by Jessica King
She reached up onto the counter, her hand reaching until she found Leo’s watch. 6:23 a.m. Her pale eyes lifted up to the ceiling. How was she supposed to tell Leo what she’d done? She placed a hand on her still-flat stomach. “Oh, I hope I didn’t do anything to you.”
She knew what she needed to do. Sitting in the aisle now, she replayed the moment over and over. God had answered her prayer, and she hadn’t known it. So, she’d tried to take things into her own hands.
Livia told her that she might feel physically weak after performing the ritual. She didn’t know if she felt weak; at the moment, she felt on-edge. Could the baby feel the effects? She pressed her forehead against the wooden pew back in front of her, her knees pressing into the kneelers, and prayed.
She felt calmer when she stood back to her feet and walked to the confessional, slipping into the wooden booth and kneeling. The shadow of the priest behind the screen moved just a bit.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins.” She took a deep breath as the shadow on the other side remained quiet, waiting. It’d been hard to focus on any other sins with the panic of her witchcraft so pressing, but she tried her best to think clearly. “I have been short with my husband and my mother, and I… I’ve been angry with God for some time.”
“And why is that?” The voice behind the screen sounded concerned, but not judgmental, the tone she had come to expect throughout her life.
“I have wanted a child for a long time, and I was angry that I wasn’t able to get pregnant. So, I…” she dropped her head, staring at the polished wood beneath her. “I thought I might take things into my own hands by performing a fertility ritual to sort of speed things up.”
“What kind of ritual?” the priest asked.
Tatiana sighed. “A Wiccan ritual. I took herbs and materials from a Wiccan friend and used them yesterday morning, hoping that the working would help me get pregnant. But then I woke up this morning, and a pregnancy test showed positive, so I must have been pregnant before I did the spell, right? Don’t they only show results after at least two weeks?”
She turned red, heat creeping up her neck. Were pregnancy tests the kind of thing priests were to be consulted about?
“Perhaps,” the priest said. “Unless the evil you unleashed during that ritual has also managed to sway the test to show results early.”
“Oh,” Tatiana whispered. “I’m scared about the effect of the ritual on the baby if she was already in there.”
“She?”
“I hope it’s a she,” Tatiana said quickly, recognizing her slip. She pictured the lovely and terrible little girl in her dream. She looked up at the screen from her kneeling position with wide eyes. “I never want to do witchcraft workings again,” she said. “I woke up with such guilt about it—”
The voice on the other side of the screen hummed. “You know God is able and willing to forgive his children.” His voice sounded strained, and Tatiana’s shoulders tensed. Her eyes traced the delicate wooden carving of the screen, a lattice that showed only a man’s shadow on the other side.
“I know,” she said.
“You’ll need to say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said. She took a stuttering breath in. She suspected the guilt would remain for a while, and she would likely have to tell Leo; he had a way of figuring out when she wasn’t telling him something. The last time she’d kept something from him, she’d lasted three hours before bursting into tears. She’d stepped on his favorite antique record. He’d laughed and hugged her then. She wasn’t so sure he’d laugh this time. On the other side of the screen, the priest had launched into the prayer she’d heard after every confession.
“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen.” She began to stand, grabbing the bag she’d brought with her. She’d nearly stepped out when he spoke again, his words rushed.
“Wait,” the priest said. “I would appreciate your coming back, so we can further discuss this. Witchcraft is serious, child. I would like to pray with you, talk with you more. Would that be okay with you?”
Tatiana found it intimidating, but she nodded. Realizing he couldn’t see her, she finally found her voice. “Yes,” she said. “When should I return?”
“Come back after the evening confessionals. If you wait for me in the aisles, I will come find you, yes?”
“Thank you, Father,” she said again, unsure of whether that was the correct response or not. She’d never heard of someone being called back after they’d gone to confession. She swallowed. Just how badly had she messed things up?
+++
Friday, March 25, 2017, 4:23 p.m.
“How does it feel to be out?”
“Feels good,” Ivy said. Leaving the hospital was a breath of fresh air. She’d become so restless in her hotel bed that she’d taken to walking the length of the hospital, her legs feeling weak from the little movement for almost a week. The sudden lack of strong pain medication had been a bit of a hit, but she’d much prefer the incessant ache in her shoulder and ribs, preferred feeling her still-healing skin than being connected to an IV in a room with sterile beige walls that consistently smelled of saline. Meeting in Wilkins’ office, she felt more in control of the situation, and for some reason, a large part of it was that she had shoes on. Of course, the firearm helped as well. She suspected that he didn’t know she was armed, and when she took a seat on the couch he indicated, he pulled up a folding chair in front of her.
She skimmed the walls of his office. Certificates and awards and bookcases filled with volumes that looked important to the study of psychology except for the top shelf, which was filled with Star Wars novels and framed baseball cards. Nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. She’d searched through her mother’s journals again, and only found a few more mentions of Dr. Wilkins, and they all seemed as if they were working together or had just given a general impression that he urged her to stop her witchcraft with pleas that it was against scientific thought. Ivy suspected her father had more to say than Dr. Wilkins did on the matter—though she’d never found any more mentions of her father’s misgivings in her mother’s writing.
“So, what we’re going to do here,” he said, “is have you recount what you went through and record it.”
Ivy quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t we go through this part already?” She tried a smile, hoping it would get her out of the exercise. She suddenly felt she was back in detention, writing out the same sentences over and over again.
He shook his head, but his eyes were kind. “Well, when it comes to prolonged exposure, which is what we’re going to be going for right now, we’re going to want you to record your retelling of it on your phone.” He pointed to the cellphone on the couch next to her. “And then you’ll listen to it back several times before you see me again. And then we repeat it.”
“What’s the purpose of that?” Ivy asked. It didn’t seem to make any sense to her; the only thing she had wanted was to distance herself from the memories of being cut and punched and shot at since it’d happened.
“It seems counter-intuitive, yes,” Dr. Wilkins said. “But you’ll have to trust me that it does work. I’ve seen it.” He pointed to the phone, and Ivy put it on the table between them. “So, let’s hear what you have to say about it again, Miss Hart. In detail.”
Ivy recounted her experience again. The way the pine needles snapping beneath her feet as she was forced toward the house felt like tiny breaking bones. The hollow sound of the tiny front porch and the creak of the door. The zip ties that were so tight she could feel her heartbeat in her wrists and the tingling of her fingers. By the
time she’d gotten to her escape from the house, her throat was dry from speaking.
“And then I ended up at the hospital,” she said.
Wilkins pointed at a pitcher of water on the table, and she shook her head, reaching into her bag. She’d brought her own. Even though she hadn’t found anything particularly damning in her mother’s journals since her original suspicions, she didn’t trust the man yet. She took a sip of water and stopped the recording.
“You have a great memory of the event. You didn’t run into any spots that were difficult to remember?” he asked.
Ivy shook her head. “No, I think because I knew she was a Kingsman, I was trying to collect evidence. I don’t think a police brain just ‘turns off’ really. I was still doing my best to take things in. I was already forming a police report for a while until she broke that rib.”
“Why did that change things?”
“I stopped forming that mental report because I thought she was going to kill me.” Ivy squared her shoulders, cutting off a shudder. She remembered the feeling of the punch, so hard that she got the message: “You are not leaving.”
“And you didn’t think she would kill you before that?”
Ivy pressed her lips together for a moment, thinking. “It’s not that I didn’t think she might, but I had some sort of hope that she wouldn’t, I guess.”
Wilkins nodded once, a long movement of his head, as he scribbled in his notebook. “So, the whole time, you knew this woman might shoot you?”
“Yes,” Ivy said.
“Did that scare you at all?”
Ivy cast the man and skeptical look. Was he serious? She spoke slowly. “Of course, it did.”
“But in your account, you never said anything about that fear. For your safety, for your life. You didn’t tell me about how it felt to be carved up.” He tilted his head. She gave him an incredulous look. “Well, of course, you mentioned the physical pain. But you didn’t tell me if you felt like she viewed you less than human, or if you felt like she was doing that as a personal attack toward who you are as a person, with the whole “ivy” being your name and the scar tattoo. I got the physical pain.”
“I don’t particularly enjoy talking about emotional pain,” Ivy said, her muscles tensing. It had felt like a horrible attack on her. That Marsha believed Ivy didn’t exist. That she was just Mary in a different shell. But there hadn’t been much time to process it. “Though I supposed that’s sort of your specialty.” She gestured around the room, and Wilkins’ face softened.
“Indeed, Miss Hart.”
Ivy knit her fingers together. Perhaps she could test him while she spoke. “I think it’s likely all the Kingsmen view others as less than.”
Wilkins’ lips pursed as he nodded. “How so?”
“Well, they’ve tried to kill me three times for being something I’m not,” she said, feeling the lines of the gun tucked against her back. “They thought I should be eliminated from the world. Clearly, they view people who they think are witches are less than human.”
“Or more,” Wilkins said. “If they viewed you as supernatural, they might have seen you as near herculean, for example. But in a dark way. Driven by fear, they tried to take you out before you used your superior power.”
Ivy nodded, trying to maintain her composure. “It’s stupid for someone to believe that.” She steadied her gaze on him. She didn’t have particularly deep-set eyes, and her brows weren’t exactly bold, especially without makeup, which she wasn’t supposed to wear until the scar on her face had healed a bit more. But she still liked to think her stare was effective at the very least. He didn’t blink, but he did look away.
“But not entirely stupid for someone to believe in witchcraft?” Wilkins asked.
For a brief moment, Ivy wondered if this was still hypothetical, or if they were talking about her mother.
Ivy shook her head. “Believing in witchcraft isn’t going to kill anyone.”
“Some young witches have been found dead performing particularly dangerous blood-driven spells,” Wilkins said.
Ivy sat back on the couch, crossing her arms. “Whose side are you on here, doctor?”
Wilkins broke into a smile. “Just playing devil’s advocate, Miss Hart. I’ve found it to be an effective means of working with my, ah, headstrong patients.”
Ivy didn’t smile back, but she felt the tension in the room diffuse around them. “My apologies,” she said, her words slow and dragging. She ran her tongue along the back of her teeth, telling herself it was enough to stop attacking for now. He would guess her ulterior motive soon enough if he hadn’t already.
“None needed,” he said, waving her off. “To be frank, I’m used to a little pushback from my patients.”
Ivy’s hands skimmed across the blue velvet of the couch, trying to look at the small clock on the table next to her subtly. It was a vintage piece, a metal bicycle, the front wheel replaced with a small, ticking clock face. The tiny chain around the back wheel didn’t move, but it was clearly a separate piece, drooping a bit in the middle from age. LONDON curved against the Roman numerals, and a picture of a small bird sat in the center, its wings forming the beginning of each of the clock’s hands.
“What about the L.A. coven?” Wilkins asked. “You mentioned briefly investigating their home after it had been attacked.”
“What about it?” Ivy asked.
Wilkins considered his words. “Did you think they were trying to take out a set of subhuman witches, or did you think the perpetrator was too scared to go inside?”
Ivy shook her head. “I feel like that’s irrelevant compared to the simplicity of the method since it would let whoever set the house on fire have a moment to get away. The first few witches out saw a glimpse of him but nothing substantial. I think stealth, not fear was the key with that.”
“Perhaps it was a stunt to inspire fear. Weren’t you scared of something similar happening?”
“Something similar did,” Ivy said. “Someone left a bomb at my apartment. We got it diffused in time.” Remembering the bomb sent a spike of adrenaline through her, a voltage that was similar but less powerful than the frantic energy that collected in her stomach when she remembered Marsha.
Wilkins’ brows lifted. “I see.” He scribbled something in his notes. “So, did you move?”
A red flag flew in the back of Ivy’s mind. “Yes,” she said. She hadn’t, not permanently. But she had stayed in motels for a bit. And he didn’t need to know where she lived. All the better if her old apartment was ruled out in his mind.
“And the L.A. coven moved as well?” he asked.
Light flashed behind Ivy’s eyes. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, either.”
Wilkins laughed it off with another wave of his hand. The chair creaked under him as he shifted his weight and pushed his glasses back up to the top of his nose. They fell back down to the end, though he didn’t seem to notice. “No matter. Just a curious man. I’ve found that with age, I’ve become nosier.” He laughed again, set the pad of paper onto the table and gripped the edges of the folding chair. “Well,” he said. “Our time is up for today. But what I want you to do is listen to that recording at least five times, whether you just sit and listen or if you prefer to listen to it while you work on something. But I want you to get familiar with hearing that, yes? Careful on fieldwork for now. Your quick fix of using your physical wound to snap back isn’t a permanent one. Don’t want to get used to it.” He pointed to her shoulder.
Ivy nodded and stood, gathering her things. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, making sure it hid the gun.
“Thank you,” she said, slipping out of the office’s heavy wooden door.
“See you soon, then,” Wilkins said, the door clicking closed behind her.
She reached for her phone and turned off the recording device. She’d been careful to make sure he hadn’t seen, but she’d recorded the whole session in case it was useful later. But when she listened back to his argumen
t later, she was nearly convinced she hadn’t been right in assuming it was a red flag. That he was trying to stretch her perspective of the Kingsmen as an exercise for her to better understand her enemy. Still, she wasn’t willing to rule him out entirely.
+++
Friday, March 25, 2017, 7:32 p.m. | Central European Standard Time
The heels of Tatiana’s shoes tapped against the floor as she bounced her legs, her hands tucked beneath her thighs. She stared at the white dove in the exact center of the sun-colored pieces of stained glass representing the Holy Spirit, its wings outstretched and soaring upward, surrounded by elaborate golden sculptures. Her eyes burned from it, and when she finally looked away, purple spots blinked behind her eyelids.
The tourists and members that had arrived for confession had slowly dribbled out of the church, and she eventually had to tell a security guard one of the priests had asked her to stay after the confessionals. He told her he would be back in a few minutes, and if the priest hadn’t shown up for her by then, he would have to ask her to leave.
She made eye contact with as many people as she could, not sure if she would recognize the silhouette of the man she’d spoken to that morning. She remembered his voice, a bit raspy but deep. By the time the church had cleared, she was convinced the priest had forgotten he asked her to return.
“Are you the woman I spoke to this morning?” she heard the familiar voice behind her. She hadn’t even heard him enter the pew directly after hers. She turned quickly, her back cracking as she whipped around.
“Yes, sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said.
“It’s easy to get lost in,” the man said, nodding toward the front of the church, at the throne gilt in metal and dusted with shine. The stained glass had started to grow dark with the setting sun outside, as had the rest of the church.
“It is,” Tatiana said, trying to blink away the violet impression of light that morphed and shifted against the priest’s face.
