by Katie Cross
“No.”
“Well, start.”
He laughed, but it dwindled into a bitter scoff. “If it were that easy, I would.”
“I can’t guarantee you that Bianca will be accepted into Mabel’s school. Isadora may see a different path. Besides, Mabel can smell foul play like a fragrance. Regardless of whether Isadora allows Bianca in or not, Mabel will turn her away if she suspects Bianca’s just trying to win her way out of the curse. But maybe Mabel has her own agenda that will work in our favor.”
Derek steepled his hands in front of him.
“You think she’s going to use Bianca as a pawn, don’t you?”
Mildred nodded. “I do. Her grandmother did it to some effect, but Mabel is more clever than May. I think that’s why Mabel continues with the Competition. She wants to weed out the most talented, the most promising, and then use them in her rise to greatness. Among others things.” Her eyes flickered to the door, as if someone lingered behind it. Her voice had dropped slightly.
“Use them how?”
“To kill me.”
Derek studied Mildred’s small eyes. Her aging body possessed such power. She was probably the only witch who could speak of her own murder without blinking an eye. Derek had his own reservations about her suspicions, which she had voiced once to him in the recent past.
“You still believe that’s her plan?”
“Absolutely. She’s been waiting for this opportunity for years. She’s patient, and that’s one of Mabel’s greatest strengths right now. All she needs is for me to die. Then Briton can appoint her as Council Member, at the very least. High Priestess at the most. It’s all quite simple, really.”
“And yet it’s not.”
She nodded once to concede the point. “No,” she agreed. “I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, and she can’t kill me herself and then claim the throne. The magic of the Esmelda scrolls prohibits it.” Mildred eyed him. “Besides, I think I’m not the only witch that she fears getting in her way. She’ll want a backup plan. Bianca could be it if she proves herself clever enough.”
Derek read between the lines, but said nothing. Mabel had good reason to fear him. His neck tightened just thinking about Bianca anywhere near the vile witch. How could he send her right into Mabel’s clutches?
“Are you prepared to see your daughter through this?” Mildred asked.
Derek rose to his feet.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“No.” Mildred picked her quill back up and turned back to her parchments. “Welcome to life. Send Donald in behind you.”
Recognizing a dismissal, Derek turned on his heel. He was halfway to the door when she called out.
“I’ll keep track of the situation, Derek.”
He gripped the doorknob.
“Thank you.”
And so will I, he thought before stepping into the hallway and giving himself to the darkness of transporting.
Great Together
Writing Angelina’s story opened up many facets of May and Mabel that I hadn’t explored before. Exploring new places—and witches—of the Eastern Network was a fun adventure for me, and it helped me set up facets of the upcoming novel from The Antebellum Collection, The High Priestess.
Learning Angelina’s story surprised even me.
Thunder boomed with a reverberating crash through the soggy, black night.
Dazed with hunger, Angelina stumbled up a muddy path and around the back of the old manor to the kitchen door. She rapped three times. Her knuckles smarted. She dropped to her knees, landing in a puddle on the ground. Rain sluiced down her hood, which had long been soaked. Her teeth rattled beneath her chilled lips, tinged with blue. She cradled her pregnant belly with one hand.
Please hurry, she thought. I’m going to faint.
Seconds later, the door opened. A young, friendly witch with puffy hair and concerned eyes peered out. Angelina didn’t recognize her at first glance. Flour streaks littered her apron and the front of her nose. Mother must have hired a new cook in the months she’d been gone.
“Can I help you?” the stranger asked.
Angelina tried to stand, but stumbled, sending a spray of droplets onto the hem of the witch’s dress.
“F-f-food,” she gasped. “I-I’m starving.”
The unknown witch hesitated, as expected. Vagabonds, desperate for work, money, and food in this abysmal Network, wandered through the trees constantly. No doubt hers wasn’t the first knock and plea for mercy on a stormy night. After what felt like an eternity, the witch hooked her arm underneath Angelina’s and pulled her to her feet.
“I’m Celia,” she said. “Who are you?”
The door closed behind them. Warmth wrapped around Angelina like a long-sought embrace.
“A-angelina.”
“Who?”
Angelina swallowed. “May’s daughter.”
Even in the dim light, Celia paled. Her mouth rounded into an O. “What? She has a daughter?”
Angelina’s legs collapsed before she could respond. The room swam. Her ears rang. Celia’s arm tightened around her back, keeping her from crashing to the ground.
“Come to the fire,” Celia said. “We need to warm you up.”
The next hour passed in a strange blur. Celia locked the door to the kitchen with a spell, set water on to boil, and stripped Angelina’s rags free, sending them to a bucket filled with warm, soapy water. Angelina sat naked, wrapped in a thick blanket, before the fire. The baby squirmed inside her, as if it, too, recognized the warmth. Celia handed her a mug of hot broth. The warmth permeated her frozen muscles and bones, restoring her mind. As the blur of hunger and cold began to fade, she stared at the familiar kitchen. The sooty hearth. The wood pile. The old cupboards filled with spices and herbs. A burning curl of fear filled her stomach, thick as lead.
What have I done? Why did I come back?
After a half hour of silence, Angelina spoke first.
“Thank you.”
Celia glanced up from the pile of logs. She sent four more into the fire with a spell and nodded once. In the background, Angelina’s clothes ran up and down the scrubbing board with a spell, cleaning themselves. They twisted together, wringing themselves out, before flying to the other side of the room, where Celia draped them over the back of a chair near the fire.
“I’m going to assume that you and your mother aren’t close,” Celia said, her eyes darting to the door. Her voice lowered. Ah. Celia recognized the darkness in her mother. Not every witch did. Angelina turned away, back to the comfort of the flames.
“No.”
“I’ve worked here three months and she hasn’t once mentioned you.”
The kind uncertainty in Celia’s voice made Angelina’s throat catch. How long had it been since she’d heard a gentle word? How many times had she been turned away, the door slammed in her face, her currency stolen, her face slapped? All because Mother didn’t want her anymore. Everything she suffered angled back to May.
To Mother dearest.
Angelina swallowed. “To May, I don’t exist anymore. She kicked me out before you came.”
“What for?”
A hint of a smile lingered in Angelina’s weary expression.
“Falling in love.”
Silence swelled in the room. Angelina’s mind filled with the warm, enticing memories of her lover at her side. David. His silky, blond hair. Eyes bluer than the summer sky. A soft touch on the back of her neck. Whispered promises in the sweetness of the night. As quickly as the irresistible memories came, a stony recollection replaced them. His pursed lips when she refused him. The burn of his eyes after a bottle of ipsum. The careless flick of his hand as she told him her good news.
I’m pregnant.
I don’t care.
Had it been fate that led her to a witch as conniving as her mother? As if Angelina had clung to her hatred of May so much that she brought her back into her life through David. But she longed for love—thirsted after i
t like a dying wraith. David had been her chance at freedom. Her escape. Until he became his own prison. Under his brutal hand, all dreams of love and home and belonging faded away. Her girlish thinking hardened into the bitter wound of unrequited love. She set her jaw. The pain of David’s betrayal, so fresh, still stung.
Celia sent a pointed glance to Angelina’s belly. “Does she know?”
Angelina closed her eyes. “Not yet.”
“Where’s the father?”
Angelina set aside the empty mug, her stomach growling for more. Celia passed her a piece of bread, which Angelina accepted gratefully. She shrugged. “I’m not sure. He wants nothing to do with me or the baby, which is just as well.” Her lip curled up over her teeth. “He’s a lech.”
Celia swallowed, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck. “May’s not in a very, uh … that is—”
“She’s in one of her moods, is she?” Angelina scoffed, tearing a piece of bread off with her teeth. “Just my luck.”
“I’m not sure what I should do.” Celia twisted her hands together. “I’m not—”
“Don’t worry, Celia. I’ll get this over with now.”
Angelina called for the extra dress Celia had brought with a spell and stood as it neared. Celia tested Angelina’s wet clothes at the fire while Angelina dressed, luxuriating in the fresh cotton.
The broth and bites of bread had restored some of her strength. Although she wanted to eat as much as she could, she’d have to take it easy. She’d hardly eaten in days. Anyway, she couldn’t eat much with this stone of dread sitting in her stomach, rolling around every time she thought of Mother.
Celia stepped forward. “But—”
“No.” Angelina held up a hand. Celia shrank back. For the moment that her voice lingered in her own ears, Angelina heard May in the sharp, commanding tone. It felt good to have power. “I’ll take care of this. You won’t get in trouble.”
Angelina set aside the bread, squared her shoulders, and steeled herself.
Time to face Mother.
When Angelina knocked, her hand trembled.
The cold, she told herself. It must be from the cold. A draft swept down the hallway of the first floor. It surprised her that May hadn’t moved her office upstairs to Angelina’s old bedroom in the attic, where privacy would be absolute. Then again, May could exert far more control down here.
And there was nothing Mother loved more.
A long pause seemed to pass after knocking. The soft shuffle of a dress, an opening drawer, moving papers, all sounded faint in the distance. Just before Angelina knocked again, May’s cutting voice rang through the door.
“What?”
The door creaked as she pushed it open with her fingertips. Angelina stayed just outside, as May had always insisted. If I haven’t invited you in, don’t come in. Dim candlelight cast flickering shadows on the wall. Outside, rain poured down the window in waves. The forest would flood in such a deluge.
May stared at her from where she sat behind her desk, her eyes glittering in a pale, thin face. Plumes of black hair drifted around her neck and shoulders. Her attempts with transformational beauty never resulted in much. The only striking thing about May was her commanding presence.
A sense of heaviness in the air, like a dark magnet, seemed to pull Angelina inside. What was this strange feeling? So leaden. So thick. It pressed on her chest, making her breath hitch, before disappearing with a wisp.
Strange, she thought, tucking it away to understand later. With Mother, nothing was ever what it seemed.
Not a flicker of surprise, excitement, or regret moved into May’s expression as Angelina stared at her. Implacable, as usual. Tonight, it stung deep.
She doesn’t care. She never has. She never will, Angelina thought. You’re a fool to come back.
May returned her attention a scroll in front of her. “You’re letting in the cold air. Either come in or close the door.”
Angelina stepped inside.
May cast her another glance. Her shrewd, calculating gaze slid to Angelina’s belly and quickly looked away. Had there been a flicker of something there? A slight curl of her upper lip, at least.
“Well, the rumors about David leaving you are true. I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
Angelina put a hand on her belly. She bit so hard on the inside of her cheek it nearly drew blood. There would be many more verbal jabs. She only had to endure it until she had the baby, recovered, and could leave again. Assuming Mother would allow her to stay.
Which wasn’t likely.
“Yes, May. David and I are no longer together.”
“I told you he’d drop you.”
Angelina lifted her chin. “I dropped him.”
May rolled her eyes. “Whoever did it first doesn’t matter. You’re pregnant, single, and jobless, I presume? A fitting tribute to your aspirations. I told you that searching for love would end this way.”
How delicious it must be for you to see me fail, Angelina wanted to say. A roiling ball of anger replaced her heart. She nursed it, feeling power in the rage. Hadn’t Mother always done the same? Clung to her anger at Father, who had deserted them—no, he’d deserted May—when Angelina was a small child?
Instead, Angelina said nothing. Desertion by a parent wasn’t the worst fate. Angelina had survived just fine.
May leaned back in her chair.
“Let me guess … you’ve come here to ask for help, to grovel at my feet. Now that you’re desperate and have messed up your entire life, you want Mother to fix it for you. Don’t you? Well, I won’t. Not by a long shot. You’ll have to learn the hard way that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe if you had learned that sooner, we could be having a very different kind of conversation.”
Angelina’s resolve began to dissipate. Perhaps she couldn’t endure this for four more months. Death for both her, and her child, would be preferable to enduring her Mother on a daily basis.
“I simply came for a warm place to stay the night.”
“You could have slept in the kitchen without seeing me.”
“Perhaps I should have.”
May pressed her hands to the top of the desk and stood. “Well, it appears you got what you wanted. Be gone before the girls wake up in the morning.”
Angelina’s burning heart flared with a painful burst of sorrow. No, rage. She shouldn’t have been surprised at May’s cold hauteur. What else had Mother given her in the past?
The final piece of Angelina’s pride crinkled away. She could reduce herself no lower than this in life. Pregnant. Single. Homeless. No currency to even buy a loaf of bread, and swollen with child. Her mother, the only family she had left, refused to soften her plight. The clothes she’d shown up in weren’t even her own. She’d stolen them from a lady wandering along the road, half-crazed with ipsum.
“That’s it then?” Angelina asked.
May pulled a quill from the drawer and lifted the top from an inkwell. Thunder rolled in the background. Bolts of lightning flashed against the backdrop of Letum Wood, illuminating the haunted forest’s outline. Rain lashed the windows and walls.
“That’s it.”
Angelina swallowed. Is this how it had been for father? Had May dismissed him without a single ounce of mercy or compassion? Had Angelina expected welcoming arms? Hoped for them, maybe. Perhaps May was right. Dreaming would only cause trouble.
Angelina placed a hand on her belly.
“You don’t want any part of your grandchild’s life?”
May scoffed.
“You are not my daughter. My daughter would have shown more skill and talent in magical pursuits. My daughter would have been trustworthy. My daughter would not have chased after the foolish notion of love. My daughter would have shown interest in continuing my legacy. In the wake of your failures, I will find my real daughter.” May met her gaze. “You are nothing.”
Oh, Angelina thought with a dizzying rush of hatred. But I have a plan, Mother.
May
continued her work. The bitter smell of ink filled the air. The fire snapped. Angelina hesitated another full minute, just to give May one last chance to make this right. May’s gaze drifted to the bookshelf and back to her desk. The heaviness in the air had eased, making it easier to breathe.
The quill never stopped moving.
I hate her, Angelina thought, curling her fingers into a tight fist. I hate her more than I could have ever imagined. I will become great without her.
Angelina squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t speak with May again.
Not ever.
“Merry part, Mother.”
Three months later, Angelina stared at the manor from the depths of the trees. Her shoulders were gaunt and skinny, her face drawn and pale. Childbirth had a way of leeching the life out of a witch. Maybe even the soul.
The second month of fall unfurled around her with barren trees and the brittle skins of dead leaves. Winter breathed down her neck. Her breath puffed out in clouds. The brittle vines of ivy sweeping across the front of her old home scraped against the stones in the wind. Inside, girls would be scurrying to classes. Breakfast would be warm, plain. The taste of porridge filled her mouth. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her. No food, it seemed to say.
As if on cue, the baby squawked, one scrawny fist flailing around her face. The wind whipped by in a haunting tune. Angelina blinked, feeling every breath rise in and out of her chest. After giving birth by herself in the forest, using a sharp rock to separate herself from the baby, and old rags to keep the child from dying, she imagined she only had a few hours left to live herself.
“You wouldn’t take me,” she said to the old house, picturing May warm and safe in its depths. “So I’ll die in your name. But maybe you’ll take her. And she can be that daughter you would be so proud of.”
Her daughter, a perfect little bundle of toes and fingers and wisps of blonde hair atop her soft head, slept in her arms. She hardly weighed anything and didn’t squall like most babies. The child had blue eyes … but didn’t all babies? Not like these. A bright, vivid blue. Such an odd trait had frightened her at first, but quickly faded into the blur of life. The babe slept restlessly, as if she were vaguely aware that Angelina couldn’t keep her and didn’t mind finding a new mother. She yawned on occasion, her eyes shut against the spiny canopy of Letum Wood above her. It seemed appropriate to leave her nameless.
