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Her Heart's Desire book. Read 35 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Artist Amelia Britton battles her older brother for the right to.
Table of contents

• Her Heart's Desire - Chapter 1 - Story
• Her Heart’s Desire
• Creating Ripples on Every Page
• Adolphe: Marita & her Heart's Desire & Britten: Young Person's Guide
• "her heart's desire" translation into French

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After Rebecca's untimely death, her sister, Jane Syas, is about to be sold into marriage to a disgusting older man who only wants her Captain Of My Heart. The door closed behind her. She stood, leaning heavily on her cane, and turned to the wall behind her, where the rock had been cut away into shelving. Potions, unguents, oils, philters, vulneraries Haltingly, the girl unfolded herself.

The fire was having its effect, restoring brightness to her eyes and color to her brown cheeks. One shaking arm reached for the bottle the Witch held between bony fingers. Out came the stopper. The girl probed the neck with her tongue, suspicious, then tilted the bottle slightly and let a drop fall on her tongue.

Three big gulps later, the bottle was empty. The child's eyes, wide as the sky, were now taking in the Witch's home. Her hand had found her walking-stick and she held it close, for comfort, while she thawed.

The Witch could taste her lie on the air. She was scared. Scared of the many colored flasks adorning the walls, of the shifting shadows clinging to the corners, of the webs lining the ceiling. But fright or none, she was the youngest visitor in the Witch's long memory. And she showed no sign of backing down, knuckles white around her wood, still shivering from the journey. She faced her fear head-on, without apology, and for that, she deserved respect.

The Witch tried to remember what it was like to be a child. But it had been so very, very long ago. The Witch's face twisted in what would have been a smile if her mouth could remember how. Such spirit! She'd shown more courage than the last half-dozen already. Then, "I want winter to go away and never come back. I want the plants to grow every day. I want all the snow to be melted. Forever and ever. It took a lot to shock the Witch after all the years she'd lived, but that was enough.

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Her yellow eyes clouded beneath her hood as she looked with new concern upon the shy, slim-faced girl who had just wished for a warm winter — and unwittingly, the end of her peoples' way of life. The Witch could have simply refused. But the oath she'd sworn decades before still held power, even if only to her, so she did what she always had.

She warned. A most severe bane indeed.

Creating Ripples on Every Page

Ruin upon your family for centuries to come. The warnings eased her conscience, though the fools never listened. Poor Gideon Fletcher, for example — she remembered the man well. He'd desired a fortune in gold. She'd tried to dissuade him, but he'd insisted, and, compelled by the oath, she'd granted his wish. Not two weeks later, he was rotting in a field, throat slit, his killer spending his coin on a new herd. Always the same tale.

Shortsighted men tempted by easy gains and blundering into misfortune, too foolish to be frightened off by the legends and too rash to heed her portents. That was a small matter. The disasters they invited were far smaller in scope; their greed harmed only themselves. The chaos that the young girl's wish would bring The Witch. And I bestow upon you a Bane, equal in part to what you have been granted. My visitors are cursed, young one, and if you ask this of me, so will you be. Mommy says the plants are hiding in the ground until the snow goes away, but we need the food now.

It was suddenly obvious to the Witch that the girl's shivers could not be attributed to cold alone. And walking far is dangerous. But child, you should know the price of what you ask. As she spoke, she plucked with gnarled fingers at the vapor rising from her cauldron, arranging it into translucent, ephemeral shapes.

Trees, fields, the beating sun. Plants grow high and green for the harvest, that the farmers may store the surplus for winter, when the ground lies barren. So it has been since the Earth began, and many the family whose stores have not outlasted the snowfall.

"her heart's desire" translation into French

Winter is harsh, child, harsh indeed. The steam eddied and swirled about her fingers, forming a blizzard that swept through the vapor-trees and blew them apart into trails of mist. Alas, it is less simple than it appears. To create fruit, even for a season, is a taxing burden, and to do so all year-round is beyond even the mightiest trees. They cannot maintain their beautiful green leaves, you see.

They fade and fall so very quickly. Do you sleep at night, child? The girl nodded, spellbound, and the vapors traced the image of a young girl tucked beneath a blanket. But their sleep lasts a season, and to disturb their rest would sap them of their strength until they died. And then they would never produce fruit again, no matter how warm the sun.

She glared across the cauldron, through the now-formless mist. Frantic nodding. The Witch felt a small stab of satisfaction — here was one who listened. When had she last spoken with one of those? Years upon years, perhaps longer. She believed them herself, sometimes, for it was easier, so much easier, to let herself play the part her visitors expected. Just as in nature, every change brings with it good and bad.

Protect the deer from the wolves, and they will graze the bushes to the root. And then there will be no more deer, and no more wolves, and no more bushes besides. Is it any wonder they'd blame me when my warnings came true? A pattern of boon and Bane that had gripped the village's collective mind until it had etched itself into folklore and passed down without question until it no longer mattered whether a person's misfortunes were tied to what they'd received.

Desmond Robinson's newly attractive features hadn't lost him his finger to that ox cart, but she'd been blamed for it all the same.