A Dark and Secret Magic, page 2
“Well,” Ginny clips, “will you be done by Halloween? Because I have another friend waiting to read it.”
Ginny’s favorite threat is that of her “other friend.” Even when I used to babysit her as a toddler, she would never share her toys.
“Sure.” I nod. My plans for the next week are sparse enough to make the promise semi-reasonable.
I sit down at the table beside her and pull out my Herbal from the leather satchel. From one of the pockets, I grab a deep blue glass fountain pen with stars etched in the body, a gift from my sister Celeste. My Herbal opens on its own as I uncap the pen.
Ginny looks over the edge of her novel, eyeing my leather-bound spell book with a slight trace of envy in her eyes.
“Grandma still won’t make me one, you know,” she says, realizing I’ve caught her staring.
“I do know and I’m sorry,” I say. Winifred creates all the spell books for the women of the Atlantic Key. The books are infused with her meta-magic, adapting to the needs of the witch they belong to. They are our diaries, reference books, and records of our magical practice. But Winifred refuses to make spell books for book witches, a rule she didn’t even break for her granddaughter.
“Your grandmother told me once that book witches have a rather bad habit of using the enchanted paper to write novels they never finish, but edit endlessly until the pages run black with too much ink.”
Ginny scoffs. “I don’t see why I have to be punished for the ill behavior of others.”
I give a meaningful look toward her hands. Her ink-stained fingers hint at late nights spent scribbling on whatever blank sheets of paper she can find. She frowns and pulls her hand under the table, away from my sight.
“Whatever,” she mumbles.
Biting my lip to hide a smile, I turn back to my Herbal. Its brown leather binding, with a large maple tree reflected over a pond etched on the front, looks brand new, just as it did when I received it on my twelfth birthday. Even after all this time, dozens of kitchen mishaps later, it still smells like my father’s favorite armchair. The only mark of change is its thickness.
“The pages come as you need them,” my mother had told me once when I fretted about running out of room. I had been comparing my Herbal, new and thin at the time, to her Recipe Book, which was bigger than my small arms could carry.
The pages of my book keep turning on their own until they settle onto the page I had wanted. My daily to-do list.
Morning routine (dress, feed Merlin, etc.)
Brush M.
Deliver liniment and bundles to Raven & Crone
Four-hour shift at R&C
Journal entry
Evening routine (one hour each of reading, needlepoint, crochet, and herbalism)
Prep breakfast for tomorrow – overnight oats with cinnamon and fruit
Make tomorrow’s to-do list
Crossing off several of the tasks I’ve already completed, I add Trim broom bristles to the bottom of the list.
Ginny flips through the book in her hands for a few moments, but it’s not long before her eyes are back on me.
“What is it, Ginny?” I ask.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” she responds quietly.
“Tired of what?” I put my pen down and look at her, abandoning my Herbal for the moment.
“The repetitiveness. The same to-do list every day. Gathering ingredients, coming here for your shifts, going back to your cottage alone. Never leaving Ipswich, never really seeing anyone. Isn’t it exhausting?”
Teenagers really have perfected the art of brutal honesty.
I don’t answer immediately; a customer is perusing the decks of tarot cards next to our table, and it gives me a few moments to collect my thoughts. Despite the bluntness of the question, Ginny’s tone wasn’t cruel. She’s been going through a pining phase the past few months, longing for a romanticized version of a faraway, interesting life. The question has more to do with her than with me.
“I don’t find it tiring,” I answer. “Gathering ingredients, creating all the inventory for this store—it’s all part of my craft. That would be like asking you if you ever get tired of reading.” I give her a friendly smile.
Ginny shakes her head, giving me a hesitant but defiant look.
“But I choose my craft, Kate.”
And there it is. That which sets me apart from all others of the Atlantic Key.
“So did I, technically,” I say, fiddling with the glass pen in my hands. “When I was thirteen, the coven gathered at the edge of Ipswich Forest, and I declared my craft before the elders. Just like you did.” The memory of that day would never fade. The pitying whispers as we all walked down the hill from Goodwin Manor. The coven’s scrutiny making me squirm. I could feel the forest’s disapproval too, the way the trees loomed over us in foreboding judgment, recognizing me as an imposter, a girl only playing at being a witch.
“Why did you choose it?” Ginny asks. She’s not the first witch to pose the question, nor the first to make it sound simultaneously like a question and accusation. Why had I played along with my mother’s meddling? Why hadn’t I ultimately chosen to follow the traditions of the coven instead? Unfortunately, the answer to her question will disprove my earlier attempt to lump us together.
“My mother bade me to,” I answer honestly, clearing my throat awkwardly as Ginny’s eyes go wide.
I’d resisted at first. I’d planned to run into the woods in protest until I was allowed my own choice. But, at my first sign of defiance, my mother had grabbed my hand, gently but intently, and placed it on the maple tree that marked the forest’s edge.
“Do as I have bidden, Hecate,” she had whispered into my ear. As an elder of the Atlantic Key, my mother’s direct bidding was steeped in ancestral magic, impossible to ignore without incurring the coven’s wrath.
I had obeyed. Unwilling and unready, I chose the path my mother commanded.
“But either way,” I say to Ginny, “I’m glad that she did. I’m very suited to the demands of my craft.” It’s for this very reason that, despite my hesitance over Winifred Bennet’s participation, I’m looking forward to my Containment. After all these years, I will be the one truly choosing.
Ginny purses her lips, unconvinced.
“You don’t ever get lonely?” she pushes.
“I have Merlin,” I offer, which only causes her to roll her eyes. “I am alone, yes. Such is the lot of a hedge witch, existing on the boundary of things, never fully integrated. But that’s okay. I am fine to be alone with my thoughts.”
This isn’t entirely true. Since my mother’s passing last summer, I’ve increased the frequency of my visits to the Raven & Crone. Without them, I would go days without talking to another person. In those long stretches of isolation, it’s too easy to become acutely aware of the cavity my mother left behind.
“But hasn’t there ever been someone you felt improved the silence? Someone you would want to bring across the boundary with you?”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “That book you’re reading is a romance, isn’t it?” I guess. Ginny often assumes the personality of whatever story has currently captured her attention. Before I can sneak a glance at the cover, she slams her ink-splotched hand on top of the book, obscuring any identifying information. My goodness. She’s worse than Celeste was at this age.
“Fine. If you must know,” I say. “There was someone once. A man my age I knew about a decade ago. Charming, funny, respectful. Gloriously handsome, with the most intoxicating scent—cinnamon and rain. We were fast friends. And even faster enemies.”
Ginny’s eyes, which have been giddy over the prospect of my long-lost romance, crinkle in confusion.
“Unbeknownst to me, he was a hexan of the Pacific Gate.” I say this last sentence with all the intonation of a schoolgirl telling her friends a scary story around a campfire. While every coven across the country has its eccentricities, only the Pacific Gate refuses to restrict even the most abhorrent forms of magic. Magic that corrupts the practitioner, requires dangerous amounts of intention or sacrifice—even magics whose only uses are pure evil—are allowed. The Pacific Gate is anathema to the Atlantic Key.
Ginny’s slack-jawed expression of horror is delightful. Hopefully that will teach her not to ask meddling questions.
She squints at me, possibly noticing my subtle smirk.
“I think you’re lying,” she says, jutting her chin out.
“Maybe I am,” I say with a casual shrug, returning to work in my Herbal.
With my to-do list attended to, it’s time to fill out my daily journal entry. The Herbal, sensing my intention, flips to the back section that holds my diary. A fresh blank page waits for me to start writing.
October 25th—
Odd dream last night. Subconscious messages?
My hand pauses. I should check in on Margaret Halliwell sometime this week. Dreams are finicky things and always open to interpretation, but still. I rub my wrist again, remembering the painful sting of her touch and the strangeness of her words.
“Ginny,” I say, setting my pen down again. She looks at me warily.
“Have you ever heard of someone called the King Below?” Maybe somewhere in her thousand-book collection there might be a reference, a thread for me to follow.
She frowns, considering.
“Not off the top of my head. Do you want me to do a recall?” Her eyes gleam with intention. She loves a good research topic, a reason to deep dive.
The door to the Raven & Crone chimes as several more customers walk in. Rebecca greets them warmly, and I’m reminded of the duties to the shop that I’m neglecting.
“No need,” I say quickly.
“Really, I don’t mind. I’ve been meaning to forget this book anyway,” Ginny says eagerly, holding up the book in her hands as a sacrifice. I was right: it is a romance.
Book witches have the ability to remember anything they have ever read, but they must give up other knowledge to do so. Like all crafts, their magic requires sacrifice. If she were to do a recall, the book in her hands would slowly be consumed, the ink disappearing until every page was blank. Ginny would also forget all its contents. She looks at me hopefully, eager to practice her craft. But there is no reason for it, given that I’d most likely made up the King Below in my subconscious imagination.
“Some other time,” I whisper as Rebecca leads a customer toward the back. Ginny frowns, disappointed. At only fifteen, she needs an adult witch to supervise anytime she practices magic of that degree. I stand up from the table and help Rebecca with the checkout. An old woman holds several bags of our turmeric powder.
“This will stain anything it touches,” I warn her as I place the yellow powder in a brown bag with the Raven & Crown logo embossed on the front. “But I recommend it in a pumpkin seed hummus. It will be a great addition for this time of year. And so good for the heart.” She smiles her thanks before paying Rebecca.
“Ah. What I wouldn’t give for some of your mother’s Pump-Up Pumpkin Seed Hummus,” Rebecca says wistfully next to me. “I haven’t had a decent workout since I ran out of my last batch.”
“I’ll make you some,” I offer. My mother trained me in kitchen magic. She felt all witches should know the basics of that craft, though neither of my sisters had ever shown any interest in it.
“Oh! Would you? I didn’t want to ask, but that would be amazing.” Her voice giddy.
“Sure, it’s no problem.” I laugh at her excitement. “I don’t have anything to do this week anyway.”
“Except read Le Morte D’Arthur,” Ginny interjects, giving me a piercing glance.
“Right,” I say after a beat.
Rebecca gives me a look. “And planning for your birthday,” she reminds me with a disapproving tut.
“You sound just like Grandma whenever you make that noise, you know,” Ginny says to her mother.
Rebecca’s lips purse, her face suddenly a mirror image of her daughter’s.
“How is Winifred?” I ask, doing my best to hide my smile.
“Crazy as always,” Rebecca says with a flick of her hand. “Though I’m sure she’d love to see you. Why don’t you go to the festival?”
I shake my head. The Ipswich Fall Festival is held at the Bennet farm every year. Attending has been an annual tradition for my mother and me since I was a child.
“I don’t think so. Too many memories. Besides, I’ll see your mom at the coven gathering this Saturday.”
“I understand.” Rebecca gives me another of her sad smiles before a look of realization dawns on her face, and she closes her eyes for a moment.
“Oh. Kate. You should call your sister today,” she says.
“Celeste? Why? Is everything okay?” I don’t like the worried look in her eyes. The last I’d heard from my little sister, she was yachting off the coast of Grand Cayman, acting as the personal astrologist to some hot-shot actor she swore was nicer than I’d believe. My mind runs away for a moment, fearing the worst for her. Maybe there’d been a hurricane I hadn’t heard about.
Rebecca shakes her head. “No, not Celeste. Miranda.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask after a moment. Rebecca knows my older sister and I have never been especially close. Her lips purse again, but her eyes are still sad.
“Today is going to be hard for her. I heard from the elders a few hours ago. Margaret Halliwell passed away last night.”
CHAPTER THREE
When a Stranger Calls
Ominous clouds close in over the forest by the time I get back to my cottage. I’d been spared a rainy ride home from the apothecary, but more storms are on the way. Merlin greets me and I give him a few distracted pats while sitting at my desk. It is wooden, creaky, and filled with dozens of small drawers and hidden holes to squirrel away everything from writing supplies to forbidden treasures. Various recipes, order forms, and other papers are scattered on the surface. I pile them up and stuff them inside one of the cubbies. I open my Herbal back to the to-do list, crossing off my visit to the Raven & Crone. But it’s impossible to decide on another task. Rain starts tapping against the roof and then begins to pour down in heavy sheets, the discordant weather a reflection of my buzzing mind.
Margaret Halliwell is dead.
I can still feel her papery fingers around my wrist. That pain, that ripping sensation when I’d jerked away from her, had felt so real. Had my unconscious mind somehow known she’d passed on? Why else would such a dream come to me?
I lay my head on the desk, my breath fluttering the edges of my Herbal. The leather book twitches and pages turn of their own accord, settling on an old recipe.
“Pumpkin Pomegranate Punch Pick-Me-Up,” I murmur, lifting my head and reading aloud. “Let your troubles dissolve in bubbles.” I smile at my book. The punch is a delicious drink my mother made whenever any of us had a particularly bad day. It was one of the first recipes of hers that I decided to copy down into my own book. Celeste once drank so much of this punch after a breakup that she’d floated two inches off the floor, a giggling mess. It had taken Mom, Miranda, and me several hours to get her settled down.
“Thanks for the recommendation,” I say, “but I don’t have any champagne on hand.” I also have zero interest in carving an entire pumpkin to serve the punch in, as is required for the intention to work. But I don’t mention this to my Herbal; no need to hurt anyone’s feelings.
The pages flip again, a little more forcefully this time.
“Ghost-Be-Gone Gin and Tonic,” I read. “For all sorts of hauntings, literal and metaphorical.”
I grimace. Even if it hadn’t been a dream, Margaret hadn’t been a ghost. Spirits were ethereal, invisible forces across the veil that separates the living from the dead. I’d seen Mags. I’d felt her touch.
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” I say. “And why are you trying to get me drunk, huh?”
My Herbal shudders, and with a groan, the cover snaps shut. My wooden desk shakes a bit from the impact. I bite my lip, knowing I’ve upset it.
Merlin nips lovingly at my ear and then lets out a warning chirp, staring at the door.
I glance that way, just as everything around me goes quiet. A distant intention reaches out to me. Then, the sound of a wave crashes against the door.
I sigh. Miranda.
I walk to my door and open it. A small box, wrapped up in brown paper, sits on my welcome mat. A bright white envelope is tied to the top with string. The letter is slightly wet and smells of salt. It’s been ages since Miranda has reached out, and it’s especially odd she would contact me today, so soon after her mentor’s passing. I set the brown package on my desk as I read the letter.
Darling Hecate,
As I know you enjoy the solitude of your little cottage, I believe you are unlikely to have heard the news. I am sorry to inform you that elder Margaret Halliwell sailed into the next life early this morning. Of course, this could not have come at a worse time. Margaret was this year’s host for the Samhain gathering, and now all the plans have been flung into the abyss. She really did not time her departure well. A more perfect storm could not have formed. There will be no funeral, thank goodness. Her body has been given to the sea, as she requested. With no living children, her Book has been sent to the coven’s archives. Her affairs were in order, as she had several boxes addressed to members of the Atlantic Key. You included. I did find that strange, that she would leave something to you, but we both know her mind was a bit addled. Either way, I have sent along the box.
Breaking from my reading, I study the package on the desk. Margaret left something for me? She and I spoke very little before she got sick last year; she always preferred Miranda over Celeste and me. I unwrap the box, hesitant. It’s wooden, made from mangrove, with a stormy ocean scape carved into the lid. A small yellow sticky note is taped to the top, with Hecate Goodwin written in Margaret’s elegant scrawl.
