by Claudia Gray
“That’s more than kind of you.” Nat’s expression was fond as he looked down on her. “You have a good heart, Elizabeth. A girl as kind as you, and as pretty—” His voice trailed off, and for a moment her hopes twitched again, unwilling to lie dead. He continued, “You know, Rebecca—she’s got a brother. A good man. I might have him ride back with me sometime, to meet some people.”
Thanks to her spell, Nat now thought she was beautiful enough for someone else.
“Maybe you should,” Elizabeth said. In her heart she meant for Nat Porter to stop riding over to New Barton long before he’d ever get around to asking some other man to come and take a look at her, like she was a milk cow for sale.
Obviously it was going to take more than a pretty face to turn Nat’s head. Fortunately, Elizabeth had much more to offer. She had her Craft, and it was to this that she turned now.
Her work began that night. She explained to Aunt Ruth that she needed some of the soft white cotton fabric, and why. Even though they had precious little left, and Elizabeth had thought they might save that for aprons for the children, Aunt Ruth readily agreed. “Nat Porter’s a good fellow. And something like this . . . it will make that girl think kindly toward you, when she comes here as his bride. Another friend for you, perhaps.”
Elizabeth simply nodded, though she already knew there was no way on heaven and earth that Rebecca Hornby would ever be Nat’s bride.
She sat up late with her needlework, in front of the dying embers of the fire. Aunt Ruth slept with the two smallest children, their bed in the far corner of the house; the other little ones slept on their pallets. Elizabeth’s remained empty. It didn’t matter if she went completely without sleep tonight, or the next night, too. What mattered was getting this done in secret, and getting it done well.
Elizabeth tied a bandage around her ankle—a bandage with her charms inside, so they were all in contact with her skin at every moment. Then she sewed, hour after hour, eyes tearing from eyestrain and the fire’s smoke. Every time the needle pierced the cloth, she imagined puncturing Rebecca Hornby’s skin. Every time she pulled the thread through, she imagined pulling the girl’s hair from her head.
Crude revenges, those. The magic she worked was subtler.
Woven into the cap was a spell that would steal the beauty from its wearer. Nothing dramatic—it would work much like the reverse of the spell Elizabeth had cast on herself that morning. When Rebecca put it on, she would look dingier, older, and wearier. Stitched into the lining was a spell for spoiling the temper. Rebecca wouldn’t be able to simper and fawn all over Nat once she’d worn this; instead she’d be cross, quick to anger. How many times would she have to snap at Nat before he began to realize there might be a better girl waiting for him back home?
What else? Elizabeth thought feverishly as the night wore on. What else can I put into this? Building spells into inanimate objects was difficult, and most of the spells she knew how to cast were positive ones, like good fortune sewn into a bridal veil, or spells of amity and concord cooked into food.
The spells she’d cast here—they’d do what she wanted, but would that be enough? No matter how delicately Elizabeth sewed the cap, there was no chance that Rebecca would wear it all the time. Sooner or later, someone would say it didn’t suit her, or Rebecca herself would realize she always seemed to be in an ill temper when she wore it. If it took more than a few bad visits to shake Nat’s love for her, then this on its own wouldn’t be enough.
Nat seemed like the sort who didn’t fall in love lightly. For him, love would be powerful. Love would endure past the first few tempests—
—so she needed more.
Elizabeth considered. More positive spells swam in her memory, pretty and friendly and utterly useless. There were ways to ensure fine weather, at least for an afternoon. Ways to give a man strength through the stitching of his garments. Ways to—
She gasped as it came to her.
If strength could be given through a spell, then it could be taken away by its opposite, couldn’t it?
Yes. Through a spell, Elizabeth could weaken Rebecca Hornby. Then she’d catch colds right and left, run fevers, not even be able to see Nat when he rode over to visit. Better yet, that spell wouldn’t stop working when Rebecca removed her cap. Rebecca would be weaker forever.
But that’s black magic.
Elizabeth stopped. Her fury had burned brightly, unabated throughout that whole afternoon and evening, but now she felt small and scared.
It was one thing to use magic to tip the scales in your favor. What else was witchcraft for? A witch could even cause damage to those who opposed her, within reason. However, what Elizabeth was contemplating doing to Rebecca Hornby went far beyond that. To wish someone weaker was to endanger them. That would be true anywhere, but here, in the small towns clinging to the coast of the Rhode Island Colony, where few physicians could be found . . . it could very easily prove to be a death sentence.
Elizabeth felt no fear at the thought of Rebecca Hornby’s death. She knew the very thought should repulse her, disgust her, but it didn’t. When she imagined it, she only saw the empty place in the world where Rebecca would have been—the place in Nat’s heart that Elizabeth could then fill.
What scared her was the knowledge that black magic belonged to the One Beneath.
The stories about the One Beneath came down to children in whispers, the most secret of all the many secret truths of witchcraft. He presided over the realm of demons. He gloried in death, destruction, and ruin. Some said the One Beneath was only one of the many names of the devil; others said that he ruled a place even darker than hell. As he strengthened black magic, so did black magic strengthen him—to cast such a spell was to take the first step toward worshipping the One Beneath. It came dangerously close to breaking one of the First Laws.
Even a few days before, these thoughts would have been enough to sway Elizabeth from her course of action. Now, however, she had seen what happened to Goodwife Crews when she broke one of the First Laws: practically nothing.
Tentatively Elizabeth thought of the ingredients for a spell of strength. How best could she reverse them?
A hand twisted into helplessness by age.
Something killed by the first frost.
A person exhausted beyond the ability to endure.
The jade charm seemed warm against her skin—surely only an illusion, but one incredibly vivid to Elizabeth as she closed her eyes.
Her grandfather attempting to tell her good-bye before they sailed to America, his liver-spotted hand unable to hold hers, only able to manage a feeble pat as their final farewell.
The lamb from three springs ago, the one she’d become so attached to and called Snowy, which had been ailing already, and then the early frost came and left her dead in the field, dark eyes frozen wide open so that Elizabeth had screamed to see them.
Her mother lying in bed that first terrible winter in the Rhode Island Colony, skin gone waxen, grief-stricken from the death of Elizabeth’s father just five days before, and her eyes growing dim as she stopped fighting the fever and just gave up, leaving Elizabeth behind.
Elizabeth opened her eyes, looked down at the cap in her hands and—struck by a sudden inspiration—deliberately pricked her finger with the needle. Her blood beaded up; quickly she pressed it against her black skirt, where the stain wouldn’t show. But she threaded the needle back through the cap; though it was not bloody enough to stain, it had pierced her flesh, then the fabric, and that would strengthen her spell.
It had worked. Elizabeth sensed that immediately. Impossible to say precisely how she knew, but she knew it as certainly as she’d ever known anything in her life.
And in her heart she felt something new, an emotion that was not her own. The feeling didn’t come to her in words; she didn’t hear whispers, imagine a voice, nothing like that. Yet Elizabeth knew that something else, someone else, was feeling this, and that if the emotion could be put into a sentence, it would
be this: I’ve been waiting for you.
She trembled, but she refused to think of what might have waiting. Instead she kept stitching the cap.
The next day she gave the cap to a grateful Nat, and so far as anyone else could tell, life went on as usual. Spring continued to warm into summer. Elizabeth kept doing her chores, looking after her younger cousins, and practicing magic with the coven.
(Not once in all those nights did one of the other witches realize Elizabeth had performed black magic. Not once. None of her other spells were affected in the slightest, Pru even mentioned how much stronger she was becoming, and Widow Porter smiled approvingly every time Elizabeth joined in their work.)
Elizabeth behaved as though she had not a care in the world, and even pretended not to notice Nat Porter when he was near. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she would see Pru looking at her almost pityingly; Pru knew her too well to think she had so quickly become indifferent to Nat and given up her dreams of loving him. But Pru only thought Elizabeth was being brave. Nobody suspected the truth, not even when the first rumors began that Rebecca Hornby had taken ill.
“Word was they were to marry this summer,” said someone walking by as Elizabeth slopped the pigs. “Nat would’ve brought her back here well before the fall. Now her parents say she’s too fragile to think of marrying for a while yet. Not until she gets better.”
Hearing that sent a shiver along Elizabeth’s spine. Yes, she’d cast the spell. Yes, she’d wanted Rebecca gone, out of Nat’s life, and out of Elizabeth’s way forever. But it was one thing to do that, another to hear the stories of a girl around her age wasting away from fever.
She’s not dead, Elizabeth reasoned. I didn’t cast a spell to kill her. She’s just weaker, that’s all. What happens after this is out of my hands.
Besides, maybe this would be enough. Nat left town less often now, as he couldn’t expect to see Rebecca. Maybe he would forget about the girl from so far away. Elizabeth cast her spell to steal beauty often, now—not so much that the other witches might notice, but enough to be sure that Nat did. His eyes sometimes sought her now even when she hadn’t cast the spell. Wasn’t that proof that he was beginning to put Rebecca Hornby out of his thoughts?
Sometimes Elizabeth even felt generous. Once Nat had fallen in love with her, once they were set to be married and all the world knew it, Elizabeth could undo the spell on Rebecca. She’d set her free, let her get well again and marry some other boy who would no doubt make her happier in the end. Nobody would ever be the wiser, and no lasting harm would have been done.
Everything was going perfectly—except that it was taking Nat so long to fall in love with her. Looking at her from time to time was one thing (and very pleasant to see), but it would take more than the occasional glance to make Nat her husband.
So she tried a few more things, not all of which had anything to do with witchcraft. Elizabeth made sure that her family sat near the Porters in church. She laughed at anything Nat said that might be considered a joke. She played with her young cousins more than usual, and on the common green, so that Nat might see how much she loved having fun, or realize that she would make a good mother.
Then she went to Widow Porter and asked for extra instruction. “Aunt Ruth is a fine witch, of course.” Elizabeth kept her eyes modestly cast down the entire time. “But she has daughters of her own to care for, and besides, I wish to learn more than she has time to teach.”
“I believe you have a greater appetite for your learning than your aunt has ever possessed,” Widow Porter replied. “As you say, she’s a fine witch, but you are something else altogether, child. There is such power within you.”
See? Elizabeth thought. I’m worth making an exception for. Make sure I marry your son, and your granddaughters will be the most powerful witches in generations.
After that, she was invited to spend many afternoons at the Porter home. For hours, she and Widow Porter would go over more complicated spells, working together to cast them with ever-greater skill.
“You always seek the most powerful memory,” Widow Porter murmured one afternoon as they practiced. “That’s natural, but it’s not always the best thing.”
“Why wouldn’t I seek the most powerful memory? Doesn’t that make the spell more powerful, too?”
Widow Porter nodded. “Of course. But sometimes finesse and subtlety matter more than power. A hammer’s more powerful than a needle, but sometimes you don’t need to pound in a nail. Sometimes you need to stitch a delicate thread.”
Elizabeth nodded, considering this. Had she been trying too hard, with Nat? Was something gentler and trickier the better choice?
“Spend some time reviewing your memories,” Widow Porter continued. “The painful and the glad. Keep all of them near you—learn from what you’ve done, from where you’ve been. When you can call the precise memory for a spell, one with exactly the right strength and flavor, that’s when your magic will sharpen.”
That evening, as she went home for dinner, she contrived to walk out of the Porter home just as Nat was walking in. She managed this most nights they worked together; this was the whole reason she came to practice with Widow Porter. (The added lessons in witchcraft were just a bonus.) “Why, Elizabeth,” he said, smiling down at her. “Here again? You’re good to help Ma around the house so much.”
“I don’t mind a bit,” Elizabeth promised. See how good I am? How thoughtful I am? See how easily I could live here with you?
She’d borrowed beauty again today—she did it most days, now. It was worth the trouble to see the way Nat’s gaze warmed to the sight of her. Something about his smile changed. Elizabeth couldn’t name it, but she knew that this was the first time Nat had ever looked at her the way she really wanted him to. Though the spark only lasted a moment, that moment felt as though it could be a beginning.
“I’ve meant to speak with your aunt,” Widow Porter said. “I’ll walk home with you and drop in, if you think she’d welcome the company.”
“Aunt Ruth is always glad to see you.” This was stretching the truth a bit; her aunt sometimes complained that Widow Porter was too bossy. But she wouldn’t object to a brief visit.
“Well. Good night, Elizabeth,” Nat said.
“Good night,” she repeated softly.
As they walked away from the house, Widow Porter said, “There’s something I see I need to talk to you about.”
“Yes, ma’am?” Elizabeth’s heart pounded.
“My boy has grown into a handsome young man.” The widow’s voice was softer than Elizabeth had ever heard it. “He’d turn nearly any girl’s head. I know because he’s the spitting image of his father, who turned my head fast enough when I was your age.” She chuckled softly.
“He is, ma’am.” Surely it was safe to agree with her, especially about something so obviously true.
“You’re a fine witch, as dedicated to the Craft as any other I’ve ever known. That’s why I don’t want to see you lose your way.”
She knew. She knew about the black magic. How? There were spells of detection, but Elizabeth had thought she’d know if the Widow Porter were suspicious enough to cast one. Had she been wrong?
But Widow Porter wasn’t looking at Elizabeth with the cold anger she’d directed at Catherine Crews. In her eyes was something a thousand times worse: pity.
“When you’re a girl, it’s easy to let your heart run away with you,” Widow Porter said gently. “That’s why I wanted to speak now, before you found yourself hurting.”
She thinks it’s passing affection. She has no idea I’ve been in love with him all my life and I have no intention of giving up on him—
“The First Laws are not ours to question, Elizabeth,” Widow Porter said. “They can never be disobeyed, ever. You saw that when you saw what became of Goodwife Crews. Of course you’re too sensible a girl to ever get yourself in such trouble, but I wanted to say a word of warning. To spare you the pain.”
“Of course,” E
lizabeth said. They were the only words she could get out of her mouth. It would sound as though she were agreeing with Widow Porter, when really she meant nothing at all. She only knew she had to fill the silence, lest Widow Porter realize how Elizabeth actually felt.
“From now on, I’ll see that you leave a little earlier on our afternoons,” Widow Porter said. “Keep you out of the way of temptation. Nat, too. You know he was courting the sweetest girl, over in New Barton, but now she looks likely to become an invalid.”
“What a shame,” Elizabeth said, wishing Rebecca Hornby dead, dead and buried, only a pile of bones moldering in the ground.
“We’ll find some young man worthy of you soon.” Now Widow Porter was beaming at her as though her matchmaking was the greatest gift she could bestow. Here she was, declaring that Elizabeth should stay away from her son forever, and she wanted Elizabeth to be grateful.
Elizabeth simply smiled, nodded, and repeated, “Soon.”
Widow Porter went back to her own home then, leaving Elizabeth to walk the final few steps to her house alone. She did so almost in a trance. Anger and desperation clouded her thoughts, made it impossible for her to focus on anything around her—only the calculations in her mind.
Still, the Widow Porter hadn’t given any real reason for Elizabeth not to marry Nat, other than the First Laws forbidding it.
But it would take more than smiles and chance meetings and stolen beauty to get him. Nat was close to his mother, and if she discouraged him from courting Elizabeth, then he would never do it, no matter how fond he might become of her. And if Widow Porter would make no exception for Elizabeth, then there was no hope of them ever marrying in Fortune’s Sound, not without earning her condemnation.
Elizabeth tried to imagine Widow Porter shouting her down at a coven meeting the same way she had Catherine Crews—declaring her a witch no more, taking away her charms. If that was the price Elizabeth had to pay to be with Nat, could she bear it?
