Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 952: Red and White (Part 2)

“I’m sorry.” Wendy stepped forward quickly. “She’s always this direct — but I meant it when I said she has no malice. You don’t have to take her words to heart. If you break from Sleeping Spell, the situation will be considerably harder than it is now—”

None of the witches spoke.

Azima’s chest heaved, steady and slow, in the way of someone working very hard to remain still. A lesser affront she might have deflected with laughter or answered with argument. But Nightingale’s words had not been an affront. They had been an accounting, and the numbers were right.

She knew that. That was the problem.

When they were still wandering the Eastern Region she had worked without pause. A thin copper sheet in one hand, moving block by block through city streets, turning over refuse and searching the gaps between cobblestones for dropped bronze royals — enough to exchange for bread, enough to keep them fed one more day. She had done it gladly, tirelessly, like a rat that does not mind being a rat as long as it survives. And she had managed to survive, week after week, because she was not too proud to do the work.

She was not a coward. She knew that too. A coward would never have left home. A coward would never have gathered these women and held them together across years of running.

But Nightingale was right about the rest of it.

From the moment they fell in with Bloodfang Association the independent spirit had slowly, almost imperceptibly, drained away. It was hard to argue with when the alternative was watching the combat witches work in an hour what her copper sheet managed in a fortnight. The group still needed her in open country, picking the safe route through the wastelands. But the desperate edge — the discipline of necessity — had softened. Heidi’s protection had covered them. Food had come without counting.

And here, the same thing had happened again. Half a month in Sleeping Spell’s residence, and not one of them had asked about work.

After a long silence, Azima gritted her teeth.

“How much harder?”

Wendy’s expression shifted toward something anxious. “I don’t know the precise figure Sleeping Spell distributes for living expenses, but it shouldn’t be less than the Witch Union’s standard — at least one gold royal per month. That’s four or five times a normal person’s wage.” She hesitated. “It covers food and lodging, but not much else.”

She paused. “And even if you leave Sleeping Spell, the Witch Union can’t take you on immediately — His Majesty doesn’t want a wedge driven between the Union and Sleeping Spell. Something like that would be easy to misread.”

“Is that all?” Azima’s voice cracked with something that was not quite anger. “Twenty silver royals a month, multiplied by six — one hundred and twenty silver royals total. She thinks I can’t manage that?” A short, sharp exhale. “I’m not some merchant’s daughter. I’ve gone through rubbish heaps and sewers for a crust of bread. A hundred and twenty silver royals is nothing. Nothing. I’ll prove it.” She raised her voice, directing it at the corners of the room, at the empty air. “I know you’re still here, Nightingale!”

“Miss Azima—” Wendy began.

Doris caught her arm. A gentle pressure, a small shake of the head.

“I know you mean well,” Doris said quietly, touching the color that had risen in her own cheeks. “And I think — after that telling-off — I think we’ve been a little too much. I’m ashamed, honestly.” She looked at Azima. “Maybe Heidi Morgan was what Nightingale said and never really considered us sisters. But we can’t keep on like this. I’m with Azima.”

“So am I.”

“And me.”

The agreement moved through the room in a wave.

“I’ve decided.” Azima squared her shoulders. “We leave Sleeping Spell. And I won’t simply scrape by — I’ll return every coin they’ve given us. Every last one.” She let the silence hold for a moment. “I’ll make you eat those words, Nightingale.”

Wendy held still, said nothing for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “Since you’ve decided, I’ll explain it to Her Highness Tilly. I’ll also do my best to ensure His Majesty maintains your special allowance — so when you eventually accept the witches’ recruitment, there’ll be a supplementary portion to ease things.”

Azima turned away. “Do as you like.”

The cold outside hit immediately. Wendy kept walking until she was clear of the residential building, and then she stopped and let the silence settle.

“What’s wrong?” Nightingale’s voice came from somewhere just behind her right shoulder.

“Nothing.” Wendy shook her head, almost to herself. “I just feel… a little ashamed. Suddenly. They think I genuinely wanted what was best for them — and I did, I do — but the outcome I was working toward the entire time was to bring them into His Majesty’s service.” A pause. “I wasn’t lying. I just wasn’t being fully honest.”

“But you did it anyway. Because you knew it was better for everyone.” Nightingale stepped into view. “If they’d stayed as they were, the tension would have eventually damaged Her Highness Tilly’s position and hurt Sleeping Spell as a whole. I’ve seen people like this before. Argument doesn’t reach them. You have to hit the right pressure point and let them feel it — some people only repent when death is already looking them in the face.”

Wendy laughed in spite of herself. “So I was right to bring you. You completely silenced a woman who was willing to express her grievances directly to Tilly’s face. Truly the Shadow Killer who made King’s City nervous.”

“I only followed your plan.” Nightingale made a small dismissive sound. “I just made my tone somewhat harsher.”

“The tone was the entire key,” Wendy said. “I was sweating on Azima’s behalf. That part when I shouted ‘Enough!’ — I wasn’t performing. If I had been in her position, I think I would have made the same decision she did.”

”…Why does that somehow not feel like a compliment?”

“Of course it is.” Wendy laughed and reached out to take Nightingale’s hand. “Several Chaos Drinks at dinner tonight — my treat. Ten silver royals, and I’ll prove it.”

“All right.” Nightingale’s fingers closed around hers. “I believe you.”

Roland set down Wendy’s report and leaned back.

Everything had resolved more cleanly than he’d had any right to expect. Most of the Sleeping Island witches had accepted recruitment; the holdout faction had caused less turbulence than he’d feared. If this trajectory held, every production sector in Neverwinter would soon have witches woven into it. Everywhere citizens went, they would encounter these young women at work — a landscape unprecedented in the history of the continent.

More than the symbolism: seventy-odd new witches represented a substantial lift to Neverwinter’s industrial output. He found himself already running the numbers.

The telephone on his desk rang. City hall signal.

He picked it up. Barov’s voice came through the line.

“Your Majesty — the Fjords explorer Sander Flyingbird’s fleet has arrived in Shallow Port.”

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