The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  ‘Ah,’ Dr. Gimmel sounded crushed. ‘Then there is nothing to be done,’ he said, stepping back a little.

  It was more than Eliza could bear. She had believed she had defeated Gideon by confronting Gresseti, but Mary Kelly still died. She had thought that in Simon she had at last found love, but all she had found was her nemesis. Nausea threatened to undo her as she recalled how she had let him kiss her and touch her, and how close she had come to surrendering herself to him completely. How much she had wanted to. And now she was to lose Abigail. Poor hapless Abigail who had unwittingly played such a vital part in Gideon’s complicated charade. It seemed so unjust. So unfair. As if she had been sacrificed for Gideon’s purposes.

  ‘Dr. Hawksmith’—Roland leaned closer to her—‘the patient has been anaesthetized for some time. Are you ready to complete the procedure?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Dr. Gimmel answered for her. ‘There is little point in subjecting Miss Astredge to further drains on her already weak resources. Additional anaesthesia will not be required.’

  No. I will not let her die. Not like Margaret. I can save her, and I will, whatever the consequences.

  Without responding to Roland or acknowledging Dr. Gimmel’s remark, Eliza gently pushed both her hands through the incision and laid them on Abigail’s liver. She looked down, not daring to risk closing her eyes, not wanting to meet Simon’s increasingly probing gaze. She began to mutter the incantations under her breath. Dr. Gimmel fidgeted but said nothing, plainly expecting her to begin suturing the wound. Roland watched her, waiting for further instructions. Nurse Morrison held the tray of instruments out for her selection. Eliza ignored them. A thin wind began to whine around the operating theater. It gathered force until it moaned about the legs of those present, an eerie, chill breeze that wove its way between the figures but brought with it no new air. It was as if the molecules of the space itself were being agitated and rearranged. The nurse looked about anxiously and instinctively moved farther up the bed to stand closer to Roland. Dr. Gimmel began to exclaim and entreat Eliza to complete her task quickly. Simon stood up.

  Now Eliza raised her head and looked at him levelly. She could feel the substance of Abigail’s internal organ altering beneath her hands. The scarred and pitted tissues were being renewed. Healed. She stared at Simon, daring him to challenge her now, knowing that she would not stop until she was sure of Abigail’s recovery. By using her magic openly in his presence, she was laying herself open to him. So be it. She would not let another innocent person die while it was in her gift to save them. Slowly, with neither anger nor any apparent violence, Simon raised his left hand. When it drew level with Dr. Gimmel’s eyeline, he snapped his fingers. The doctor fell backward with a cry, landing awkwardly in the first row of seats, clutching at his eyes.

  ‘Dr. Gimmel!’ Nurse Morrison quickly placed the instruments on the table and ran to him. When she put her hands over his, she screamed, staggering away from him, staring incredulously at the smoldering burns on her palms. Simon flicked his fingers a second time, and the nurse fell to the ground as if struck. She lay motionless at Eliza’s feet, one of her burned hands coming to rest in the mess of sawdust and blood in the box beneath the table.

  Eliza did not move. She shouted, ‘Run, Roland. For pity’s sake, run from this place!’

  Roland opened his mouth to protest but was too slow. With a flick of his wrist, Simon caused the tray of surgical instruments to rise up and hover above the bed. The steel blades of the scalpels glinted for a second before three of them lifted from the tray, then sliced through the air with supernatural speed. The first pierced Roland’s hand as he flung his arms in front of him in a futile gesture of defense. The second slashed his throat open, and the third embedded itself in his heart as he fell soundlessly to the ground.

  Simon turned back to Eliza. He smiled again, the gentle expression a mad contrast to his evil intentions.

  ‘My dear Bess, does it disturb you to see your beloved Simon behaving in this way? Forgive me.’ He bowed low, swinging his arm in an elaborate gesture. When he straightened up, it was not Simon who stood before Eliza but Gideon. ‘There, is that better? Finally we are come to this point. No more games, Bess. No more running. Just you and I face to face.’

  ‘Stay back,’ said Eliza, using every scrap of courage she had to stop herself from fleeing. ‘Abigail has done nothing wrong. I will heal her. I will not let you stop me.’

  ‘Oh, please, do not trouble yourself on Abigail’s behalf. She is much healthier than you might suppose.’

  Eliza looked at Abigail, willing her not to slip away. Her own heart was in danger of stopping when she saw Abigail looking straight back at her. Her eyes were wide open, and she was watching the procedure with an expression of mild curiosity, nothing more.

  Eliza gasped. ‘Abigail! But you…’

  Simon interrupted, ‘Are a witch, just as you are, Bess.’

  ‘What? No! I don’t understand.’

  Abigail smiled sweetly. ‘Eliza, my dear, do not be cross with me. We can be such friends.’

  Eliza shook her head and tried to wrench her hands from inside Abigail’s body, but they were stuck fast. Abigail began to laugh, a harsh, discordant noise. Her body shook with it, but still Eliza’s hands were trapped.

  Simon began to pace casually around the theater.

  ‘Bess, Bess, Bess. What are we to do with you? You surely did not think I would spend centuries waiting for you entirely on my own, did you? Go on, admit it, you are the tiniest bit jealous, are you not?’ He laughed, then went on, ‘Don’t be, my love. There have been many Abigails over the years. Diverting companions, nothing more. Though this one, I’ll admit, has impressed me with her fine performance as my ailing sister. Congratulations, my dear.’ He nodded politely at Abigail, who blew him a kiss in return.

  Eliza wanted to scream but knew if she gave way to hysteria she would be lost. Without her hands free, she could not use her magic effectively against Gideon. Behind her, Dr. Gimmel moaned and stirred on the floor. Eliza prayed silently for him to keep quiet and stay down. It was only chance that Gideon had not already killed him, and she was powerless to protect him.

  ‘You will never claim me, Gideon,’ she said.

  ‘So stubborn. So defiant. Why do you continue to struggle against your destiny, hmm? You know we were meant to be together, you and I. Think of it. You have tasted the glory of the power of magic in these last few days. You know what life could be, if only you willed it so. Together, you and I would be unstoppable. Unassailable. We would be magnificent.’

  He began to walk around the table toward her. Eliza knew she had to act or she would be lost. But she could not fight him handicapped as she was. If she was not to submit, there was only one option left to her. She twisted round so that she could see Dr. Gimmel more clearly. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. She made herself speak.

  ‘Forgive me, Doctor,’ she said.

  Then, quicker than the eye could record, she vanished.

  Gideon roared.

  ‘Bess! Bess! No!’ His thunderous voice shook the room as he spun about, searching for any sign of her.

  High up near the ceiling, a butterfly flitted silently toward the narrow open window at the top of the auditorium. It paused on the threshold for a moment, its silver spotted wings flashing in a slender sunbeam, and then it continued through the opening and was gone.

  Letter from

  Mrs. Constance Gimmel to

  Professor Salvatores

  My dear Professor,

  Thank you so much for your kind letter. It is a comfort to me to know Phileas is not forgotten among his friends and colleagues. I know that when I communicate your good wishes, they will mean a great deal to him. His condition remains unchanged. Indeed, it has not altered in any significant way since the day he was found so terribly afflicted. I thank God that he was spared at all, given the sad fate of both Nurse Morrison and the junior doctor in attendance. Though of course I find his suffe
ring hard to witness, I am ever hopeful of improvement. The nightmares that had been waking him with exhausting frequency do appear to have abated, which is a mercy. His blindness he bears with fortitude, though I know he grieves for his sight and all the things he can no longer do.

  He talks often of the Fitzroy, naturally, but never of the events of that terrible day. No trace of Mr. Astredge, his sister, or Dr. Hawksmith has ever been found, and the police can give no satisfactory explanation as to what happened. Poor Phileas is unable to do so. Indeed, I doubt he knows himself. I certainly do not see the purpose in pressing him on details. There is nothing to be done, and he finds it so hard to talk of the things that occurred. I know he misses Dr. Hawksmith, and it is regrettable that she cannot be located. I fear the mystery will never be solved, and I must devote my energies to caring for my husband rather than chasing will-o’-the-wisp notions and theories.

  Please remember me to Louisa.

  Your good friend,

  Constance Gimmel

  LITHA

  MAY 12—LUNAR ECLIPSE

  By the time I had finished the story of Eliza, Tegan was properly attentive and bright-eyed. I could see that the tale had once again ignited in her a great curiosity and interest in the idea of magic.

  ‘So she escaped again?’ she asked.

  ‘She did. Just. But she was forced to leave Dr. Gimmel with neither farewell nor explanation.’

  ‘And the others? The nurse and Roland, they died?’

  ‘Yes. There was nothing anyone could do for them.’

  Tegan got out of her chair and began to roam the room, her mind ablaze.

  ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘imagine being able to do magic like that. To heal people. To shapeshift.’ She paused and looked at me. ‘To kill people. It’s powerful stuff. Seriously dangerous stuff.’

  ‘It can be, in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Well, that Gideon sounds like a complete nightmare. But why should Eliza have to run away from him all the time? Why did she have to hide? Surely she could have defeated him if she’d been ready, set a trap or something?’

  ‘Remember, Gideon had been her tutor. He instructed her in the craft. He knew every possible trick or trap. He would have known almost before she did what Eliza was planning. That was why often the only course open to her was sudden disappearance, before he had a chance to stop her.’ I paused to watch her and to give her mind a chance to settle. She continued to question me for some time, until at last I held up my hand and silenced her. ‘I have a question for you now, Tegan,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you ready, are you truly ready to become my pupil and learn the craft? Are you ready to devote time and thought and focus to the quest for magic? Are you ready to make sacrifices, to work hard, to be attentive and studious and serious-minded? Are you ready to protect the knowledge you gain, to observe the ways of the hedge witch, to use what you learn only for good? Are you, Tegan?’

  She stopped pacing and came to stand before me. I stood up. She met my eye unwaveringly and for once did not fidget or gabble or jump like a grasshopper from one thought to the next. She took a slow breath.

  ‘Yes, I am ready,’ she said. ‘I am.’

  ‘Then welcome, Tegan,’ I said, and held out my arms to her.

  She beamed a smile of radiant happiness and flung herself at me. As I held her, I wondered how long it had been since her own mother had embraced her.

  JULY 12—NEW MOON

  It is hard to believe so many months have passed since my last entry. What a summer it has been! I cannot remember a period in my life when I felt so at peace and yet so productive. Tegan has taken to her studies with great enthusiasm, as I think I always knew she would. She devours knowledge the way a starving woman would devour a feast. She has a quick mind and is fearless. Once or twice, I have had to upbraid her for her lack of patience, but then, since this is my own failing too, I am not in a position to be harsh. Her romance continues, but I have not yet been introduced to her lover. It could be that she has taken to heart what I told her about priority and that she does not want the distraction of her man being involved in what we are about here. Or it may be that she has not told him and does not know how to explain. Either way, I am content to have her undivided attention while she is with me. The time she spends elsewhere is not my concern.

  I decided the moment had come to formally initiate Tegan into the craft. I felt the act of dedicating herself to the wiccan way, and the solemnity of the ritual, would help her to take her studies seriously, and to feel that she truly belongs. Although often conducted under a new moon, instead I chose the mead moon of a few weeks ago. This is traditionally seen as a time of metamorphosis, so what better occasion for Tegan’s moment of change, of transformation from girl to young hedge witch?

  We waited until the night had wrapped itself around the landscape and then made our way up to the stone circle in the copse. I had lent Tegan one of my robes, a beautiful garment of heavy silk given me by the members of a coven in Mumbai over a century ago. The sight of her in it quite made me catch my breath.

  ‘Do I look okay?’ she asked.

  ‘You look wonderful.’

  A light blush colored her cheeks. I sensed her nervousness and took her hand.

  ‘Come,’ I said, and led her through the garden and into the copse.

  During the preceding weeks, Tegan, on my instruction, had been gathering items for her charm bag—a seashell from Batchcombe beach, a feather from a young kingfisher, the shell of a wren’s egg, and an empty butterfly cocoon. She had wrapped them in moss, tied them with some strands of her own hair, and put them in the small velvet bag she had chosen for the purpose. When we reached the circle, I bade her place the charms on the flat stone to the east. I lit a candle, which was to burn down completely before the bag was moved. After the ceremony, her charms would become the first part of her own protective wiccan tools.

  Tegan began to pace around the circle, chanting, invoking the spirits of the elements, lighting candles at the four compass points. Her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.

  ‘The witch, the magic, the fire, are one. The witch, the magic, the earth, are one. The witch, the magic, the air, are one. The witch, the magic, the water, are one.’

  I drew her into the center of the circle and banged my staff firmly into the dry ground three times and cried, ‘The circle is sealed!’ I raised my arms. We both turned our faces to a night sky of dazzling clarity and stillness. ‘O Goddess!’ I called. ‘A seeker stands before you. She wishes to join us, to become one with the craft. She is of strong will, clear mind, and open heart. Her soul is free of evil, and she wishes to use the craft only for the good of others. I ask you to hear her. Heal her. Transform her.’ I returned my gaze to Tegan and we joined hands. ‘Recite with me the Rede of the Wicca, child. Speak from your heart. Consider the words as you utter them, and be sure you mean every one.’

  And so we spoke together:

  ‘Bide the Wiccan Law you must, in perfect love and perfect trust.

  Live and let live; fairly take and fairly give.

  Soft of eye and light of touch, speak little and listen much.

  Deosil go by the waxing moon.…’

  I watched as the power and wisdom of the words lit up Tegan’s face, and her grip on my hands became strengthened. When we had finished, I asked her, ‘What is the witches’ creed?’

  She answered clearly, her voice emboldened, ‘To know, to dare, to will, to be silent.’

  ‘Will you abide by these laws?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And will you promise to honor the Goddess, to respect the way of the wiccan, to use the craft only for good, spurning all thoughts of gain or self-aggrandisement?’

  ‘I will.’

  I passed her a new candle of pale purple and lit it for her. She held it aloft.

  ‘Now?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  She took a deep breath and raised her voice to the heavens. �
�I call thee down, dear Goddess! Enter my body. Commune with my soul. Be with me as I take this sacred step into your arms and into the sisterhood of the craft.’

  There was utter silence. Not a leaf moved. Nothing in the woods stirred, neither flora nor fauna. It was as if every single thing held its breath and waited. The flame of the candle Tegan held aloft began to dance and flicker, though there was not the slightest whisper of wind. It grew brighter, bluer, pulsating. It climbed higher, its phosphorescent radiance casting an ethereal glow that filled our circle. By its light I could see the joy and wonder in Tegan’s face. She must have been awed, but she did not falter. Her hold on the candle remained steady. Suddenly, the moment was over, the flame returned to normal, the sounds of the woodlands resumed once more.

  I smiled at Tegan and she beamed back at me.

  ‘Is it done?’ she asked.

  ‘It is.’ I took the candle from her and placed it in the center of the circle. ‘Follow me,’ I told her.

  She stepped carefully over the stones and allowed herself to be led over to the stream and the small consecrated pool.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Look and see your reflection and know that you are looking at a fine young witch.’

  She leaned forward, excitement winning over nervousness, and gazed into the watery mirror. ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘I look the same … but different somehow.’

  I laughed lightly. ‘What had you expected?’