“Which one is you?” the river demon asked. “Which one?”
I looked at all those lovely princesses in the air. I wanted to reach out and grab each perfect image.
Instead I drew mine and Ambrose’s linked hands to my breast. I pointed to my own flawed and wildly beating heart.
“This one,” I said.
The silver images dissolved. All that was left was the pool at our feet. My legs were too long, my face felt wrong, but all trace of her was gone from my veins. She couldn’t hurt me now.
We stood linked in a circle around our enemy.
The Spellman witches, on Spellman ground.
“You do the honors, Sabrina,” suggested Aunt Zelda.
Ambrose whispered the words in my ear. I stepped forward, just one step, so our circle remained unbroken, and called out the words of the spell to the sky.
“Earth and air, fire and water
I am your daughter.
Punish my foes for their sins
Let them be torn by all four winds,
Be buried, be burned, and then,
Never to come back again.”
The rusalka gave a high, thin whine, the sound of water in a kettle about to boil. The silvery pool began to evaporate off our ground, rising in a thick gray wisp, denser than steam. It was like the smoke coiling from the flame of a single great candle.
“Go on, love,” whispered Aunt Hilda. “It’s almost your birthday, after all.”
I drew in my breath, hesitated, and blew what remained of the river demon away. To all four winds.
We watched the smoke dissipate and almost disintegrate, and the last gray grains floated over the treetops, away from our woods and far, far away from our house.
“That’s that,” said Aunt Zelda, tucking her cigarette holder away. “We will shortly be having serious words about river demons, Sabrina, but for now let me assemble what we will need to take that horrid demon’s spell off you and get you back to normal.”
Aunt Hilda grimaced. “I need to wash up. Awful how grave dirt gets in your ears.”
Aunt Hilda climbed the porch steps, Aunt Zelda following her.
“Wait, wait, aunties,” Ambrose called out. “Let’s not be hasty. The new nose is great. Cousin, do you want to consider keeping the nose?”
He pretended to catch my nose between his fingers.
I laughed, shaking my head. “I like my own nose.”
“Yes, I suppose I do too,” Ambrose allowed.
The front door closed behind my aunts, leaving my cousin and me standing outside in front of our house alone together. I’d run to him and clung to him and fought by his side, and for that whole stretch of time I’d forgotten our bitter quarrel. I remembered now.
I looked at the ground where the rusalka had stood, before it went up in smoke. “Thank you. I know you must be angry with me after last night, so—thanks.”
“You imagined that I’d leave you possessed by a river demon because we had a little tiff?” Ambrose asked mildly. “Seems an overreaction.”
I lifted my chin, and met his eyes. They were not rolling white with outrage as they had been last night, or dark with protective fury. His gaze now felt like a question.
So I answered him. “No, I didn’t think that for a minute. I’ve been having all kinds of stupid doubts, but when I was terrified in the woods, I knew that if I could get home to you, I’d be safe. I realize this is prison to you, but it’s home to me, because this is where you and my aunts are. I got mad because I wish it was home for you too, but I’ll try to understand how you feel more. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be trapped in a prison.”
I wasn’t sure what else to say, and I could hear Aunt Zelda calling for me. So I nodded awkwardly to my cousin, and climbed up the porch steps leading to home.
Ambrose’s thoughtful voice caught me and held me still on the steps. “Can you imagine what it’s like to be in a prison, shut up in the dark, and to find a window? Only a small window, but the light shines through.”
I shook my head, frowning. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
Ambrose looked up to where I stood, and then walked up the steps to join me, his red dressing gown flaring behind him with every dramatic stride. My merry, mischievous cousin’s face was serious. He paused briefly on the step beside me, and spoke with his eyes on the front door, without glancing in my direction.
“You aren’t nothing to me. You’re not a toy. But I got used to thinking of you as a child. I wanted to indulge you, but I should have wanted you to understand. I’m sorry for that.”
He started up the steps as soon as he said it, so I couldn’t answer him. I could only hurry after him.
Before we went inside the house, my cousin stopped once more. He reached out, unusually for him, and with one light finger against my jaw he tilted my chin, and looked into my strange new face as though he would always know exactly who I was.
“You are sunlight in prison to me,” said Ambrose. “Harvey’s spell is not what you think.”
Stone walls echo with a witch’s song.
Father Blackwood, High Priest of the Church of Night, Faustus to his intimates, nods along as the orphan witch Prudence practices for the infernal choir.
“When Satan comes with thunder and lamentation
And drowns the world in blood, what joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow in proud adoration
And proclaim Dark Lord how great thou art!”
Father Blackwood applauds. “Excellent, Prudence, excellent.”
In the stone chamber, among lightless candles, Prudence’s unusually lovely face glows with hope. “Thank you, Father. Do you think—do you think Lady Blackwood will like this song?”
“I am certain she will,” Father Blackwood lies. “And even if she doesn’t, you’ll keep trying, won’t you?”
Prudence nods. “Of course, Father Blackwood.”
Father Blackwood winks at her, and pats her arm. As he does so, he notices his fingernails could do with some sharpening. It is important to take pride in yourself. “I knew you would.”
He strides away down the stone passageways of the Academy of Unseen Arts, as Prudence gazes after him with what he recognizes as awe. Most of his students regard him that way.
Prudence looks up to him as all the students do, as though he were their father. Of course, Prudence actually is his daughter, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not as if she was his son, or her mother his wife. Prudence’s mother was a weak woman, and the child she left behind is the same. Prudence doesn’t know, and it is better for her not to know.
Far better to have Prudence ignorant of the truth, scrambling for approval rather than expecting affection. Far better to have his wife, Constance, fear that truth, and hate Prudence for it rather than him. Prudence’s songs will always sound like fear and funeral bells to Constance, no matter if Prudence sings until her throat bleeds trying to please her.
The whole situation is ideal. The book The Witch’s Hammer is right about some things: It is dangerous when a woman thinks alone. Once you fill a woman full of doubts, she can be made useful.
Certainty is the property of men. Father Blackwood is certain of this.
Still, he considers Prudence one of the best students in the Academy. Among the witches, who will naturally always be worth less than the warlocks. Prudence is beautiful, cruel, proud, and powerful: Blackwood supposes that it must be his blood coming out in her. Blackwood likes a woman with spirit, if that spirit can be broken by him.
He stops by another student as he does his rounds, studying among the restricted books, and says indulgently: “Ah, Nicholas. Working hard?”
Nick has a cubbyhole set up with black candles and piles of books that the other students don’t dare touch. There is a calendar set up there now, with inky crosses marking the days until Halloween. Nick Scratch is a promising pupil, Father Blackwood considers, but his greatest flaw is that he is perhaps a little too intelligent. The boy is always
studying Edward Spellman’s old books, or wandering the earth like the warlock Cain once had. Books and travel lead to questions, and that can lead to questioning orders.
Nick ignores him, dark head bent over his book. Father Blackwood looks over Nicholas’s shoulder and spies the words All days are nights to see till I see thee.
“Nicholas,” he says in tones of horrified dismay, “is this love poetry?”
“It’s Shakespeare,” Nick says curtly.
“Good name, but I don’t think I know—” Father Blackwood stops, stricken by a terrible thought. “Are you reading a book written by a mortal? About—about—I can’t even say it. How dare you bring filth like that into my school! What if one of the younger children, Satan forbid, got hold of this?”
He snaps his fingers. The book in Nick’s hands bursts into soothing orange and purple flame, seething over white page and black words. A scarlet tongue of fire licks across Nick’s palm.
Nick erupts from his chair. Father Blackwood isn’t fool enough to think that Nick is reacting because of something as ultimately meaningless as physical suffering. Nicholas is not one of the weak pupils who died begging for absurd things like pity or making the pain stop. Soft souls are crushed by the weight of the Academy.
Nick’s face is set, hard as the stone of their Dark Lord’s statue. In the iris of one dark eye, there is a flicker of flame that burns deeper crimson than blood, a reflection of hellfire.
Oh, Father Blackwood does love some truly sinful wrath. Nick is a very promising pupil.
After a simmering moment, Father Blackwood relents. “That’s done with, and we’ll say no more about it. No more reading trash, eh? Read something educational, about magic and murder. That’s a bad boy. Or go talk sense with your fellow warlocks. You spend altogether too much time surrounded by witches. I understand the lure of saucy, curvaceous flesh as well as the next warlock, but life can’t be all wicked carnality, can it?”
“No,” says Nick.
Encouraged by this sign of submission, Father Blackwood slaps the boy on the back. “More’s the pity.”
He turns away with a flick of his robes, putting all his promising and unpromising pupils firmly behind him as he stalks through the halls of ghosts and magic and monuments to evil that he rules, making his way to his private chambers.
Once within his inner unsanctified sanctum, his nostrils flare and he swings around in a wary circle. For a moment everything seems as usual: red velvet curtains, black-shaded lamps, shelves of grimoires, a tasteful crocodile hanging from the ceiling, a fire almost leaping from the confines of a tall, narrow grate. Then his eye catches the streamers of orange flame, reflected in a silvery surface.
Before his roaring fire cowers a much reduced river demon. She is a sorry sight, like a broken silver reed.
“And what do you have to say for yourself?” Father Blackwood demands.
She shrinks before him, but that does not appease his wrath at all.
“You had one job! To corrupt and possess! That is the whole point of demons. The Dark Lord’s signs and portents have been very clear.” Father Blackwood sighs. “That half-mortal girl is important. I might have had her completely in my power, and used her to achieve glory for the loyal warlocks of the Church of Night. Except that you catastrophically failed to take Sabrina, and destroyed all my schemes.”
“I beg your forgiveness,” the river demon babbles. “I throw myself at your feet.”
“What good does that do me? The Dark Lord may even send someone else into what should be my domain, to make certain that he will secure Sabrina. The prospect is appalling.” Father Blackwood shudders.
He doesn’t much care for the idea of an important girl. He’d relished the idea of this witch with her sullied blood coming to the Academy already his creature, a beautiful evil handmaiden with no will of her own. He’d imagined a readymade tool in his hands. Now she would come on Halloween, and who knew what ideas she might have in her head, and what trouble she would cause?
Fortunately, there is the possibility of other schemes. He is an expert schemer.
“All is not lost, however,” Faustus Blackwood muses. “There is still Zelda Spellman, who admires me so much. A clever woman, but like all women, in need of the guidance of men. She is faithful in her attendance to the Church of Night, and she is clearly worried about her wayward niece with impure blood, as well she might be. Zelda is a devoted servant of Satan, and respects me highly. By far the best approach would be to drop a hint in Zelda’s ear that the head of the Church of Night is standing by, ready to help her with her family troubles. I imagine she will weep with gratitude, kiss my feet, and deliver her niece to me on a silver platter with a delicious garnish.”
He nods to himself with satisfaction.
“The cousin, Ambrose Spellman, may prove helpful as well,” he decides. “Really, the punishment for his youthful indiscretion has gone on long enough. What adventurous warlock hasn’t at least considered blowing up various holy locations? Ambrose showed commendable loyalty to his co-conspirators by not turning them in, and I see a clear path to winning that loyalty for my own. I’m sure he’s frantic to escape from that house of women. Desperation is very motivating. He would be deeply grateful, I imagine, to the benefactor who granted him freedom. Oh yes, all is far from lost. Coercion, seduction, bribery … the possibilities for the Spellman family are endless.”
He rubs his hands together, his ruby ring catching the light.
“Who shall I seduce?” asks the rusalka.
“Nobody asked you to seduce anybody!” Blackwood snaps. “I planned to be the one doing the seducing. Do you doubt my powers of seduction?”
“Not at all, my master!” the rusalka says hastily. “I’m certain you can be very seductive. Who are you planning to seduce?”
“Whoever seems the most useful.”
Zelda, for preference. Father Blackwood has grievous doubts about Hilda. Once he’d asked her what her thoughts were on unbridled carnality, and Hilda answered that she wasn’t fond of riding horses. What kind of witch preferred making jam to making love? It was hardly decent.
“Yes, master,” whispers the spirit. “How may I aid you in your schemes?”
Father Blackwood raises an eyebrow. “You? Oh, I’m afraid that you are no longer of any use to me at all.”
She doesn’t even have a chance to whimper before he seizes her by the throat, whispering black magic into her ear as she shrieks and struggles. Pain turns to agony, screams for mercy turn into screams for an end, and eventually the river demon is nothing but a silvery smear on the heel of his supple black leather boot.
When Sabrina comes to the Academy of Unseen Arts, Faustus Blackwood intends to crush her beneath his heel as well. The half witch has no idea what is waiting for her, come Halloween.
I asked Harvey to meet me in the woods early the next morning, telling him I had a confession to make. I got up before sunrise, and from my bedroom window I watched sky and treetops change from gray to green to pure gold. I fixed a black hairband in my short blond hair, slid on a fuzzy black-and-white cardigan, put on my red coat, and left home whistling.
At the edge of our property waited a tall witch, leaning against a tree and wearing zipped-up athletic clothes rather than her usual prim dark dress. Even more unusual, she was alone.
“You’re looking pleased with yourself,” Prudence remarked sourly. “So I suppose whatever was bothering you is resolved. I thought you might really be in trouble this time. Everything comes so easily to you, doesn’t it, Sabrina?”
“I wouldn’t say that. And as fellow witches, shouldn’t we refrain from flinging accusations at each other? No need to be all I saw Goody Proctor with the Devil.”
“What?” said Prudence. “Who are you saying had the great honor of being with the Dark Lord?”
I sighed. “Never mind. I’m not in any trouble. Thanks for your concern.”
Prudence gave a jeering laugh. “That’s a pity. I’d hoped something wou
ld stop you from entering the Academy of Unseen Arts, but I see I’ll just have to beat you—in every possible meaning of the word—once you’re there.”
She tossed her arrogant head. It was odd to see Prudence without her sisters, and less perfectly turned out than normal. She’d come here early, by herself. Maybe, I thought for the strangest moment, she actually had felt something like concern.
I reached out and laid my hand on Prudence’s arm. “It doesn’t have to be a competition, you know.”
Prudence shoved my hand away. “Everything has to be a competition. So I can win.”
Well, I’d tried. I sighed, and shrugged, and left Prudence standing alone under the tree.
I made my way into the depths of the forest, to the place where Harvey had asked to meet.
He’d asked, “Do you remember the wishing well we found last year?” and been confused when I had to laugh. He was waiting for me in the clearing where I had gone yesterday to make a bargain.
Harvey was not near the silver ribbon of the silent river. He was standing near the well. His hands were in his pockets, his head slightly bowed and his shoulders curved slightly inward. When he heard me, his chin lifted and his spine straightened. Even though I’d arranged to meet him here, he smiled as if I was a wonderful surprise.
I wondered for a moment what Harvey would have thought if he’d seen me the way I was yesterday.
I didn’t think he would have looked at me like this, and I never wanted him to look at me any other way.
“’Brina.” Harvey smiled and reached out a hand for mine.
I didn’t take it. I stared down at the tall grass and loose stones around the well instead. If I looked at him for too long, if I thought about how much I didn’t want to lose him, I might not say what I had to say.
“Let me get this out right away, before I lose my nerve. I had no idea that the girl in green was Tommy’s girlfriend,” I burst out. “I didn’t know anything was bothering you. I did think you were looking at her because she was beautiful and glamorous. And the next day, I thought you were looking at that group of witches because they were all pretty.”
Season of the Witch Page 17
