more than it ought to.

And if she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night with feathers prickling along her arms, and the whisper of broken things calling her from the woods — well, that was just part of being a witch.

Especially a witch with a crow’s heart.

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It was a few months after the locket incident — after Corva had established her Very Sensible Rules — that she discovered something she hadn’t quite expected about her magic.

It started, as these things often did, with a misunderstanding.

A tinker came to her door one rainy evening, carrying a broken pocketwatch so battered it looked more like a squashed beetle than a timepiece. "I need it mended," he said, a little sharply. "It’s the last thing I have of my brother."

Corva, being sensible, warned him at once. "There’ll be a price," she said. "I know," the tinker said. "Take it. Take whatever you need."

That should have been a warning, really. People who say things like that don't usually know what they’re offering.

Still, Corva worked carefully, weaving magic into the tiny gears, patching the cracked face, humming an old crow-song under her breath. And something — some tiny, clever part of her magic — twisted itself around the spell in a way she hadn’t planned.

When the tinker left, pocketwatch ticking like a little heartbeat against his chest, he wasn’t just remembering his brother. He was carrying the hope of seeing him again.

A week later, his brother, long thought dead, stumbled out of the Verdantwood, very much alive and rather confused about why he had moss in his hair.

Corva blinked at the news when it reached her. "Well," she said, after a thoughtful pause. "That’s new."

Morrin eyed her suspiciously. "You didn’t mean to do that, did you?" "Not exactly," Corva admitted. "I thought I was just fixing the watch. But maybe —" And here she tapped her chin in a very witch-like manner, "— maybe precious things can grant things too. Not just fix what’s broken."

Because if fixing something asked a price — Then giving something would demand a price as well. And the deeper, the more precious the wish... the steeper the cost.

Corva spent several days experimenting (very carefully, with things that couldn’t talk back, like cracked buttons and faded ribbons). She learned that:

If she fixed a trinket, it could mend the heartache tied to it — but only if the owner was willing to pay a memory, a dream, or some forgotten bit of themselves.

If she granted a wish into a trinket, it could bring something new — luck, love, hope — but the object itself might take something just as dear in return.

It wasn’t just magic. It was bargaining.

It was trading pieces of the soul, stitched into silver and wood and string.

And Corva, who had once lived as a crow — and knew exactly how hard it was to give up something you’d clutched close — realized something very important:

Fixing was easy. Giving was dangerous. And both could undo a person just as quickly as they mended them.

So she made a few more rules (mostly muttered into her tea when Morrin wasn’t listening):

Never promise what you can't take back.

The greater the gift, the greater the hunger.

Always ask: Do you really want what you’re asking for?

Because sometimes, the thing you thought you wanted most in the world might just be the thing that cost you everything else.