by Sarina Dorie
Abigail stroked Lucifer’s head, murmuring in his ear so that she wouldn’t embarrass him. “Remember what we talked about, sweetie.” Mr. Thatch had already experienced a close encounter of the cat kind previously when he’d tried to break through the wards on her house to speak with her about Clarissa’s magic. Mr. Thatch didn’t need another cat attack.
Unless he proved he deserved it.
“It was good of you to come on such short notice.” Felix Thatch eyed the brownies next to the jar.
“Of course I came. Clarissa is my daughter.” Her only family now. She needed to protect her from this big bad world of Fae and witches.
His voice was flat, the droning monotone of a history teacher—though it was more likely he taught alchemy, black magic, or some such class. “Indeed. I just mean that I didn’t make the best of first impressions on you. I realize I don’t exactly endear myself to people. I had no idea whether you would trust my word and come.”
She laughed at that. “It wasn’t your first impression that was the problem. It was your second impression.”
A fleeting smile laced his lips before his face returned to an expressionless mask.
The first time she’d met him, he’d been in disguise. She wouldn’t have known he was the one who brought Clarissa to her as a baby, except that he’d recounted every detail over the phone. He was the one who had wanted Clarissa to be safe in the first place after her biological mother had died. He had chosen Abigail because he’d secretly observed her interactions taking care of Missy, and he’d known she would love Clarissa as her own. She wouldn’t be cruel to Clarissa as Abigail’s own adoptive mother had been to her. Baba Nata had never loved her or been a true mother or grandmother to her. She’d always treated Abigail as a useful apprentice—until she’d lost her magic and stopped being useful.
If Mr. Thatch had told Abigail he was the one who’d brought her Clarissa sooner, she wouldn’t have sicced Lucifer on him when he’d come to her home.
Lucifer waved a paw toward Mr. Thatch, trying to tell Abigail something, but she couldn’t decipher what he wanted to say.
Mr. Thatch looked from Abigail to the brownies. “Are those brownies?”
“Would you like one? I stored them in a plastic bag, and I know how you people can be about not wanting to pollute your bodies with—”
“Plastic doesn’t bother me.” He selected one from the plate and ate it so fast he practically inhaled it.
She was surprised he hadn’t used a spell to detect poison—or magic.
Lucifer squirmed in her arms. She didn’t put him down. She couldn’t trust him to behave. At any moment, she expected Mr. Thatch would leave, but he selected another brownie instead, chewing more slowly.
Abigail waved a hand at the elegant canopy bed and the matching dressers. They had to be a hundred years old. “This is a spacious living area for a new teacher. I expected something smaller.” And messier, considering her daughter’s untidy tendencies. It was oddly devoid of art for being the room of the school’s art teacher.
He coughed and glanced away, a sudden stiffness in his frame. “This isn’t your daughter’s room. It’s mine. Years ago I furnished it myself.”
“Why is my daughter in your room instead of her own?” The hard edge of suspicion crept into her voice.
“I felt it would be in her best interest to stay out of sight so that students—and staff—didn’t talk about the . . . nature of her injuries.”
“What do you mean? I thought you said she was attacked by another teacher.” Her voice rose despite her effort to remain quiet and not wake Clarissa.
“Indeed. And your daughter did an admirable job defending herself. Her attacker is dead.”
Clarissa had killed someone? A chill settled over Abigail. She could only imagine how traumatizing the experience had been for her baby. This was just like Missy and Derrick all over again.
Clarissa had caused the accidents that had resulted in her adopted sister and friend’s deaths. Only this wasn’t an accident. Clarissa’s magic had killed someone—on purpose. Surely she wouldn’t have hurt someone intentionally unless the other teacher deserved it. Abigail wanted to believe this realm wasn’t changing her daughter and turning her into a monster.
“Who attacked Clarissa?” Abigail asked.
Mr. Thatch’s eyes cut over to where Clarissa lay asleep. “Might we have a private word in my office? I would prefer not to disturb our patient.”
Abigail set Lucifer on the bed. He snagged his claws into her sweater, clinging to her, most likely not wanting to miss any juicy gossip.
“I need you here watching Clarissa. Will you do that for me?” She rubbed him behind the ears, and he nuzzled her hand, a definite yes.
He looked to Mr. Thatch and then to her, waving a paw in the air toward the man. Lucifer wasn’t hissing, so she assumed that meant he didn’t see the man as a threat, but there was something he was trying to tell her. She wished he could speak.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t worry,” she said.
Abigail brought the plate of brownies to Mr. Thatch’s office. People always opened up if they were distracted by delicious food. Especially when she’d placed a charm for health, healing, and happiness on the brownies.
Felix Thatch’s office was tidy. A birdcage containing a raven attested to a familiar of his own. The bird watched her with intelligence in those beady black eyes. Abigail wondered how he had avoided Mr. Khaba’s ban on animals.
“I believe you are aware of the unusual nature of Clarissa’s magic.” Mr. Thatch raised an eyebrow.
Abigail nodded. She appreciated his discretion. He was obviously aware that her daughter’s affinity wasn’t plant magic like hers.
“If Clarissa were to be treated in the infirmary, it would raise too many questions. The nurse—or perhaps another staff member—might notice that she is suffering from electrical burns.”
Electrical.
Abigail swallowed. Long ago when Lucifer was still a boy, he had told her that electricity was forbidden in this realm because it could drain other Witchkin of their powers. Abigail had long suspected Clarissa’s affinity was similar. Her daughter would give away her affinity and draw more attention to herself. People would think she was a wicked witch like her biological mother—if they didn’t already.
“It is out of the question for Clarissa to stay in her own room as she has a roommate who will not make resting the easiest option, nor do I expect Vega Bloodmire would be willing to help change Clarissa’s bandages, even if I trusted her to do so. Josephine Kimura, one of Clarissa’s friends, would be willing, though it would be best for her not to see the extent of damage Clarissa did to herself.”
That meant none of the other teachers knew what Clarissa was. “You were the one who saw to her wounds?” He was the one who had made the salve and taken care of her daughter so competently before she’d arrived?
“Indeed. I found her and wrapped up her injuries before the principal or dean would have a chance to see.” His eyes were so gray and melancholy they looked like they contained the gloom of thunderstorms.
That meant Mr. Thatch didn’t trust these people. He didn’t want the Fae dean to know Clarissa had unleashed enough forbidden magic to kill someone. Clarissa’s magic was like Lucifer’s. She had secrets she needed to keep from other Witchkin. Abigail hated knowing her suspicions were true.
“Does the dean know about . . . ? What I mean is, the man who attacked Clarissa, does the administration know he’s . . . dead?” Abigail asked.
“Indeed, but they think it was an accident on Clarissa’s part, a lack of skill and faulty training on my part for an unwillingness to give her proper magic lessons. As her magical mentor, they blame me.” He selected another brownie and smiled.
Abigail suspected she must have accidentally included too much of her special ingredients if he was that happy. Sometimes Lucifer’s magic drew out more than she intended.
Mr. Thatch went on. “The man who attacked Clarissa was another teacher, possibly in the employment of the Raven Court or another Fae court. That means the Fae had a reason to spy on Clarissa and wished to use her, possibly to harness her magic for their own uses. It is imperative no one else discovers what she is.”
Abigail couldn’t imagine what the Fae would want to use Clarissa’s affinity for. Yet if one Fae court had reason to use Clarissa, Abigail worried who else might be out there who would do her daughter harm. The dean? The principal? She couldn’t allow them to discover Clarissa’s secrets—or Lucifer’s.
Abigail was grateful that Felix Thatch—whom she had assumed was her daughter’s enemy—had gone to such lengths to cover for her. Yet, these witches seldom did anything without wanting something in return. It was unlikely Clarissa had learned that lesson yet.
“Why are you helping my daughter? I thought you disliked her biological mother.”
His lips pressed into a line. Abigail wondered if she’d asked too personal a question.
“Dislike would be putting it mildly. Alouette Loraline betrayed me.” He stared at the plate of brownies. “I wasn’t always enemies with Alouette. Once upon a time, she was a good person. I promised her I would keep her daughter from harm and do all that was in my power to keep her out of the hands of the Raven Queen.” His eyes narrowed, determination there. “I intend to keep that promise. Even if your daughter’s stubbornness and accidents make it difficult to do so.”
Abigail nearly laughed at the sentiment. As much as she had tried, Abigail had never been able to nudge Clarissa out of her stubbornness.
He cleared his throat. “I intend to keep Clarissa safe from others who would use her and do her harm. Much as you have. I give you my word I shall do my best.”
Tears filled Abigail’s eyes. For all this man’s stiffness, he had a good heart. Warmth suffused through Abigail at the idea that her daughter wasn’t completely alone at the school. She had friends who were looking out for her. Mr. Thatch was her daughter’s guardian angel.
She wanted to thank him, but she knew she couldn’t. If she did, she would owe this man a favor. She held out the plate of brownies. Nothing spelled out gratitude like chocolate.
* * *
Abigail’s hours were spent caring for her daughter, changing enough bandages to wrap a mummy, helping Clarissa shuffle her way over to the restroom, and attempting to add flavor to the school’s unappetizing meals. While Clarissa slept, Mr. Thatch told Abigail how to get to the school’s gardens and greenhouses. Sam the satyr took her on a tour of the grounds, helping her collect herbs and introducing her to students. He was probably relieved she’d left Lucifer behind to guard Clarissa.
In the greenhouses, Sam introduced her to Grandmother Bluehorse, an old woman with moss and ferns growing out of her witch’s hat. Abigail didn’t need an education at a school to know the woman had a plant affinity like her.
“I’ve been admiring your selection of Violaceae. It’s impressive.” Abigail waved a hand at the tray of violets on the nearest table.
The old woman eyed the basket of herbs in Abigail’s hands. “Who gave you permission to take cuttings from my plants?”
Sam shifted from hoof to hoof uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “Sam and Mr. Thatch said it would be all right. I didn’t know I was supposed to ask your permission.”
The old woman gouged her mossy staff into the earth. “Of course they wouldn’t tell you to ask. Those clods have no respect for how hard it is to grow anything.”
Sam inched away. “Um, I think I have some weeding to do out back.”
Grandmother Bluehorse pursed her weathered lips. “So you’re that girl’s adoptive mother? You do realize who her real mother is, don’t you?”
“I am Clarissa’s real mother. I raised her as my own daughter.” Abigail forced a smile. “I would like to think I taught her the kind of values it takes to be a good person.”
The moss on Grandmother Bluehorse’s hat shook as she spoke. “You know what they say, ‘An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ We can only hope that won’t be the case with your apple, and she doesn’t go off on a murder spree like Alouette Loraline did when she was headmistress here.”
Abigail had a feeling it would take more than brownies to befriend this woman.
She could understand Mr. Thatch’s reluctance to trust other people at the school. Even if they weren’t suspicious about Clarissa’s magic, there was too much residual resentment about Alouette Loraline and her evil ways. Even Abigail, sheltered from the happenings of the Unseen Realm, had heard rumors about the former headmistress and her reign of destruction.
“Were you a teacher at the school during the former headmistress’s time?” Abigail asked.
“That’s right. I’ve taught for fifty years at Womby’s. I started here because of my husband. My late husband.” The sorrow in Grandmother Bluehorse’s eyes spoke of the depths of that wound.
Abigail spun her wedding ring around on her finger, thinking about her own husband. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “My husband died in a car accident four years ago. You think the heartache will lessen with time, but it never completely disappears, does it?”
The older woman looked at her again, her brow furrowing. “Twenty-three years feels like just yesterday.” She seemed to see Abigail with new eyes.
Abigail placed a hand on the older woman’s arm. “Was your husband one of the people who died because of what the headmistress did?”
The old woman turned away, wiping tears from her eyes. “The administration expected me to help pick up the pieces and take charge of the students, as if I wasn’t dealing with enough while mourning the loss of my husband.” Grandmother Bluehorse sighed heavily. “Jeb asked me to rebuild the greenhouse after a week. Can you believe it? They didn’t even give me time to grieve.”
“That must have been difficult.” Abigail listened to the old teacher explain school politics for another ten minutes.
Some of the herbalism teacher’s irritation at Abigail had lessened by that point. Abigail couldn’t tell whether Grandmother Bluehorse’s anger at Clarissa for being related to the wickedest witch of all time had dulled or that would take more time.
By the time Grandmother Bluehorse went off on a tangent about unicorns trampling her prized orchids, Abigail had a fairly good idea of the woman’s weakness.
“Do you like orchids?” Abigail asked. “I happen to have brought some with me. Perhaps I could leave a potted plant with you to make up for the herbs I took.”
Grandmother Bluehorse’s eyes widened, and a delighted smile spread across her face. “I love orchids, dear. That’s so kind of you to offer.”
Abigail had a feeling she’d made an ally. She might need one later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Catawampus
Abigail slept in the room with her daughter, the two of them fitting easily on the large bed, with Lucifer curled up at their feet. Mr. Thatch slept in an empty dormitory room in the men’s section of the school.
During the day while he was teaching, Abigail spent most of her time with Clarissa. She was recovering smoothly, though Abigail worried how things would go for her after she recovered. It only took a few more encounters with the staff for Abigail to see how the other teachers resented Clarissa because she was Alouette Loraline’s biological daughter. Abigail wanted this place Clarissa had chosen for herself to be a safe environment where people would look out for her. Abigail couldn’t stay to protect her daughter forever.
Lucifer was restless, becoming agitated anytime one of Clarissa’s teacher friends came to visit or Mr. Thatch brought her medicine. Abigail didn’t blame Lucifer for not trusting witches after being cursed by one.
While Clarissa napped in the afternoon, Mr. Thatch brought in a stack of essays to correct and sat at Clarissa’s bedside, relieving Abigail of her duties.
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br /> “I’m fine. You don’t need to inconvenience yourself for the sake of giving me a break,” Abigail protested.
“You need fresh air and sunlight.” He took her by the shoulders and walked her to the door, the gesture almost playful more than forceful, despite the serious expression on his face. “You’re a witch of nature and plants. A hedge witch. Am I correct?”
Abigail didn’t consider herself a witch. She wasn’t like these people with their showy magic and fancy school education. Her powers were small. They’d been that way ever since she’d been drained of her magic. Whether she considered herself a proper witch or not, she was Witchkin. She did need nature.
She walked around the grounds, taking Lucifer with her. She met some of her daughter’s students and more of the faculty. Lucifer even tolerated a couple of the students petting him. Abigail inquired about when she could use the kitchen that wouldn’t inconvenience the staff.
Lucifer behaved surprisingly well. It was only when Abigail returned to the dungeon that he started to behave unusually again. He squirmed out of her arms and stalked over to Mr. Thatch, who sat in a chair, still correcting papers. He butted his head up against the teacher’s leg like he did when he wanted attention. When Mr. Thatch leaned down to pet him, Lucifer backed away, staring into his eyes in challenge.
“What is it, Lucy?” Abigail asked.
He waved a paw at Mr. Thatch and meowed. He was trying to communicate something, but she couldn’t fathom what.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Taste of Magic
After a late night of baking, Abigail returned to the room to find Felix Thatch seated in the chair beside the bed. His arm was circled around Clarissa’s shoulders, sitting her up as she drank from a goblet of amber fluid.
“Just a smidge more if you can manage it.” His voice was soft, more of a lullaby than his usual monotone.
