With all my heart, I wanted to be her.
There was a sudden flurry of clicks—the sound of someone typing on a keyboard—and the mesmerizing effect was broken. I turned and continued toward the open door at the end of the hall and into a comfortable reception area where I waited for a young woman working on a computer to notice me. One side of her desk was piled with student files and I guessed she was the Miss Claire Benoit, Administrative Assistant whose name was at the bottom of most of the paperwork and emails I’d received from Westover during my last minute application. As she frowned at something on her screen, I admired her cappuccino complexion and cascade of dark curls. When she looked up with a frown, the deep line between her eyebrows was the only flaw on her smooth skin.
I responded with a smile which was friendly, but not ingratiating or obsequious. I used to know every shade of meaning available in a smile, and when the woman relaxed and smiled back, I knew I hadn’t lost my touch.
“Sorry, chère, I didn’t hear you come in. You must be our new student. I was just working on your file right now.” She gestured gracefully to the half-open door behind her. “Headmistress Dalton is waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t forget to pick up your class schedule when the headmistress is done with you. It’ll be on my desk if I’m not here.” I nodded and moved to go past her, but she interrupted me. “Oh, and Lacey?”
Yes?”
Miss Benoit’s lips twitched slightly. “You don’t need to wear your uniform outside of school hours except at official school events.”
Heat flooded my face, but I smiled and nodded again as I went into the main office. The woman waiting for me was slim with stylishly cut but dull brown hair, and dressed in an expensive looking suit. She immediately reminded me of Cailleach, but where the Crone had seemed ancient and ageless all at once, Headmistress Elisha Dalton looked young but seemed older. A portrait of her hanging on the wall showed a remarkable likeness, even though the brushstrokes were somewhat impressionistic, and there was a power in it that drew the eye.
“Hello, Lacey.” Leaning over her desk, she shook my hand and I tried not to pull away until she released me. Her skin was cool and dry and her grasp was steady and light, but I’d become overly sensitive to physical contact; the Crone’s touch had more often brought pain than it had comfort.
“Hi.” I glanced at the painting again, noting how its colors had captured that same impression of coolness and calm. The headmistress noted the direction of my gaze. “Miss Benoit is not only an excellent assistant, but a very talented artist as well. I have to admit though that it sometimes makes me uncomfortable to have my own face staring at me all day long,” The woman’s voice held only a hint of the languid drawl of a native Louisianan, marking her as fellow transplant to New Orleans “I didn’t expect you to show up so soon, Lacey. When security let me know you’d checked in last night, I cut short my vacation to meet you.
My cheeks went hot. “I’m so sorry. I should have realized everyone would be on holiday.”
She waved her hand. “I was rattling around the house with my cat looking for something to do. Besides, you’re not the only student on campus I should probably be keeping my eye on. You’ve met your roommate already?”
“Just now. She seems nice.”
The headmistress’ lips quirked into a smile. “Yes, Ava’s a nice girl. Hopefully you’ll last longer than her other dorm mates have.” I was surprised by the comment. The girl had seemed pleasant enough. “Just let me know if you have any problems with her. There are some other rooms empty.”
It was what I’d wanted—a room to myself—but I felt a perverse desire to be contrary, to not be what everyone expected me to be. I could guess at what Ms. Dalton saw when she looked at me—a naïve child used to trading on her prettiness to get what she wanted as she coasted through life on a pleasant cloud. The woman only saw the sugar and cream on top and couldn’t guess at the darkness and bitterness underneath.
“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” I said, putting on my most convincing smile. The suppression spell in the tattoo on my wrist burned slightly as it tried to counteract my exertion of charm.
But I was surprised when the woman frowned in response instead. “Why exactly are you here, Lacey? Why Westover Academy? You’re a long way from home. We almost never accept new students halfway through the school year, but Miss Benoit convinced me that you would be an asset to the school, so I agreed.”
I twitched down the cuffs on my blazer, playing for time. I certainly couldn’t tell her I’d mined my contacts on the darknet for a recommendation on a school in North America that might be witch friendly. Of course, that was when I was still anxious to pursue my studies, but the longer I was away from magic, the more I felt like I was turning back into the person I used to be. I’d persuaded my parents to fund my last semester of high school at this outrageously expensive institution and hoped I hadn’t drained their savings account for nothing. Still, it was better than going back to my old school where I’d made such a mess of things.
I was once a good girl, but then I became a witch.
Tilting my head, I laughed lightly, a sound that paired nicely with the particular smile I was now displaying. “And I’m so glad you did! I love it here already. I can’t wait until classes start up again.” The headmistress was staring at my hands and I realized I was winding a strand of hair around my finger—three times one way, then three times the other. Untangling my fingers from my hair, I forced my hands to my sides.
Ms. Dalton returned my smile, but her eyes were shrewd. “Was there trouble then? Something that wouldn’t show up on your permanent record? You were sick for a long time—mononucleosis, if I remember correctly.”
A chill settled on my skin as I remembered the days of starving and bleeding myself for the sake of magic. “I guess I just became a little out of sync with everyone when I missed so much school.” I thought about what Ava had said about the weather. “My parents also thought a warmer climate might be better for my health, Headmistress.”
The woman stared at me for a moment before nodding. “I’m sure it will. Well, Lacey, your grades are excellent and I have no doubt you’ll fit in fine here. And you can call me Ms. Dalton or Dean Dalton. Miss Benoit disagrees, but Headmistress is a bit too Dickensian for my taste.” From her tone, I knew I was dismissed.
“Thank you, Ms. Dalton,” I said as I stood and walked to the door.
“Lacey.”
I turned. “Yes, Ms. Dalton?”
She looked at me intently. “I lost someone too, long ago, back when I was living up North. My daughter . . .” She took a breath. “My daughter was murdered.”
Shocked at the revelation, I murmured, “I’m so sorry,” but the woman continued as if she hadn’t heard me.
“I was lost for a very long time. I did things out of grief that I dearly regret now, but eventually the pain got easier to endure. Since then, I’ve made it my mission to protect and guide other young women. It may not feel like it right now, but the darkness of loss can sometimes lead us to a greater light.” As if on cue, a ray of sunlight streamed through the window and I caught the hint of something bright and reflective on her skin—a silver flourish just above her collar bone that might be mistaken for a faint scar.
When I didn’t respond, Ms. Dalton sighed. “The guidance counselor at Eastdale Collegiate added a note about your brother’s death, and also about the changes to your behavior over the past few months. He believed it was a delayed reaction to the tragedy your family suffered, but I know the signs of a suffering and addiction of another kind, particularly wherever the Crone is present.”
I went hot and cold all at the same time. The woman shifted in the light and the mark of silver tattoos became clearer. I knew what it meant, but I’d lost my ability to trust along with my innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She sighed again and nodded. “I understand. No one here will force you
to reveal yourself, Lacey. This is a safe place, a place where you can put the past behind you.”
I chose a stupid and uncomprehending smile. “Thanks, but like you said, it’s all in my file. I’m fine now. I appreciate your concern though.” I walked out the door, certain the pounding of my heart matched me step for step like a drum.
It took every ounce of willpower I possessed, but I didn’t run. I didn’t count the diamonds in the pattern on the carpet in the foyer, or straighten the lopsided Christmas decorations draped across the mantle of the fireplace. I walked out of Stradford Hall and stepped on every crack in the path leading to the residence, even though each crunch of my heel against the concrete sent a spike of ice up my spine.
When I made it to the safety of my room, I was grateful to find that Ava had finished her nap and gone out. As I lay down on the bed, I counted to three over and over until the old compulsions faded and I could think clearly again.
The silver marks on Ms. Dalton’s skin had been almost invisible, but maybe that didn’t necessarily mean the power behind them had faded too. The Crone had taught me that the price of witchcraft was to be marked by it, but I never guessed there might be different symbols than the twisted black ones which once ran along my arms and across my shoulders.
Restless, I went to the closet and pulled out the battered leather bag tucked in the corner. I knew I shouldn’t be so surprised that a school recommended by an online coven would turn out to be run by a witch, but had the knowledge of what the Crone and I had done—or tried to do—already traveled this far, this fast?
Taking the golden harp out of the bag, I cradled it in my arms. The harp of Binnorie had been given to me by my greatest enemy and was the second of my most precious possessions. The harp was able to uncover hidden things, even hidden truths. That was what I’d been told. After it rejected its previous guardian, the voice of the drowned girl Binnorie had sung my name and that was enough for me. We belonged to one another now, but after that first moment of communion, the harp had been silent and empty of magic.
I placed my fingers lightly on the strings. I’d taken piano lessons for years and could probably have managed to shape a tune, but I didn’t dare. The harp would sing when it was ready and not before. “Is the headmistress a friend or foe?” I asked.
“Are you?” I thought I heard the harp respond, but I knew it was just my imagination. Disappointed, I put it away and turned instead to my greatest treasure. Reverently retrieving the old scrapbook and laying it carefully on the bed, I sat down beside it and turned to the first page of photographs.
A little boy stared back at me. He had dark blond hair the same as mine, blue eyes just like mine, even a snub nose exactly the same. He was wearing an orange lifejacket and pointing at the water, his hair too long because none of us could bear to get it cut in case he lost his babyhood too soon with it. The boy in the picture had just turned six and was on holiday with his family at the beach. The sand was pale beige and the sky was azure.
Unshed tears burned the back of my eyes. That day at the beach, I was twelve to his six; old enough to be a protector, young enough to be a playmate. Tracing my finger down the image of the boy’s face, I imagined I could feel the smoothness of his cheek.
But it was only the smoothness of paper and fading ink. Closing the book, I held it to my chest tightly. My brother Stephen would never play on another beach after that day. The chaos called cancer would rise up and swallow him before he could even reach Christmas. After that, I would begin to perform actions in threes and scrub my hands until the cuticles of my fingers were always cracked and red.
“What would you think about what I’ve done?” I whispered, but I knew there would be no answer to that question, and I was glad, fiercely glad. I put the scrapbook back into the darkness of the closet and closed the door.
Frozen forever at six, Stephen would never know what I’d done to become a witch. He would never know that I was anything else but the big sister who loved him.
CHAPTER TWO
AN INVITATION
Ava was gone for hours. I was still full from the dinner my anxious parents had pressed on me the night before—and the Christmas treats they’d filled my suitcase with—so I spent the rest of the day unpacking, setting up my laptop, and arranging enough personal items around the room to make it feel a bit more like home. I even did some laundry in the facilities down the hall. The only sour note was that I couldn’t find an iron and had to content myself with pressing my shirts with my palms until they were as smooth as I could make them.
When Ava finally returned, I was curled up in the chair with a book. Plotting world domination with an ancient witch and her master hadn’t left much time for reading and I had a whole stack of novels I couldn’t wait to plow through.
“Hey, miss me?” She tossed her bag across the floor and didn’t seem to mind when it missed the bed and spilled out gym shoes and a wet bathing suit onto the floor. “You should have come over to the gym. It’s the building between us and Stradford. The facilities are pretty good. I thought security would have locked up the pool, but it was open. It was nice to have it all to myself. Whatcha reading?”
I passed her my book, but she took one look at the cover and gave it back. “Love’s Pure Heart—it sounds churchy. If I have to read fiction, it’s got to at least have heaving breasts and throbbing you know whats. You get the picture.”
I laughed. “Vividly.”
Ava started stripping. I could feel my cheeks go warm, but she was staring at me so directly that I couldn’t look away. “Seriously though, is that your thing? Are you, like, really religious or something?”
I started to nod and then stopped myself. “I used to be. Maybe I still am, but I’m not sure how welcome I’d be at church.” I paused. “I’m coming off a bit of a wild phase.” The understatement of the year.
Ava was now rummaging through her closet completely naked except for a lace thong, making me wonder if this was one of the reasons her roommates bolted. The girl didn’t have a spot of cellulite on her thighs and was so lean that the muscles and bones of her back looked drawn on her skin in shades of tan and gold.
I was a little jealous. My flirtation with anorexia—not to mention exsanguination for the Crone’s blood enchantments—had been brought on by an obsessive pursuit of magic. Even now, I was still almost as skinny as Ava, but I’d always been happy with my shape even when it carried five or ten extra pounds of baby fat. What I envied was the strength of Ava’s legs and the flexibility of her long spine. Sometimes I felt so brittle, I thought I might break.
Rhi was just like Ava.
The first time I really noticed Rhiannon Lynne was a few months after Stephen died. My mind had been on a loop, endlessly replaying my brother’s last breaths before he passed away in his own bed surrounded by toy dinosaurs. It wasn’t until I went into his room a few days later and lined them all up three by three, smallest to largest, that my mind could finally rest. But my rituals weren’t my only coping mechanism. I’d crushed on Peter Larsen for years, but after Stephen died, that feeling deepened to love and Peter became the sun I orbited. We went to the same church and I believed it was a spiritual witness that he and I were destined to be together.
But then I saw Rhi, really saw her, and in a cruel irony, it happened at my church. The youth class had just let out and all of us were milling around in the foyer, putting on coats, and waiting for our parents. I was hovering near Peter. I don’t remember what we talked about. I do remember we were laughing. He brushed my arm once with his hand. It seemed accidental, but I knew, the way a girl does, that it was on purpose.
Suddenly, his head jerked up as if he’d been pulled by a string and he turned towards the front doors. Snow swirled outside, but through the glass, I could see a girl with long legs and wild hair the color of hot chocolate and melted caramels. It waved around her in the wind, mingling with the black hair of the woman beside her. They stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the buil
ding as if they didn’t dare step on church property. Peter ran out to them, throwing snow at the girl and chasing her down the parking lot. The woman followed behind slowly. I was forgotten.
It took me a long time to understand that there was nothing romantic between Peter and Rhi. It didn’t help at all. I could see it in his face when he looked at her. I could see it even when he fell in love with someone else. Rhi was everything to Peter. She came first.
“But they can’t, right?”
I looked up and discovered Ava was now fully clothed in black jeans, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, and copper hoops in her ears. An eggplant-colored hobo bag was slung over one shoulder, and an acid green coat hung off the other. Somehow, it all worked.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“They can’t keep you from going to church, no matter what you’ve done, right?”
“I suppose so,” I murmured once I recalled what we’d been talking about.
“Then it’s a question of how comfortable you’d feel there I guess.”
“I guess.”
The girl flashed the wide smile that took her face from interesting to arresting in an instant. “So there’s nothing stopping you from a little sin and depravity New Orleans style, is there.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I guess not.”
Grabbing the book out of my hands, she tossed it across the room. “Then why aren’t you dressed yet, girl?”
There was something about the air in New Orleans—fragrant, spicy, slightly rotten—that was both repellent and intoxicating. It was the only explanation for why I was huddled with Ava against the side of the residence while we waited for the security guard to finish his rounds. The instructions in my orientation packet had made it very clear that students were not to leave the premises at night without clearing it first with Miss Benoit and checking in with security. I’d wanted to do just that, but Ava had assured me that Benoit would never give permission, and she’d gone home for the night anyway.
Sword of Elements Series Boxed Set 2: Bound In Blue, Caught In Crimson & To Make A Witch Page 49
