The Witch Haven

by Sasha Peyton Smith

  A white petal from one of the drying bunches flutters down from the ceiling and lands on my shoulder. I brush it away and take a deep breath.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I expect you to treat this as you would any other school. You’ll have class six days a week. Sundays are your own to do as you please. Stay within the garden walls. Don’t leave after dark. Breakfast served at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. Follow the rules, ask the other girls for help, and I have no doubt you’ll do well here.”

  She studies me for a moment, her dark eyes raking over my face. “I suspect we will speak again soon, Miss Hallowell.”

  I rise, but she is already dipping her fountain pen in ink and scribbling away at the documents spread across her desk. She doesn’t say goodbye as I walk through the door.

  I’m in such shock, my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. Buzzy and weightless, my feet carry me to my still-empty room, where I flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

  I’m a witch. Witch, witch, witch.

  If William were here, he’d make a joke about putting a hex on our loud upstairs neighbors. He’d find this exciting and hilarious. William lived his life like something great was always right around the corner. The existence of magic would probably come as no surprise to him at all.

  But William is dead, and I am alone and terrified and more than a little confused. My heart beats loudly inside my chest. Witch-witch-witch, it echoes. And I don’t know if I want it to beat louder, or for the noise to go completely silent.

  There’s a small plate of mashed potatoes and boiled chicken on my bedside, probably left by Maxine. It was a kind gesture, but I have no appetite. Eating is the last thing on my mind. What do I do now?

  * * *

  Later that night, well past three a.m., I wake with a start, the question still on my mind, plaguing me. The room is dark and quiet.

  The only noise is the heavy breathing of strangers who sleep in the other three beds. My new roommates must have come in at some point during the night.

  It’s so cold, there’s a spiderweb of frost on the window, illuminated by the silver light of the moon.

  And sitting on the pillow next to me is a small square of parchment folded gently in half.

  I reach for the note like I would a coiled snake. The rough paper feels dangerous under the pads of my fingers. I unfold it.

  Written in bold scrawl: 11.30.1891–5.15.1911. Justice Undelivered.

  My body goes numb. The note falls noiselessly to the carpeted floor.

  November 30, 1891, was my brother’s birthday. May 15, 1911, was the last day he was seen alive.

  The words “justice undelivered” work their way under my skin.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” I hiss into the darkness. I don’t receive an answer. The heavy sound of inhaling and exhaling makes it feel as though the room is breathing around me.

  I force myself up and out of bed, though the last thing I want to do is leave the warmth of my duvet.

  Shivering like a rabbit in a trap, I check the window first; it’s locked from the inside. The courtyard below is empty, and beyond that, the park is an impenetrable black mass, terrifyingly dark and still.

  A quick rustle of fabric snaps my attention behind me.

  Nothing. No one. My legs quiver as I approach the washroom.

  Empty.

  I hear the noise again. It’s quiet but distinct. And it’s then that I realize with horror that the sound is coming from the direction of my own bed.

  My heart is in my throat. Should I wake up my roommates? What would I even say to them?

  I swear under my breath, steel myself to check under my bed.

  I bite back a scream, before calming my frayed nerves.

  Goddamn it, I hiss under my breath.

  A small black cat innocently paws at my bed skirt. It has the nerve to meow at me, like it didn’t just frighten me out of my own skin.

  I grab the tiny menace and haul it into bed with me. It nestles by my feet like we’re best friends and not mortal enemies.

  It isn’t until I’m back under the covers that I consider what I would have done if I’d found an intruder: Fight them? Scream? Hope for another well-timed pair of flying scissors?

  My heart rate slows, but I still can’t escape the itchy feeling of being watched.

  Perhaps this note is the proof I’ve been desperately searching for that my brother’s death wasn’t a random act of violence. Or perhaps it is proof that Haxahaven’s pupils haze their new schoolmates in awful, unfunny ways.

  I don’t know how these girls would know anything about my brother, but I also know that I no longer understand anything about what magic makes possible.

  Shaking, I shove the note under my mattress and spend the rest of the night in a fitful sleep, dreaming of my hands covered in ink and someone else’s blood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My eyes open to a gaggle of girls hopping out of bed, throwing on corsets and capes, brushing out their hair, and shouting across the room at one another.

  It’s so similar to the shop, it takes me a moment to remember where I am.

  They fall silent at the sight of me stirring out of bed. I steel myself and hop up, attempting to smooth my hair and dress. I was so shaken last night, I didn’t even think to change into a nightgown.

  My new roommates and I take one another in simultaneously. They look similar enough to the girls I knew from the shop, though their cheeks are a little less hollow.

  “I’m Frances.” I say my own name like a question. A round girl with rosy skin and beautiful masses of auburn hair piled up on her head speaks first.

  “Aurelia Barton,” she replies. She has a gap between her front teeth, which she reveals when she smiles at me reassuringly.

  The girl at her side could have been carved from ice. She’s standing at the vanity mirror tying her corn-silk-blond hair up out of her face with a black ribbon. “Ruby Laird… pleasure.” Her tone sounds as if it is anything but.

  It is only then that I see my third roommate, emerging from behind the silk dressing screen in the corner of the room.

  She’s tall; I don’t have to stand next to her to know she’s got several inches on me. She has tan skin and shiny black hair plaited in one long braid that reaches most of the way down her back. She stands with her head slightly down, as if she’s pointedly avoiding my gaze.

  “Lena Jamison.” Her voice is cool, if a little disinterested.

  Aurelia sits down on the edge of her bed to lace her shoes, and Ruby finishes her bow with a nod at herself in the mirror. My window of opportunity is closing quickly. I swallow my nerves and ask, “This may sound strange, but did any of you leave a note on my bed last night?”

  The looks on their faces are so genuinely confused, I believe they’re telling the truth when they all mutter confused nos.

  “What did the note say?” Aurelia asks.

  I don’t know how to begin to respond so I chicken out instead. “Must have been a strange dream.” I lie poorly.

  Ruby and Aurelia share a confused look, button their capes over their pinafores, shout “Farewell!” and walk out the door arm in arm, leaving Lena and me alone in static silence.

  I stand near my bed, not sure what to do next. I want to ask Lena if she was once as scared as I am now, or what magic feels like to her. I wonder if her family misses her, if she’s from the city or someplace I’ve never been.

  “You’ll need to put on the cape for breakfast,” she offers from across the room.

  “Thank you.” It comes out as a sigh of relief.

  As a seamstress, I appreciate the construction of clothes, but what I wear has always been a matter of strict practicality. Buttoning the cape over my chest feels like something different entirely. I straighten my spine but avoid glancing in the mirror. I don’t want to know if Mr. Hues’s fingers are still imprinted on my throat.

  “Will you walk with me? I don’t know where to go,” I ask Le
na.

  Her smile is reluctant. “Why not? Follow me.”

  The black cape flutters behind me as I go with Lena to the stairs, and it makes me feel like a very important, glamorous lady—or maybe a small bat; I can’t decide.

  The pristine stairs sink peculiarly under my feet, like they’re rotting from the inside out. Lena and I walk through more shining halls, to a pair of immense double doors that leads into a shimmering dining room, bedecked in sparkling crystal-and-gold sconces. In the center are three mahogany tables, shined within an inch of their life, capable of seating a hundred at least.

  Lena chooses a seat, and I plop down gracelessly next to her.

  More and more girls pour into the room. Lena and I don’t speak.

  I can’t relax. I scan each of their faces, wondering which person in this room left the note on my pillow. It has to have been one of them.

  I’m chewing violently on the inside of my cheek when someone sits down in the seat next to mine.

  “Good morning! How’re your roommates?” Maxine asks, and the sight of her sharp face and hazel eyes fills me with surprising relief. She crosses her legs in front of her, leaning off the side of the chair, looking casual, rogue-like even. She wears the uniform differently than most girls, with the collar unbuttoned around her throat, her cape hanging just slightly off center, like a costume, like she’s in on a joke.

  “You got stuck with Laird and Barton, right?” she continues.

  “And Lena Jamison,” I add, gesturing to her with a nod of my head.

  Lena peeks around me. “Hi, Maxine.”

  “Sorry to you both, getting stuck with those shrews,” Maxine says.

  “Aurelia doesn’t seem so bad.…” I trail off.

  “She’s not when she’s not around Ruby, but she has the spine of a jellyfish. She’ll do whatever she’s told,” Lena explains.

  “Count your blessings, girls. There are worse than Ruby and Aurelia,” Maxine replies.

  “Oh?” I fidget in my chair. For such a large dining table, it is noticeably absent of any food.

  “Mm-hm.” Maxine nods and takes a swig of water. “Like those two over there.” She gestures to a pair of near-identical round-faced blondes at the other end of the room. “The Underwood sisters, Hattie and Beatrix. Mean as a whole a pit of vipers. But most of the girls are fine. Just mind your manners and smile pretty.”

  I open my mouth to respond but come up short as a feast on sparkling silver platters comes through the dining hall, carried by women in black capes just like my own.

  Entire glazed hams, bowls of fruits and vegetables spilling over, French toast, bacon, eggs, and apples boiled with cinnamon.

  Maxine reaches out and serves herself a spoonful of diced peaches as if this is all old hat.

  “Where did this come from?” I ask.

  “The kitchens,” she says through a mouthful of toast.

  There is more food on this table than I’ve seen in my life. I can’t tell her I don’t remember the last time I had enough to eat.

  My father left soon after I was born, so my whole life was my mother, William, and me trying to survive. My mother did her best, which wasn’t very good. She’d take in neighbors’ laundry and clean the other apartments in our building, but she was never stable enough to hold down a steady job.

  There was one Christmas when all we had to eat was a handful of chestnuts and a crust of old bread. My mother made William and me drape napkins on our heads and told us we were just like Joseph and Mary in the innkeeper’s barn. I was six and William had just turned nine, and we no longer believed in fairy stories. The next day, William went out on his own and got his post as Judge Callahan’s errand boy.

  But Maxine doesn’t need to know about all of that. So I answer, “Of course,” and take a bite that turns to sawdust in my mouth. I feel too full of questions to swallow anything.

  Maxine notices me pushing the food around my plate. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Objectively, probably.” My attempt at a smile is poor.

  “Seems like a waste of pancakes.”

  “It’s almost as if having one’s reality torn to shreds ruins an appetite,” Lena deadpans.

  “I don’t mean to spoil breakfast. It’s just I don’t feel like my brain has caught up to what’s happening.”

  “A school for magic girls isn’t what you expected when you woke up yesterday?” Maxine laughs.

  “When I woke up yesterday, I thought I’d be in prison by nightfall.”

  “No bars on the windows here,” Lena says, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

  “Just a twelve-foot wall that keeps us safe, sweet Lena,” Maxine replies.

  Though I don’t have an appetite, what I do have is more questions, and I wonder if there will ever be a time when I don’t. “How is it that a school for magic exists, and no one has found out about it?” It seems a more reasonable question than How is it possible that everything I’ve ever thought to be true about the laws of the universe is wrong?

  “The school used to be disguised as a convent—if there was one group of women the world left alone, it was nuns. But then the local churches began asking questions, so it was converted to a school back in the 1850s. It wasn’t long before the locals came knocking. I’m not sure why when women say ‘students,’ men hear ‘potential wives.’ Can girls not be scholars in peace? Anyway, the sanitarium guise started about thirty years ago. The neighbors leave us be.” She punctuates her statement with a dramatic fake cough. “But don’t think because you’re just finding out about magic, it means no one else in the world knows.”

  Oh. “So who else knows?”

  Maxine and Lena make nervous eye contact. “Not appropriate breakfast conversation for young ladies,” Maxine says.

  “You can hardly blame me for having questions.”

  Maxine glances around. A tendril of silver-blond hair falls from her bun and into her eyes. “Fine.” She springs up, smoothing her pinafore.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Keep your voice down. Follow me.”

  Lena and I follow her without another question. Despite Maxine’s breakneck pace, I drink in as much of Haxahaven as I can. It looks like a cathedral and a manor house and a hospital all at once.

  We crisscross Haxahaven winding halls until we finally come to an ancient-looking stone door. It’s carved with runelike markings in a language I don’t recognize.

  Maxine waves her hand, and the door slides open with a low scraping sound.

  I hear Lena give a small snort. “You can manipulate objects too?” she asks. “I thought you were a Finder?”

  Finder?

  Maxine laughs. “I’ve always wished there was a more elegant term for what we do. Surely ‘Finder’ isn’t the best we can come up with.” She shakes her head. “But I digress. I can manipulate better than some but not as well as others. My magic is one of… connection. I can feel the connections between people and power most easily, but manipulating the way objects are connected to other objects isn’t so difficult.”

  Her answer begs more questions than it answers, but I swallow them down and follow her through the door. I’m almost giddy witnessing Maxine’s use of magic as if it’s an ordinary task. Each spark I see solidifies the new reality I inhabit, confirms that all of this, that magic, is real. The terror of everything that happened yesterday only slowly starts to subside, as my curiosity begins to take over.

  Breath catches in my throat at the cavernous room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of charred-black wood. The soaring ceilings are buttressed with Gothic arches, and along the crown molding are life-sized stone statues of stern-looking women.

  I can’t tell if the strange buzzing in my ears is coming from inside my head or from the walls.

  Like ducklings, Lena and I skitter behind Maxine to a worn table near the side of the room.

  Candles drip white wax onto the surface, their yellow flames reflected in the single glass of water placed amon
g them. Despite the monstrous room, a claustrophobic pressure mounts in my lungs.

  “Why the quick exit?” Lena asks. I don’t get the impression she and Maxine are particularly close. She looks as lost as I am.

  “Fewer eavesdroppers here, and there are a few very important things I need you to understand. One, at Haxahaven the walls have ears. There are no secrets here. Two, not everyone here is your friend.” A muscle in her sharp jaw twitches.

  The library smells of parchment and kerosene.

  “So, as you were saying…,” Lena prompts Maxine. “The witches of Haxahaven are not the world’s only possessors of magic?”

  “Oh God, no. That’d be rather narcissistic, would it not?”

  “So who else?” I ask.

  “Haxahaven is rather good at finding every magical girl in the area. Rich, poor, any race, from any neighborhood, girls whose parents thought they were boys upon birth, girls who are only sometimes girls, girls who are still deciding, people who are neither boys nor girls. We train them all. The men are left to their own devices. They do what men do.”

  “Destroy things? Hoard money? Fight each other?” Lena quips.

  “Precisely.”

  “What do we do when we leave?” I ask. “We are allowed to leave, right?”

  Maxine and Lena exchange a look that makes me nervous, but Maxine answers me after a tense moment. “They do what most women do: marry, have children, work. I’ve heard rumors of a few magical communities in the city. I believe there’s at least one underground magical market. I once overheard Helen speak of a coven on Martha’s Vineyard, but she refused to tell me more.” Maxine’s brutal confidence flickers out for a second. “I wish I knew more.”

  “That’s all she’s told you?” I prompt.

  “I only know that we’re supposed to treat everyone we meet with extreme caution. If someone arrives at the gates, we do not let them in.”

  So the wall around this school exists as much to keep us in as it does to keep others out. That means whoever left the note on my bed last night has to have been someone in this school.