Ella, by Jessica E. Kaiser, 3/9
It soon became clear that Durren had married my mother for the witchweed, for her skill at growing it and for the money that she had made. The large stone mansion had no servants when we came into it. He had been unable to pay them for months and finally they had left. Ella's mother had died unexpectedly--when Ella told us this, her mouth curved in a small, revealing smile--leaving the two of them alone. His merchant's trade had been based upon the money the wife brought with her, but some sort of dispute with the woman's family over whether her death had been natural resulted in the funds being unavailable for his use.
They needed a source of money. Without money, he was unable to purchase goods, for by the time that he began to trade again after his wife's death, he--or Ella, with her sumptuous clothing--had run up huge bills with the town's tradefolk. No one was willing to provide him goods on credit.
Mother's money gave him the start he needed. To this day, I do not know why she married him. My only supposition is that she really did fall in love with what he seemed to be, but after that first meeting with Ella, Mother seemed to fade. There, before our eyes, she became thinner, very rarely spoke, left rooms when others arrived. Tending the witchweed was all that she did. Eventually, as Durren grew more prosperous again, he began to take Mother to social gatherings. These were attended by the town's top merchants and the minor nobility of the area.
Each time, Ella demanded to accompany them. Some faint vestige of common sense was left to Durren in this area; despite his usual practice of spoiling his daughter and acquiescing to her every wish, he would not take her in Mother's place to these parties. I gradually came to realize that Ella never left the house at all, and as time passed, I began to understand.
The first thing I learned was that very few people believed that Ella's mother had died a natural death. We had been living in the town for nearly a year before I heard the first whisper of a rumor that it was Ella who had killed her mother, killed her so that she could have her father to herself. Gerthe came flying to me with the next thing she heard: that Ella was a witch.
"Is she, Mathilde? Is she a witch?" she demanded, out of breath from having run all the way home from the market.
"A witch . . . " I considered it, trying to disregard my hatred of Ella and think about what really was, not what my resentful mind might want to believe. "Have you ever seen her approach the witchweed, Gerthe?"
I myself had never seen her do so. Mother's garden was in the back of the house, amidst long-untended flowerbeds and a neglected maze. Ella spent nearly all of her time standing very near a fire, so much so that she had gained the nickname "Cinderella" from the servants, for the blackness of her hair and the fact that the fire did not burn her, no matter how close she was. I'd not seen her so much as come within viewing distance of the back door.
Gerthe thought about my question, clearly trying to ensure that she was providing me as accurate an answer as possible. It took several minutes for her to say, "No, I don't think I have."
We stared at each other soberly. She said, "Do you think she is, then?"
"I do not know. Remember that we do not know, and remember also that witches do not like to be revealed."
She nodded, and we both vowed to be careful. I considered speaking to Mother about Ella, but she was such a terribly faint ghost of her former self. Asking her anything other than a question about the witchweed made her tremble, and she rarely answered. Gerthe and I were worried about her, but neither of us had any idea what to do. The only thing that seemed to make her feel better was working in the garden.
