Judith shrank against her mother.
"Please," Abigail begged. "Don't do this."
Hannah Woodcock stepped forward to wrest the baby from the mother's arms. For an instant Abigail held on to her daughter. Then, abruptly, she relinquished her hold and watched while the little girl was set in front of the Inquisitor. She began to wail. Abigail stepped back and raised her arms.
John leaped forward, but two men restrained him, keeping a tight hold on his arms. "For the love of God, Nathaniel," he cried out. "Save them."
Nathaniel's feet were rooted to the floor. Something odd was happening. A suffocating mist rose from the ground. To his incredulous eyes, Abigail seemed to grow taller. Her cap was off and her hair, long and red as living flame, floated about her with a life of its own. She faced the Inquisitor and raised her voice, shouting words that had no meaning. Then she turned on the assembly. Something was in her hand, something pointed and silver. Her black cloak swirled wildly revealing the lining, a flash of flame-red silk. With one hand she pulled at the laces at her throat. The cloak dropped to the floor. She stood before them, men, women and children, a slim, straight woman with wild hair, completely naked with mist curling up her thighs. Nathaniel was sure he heard gasps and murmurs from the men and woman around him, but he paid no heed. For him, there was only Abigail.
From the back of her throat came a whistle, high and wild. It called to him. Disregarding the crowded room, the press of bodies, he made his way toward her. Then came a keening, more animal than human, and words, terrible words, that proclaimed her calling as truly as if she'd flown about the room on a broomstick.
Listen to this spell I weave, take heed in what is told
For your hatred and unkind deeds will return to thee threefold.
By the rise of the next full Moon, a Witch will sit and weep,
For all the sorrow ye have sewn, thee will begin to reap.
Magic take root before my eyes,
See my needs and hear my cries,
Ring out the beauty that lies within,
Start the spell, let the magick begin.
Grant my wish and ye shall see
My intent, my will, so mote it be!
Tongues of lightning darted throughout the room. Arrow-like in their precision, they found their targets. Reverend Parris collapsed with his hand pressed against his chest. Hannah Woodcock screamed, slapping ineffectively at the arc of fire swallowing up the space where she stood. Reverend Mather and Goodman Crane stared, spellbound, at the circles of light, watching in horror as the flames consumed them.
Nathaniel waited no longer. He couldn't see, but it didn't deter him. He clawed his way through mist thick as cotton, toward the voice, toward Abigail.
Later, he would have no memory of how he found her and the child she held close in a strangling grip, how he wrapped the woman in his cloak, grabbed the little girl and ran with them to the waiting Sealark. It was as if the details of the incident had been permanently erased from his mind leaving only a hazy recollection. He would have gone back for the baby, but Abigail restrained him.
"Leave her," she'd said. "Margaret is beyond us now. You cannot help her."
He'd taken a long look at the expression on her face and obeyed.
Chapter 10
Maggie surfaced from the blackness with a strange, bitter taste in her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered. She was so tired. Slowly, she forced them open and looked around. She was still on the couch, but the light coming through the windows was different. It was thin, gray, filtered, with pale slivers piercing the clouds, morning light. She glanced at the clock. There was little point in climbing into bed now.
Lifting Muffin from her lap, she stood, fighting the grogginess that threatened to send her back to the soft comfort of the cushions. No herbal tea this morning. She needed coffee, thick, dark-roasted coffee, enough of it to clear the cobwebs from her brain and raise her energy level to the point where she could clean up and open her shop.
Pushing her hair off her forehead, she made her way to the kitchen, poured cat food into Muffin's bowl and somehow managed her familiar morning ritual, grinding beans, spooning coffee into the filter and pouring water. She waited for the comforting smell of brewing Columbian dark roast to fill the kitchen before she climbed the stairs to shower and change.
"Keep it simple, Maggie," she muttered. "You don't have to think it through yet. Susannah will be here tonight. Just make it through today. Don't think about it." She chewed her lower lip and repeated the words like a mantra. "Don't think about it. Don't think about it." The heaviness lifted. "Don't think about it. Don't think about it." She felt better. Pulling off her clothes, she stepped into the shower and lifted her face to the fine spray. Today there would be customers. Today she would welcome their questions, engage them in conversation. Today she would extend herself. And when they were gone she would look through the catalogs, making notes in the columns until Susannah came. It was important to stay busy, to keep her mind occupied, to steer clear of the mental images invading her mind.
Later, after fortifying herself with two healthy-sized mugs of coffee, she stared at the clock, glanced at the unusual amount of foot traffic on the street, shrugged and turned the OPEN sign around an hour earlier than she'd planned.
Almost immediately, the chime sounded and a small, slim figure dressed in plaid, her gleaming brown hair pulled back with a bow, walked through the door. "I waited and waited for you to open," the girl said. "I came to see your cat."
Maggie laughed. "You must be Holly."
"And you're Maggie. Is it okay if I call you that? My dad said to ask you."
"Perfectly okay. Muffin is in her usual place, on the chair sound asleep."
The little girl's face clouded. "When will she wake up?"
"She spends most of the day sleeping, but don't let that bother you," Maggie assured her. "She loves attention. It's okay to wake her. Come with me. I'll introduce you."
True to form, Muffin yawned and stretched, but did not protest when she was scooped from the couch and cuddled against the little girl's chest.
Holly, crooning nonsense syllables, rubbed her cheek against the sleek head. Within seconds a deep purring sound rose from the cat's throat.
"Goodness, you certainly know what you're doing," said Maggie. "I've never seen her so comfortable with a stranger."
"I love cats," Holly explained. "I like dogs, too, but there's something about cats."
Maggie folded her arms. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"
"It's a late start day. The teachers have a meeting so I go in later." Holly looked around. "This is a cozy place."
"Thanks. I've been working at it."
"Dad says you're opening a natural medicine shop."
"It's not medicine, exactly. I sell all kinds of natural remedies, but I'm not a doctor, so I don't prescribe. People have to know what they want."
"I always know what I want."
"Really?" Maggie didn't have much experience with nine-year-olds, but she was sure this one wasn't typical. "What do you want?"
Holly grinned, exposing the gap where her two front teeth should have been. "I'd like some hot chocolate, please, and then, if you don't mind, I'd like to babysit your cat."
Maggie moved in the direction of the kitchen. "That's an easy enough wish to grant, as long as it's okay with your dad."
"He said I could come as long as you're not busy, and you're not, are you?"
Maggie would have wiped her calendar clean to erase the apprehensive look from the little girl's face. "Not at the moment," she said gently. "Can I interest you in a few cookies to go with your hot chocolate?"
"Yes, please."
In the kitchen, Maggie poured milk into a saucepan and added chocolate syrup. Holly Hillyard had beautiful manners. Was that Scott's influence or Penny's? Whoever deserved the credit had done a wonderful job. Their daughter was charming. Maggie chuckled. She heard snippets of conversation coming from the living room.
&nb
sp; Holly was talking to the cat, carrying on a serious nonstop monologue with an unresponsive Muffin who, more than likely, was stretched out with her stomach exposed and her eyes closed.
Maggie arranged cookies on a dessert plate and carried it, and the hot chocolate, into the living room. True to form, Muffin was asleep in the little girl's lap.
"You have a nice house," Holly said looking around. "It looks different than it did before."
Maggie sat beside her on the couch. "Did you know the people who lived here before me?"
"There was only one person. She was a witch."
Maggie willed herself not to laugh. "Really?"
Holly nodded. "My dad said there isn't any such thing, but she told me she was, and I believed her." She looked thoughtfully at Maggie. "What do you think?"
"About what?"
"Do you believe in witches?"
Holly's eyes were a deep, fog-drenched gray and just now they looked at her as if her answer was of paramount importance. What did one say to a nine-year-old child that would be honest but not brutal, neither condescending nor skeptical, but something that her parents would approve of?
"That depends, I suppose, on your definition of a witch. I don't believe in magic or spells and potions. I do believe that some people know more about nature than others. Some of those people call themselves witches. Their real name is Wiccan or wise one."
Holly tilted her head. "How come you know so much about them?"
"I'm an amateur when it comes to witches. Before I moved here I knew nothing at all."
Holly reached for a cookie and bit into it. "Did you make these yourself?"
"I did."
"They're good."
"Thank you?"
"Can I tell you something personal?"
Once again, Maggie fought back laughter. Holly Hillyard obviously spent a great deal of time observing adults. "Go ahead."
"I've never seen anyone with eyes like yours."
"Neither have I."
"Where did you get them?"
"I don't know, Holly. People usually inherit their coloring from their parents, but I never knew mine. I was adopted."
The little girl had stopped chewing. She appeared deep in thought. Finally she spoke. "My eyes aren't like my mother's or my dad's. But I don't think I'm adopted. Everyone says I'm just like my dad, except for the eyes, of course.
This time Maggie allowed herself to laugh. "I'm sure you're not and, yes, you're very like your dad."
"Is it hard to be adopted?"
"No, but it would have been nice—"
"Anybody here?" The voice came from the shop.
Holly sighed. "That's my dad. He probably wants me home now." Carefully, she removed the cat from her lap. "We're in here, Dad," she called out.
Scott's lanky form appeared in the doorway. "Good morning, Maggie. How are you?"
"I've been having an interesting conversation with your daughter about genetics."
He laughed and walked into the room to stand beside Holly, resting his hand on her head. "I can only imagine. She wanted to come over, just for a minute, to say hello. I'm sorry if she's taken up your time."
"Dad, she invited me to stay. She wanted me." Holly turned, hands on her hips and appealed to Maggie. "Didn't you, Maggie?"
"I certainly did. We've had a lovely time." Keeping a straight face, Maggie looked at Scott. "Can I interest you in a cup of tea? I picked up some Lipton last night."
His eyes twinkled. "I have to drive Holly to school, but I'll take a rain check, particularly since you bothered to stock up on Lipton."
"You're on." Maggie stood. "Thanks for stopping by, Holly. Come over any time. Muffin loves you. I'll know who to ask to babysit when I go on vacation."
Scott groaned. "I thought something like this might happen. Did I tell you I might be acquiring a cat allergy?"
"That's odd," Maggie bent her head allowing the burnished curtain of hair to swing over her cheek. "The last time you were here, you didn't show any symptoms at all."
"It's one of those cumulative things. You never know when it'll hit in full force."
The furrow on Holly's small face deepened. She turned troubled eyes on her father. "You're not telling the truth."
He gave up. "No, I'm not."
Maggie laughed. "Given that you have your own live-in conscience, I won't take issue with you. We'll work out the babysitting. Besides, I just got here. I don't have plans to leave anytime soon."
"How are things going?"
"I really can't say yet," Maggie admitted, "but I'm okay for quite some time, thanks to my mother. I can afford to wait for business to pick up." She glanced at the clock. "I should be getting back."
"We'll leave you alone." Scott ruffled Holly's hair. "It's time for school anyway." He smiled at Maggie. "Call if you need anything. I'm off at five today. If you're free, you're welcome to stop in for a bite to eat. I'm picking up take-out from Mama Leone's."
Holly clapped her hands. "Please come, Maggie."
"I'd like to," Maggie replied with real regret, "but I'm having company. Another time?"
"Another time," Scott assured her. He guided his daughter toward the door.
Maggie followed them into the shop and waved goodbye. Tiny tongues of envy flickered through her brain, not for the man or the child, but for their togetherness, their taken-for-granted belonging, the closeness of their unity. She shook it off and busied herself alphabetizing the books on her shelf. I'm lucky, she reminded herself. I'm doing exactly what I've always wanted to do.
But you're doing it alone, a voice in her head reminded her. "So what else is new?" she muttered.
Chapter 11
Susannah Davies glanced briefly at the Nature's Way sign that hung over the door of Maggie McBride's fledgling business and, without hesitating, proceeded to the rear entrance and rang the bell. It was seven o'clock, the night was moonless and pale clouds chased each other across a black sky. Through the windows yellow light rimmed the curtains now pulled against the bleak winter weather. She hoped there would be a fire, not one of those gas log variations that gave off superficial light and no heat to speak of, but a real one with orange flames that leaped and crackled and threw shadows against the walls, one that would warm her back and sear her toes if she sat too close.
Footsteps sounded behind the door and then it opened. Maggie, her red-brown hair loose around her face, motioned her inside. Susannah looked around, noting with pleasure the greenery, the wood floors, cozy rugs and the colorful arrangement of sofa, chairs, pillows and books. The young woman had taste. But of course she would.
On the table separating the chairs and sofa, a tea tray complete with cloth napkins, a white ceramic pot, two cups and saucers, cookies and a loaf of some kind of sweet bread tempted her. In the corner, as expected, sat the spinning wheel, the gleaming wood a testimony to its condition, the treadle and spindle in place, primed for use. Annie McBride had proved worthy of the trust she'd inherited.
Without waiting for an invitation, Susannah sank gratefully to the couch, reached for a napkin, bit into a slice of bread and moaned with pleasure. "Delicious," she said. "This is homemade. You can cook and you're not afraid of butter."
"Not yet," Maggie admitted. "The day may come." She sat on the chair and curled one leg beneath her.
"But, hopefully, not anytime soon." Susannah tilted her head and studied the younger woman's face. The tight look around her eyes, evident the day before, was even more pronounced. "Has something happened, Maggie?"
Maggie poured two cups of tea and handed one to Susannah. "I had a rough night. The episodes I told you about are getting stronger."
"Are you making sense of them?"
Maggie shook her head. "I seem to be going backwards."
"Are there any consistencies?"
"The same woman is in all of them."
"Can you describe her?"
Maggie looked away. "Not really," she lied.
Susannah sipped her tea, chose a co
okie from the tray, leaned back against the cushions and looked around approvingly. There was a fire, a real one, and books, lots and lots of books. The spinning wheel, an empty weasel and a low stool occupied the space directly in front of the hearth, the warmest spot in the room. "Will you go the distance?"
Maggie noticed, once again, the odd intonation of her words. "I beg your pardon?"
"If I help you, will you finish it?" She rotated her hands, as if the circling movement would propel Maggie toward understanding her meaning. "Will you finish what you started?"
"Why else would I have asked you to help me?"
"There will be surprises. There always are. Everyone who begins a search such as yours has expectations. Reality rarely measures up. Have you considered that?"
"I have no choice," Maggie reminded her. "Whatever is happening to me can't continue. I won't live this way."
Susannah reached out and turned the spinning wheel. "This is really lovely, so old and in such good condition. Wheels like this are unusual, especially when they have a treadle. I'd say this one is seventeenth century and treadles weren't used until that time."
"It's wasted on me."
"Really? How long have you had it?"
"It was my mother's. She left it to me. In fact, she was really specific about my taking it. I'd love to learn to spin."
Susannah smiled. "This is as good a time as any to start. Come," she motioned to Maggie. "Sit here, on the stool. We'll start with terminology."
Maggie complied. She was comfortable on the small stool with her legs on either side of the wheel. She sat like this often, imagining what it must be like to spin, to feel the puffy wool between her hands, its airy fullness magically narrowing, tightening, lengthening.
Fine and thin and looking much older than her face, Susannah's hands traced the delicate spokes of the wheel, attaching a leader thread to the bobbin of the wheel, around the hooks of the flyer and through the orifice of the spinning wheel, speaking as she worked. "We'll start with the largest groove first," she said. "It's important to maintain a slow even treadling. It allows the spinning wheel to draw the roving onto the bobbin. Notice that the fiber is being drawn from my hand through the orifice on to the bobbin. At the same time I'm drafting, pulling out the fiber until it's nearly transparent. That makes the yarn thin and consistent as it twists together." Susannah closed her eyes and mumbled something under her breath. It sounded like a chant.
Witch Woman Page 9
