a/n: This is the first time I've done this since starting this story, but I went back and revamped Chapter 19 (thank you, Ethereal Sphere, for inspiring me with confidence!). Publishing a chapter directly after doing NaNoWriMo wasn't the best decision. The ideas were flowing, but to be honest, my writing quality wasn't that great xD (imagine the sacrifices necessary to produce 1.5k a day!). I like the new version of Chapter 19 much better.

lola - I loved reading your evolving thoughts on the book! It grows on you, doesn't it? There are so many nuances that I think it just gets better with every read. You and I share a lot of the same thoughts, especially regarding character ages and appearances hahah! And you are not alone on pulling out a calculator for Howl's age; I totally did that, too! Also, thank you for your lovely words for this story! I enjoyed your reactions & appreciated your sharp eye.

re-cap: Howl takes Sophie on the famed sky walk! Sophie lets it slip that she thinks "the Wizard Howl" is responsible for her curse, but then she finds that she literally can't speak of it. They see battleships filled with wizards heading for Strangia's border. Sophie faints when her curse manifests, so Howl brings her back to the shop. Calcifer suggests that Sophie's soul tether might be tied to a seal mark. Meanwhile, Howl is searching for a ring? And he once almost married the Witch of the Waste?

"To Steal a Heart"

Chapter 20: Encounters

Michael had slept fitfully.

The long, somber night had been one of earnest study. He had burnt through two candles while leafing through the hundreds of pages on ancient sorcery until he could swear the runes were etching themselves into his eyes.

There was an excitement, his boyish heart supposed, to being relied upon like this by his master. Yet each irrelevant page brought anxious thoughts of Miss Sophie lying unconscious downstairs.

Why didn't I notice?

This question weighed heavily on him as the sunlight crept warily into his room the following morning. Despite all of his lessons and studying, he had spent days at Miss Sophie's side and not noticed a thing.

Some wizard's apprentice he was.

Maybe it would be for the best if Martha never returned his feelings, since he was apparently too narrow-sighted to protect her.

The boy dragged himself into the hall and glanced in irritation at Master Howl's bedroom door. There was also the matter of all these unanswered questions, such as why Master insisted on keeping his identity a secret. Michael understood the need for certain lies, but to be honest, this one seemed sort of pointless. Would things not be much simpler if Miss Sophie knew the truth?

It was difficult, being the voice of reason. He could not disobey his master.

Maybe he could give hints...

"Miss Sophie. Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Puzzled eyes met his comment. Michael blanched at his own insensitivity. You dunderhead, what a perfectly useless thing to say. Why, she must be feeling awful after her curse manifested.

He backtracked by wishing her better health. There, that sounded okay. Now for the actual sticky part: how to hint without outright telling?

"You know, it's strange, but your curse doesn't look like one of Wizard Howl's." No, too obvious! Again. "Um, did you know everyone's magic has a different scent? Yeah, interesting right? Say, you sort of smell like the Witch of the Waste."

At that, even Michael's own reflection, upon which he was practicing, gave him such a skeptical look that Michael quickly shoved his toothbrush in his mouth. Just don't say something you aren't supposed to, the boy warned himself, raking the bristles across his teeth.

After spitting into the sink, he straightened his vest. It looked like protecting Master Howl's good name was up to him, for once.

The stairs creaked beneath his half hopeful footsteps, and the first thing he noticed was the disappointing lack of any breakfast-making activities.

The second was a parted green curtain, a neatly folded quilt, and the notable absence of Miss Sophie.

The third was the door dial set to Kingsbury.

"Uh oh."

Sophie noted the almost morbid delicacy of a poached egg as Fanny's knife parted it again, and again, into thick slices sticky with orange yolk. Her stepmother transfixed a piece with her fork the way only a lady can do: skillfully and without a clink of porcelain. Beside her, her husband Sacheverell shuffled his newspaper.

Fanny raised the morsel to her fuchsia lips. Sophie averted her eyes, but the action hardly helped. The dining table in front of her was practically smothered with breakfast dishes: greasy brisket hash, glistening sliced fruit, steaming piles of tarts, eggs, toasts, and sausage. At the center of it all, Ann, the maid, had placed a glass dish of gardenia blossoms. Heady scents of food and floral wafted dizzyingly over Sophie's senses, pulsating along the warm breezes passing through the open window.

Fanny finished chewing and spoke. "I really wish I could thank Mrs. Baxtin in person for inconveniencing herself last night." In the corner of her vision, Sophie could see her fork moving towards another slice of egg.

The eldest Hatter closed her eyes. "I expressed as much. But I'm afraid Mrs. Baxtin left on an errand to Porthaven," she lied.

If Fanny discovered the truth - that she had actually spent last night at a man's house! - the resulting scandal and restrictions would only procure a massive headache. This was why, upon waking early this morning, she had immediately rushed home.

"Oh, that's unfortunate." Fanny frowned. "Perhaps in a few days then."

Mister Sacheverell took a glug of coffee.

Sophie carefully lay her napkin beside her plate and rose from her padded chair. "Excuse me," she told her stepparents.

A few minutes later, she pondered at how oddly relieving it felt to press one's brow against a cool, porcelain toilet bowl.

"Are you unwell, Miss Sophie?" called old Mrs. Cecilia from outside the bathroom door. Sophie hastily wiped the vomit from her mouth.

"Something isn't sitting right with my stomach, that's all," she weakly answered.

"I shall fetch a tonic."

"No, ma'am, it's okay, I just need some rest." A good long rest, in her own bed, so she could awake the day after May Day and marvel at this extraordinary dream her overworked brain had brewed.

But her left ankle disapproved of her denial and was putting up quite the fuss. Since this morning, the muscles beneath her curse mark had been throbbing so deeply that no amount of rubbing soothed them. After examining the gaudy depiction she had been branded with, of a broken heart wrapped in chains and flecked with tiny hearts, she concluded that Madame Giselle's protection spell had finally reached its limit.

Sophie gingerly picked herself up off the bathroom tiles and limped to the sink, where she gripped the knobs for support and watched the water stream down the drain. She needed to return soon, but until then she needed to stay calm. Slipping her hands beneath the running water, she gathered two palms full and splashed the chilly liquid over her cheeks. Her troubled, pale reflection stared at her, water dripping from its chin.

"You're going to be fine," Sophie told herself sternly. She rinsed her mouth of its sour taste before splashing her face once more, shivering at the small surge of vigor in her blood.

But she could not stay here like this for long.

Hobbling down the hall to her tiny bedroom, she closed the door and stripped off her headscarf and the lavender gown Fanny had bought her. As she shrugged her gray dress over her head, Fanny knocked.

"Are you alright in there, love? Cecilia said you weren't feeling well. I hope you haven't caught something... Sophie!" A gasp. "What happened to your hair?"

Sophie whirled as her door flew open and Fanny rushed into the room, her bright yellow dress flooding the space like a lost delivery of buttercups.

"Good heavens, are they working you like a slave?" her horrified stepmother wailed.

Self-conscious, Sophie tried to put her headscarf back on, but Fanny yanked her hands away from her scalp and gripped her shoulders. Sophie's world reeled at the abrupt movements.

"Your hair looks like it belongs to some ninety year old woman! That does it. As soon as that Mrs. Baxtin returns from wherever it is, I'm going to give her a piece of my mind!"

For once, the idea of Mister Jenkins being scolded was not satisfying; Fanny knowing where she worked would not do at all. Sophie paled as her stepmother took her hand. "Don't worry, love. We'll find you a nice, pretty hair dye, something with red. You'll look quite fashionable! And you won't ever, ever have to go back to that horrid place!"

How can I explain to her, Sophie anxiously gnawed her lip, staring into her stepmother's determined blue eyes, when I can't even physically talk of it?

No, this had been a problem even before the curse. It seemed for years, she always came to this point where she had no idea what to say to her. "It's nothing like that, really."

"You're too soft-hearted sometimes, you don't need to defend her."

"Fanny, you don't understand. I… I have to go back. Please, they need me." Oh heavens, why had she left Jenkins' shop this morning?

"Absolutely not! I refuse. I'm looking right at you! You need rest!"

The expression on Fanny's face was one of stern resolve. She really was going to try and stop her, Sophie realized in a panic. "I made a contract," she tried, opting for a more honest approach. "I have an obligation!"

"I won't be having my daughter laboring like some servant!" Fanny exclaimed.

Anger suddenly flared in Sophie. The entire Hatter family had devoted so many precious years of their lives to doing just that: sewing, molding hats on the blocks, running around guiding sales. Now having married into money, it seemed Fanny had decided that it was all beneath her.

Sophie pulled away her hand. "Unlike you, I cannot just disappear for days leaving everyone behind!" she cried.

The air stilled.

For one frozen moment, Sophie's words floated back to her as if through some sort of fog, but she was too angry, too dizzy, and too numb with anxiety to fully realize the impact of them.

Fanny pressed her bright lips together and examined her stepdaughter. "Is that what you think of me?"

Sophie stared back into her pained eyes with the vaguest stirring of dread.

"Did you know your sisters used to complain that I was exploiting them? If you girls knew what I've sacrificed for our family all these years, maybe you wouldn't be so hard on me. Bless him, but your poor father was a flimsy businessman at best, and when he passed, he left me three young girls and all those heavy debts. Of course I would have loved to have stayed home more, like normal well-to-do women with their husbands, but instead I spent every day out bargaining, gathering favors, and yes, Sophie, searching for a rich husband, because I wanted my girls to have normal lives!" Fanny gathered her composure. "Tomorrow. We're visiting Mrs. Baxtin together so I can put my mind at ease.

"Things are different now," she said firmly. "We are going to have a new life here, Sophie. Please consider that."

After her stepmother left the room, Sophie buried her face in her hands.

They called Kingsbury "The City Which Sits in His Majesty's Palm."

The Royal Army and the resident citizens all ate at the same restaurants, gossiped about the same people, and unknowingly used the same brand of cast iron skillets. Along the perimeter of the palace stood the guilds, which proudly contained the country's most advanced magicians and their apprentices. The King of Ingary himself presided over the city and was famed for his valor of spirit and tactical judgment.

So when rumors of war were in the streets, what did Kingsbury have to fear?

Thus, they celebrated. Hundreds of bright, patriotic banners draped off balconies and oil-fed carriages. The paved streets were swarming with finely dressed nobles, craftspeople, merchants, and magicians. At every street corner or monument one passed, there was sure to be a soldier from the King's Royal Army.

A scholar might view these proceedings as a societal, survival-oriented response of taking control during a potentially unstable situation. However, through the eyes of a small-town girl, this city-wide enthusiasm simply seemed bizarre and overwhelming.

Sophie had managed to circumvent most of the crowds, but when she finally reached the point of exhaustion she was forced to sit.

If I hear much more of mock cannon fire I might be ill again, she admitted, wearily propping her valise onto her lap, into which she had hastily stuffed personal articles before sneaking out the back door. It hurt to dwell on her argument with Fanny, so she distracted herself by staring at the sky. It was funny... Her whole life she had gazed out of her dirty cubbyhole window and dreamed of mundane things while Mister Jenkins had been out here exploring the impossible. And he had made it all seem so natural, holding her fast, speaking gentle words of guidance.

Sophie shivered at the memory of being wrapped in his arms, literally surrounded by twilight, the breath of the wind like a song around them while the imposing city below transformed into boxes of fairies and starlight. To think that something as intangible as the clouds had become a path beneath her feet. It truly had been like a dream...

Her mind drifted along the pleasant winds of reminiscence. She wondered what would the shop girls think if they knew how many times she had been in contact with Sorcerer Jenkins.

Henrietta would sputter like a tea kettle, she thought with slight smugness.

Good job, Sophie. Except I never would have unraveled like some limp bundle of twine at the best part, mental Henrietta scoffed. Sophie's smile immediately dropped. Bother, Henrietta had her there.

Barking suddenly rang out.

Sophie snapped her face towards the sound and paled when the crowd there parted: a dog was romping rampant! The animal dodged the grasping hands of men, women shrieking at the touch of its fur against their satin dresses. Abruptly it angled towards her, tongue waggling, ears billowing like war flags, beady black eyes untrained.

Nine years ago during her eighth birthday party, the boy from next door had thought it a lovely idea to bring his new dog to the Hatter family yard. Sophie's unsuspecting little self had carried out her crème cake only to be leapt upon by an attention-enthused canine.

She may have forgotten the feeling of sharp teeth scraping along her jaw, but the fear had never left. Sophie shrank against the bench and tried to hide behind her valise, but to her surely eternal horror the dog sought her out. She squeaked in terror when it loped straight up to her and snuffled its nose along the length of her dress.

Goodbye all respectability, I'm about to be eaten!

"Tamir! Come away from there!" a man sharply commanded.

The dog's ears flattened, and it whined before peeling away from its newfound prey.

Sophie watched in amazement as a tall, ginger-haired man conjured a leash from thin air, latched it to the dog's collar, and then dragged the creature a safe distance away. He stood authoritatively in the street as a breathless young man ran up to him, into whose hand he slapped the leash.

"I am so sorry, sir!" the youth cried, clutching the leash and bowing his head. "Tamir was just feeling cooped up in the Palace, and I thought that since the weather today was so lovely, I - I relaxed for only a moment. I promise it won't happen again, sir!"

"Did you have your ears stuffed with hay during the Guild assembly, young man? Pay attention! The days of frivolous play are behind us," the wizard rebuked sternly. "I want you alert. I want you focused! This is your last notice. Another incident like this, and Tamir no longer holds a place in your training, understood?"

The youth looked at him in dismay. Sophie might have felt badly for him, but the overwhelming relief to be away from the dog flushed out any pity. The wizard tapped his iron-tipped cane against the ground, spurring a sullen response from the young man, before he grumbled out a dismissal.

"Are you alright, miss?" the wizard asked, turning to her with concern tinging his rugged features. He seemed to be in his late twenties, with distinguished sideburns and somewhat shaggy, ginger hair. His trim yet simple suit had the Royal crest sewn over the right breast.

Sophie shakily nodded while she tried not to think about how close that dog had gotten. "Yes, I believe so."

The wizard nodded and bowed. Sophie checked to see if anyone else was sitting beside her.

"My name is Ben Sullivan," he said. "As a Royal Wizard, I apologize on behalf of my guild for our member's irresponsible behavior."

Sophie stared. Only the most powerful magic users could be Royal Magicians! Feeling surreal about the whole situation, she said, "Ah, it's quite all right. I'm intact."

"Your face is familiar to me, miss," Wizard Sullivan said upon straightening. "Have we been of prior acquaintance?"

"I don't believe so?" Sophie had certainly never seen him before. Remembering her manners she added, "My name is Sophie Hatter. Perhaps you know my family?"

"Ah, that's it!" Wizard Sullivan tapped his cane on the ground again. He appeared too young for a cane, his gait natural, so Sophie assumed it was for fashion's sake. "Miss Sophie, are you perchance related to a Miss Lettie Hatter? During a visit to Upper Folding, I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Fairfax's apprentice."

"Lettie is my sister! Is she well?" Sophie exclaimed, eager for news.

"Yes, hmm, remarkably so. In fact, her aptitude for magic quite impresses me." Ben Sullivan flashed a brief, besotted smile that took years off his strong-minded appearance, making Sophie suspect that it was more than her lovely Lettie's magic that had impressed him. He surveyed a pocket watch. "Ahem. I must be going. It was good to make your acquaintance, Miss Sophie, although for your sake, I daresay under less aggravated circumstances would have been preferable. I have business in Upper Folding this week; shall I send your sister news of your good health?"

"You may, thank you. Though if it's no trouble... please don't mention this to Lettie, as my dear sisters have a penchant for stacking wild stories against me."

"It's no trouble at all," he answered with another bow. "Good day, Miss Sophie."

When the crowd had sufficiently swallowed him from sight, Sophie pushed herself to her feet and blinked up at the blank, blue sky. Perhaps this curse truly is making me delusional.

The leaves were flat as parchment and waxy with spiked edges. They floated on the surface of the lake like somebody's scattered potions essay.

"Howl, put down that book and get over here! I've just made the discovery of the century!" twelve-year-old Ben Sullivan demanded, shifting forward on his muddy knees.

"No, thank you. I'll get my uniform dirty," eleven-year-old Howl Jenkins answered distastefully.

"Come off it, we can use that cleaning spell later. These plants are literally growing in the water! Do you think they know that? Oh! Maybe they're rooted in rhizomes!"

"See, this is why the girls won't look at you."

"Do you think Master Suliman would like a sample?"

Howl rolled onto his knobby elbow and thought about it. "Nah. If it's not in the official catalog, then it's probably not 'traditional' enough."

Ben furrowed his brow, his clippers poised. "Hmm. Well, I'm going to present it to her anyways. Maybe she'll be so pleased by my finding that she'll make me the youngest Guild leader ever!"

Right when Ben was about to snip, Howl suddenly splashed into the mud beside him, sending great grassy globs against the other boy's side.

"Hey!" Ben shouted.

"It's called Nymphaeaceae, by the way, and the flowers don't bloom until nighttime. Don't pluck it yet!" Howl said in a gleeful rush, ducking the water slung at him.

Ben scowled. "Why'd you let me blather on if you knew what is was the whole time?"

"Because you made for nice background noise while I was reading, obviously."

"I don't believe a word of it - hey! Don't you run from your fellow countryman!"

Ben Sullivan smiled at the brief memory of simpler days while he waited for Howl's answer to his request. His old friend was presently strumming a badly out-of-tune guitar with the undoubted intention of warding him off.

Calcifer snapped. "Would ya quit that ruckus and give the man an answer?"

"I was under the impression that fire demons had good taste," Howl retorted. "Ben, I'm afraid I've got enough to worry about."

Ben continued studying him. "You're declining because the Witch of the Waste might be there. That's it, isn't it?"

Howl obnoxiously twanged a string.

"Won't anyone give me the courtesy of believing what I say?" he complained.

"It's because you're never honest," Calcifer argued. "Who could take a glittery face like yours seriously, anyways?"

Howl glared at his fire demon. "Since you're so quick to give your opinion, why don't you pour that energy into locating a hot spring? I'll need a relaxing bath after this stressful morning."

"Hey, don't take it out on me that you can't admit you made a mistake!"

Ben sighed as the two of them continued bickering. They appeared to have been in some sort of disagreement since before he arrived, but unfortunately, the current secretive nature of his and Howl's meetings left little time for inquiry indulgences.

Michael apologetically brought him a hot cup of tea. "What do you want to protect the Waste for, Wizard Sullivan? There's nothing out there."

"Well, perhaps there might not be some thing out there, dear boy." Ben pondered a moment before setting the tea cup on the workbench. He crossed his hands over his cane and towered over Michael. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked gravely. "Because if you repeat what I'm about to say, I'm afraid I'll be forced to transform you into something unsightly."

In truth, Ben found the crux of this particular warning to be a bit uninspired, but for some reason, it always sobered those cheeky Guild apprentices right up. Satisfactorily, Michael straightened and went as pale as crème pie.

Howl finally set down that awful guitar. "Really, Ben? There's no need for silly threats like that. He's not twelve." He paused. "You're not, are you, Michael?"

"O-Of course I'm not, Master!"

Howl shrugged and leaned back against the worktable, dragging his fingers along the long, pointed tail of his glittery sleeve. "Here, I'll tell you so Ben won't collect your soul. There's only two reasons why the King would send a Royal Wizard off on a silly errand during a time like this. The first is if that person did something to displease him. The second is if the errand isn't what it appears."

Michael thought about it. "So... you're not planting enchanted trees, Wizard Sullivan?"

Ben smiled. "Well, yes I will be, but only once I've completely my true errand."

"He's searching for the Strangian Prince," Howl clarified. Michael's eyes widened with awe.

Ben glared because his best bit of news had just been stolen from him. "Discerning, as usual, Howl. You're right, of course. We received a scout report. The Witch of the Waste was seen traveling with a man matching Prince Justin's description over the Strangia-Ingarian border. But there are people who actually want this war, and in order to prevent them from exploiting the situation, we've had to keep this information extremely secretive."

Howl threaded his fingers beneath his chin. "But why the battleship diversion?"

Ben scratched his jaw and hesitated. In truth, the Guild was greatly unsettled. Due to the sheer number of requests for defensive and protective spells, they were already having to ration supplies. Then the apprentices were running around, puffed up with misconceptions of glory and getting in accidents because they were practicing offensive sorcery which they had no business attempting at their skill levels.

But most alarming were the actions of Madame Suliman. On the King's authority, she was making decisions over the heads of the Council. The secret authorization of sending battleships and wizards to the Strangia border was her latest act. It disturbed Ben deeply.

"All I know is that Madame Suliman has involved herself," he answered Howl truthfully.

"The self-proclaimed pacifist?"

"As of yet, I cannot ascertain her motive. But be wary. The King is preparing a summons. Witches, wizards, sorcerers, sorceresses, seers - he plans to extend his reach outside the Guild." He checked his pocket watch. "I'm afraid I've lingered long enough. I don't want anyone suspecting our meetings." He clasped Howl's shoulder. "Our encounters are too brief, old friend."

"Likewise," Howl answered with feeling, but Ben mourned the present glassiness that had stolen the life from his friend's eyes for many years now.

"If I call for aid, can I expect you?"

Howl snorted. "Don't make this personal."

Ben glanced around with a glimmer of a smile on his stern features. "You know, I've always envied you your freedom, no matter how oppressed and fear induced."

"I didn't exactly desire this life myself."

"But you leap back to it at every smidgen of opportunity." Ben patted Michael's back on the way towards the door. When he reached the stairs, he could not help glancing around one more time. He could still hardly believe this dirty rat-trap of a magic shop was literally sparkling. He had half a mind to cast a disillusioning spell. "By the way, whatever happened to this place? I sense witchcraft."

"That would be Miss Sophie," Michael said. "But we haven't seen her since earlier this morning!"

Ben lifted a brow in surprise, immediately recalling his meeting with the lovely Miss Lettie's sister. "What does she look like?"

"Um… Um, this high, head scarf?"

"Seems like the sort of person who'd whack Howl with a mop," Calcifer added sourly.

"I became acquainted with a Miss Sophie just before arriving here," Ben mused. "However, I'm uncertain if she's the woman you're seeking." And if he knew his friend Howl at all, it would be for the best if the heartless wizard stayed far away from the Hatter sisters altogether.

"Where did you meet?" Michael asked a bit desperately. "It's an emergency, you see."

Ben thought back. "By the train station. She was carrying a valise."

In many ways, the schoolhouse on Cardiff Road had not changed one bit. The air still smelled sharply of pine. Familiar blue Literature books were stacked up against the walls. The name on the desk plate at the end of the aisle, however, now read "Miss Lily Charlotte Angorian."

As the door closed behind Sophie, Charlotte set her pen atop the papers she had been reviewing and looked up with those unnerving black eyes. "Sophie," she exclaimed, her voice as smooth as ever. "I'm surprised you're still standing."