A lullaby for witches, p.25
A Lullaby for Witches, page 25
“Come in!”
Jill is seated behind her desk. She looks up and smiles. “What’s up, Augusta?”
Perching on the edge of a chair, I let my fingers run over the smooth wooden arms. “Oh, nothing much. Just doing some research.” I pause, as if thinking. “How would I go about finding someone who lived in the 1870s in Tynemouth?”
Jill’s perfect eyebrows lift in surprise. “Is this about Margaret again? I thought you said you turned up some good information in the archives?”
My name coming from her mouth causes me to tighten. But of course, she doesn’t know anything. “Did I? That’s right. This is about someone else, though, someone who would have been tangentially related to the Harlowes.”
“The best thing to do would be to ask Sharon or Lori, though they might just point you to the Office of Vital Records.”
I had been hoping not to have to rely on someone who works here, but I nod, as if this perfectly answers my question. “Of course. Thank you.”
I rise to leave, but Jill stops me. I can hear the hesitation in her voice. “Augusta, how are you doing? I want to make sure that you’re comfortable and feeling safe here after everything that happened.”
Surprised, I sit back down. I know that I am not Augusta, that I cannot grasp every nuance of this modern life. But Chris, that miserable excuse for a man, has at least given me an excuse. “Truthfully,” I say, “it has been hard. I feel as if I’m not myself sometimes.”
Jill nods sympathetically. “Please take care of yourself. And if I can do anything, reach out whenever. I’m here for you. You deserve to feel safe.”
A bubble of emotion rises in my throat, and for a moment, I think I might cry. Aside from Phebe, I never had the confidence of a close female friend, never mind one my age. Swallowing back the unwelcome emotion, I remind myself that she is not my friend, but Augusta’s. None of them are my friends, especially not Leo.
Augusta
The last time Augusta had been at the Office of Vital Records, she’d had Leo at her side and was filled with excitement. Now she watched as Margaret climbed the old stone steps up to city hall and she felt hopeless and helpless, but curious. Who was Margaret looking for, and what did she plan on finding?
With all the grace and dignity of a queen, Margaret employed the old woman working behind the window to find birth and death records from the late 1800s and seated herself at a table to wait for them to be brought to her.
Margaret flipped through the binders with amazing speed, her finger tracing over the typewritten names. She let out an exasperated huff when the first binder didn’t yield whatever result she was expecting.
It was nearly four binders later when Margaret caught her breath. Her finger rested reverently over a line, her lips silently mouthing the name.
Pryce, Jack. b. 185? d. 1877
Augusta should have known; Margaret wanted to know what had become of her lost lover, the man who had not killed her, but who had broken her heart and led her down the path of destruction. He had only lived a year longer than Margaret, and it was hard not to wonder if his death had somehow been related to losing her. It was a tragic story, a doomed romance, but Augusta couldn’t bring herself to feel truly sorry for either of them. The room had gone very still as Margaret sat there, staring at Jack’s name.
Then Margaret spoke, and again Augusta was reminded that, though both their souls inhabited one body, Margaret was still somehow able to keep at least a part of her thoughts veiled from Augusta. “Jack,” she said. “Soon.”
Her words came out in a whisper, almost as if she hadn’t meant to speak at all. Then she sat up straighter and called to the clerk. “Excuse me, but how would I find out the manner in which someone died?”
The old woman raised her brows behind her reading glasses. “You don’t,” she said shortly. “You would need to find the death certificate for that, and we don’t have those here.”
Margaret scowled, slamming the binder shut. Pushing back from the table, she stalked back outside, leaving the angry clerk yelling at her to come back and clean up all the binders she’d left everywhere.
On the steps, she paused, squaring her shoulders and looking up at the gray sky. “Yes, you begin to see my aim now,” she said, and Augusta realized that Margaret was addressing her, Augusta. “But know this—none of this will have been in vain if my plans come to fruition. You are part of something bigger than yourself now.”
A small smile played on her lips, and despite Margaret’s reassurance, all Augusta heard was a deep note of foreboding.
* * *
It was dark and Harlowe House had been long closed for the evening by the time Margaret returned from walking through town. Her step was determined as she made her way around the back of the house to the garden shed. Margaret rattled the chained handles. This was where Reggie kept most of his tools and landscaping supplies. What was Margaret looking for?
But Margaret wasn’t deterred. Picking up a rock, she smashed it against the chain until it was mangled and eventually splintered. She pulled the doors open and rifled through the tools until she found a shovel. As soon as her hand wrapped around the handle, Augusta knew. There were only two things that Margaret would be using a shovel for: either putting something in the ground or digging something up.
Shovel in hand, Margaret left the shed standing ajar and set out down the sidewalk. Humming a song under her breath, she drew sidelong looks from the few people she passed on the dark street.
It was only when the old cemetery came into view that a cold panic spread through Augusta. Margaret was going to dig somebody up, and Augusta had a sinking feeling she knew who.
Margaret made her way to the back of the cemetery, found the small grave and began to dig. This couldn’t be happening. It might have been Margaret’s dark desire that was guiding, but it was Augusta’s hands that were plunging the shovel into the gravelly soil. It was Augusta who would have to answer for the desecration of a grave, and who would be haunted for the rest of her life by these actions if she ever escaped from the prison of her body.
A car rumbled past the street beyond the gate with a brief flash of headlights and then the receding sound of an engine. Would anyone see Margaret? Would anyone stop her? Maybe if she was arrested there would be a trial, some sort of psychiatric evaluation, and a doctor would realize there was something wrong. But no one stopped, and Margaret was free to continue with her gruesome task.
It felt like days had passed by the time Margaret ceased her digging, the shovel having finally reached something solid. But it was still dark, the only light coming from the moon and a buzzing streetlamp. The ragged walls of the grave rose up around her like a clay prison. Tomorrow or the day after there would be headlines in the local paper: “Old Grave Desecrated in Historic Tynemouth Cemetery” or “Vandals Hit Cemetery in Belated Halloween Caper.” But tonight, it was just her, Margaret, and the dark magic that bound them together.
Crouching down, Margaret felt the edges of the old coffin and began clawing at the dirt, bringing up fragments of rotten wood and sending worms slithering.
It was the smallest of mercies, but the remains that came up were small, barely identifiable as bones. There was no gaping skull with hair, no rotted clothes clinging to bits of flesh. Just the crumbling remains of old bones. Was this what Margaret had been expecting to find? Or was she disappointed, hoping to have been able to gaze upon the countenance of her dead lover?
Margaret made no indication either way. She carefully collected the smallest bones and slipped them into a little drawstring pouch.
The first light of dawn was touching the sky when Margaret clambered out of the grave and hastily filled it half back in. The careless job wouldn’t fool anyone, but it would probably be at least a few days before someone found themselves in this section of the cemetery and realized that something was amiss.
With the bones of her lover in her pocket, Margaret returned to Harlowe House where she made use of the change of clothes Augusta kept in her desk, and Augusta was forced to wait and wonder what was to become of her.
36
Augusta
The horror of the night spent digging in the cemetery faded into the background over the next few days, and Augusta almost wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing. But of course, she didn’t dream anymore, didn’t even sleep; her entire life was a waking nightmare of being trapped in her own body.
The drive to Pale Harbor was quieter than any trip Augusta and Leo had ever taken before, but Margaret didn’t seem to notice. She was polite and good-natured whenever Leo spoke to her, but she didn’t offer anything, never attempted to keep the conversation going. She must have been trying not to say the wrong thing to alert Leo of who she was. Good, Augusta thought, at least she wouldn’t further tangle things with him.
It was odd that Leo was so eager for her to come to Pale Harbor again, and so soon. Augusta had gotten the impression that he hadn’t exactly approved of his mother’s theories and that he didn’t have the best relationship with his sister. He shot her a crooked smile as he opened the passenger door and helped her out. “Watch your step, it looks like my dad was watering the garden and forgot to turn off the hose again.”
Lightly placing his hand on the small of her back, he guided her around the puddles and up to the front door. His hand was probably steady, and Margaret could probably feel his warmth radiating through her clothes. She probably didn’t even care.
It must have been Leo’s sister, Lisa, who greeted them this time. A tall woman with a light brown bob and the same kind yet probing gray eyes as Leo’s. “Baby brother,” she said, giving him a side hug, “it’s been too long. This must be Augusta.” She gave Augusta an appraising look, that left her wondering if she was being tested, and if so, if she had passed the test. “Leo’s told me so much about you.”
“He’s too kind,” Margaret said, surveying the small foyer. “He’s told me all about you, as well.”
Most of what Augusta had gleaned from Leo about his sister was that she was older, lived in Portland with her fiancée and was a successful psychiatrist. Her wedding colors were going to be navy and silver, and she ran marathons.
“Lisa’s getting married in December,” he reminded her.
“Of course,” Margaret said. “How exciting. Congratulations to you and your lucky man.”
“The lucky woman, actually,” Leo said quickly, as Lisa pressed her lips together.
“Oh! How lovely.”
An unreadable look passed between Leo and Lisa. “Well, come on in,” Lisa said. “Mom is waiting for you.”
Leo installed her on the same sofa draped in quilts as last time. “I’m just going to go see if Lisa needs any help in the kitchen and then I’ll send my mom in. Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you.”
Augusta willed Margaret to look at Leo as he disappeared out of the room, but she seemed quite content to just sit there and study her surroundings. The cat strolled in, took one look at Augusta, hissed and then fled. A few moments later Ellen breezed in, wearing a silky caftan and dangly turquoise earrings.
“Augusta,” she said, extending her arms and pulling her into a motherly embrace. “So good to see you again, dear.”
Margaret was all manners and warm smiles. As Augusta watched her easily conversing with Ellen, she had to wonder: Was Margaret truly evil? After having experienced Margaret’s life and sorrows through her eyes, it was hard to label her as such. Yet she had stolen Augusta’s life, her body, her hope. It felt like the worst sort of betrayal after Augusta had done everything she could to learn about Margaret and tell her story.
Ellen arranged the folds of her caftan as she seated herself on the opposite chair. “You’re probably wondering why I invited you back to speak with me so soon after our last chat.”
Augusta was wondering. Ellen’s insight had been somewhat interesting, though clearly misguided. But Margaret only gave a little shrug. “You are a very gracious hostess, Mrs. Stone,” she said. “Besides, I believe I am here to see your daughter—Leo thinks that I am in need of a diagnosis.”
Ellen’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but Augusta caught it. “Thank you. As I said before, please call me Ellen.”
“Of course.”
“Do you feel that you need to see a psychiatrist? Last time you were here you seemed quite certain that what was happening to you was not something that could be treated by a doctor.”
Margaret just gave a shrug again. “If it will put Leo’s mind at ease then I suppose it is the least I can do.”
Though she couldn’t see him, Augusta could sense his presence nearby, and somehow it was comforting. She would have given anything to be able to feel the soft couch cushions beneath her, and to have Leo sit beside her, his leg brushing hers. Margaret was plotting something to do with him, to do with Jack. With the bones that still sat in her pocket. Augusta wasn’t sure how, but Leo was in danger and she was powerless to help him. She didn’t like the way Margaret watched him, appraised him. Just as she could sense Leo’s presence nearby, Augusta wondered if Ellen could sense that something was wrong with her, that she wasn’t herself.
“So,” Ellen said, leaning back into her seat. “Did you take my advice from last time? Did you try to initiate contact with Margaret?”
It seemed an eternity before Margaret spoke, though it couldn’t have been more than a fraction of a moment. “Yes, I did. It was very sound advice, thank you. She showed me just what I needed to know.”
Ellen’s response took even longer, and then all she said was, “Mmm.” Was it Augusta’s imagination, or was there something knowing in the older woman’s eyes? “I wonder,” Ellen continued slowly, “if that might not have been the best advice after all.”
Margaret held herself a little stiffer. “Why do you say that?”
“I was operating under the assumption that she was a benevolent spirit, that she only wanted her truth told so that she could move on. But maybe that isn’t the case.”
“What does her supposed benevolence matter? Perhaps she was wronged and deserves more than just having her story known.”
It was like watching a tennis match, Ellen scoring a point and then Margaret deflecting it, back and forth.
“A witch who practices vengeful magic invites that energy to come back to her. To avenge a wrong against a party that committed no wrong against you, well...” Ellen let her words hang. Her hand fluttered in a careless gesture, but her blue eyes were hard.
Margaret was perched on the very edge of the couch, her fingers tapping by her side. “Perhaps. But this is all hypothetical of course. We may never know what truly happened to Margaret or what she wanted,” she said with a sad smile. Point: Margaret.
With impressive speed for a woman her age, Ellen was off her seat, her finger jabbing into Margaret’s chest. “Listen to me, Margaret. I know what you’ve done. I know dark magic when I see it, and what’s more, I may have only met Augusta once, but you most certainly are not fooling me with this charade.”
Margaret blinked, then tipped back her head and laughed. “Oh, Ellen. I might have known that I was speaking to another witch. How good it is to shed this pretense and speak frankly. You will understand my plight and the trials that I have suffered. You will understand how our kind is forced to live in the shadows at the risk of being ostracized or even killed. And what of your daughter—would you have turned the other cheek if her life was taken at the hands of your son? Would you rest if she died in obscurity?”
“I would fight until my dying day for justice,” Ellen hissed. “But I would never entangle an innocent in some dark plot or steal their life away.”
The match seemed to have reached a stalemate, and the two women stood in tense silence, studying each other. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, Augusta felt a flicker of hope. Ellen knew the truth, and if she was a witch as Margaret claimed, maybe she could actually do something to help Augusta. There was light at the end of the tunnel, and it was possible that Augusta could be back in her own body before the evening was over. Would Ellen tell Leo, explain everything to him? For all the unbelievable problems Augusta was facing, it was Leo not knowing the truth that was the hardest to bear. Every time Margaret so much as looked in his direction, a smile on her lips, a little of Augusta’s soul dimmed, her hope dwindling.
37
Margaret
So, the woman standing before me fancies herself a witch. She might be harmless, but she might also be more powerful than her homely demeanor would suggest. How can I be certain that she is not a threat? My spellwork is proven and my magic old, so I cannot imagine that this soft-spoken woman with the silver hair and keen blue eyes would be able to undo that which I have wrought. But appearances can be deceiving, and there is so much at risk if I fail.
I can see Leo hovering just beyond the doorframe, practically tripping over himself to try to hear what we are saying. I wait to speak until I hear Lisa call for him, and he reluctantly disappears back into the kitchen.
Ellen and I circle each other like two dogs before a fight. “Well?” I ask her. “What do you intend to do?”
Judging by her expression, she was not expecting so frank a question. “I will do everything in my power to banish you and bring Augusta back.”
“Mmm. But what exactly is your power?”
“My power?” Her gaze flicks around the room, as if seeing what I see—the framed family photographs on the mantel, the potted geraniums, the mundane comfort of it all. I raise my brows, waiting for her to answer. “My power is love,” she says, straightening her back a little and jutting her chin.
