Problems with time. Chapter 3.

Chapter Three.

 

Home and Diary Reading.

 

Calizone did not ride straight back to her cottage.

The palace had shown her enough, time slipping, distance folding, reality behaving like wet clay, and she needed to be certain the Gate was still holding. If anything in the world was vulnerable to a tear in the weave, it was the Gate.

The forest was uneasy as she rode. Shadows stretched too far across the path, then snapped back. Birdsong stuttered, repeating a single note twice before falling silent. Her black horse snorted, ears flicking back at every small wrongness in the air.

The Gate set within the boundary hedge looked normal.

Calizone cast a small spell of finding. As ever, a thin ribbon of magic drifted through the opening, steady, pale, and no different from usual.

She was turning her horse when a quiet cough sounded behind her. She swirled round at once, magic flaring instantly at her fingertips.

One of the Gate keepers stood just inside the clearing, hands clasped, his posture respectful but strained.

“My lady,” said Jasper Custos, bowing. “I am very glad to see you.”

Calizone dismounted smoothly. “Good afternoon, Jasper.”

He rose, though the movement was a fraction too slow, as though the world were thinking about it before allowing it to happen.

“We have doubled the guard on the Gate,” he said. “Nothing has tried to go through, in either direction. But…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “We feel uneasy. All of us. As though something is… leaning on the hedge.”

Calizone studied his face. “Leaning?”

Jasper shook his head helplessly. “That is the trouble, my lady. We cannot put a proper name to it. The Gate looks right. The magic feels right. But something is wrong. We can feel it, even if we cannot point to it.”

Calizone glanced at the hedge again. The leaves were still. The ribbon of magic was steady. Everything appeared completely normal, which meant, under the circumstances, that nothing was normal at all.

“You did well to increase the guard,” she said. “Stay alert. If the hedge thickens, thins, or forgets which side is which, send for me at once.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Calizone mounted again. Jasper stepped back, relief and worry mingling in his tired eyes.

She rode on toward her cottage, the Gate rustling faintly behind her, not with the wind, but with a deep, silent unease.

It was dark by the time she reached her cottage. Not the soft, familiar darkness she knew, but a strained, brittle night that felt as though it might crack if she touched it too hard.

Calizone slid from the saddle, her legs trembling slightly as her boots hit the ground. She had spent the entire ride casting small, precise spells to counteract the wayward nature of time, nudging seconds back into place, smoothing out stutters, forcing minutes to behave. Each spell was simple, but the constant repetition had worn her thin.

The cottage welcomed her with its usual quiet, though even that felt slightly off. The shadows lay a fraction too still. The air held a faint metallic tang, as though magic itself had been scraped raw.

She hung her heavy cloak by the door and leaned both hands on the wooden table, breathing slowly until her heartbeat settled. She had not felt this drained in years. Counter‑spells were meant to be rare, occasional corrections, not a constant battle against a world slipping sideways.

She lit a single candle. Its flame flickered backward for a moment before remembering how to burn properly. She used an ordinary match to do it, not trusting herself to use the ignition spell that was usually the first thing an aspiring witch learned.

Even witches need to eat.

She cut herself a thick slice of bread and an equally large block of cheese. The knife felt heavier than usual, or perhaps her hands were simply tired, but the bread behaved itself, staying firmly in the present moment instead of trying to crumble before she touched it.

There was an apple sitting on the mantelpiece. This morning, it had been far too unripe to eat, hard as a stone and sour enough to make her eyes water. Now it was perfect: crisp, sweet, and smelling faintly of late summer.

Calizone smiled dryly to herself. At least the cheese has not gone back to milk.

She sat at the small table, watching the candle flicker in a way she did not entirely trust, and ate slowly. The bread was good. The cheese was better. The apple was excellent. For a few quiet minutes, she let herself enjoy the simple meal, even while the forest outside held its breath.

When she finished, she wiped the crumbs from the tabletop and set the apple core aside for her horse, though she eyed the remnant warily, half‑expecting it to turn back into a white blossom if she looked away.

The cottage creaked softly, settling around her in the dark.

Calizone drew a long, slow breath. She was exhausted, but the night was not going to wait for her to rest. She crossed to the bookshelf and pulled down the old diaries. The leather covers were cracked, the pages yellowed, and the ink faded in places. Witches long dead had written these words, their observations forming the backbone of forest lore. Keeping a diary was a rule almost all the Witches of the Dark Forest had obeyed. Some volumes were only a few pages, either because the witch had not lived very long, or because she had not obeyed the rule as carefully as she should have.

She opened the first diary.

She read until her eyes blurred and the candle burned down to a tiny stump. The words swam on the page, the faded ink seeming to shift as though trying to escape her gaze. She blinked hard and turned another leaf.

Still nothing. No mention of slipping shadows. No stuttering nights. No trembling roots. No time behaving like a frightened, cornered creature.

As she turned yet another page, she felt a quiet flash of gratitude toward Azaz, the first witch of the forest, for the ancient spell that kept the cottage safe from harm. Without that warding, the timber walls might have forgotten how to stand, the roof might have decided it was last winter, and the floorboards might have tried to become saplings again. Even these diaries might have rewritten themselves into blank parchment.

The cottage held steady. Azaz’s spell was doing its work.

Calizone closed the volume gently, resting her palm on the worn leather. The cottage creaked softly in response, as though acknowledging her thanks.

Outside, the forest shifted uneasily. Inside, the candle guttered, then steadied.

Calizone rubbed her eyes. She was tired to the bone, but she could not stop yet. The diaries had given her nothing, which meant she was dealing with something no witch had ever recorded.

Something new.

Something old.

Something stuck.

She reached out for the next diary, but her fingers hesitated on the cracked leather spine. The candle had burned down to a stub, its flame no more than a trembling bead of light. Her eyes felt gritty, her shoulders heavy, and the cottage’s familiar quiet wrapped around her like a blanket.

She blinked hard, trying to clear the blur from her vision. The handwritten words wavered anyway, sliding sideways for a moment before settling back into line. She frowned at them, then at herself.

“Just one more page,” she murmured to the dark room.

But her body disagreed.

She rested her elbows on the wooden table, intending only to pause for a single heartbeat. The warmth of the seasoned timber seeped into her arms. The faint, comforting hum of Azaz’s protective spell whispered through the cottage, steady and reassuring. The tiny candle flame guttered once more, as though trying to stay awake on her behalf.

Calizone’s head dipped.

She caught herself once, lifting her chin sharply.

Then again, slower.

Then a third time, her heavy eyelids closing despite her formidable will.

The open diary lay beneath her resting hand.

The candle flickered softly.

The cottage held its breath.

Calizone slipped into sleep right there at the table, her cheek resting on her arm, while the old diaries kept silent watch around her.

Outside, the forest shifted uneasily.

Inside, the witch finally slept.