Written for Writing Battle’s Solstice Raven 500-word tournament. The prompts were INFLUENCER, RATIONS, and MAGICAL ENTREPRENEURSHIP.
Results: Final Tournament, Top 32
Margaret the Magical Matchmaker had never planned to become an enchantress. Or a fraud. It was one of those things that simply fell into her lap, like a comfortable cat. And much like anyone who’s found themselves with a cat in their lap, she found it rather difficult to adjust thereafter. One moment, she was assuring a sobbing young woman that the beverage in her hand would embolden her to confess to the love of her life — and the next, the man declared his newfound adoration for her.
You can see how things might have gotten misconstrued.
Word soon traveled beyond the walls of Margaret’s little town. Lines began forming outside the tavern where she worked, and people insisted on paying her for her “services”. Even when the war came, and the only payment they could offer was their rations, they were adamant. Magic always has a price, they said, and magical debts are often paid twice.
Margaret tried to feel guilty about it. On several occasions, she nearly outed herself as a fraud and turned herself over to the authorities. She’d even packed her bag and readied the carriage. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, though. Not when she’d done so much good for so many people.
You see, Margaret was no enchantress, but her words held magic nonetheless. Something in them influenced people’s hearts — they gave confidence where there was only doubt, and hope when it was nowhere to be found.
Surely that was worth something.
Months turned to years, and years to decades, and eventually Margaret the Magical Matchmaker became less the woman people sought out and more the legend they remembered. The lines outside her door dwindled, and her name only surfaced in the wistful memories of once-new love.
That is, until the court summons came.
It wasn’t a terribly long trip to the capital city, but it was further than Margaret had ever gone outside her door. Her knees, swollen with age, wobbled as she scaled the steps to the throne room. When the court steward called her name, they wobbled still.
Margaret Lecoeur, known as Margaret the Magical Matchmaker, you are hereby accused of fraud, perjury, and treason against Her Majesty, the Queen.
Margaret looked up to the lovely woman seated atop the throne, hidden beneath her black veil of mourning. She seemed far more imposing than she did when they first met, forty years prior. Then again, Margaret thought, no one looks particularly imposing with swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
On what grounds? Margaret asked.
The steward opened his mouth to speak, but the Queen was faster.
You told me he would be the love of my life, the Queen said. And yet here I am, full of life, and empty of love.
Even through the veil, Margaret could see the stains on her cheeks. And for once in her life, Margaret had no hope to offer.
I’m so sorry, was all she could say.
It was all there was to say.
