Under Her Spell

by Bridget Essex

  “It said in the book that Giene was a knight—so this is probably our Giene? The one that was mentioned there?” asked Bridey, chin in hands.

  Isabella nodded miserably. “How can we possibly help this ghost—Bryn?” she asked, drawing the obvious question into the circle of women. It lingered between them for a long moment, soft and sad and unanswered.

  “Well,” said Pye, folding her hands on the table, tapping her fingers together. “I should think it would be obvious.”

  The other witches stared at her, blinking.

  “Find Giene,” she said simply.

  ---

  It was almost sunset. Almost sunset on the second day of Imbolc, the vigil night drawing closer. From dawn until dusk spent in prayer and laughter and devotion…and Isabella couldn’t imagine it, remaining all evening and early morning until sunrise in one room, because her skin itched, and she desperately wanted to go outside and walk forever. She was so restless, it hurt.

  So she did the only thing she knew to do. As Pye and Bridey and Tabby prepared for the vigil, as Emily washed her face in the bowl in their room, as the day drew down to its close, Isabella went to the sanctuary of Lunarose Abbey.

  There was no one there yet, of course. The vigil had not yet begun, and the sanctuary was as still as a night sky. There were many pillows scattered over the floor, and small tables that held new candles, and there was space for singing and dancing by the far wall. Everything was prepared. The scent of the incense that they’d burned earlier to consecrate the sanctuary tickled her nose, the good herbs and precious things ground and burned in offering to the world goddess.

  Isabella wandered to the center of the room, glancing up at the magnificent stained glass window that watched over the sanctuary. Upon it, Cordelia held an armful of snow-white roses, gazing down at her with a mixture of kindness and deep love.

  Isabella felt all of the memories of her prayers press against her warmly. All of the Isabellas that had gone before her on this night, and all of those that would come on all of the future Imbolc nights, for a moment, seemed to be standing with her, beneath that stained glass window. Her feet were upheld by the one special stone she’d always found to stand on, the one that looked a little like a funny face (childhood Isabella had thought, and adult Isabella couldn’t quite disagree). She cleared her throat, the sound echoing back to her through the chamber.

  “Goddess...” Isabella breathed. “Lady, I don’t know what to do,” she whispered into the stillness, hands curled into fists at her sides. “I want to help this ghost. Bryn. I want to help Bryn desperately. But I don’t know what to do. Please…I ask for clarity.”

  The room was so still, she held her breath.

  The witch closed her eyes and listened.

  Whispers. Stones settling against stones in minute ways. Winter wind against the glass. A crow screaming outside. Footsteps against wooden floors. Hushed murmurs. A kiss.

  Deeper.

  Bread in a basket against a wrinkled apple. A cloak drawn closely about a form. Boots against snow.

  Isabella's eyes flew open, and she breathed out in a rush, running to the window and peering through the clear bit of glass in the corner.

  Far below, Sophia walked among the trees, away from the abbey, a basket on her arm.

  Isabella’s heart thundered. What was Aunt Sophia doing, this close to the time of the vigil, the vigil which Sophia must lead in front of everyone? Why was she leaving the abbey? She had been so strange this morning… None of it made sense.

  Isabella turned on her heel so quickly she almost toppled and raced through the sanctuary, through its wide double doors, down the corridors and out the front door of the abbey, cloakless in the crisp winter air that stole into her lungs like fire, burning all the way down. But she turned and kept running down the hill, following the direction Sophia had taken.

  Her lungs burned too much to pause and call out to Sophia; she’d just catch up with her and ask her what was going on. Yes. That’s exactly what she’d do. But as the darkness descended further, as the cold began to gnaw at the witch’s skin and hands and face, and Isabella followed her aunt’s footprints on the treacherous path behind the abbey, down, down, leading forever down, she doubted the wisdom of this plan.

  And then she heard the soft shush of the surf, the whispering of the sea.

  Isabella had thought her aunt was headed in the direction of the sea path, down to the shore, taking the only safe trail down the cliff faces to the ocean below. But it was such a long path, and such a treacherous climb back up, and this close to nightfall? Sophia hadn’t carried a broom with her, so…

  Isabella paused for a moment, her hand against her heart as she glanced down at the path, stretching in a dangerous slope away from her, and her aunt, so small and already so far down, so far away.

  Sophia didn’t want to be seen. That’s the only reason Isabella could think of that her aunt would forego the relative safety (and almost instantaneousness) of hopping on a broom and landing on the shore, when compared with the climb down the cliff face.

  Isabella moved forward, chasing after her aunt, then, something turning over and over in her heart. She remembered, once, trying to follow her aunt this way when she was small. Why did she remember that, close to twilight, her aunt had put her to bed early, and out the window, Isabella had seen her climb down to the ocean? She remembered thinking that Sophia must be in love with a merman. She’d even had a dream where Sophia was carried away in the arms of a fish-tailed gentleman, down to the bottom of the sea.

  Well, if there was a merman waiting to embrace her aunt, Isabella would turn around and tiptoe cautiously and carefully back up the path to the abbey and give them both a little well-deserved privacy.

  But Isabella had a hunch that there was no merman below.

  It was so bitterly cold, climbing down the path, the wind buffeting her back and forth, blowing against her skin with icy breath. Isabella’s teeth chattered so painfully that she just clenched her jaw, hiding her hands in her skirts that were pulled this way and that by the insistent, howling winds.

  But her aunt had reached the shore now and was walking over the sands as quickly as she could, aiming toward the far edge of the beach, the sea caves just visible from this high up.

  Isabella hurried herself along, slipping and sliding and grumbling to herself some very choice expletives until she noticed a shortcut ahead of her. The path she was on snaked along like a repeating “S” because it was such a steep cliff face, and this made it bearable. But it wasn’t so very steep, and here was a line from one rounded curve of the “S” immediately beside the next one. It was just a single step, and while the other curves involved rocks and unclimbable slippery bits, this looked practically safe in comparison.

  Her aunt was too far ahead of her. She’d lose her, and there was this feeling in her gut that she must not lose her, that what lay ahead was important.

  So Isabella stepped off the cliff path.

  And, of course, she lost her footing.

  The witch wasn’t quite certain what was up or what was down, and she was too jarred and jolted to use any magic to help her stop, so Isabella fell quite a fair bit until she was stopped by a rock against her shoulder.

  Something was broken somewhere in her leg region. Possibly several somethings. So the cry that came from her mouth wasn’t a conscious thing, more akin to a wounded animal's scream.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she heard, far distant, and then the sound of someone running—two someones. Isabella’s head spun so much that, for a moment, she wondered why the sky rolled and spat up shells, and then she was lying down upon the sand in someplace a little darker, though she could never have told you how long she lay against the rock that had stopped her shoulder, moaning like a dying animal.

  “She’s broken her leg. And some of her ribs. Oh, goodness—”

  This was Aunt Sophia’s voice. She was almost certain of it.

  “And I think some of her foot… Oh, god
s…”

  But then she heard something else. Something that was, in fact, very much not Aunt Sophia. A limb, scraping across rock.

  Isabella tried very hard to open her eyes—and succeeded.

  Aunt Sophia hovered over her, as nervous as a bird whose children are just beginning flight lessons (and Isabella had almost flown), but behind Aunt Sophia was a hulking shadow that made Isabella breathe in and out, staring as she shook.

  It was overly tall, desperately pale, with long, lanky blonde hair. Its face was as haggard as an old man’s, but it wasn’t a man… It was a woman, or, at least, Isabella thought so. But the woman was all wrong—her nails were black, her eyes were black, her skin was as pale as a cadaver’s, and her gums were black as she opened her mouth hideously wide, pointing to Isabella.

  Isabella tried to crawl away from it—her—but screamed again in pain, collapsing back on the sand beneath her. She was in one of the sea caves, she realized dully.

  “Don’t be afraid, darling… Please don’t be afraid. You’ll upset her,” said Aunt Sophia then, voice gentle, pleading.

  “What is she?” Isabella managed through gritted teeth, the waves of pain so absolute and nauseating she felt blackness begin to steal along the corners of her eyes.

  “Well,” said Sophia slowly. “This is the knight Giene.”

  And then Isabella did black out.

  *

  Changing.

  …wandering through the halls with skin as white as a flurry of snow, eyes dark and seeking. The Liminal did not belong to this world, and they didn’t belong to the next. They had destroyed their souls, and no god would have them, and the earth would not take them, either.

  Shifting.

  But tonight… Tonight, all was quiet and soft and lovely. Giene was in her room, in Bryn's arms, and for tonight, the lovers came together, their hearts aching and beating so fast, kisses exchanged, skin tasted and touched and worshiped.

  Two halves of a whole.

  Waking.

  *

  Isabella gasped for air, feverish as the pain beat through her again. Aunt Sophia was still there. The sun was still setting outside.

  The Liminal stood in the doorway of the sea cave, staring down at Isabella as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “You’re Giene,” said Isabella, struggling to rise, stomach heaving as the pain ate her up in gigantic mouthfuls. She gasped again, trying to sit up on her hands but toppling over to the side.

  “I think you broke one of your collarbones, too,” said Aunt Sophia, fretting at her as she tried to help Isabella lay down. “I wanted you to come around before I went to get the broom and one of the healers—”

  “Aunt Sophia, listen to me,” Isabella gasped through the pain. “I know who this is!”

  “Do you, Isabella?” said Sophia, mouth in a firm, hard line. “Do you know what she did for Lunarose?”

  Isabella stared at her aunt helplessly, as if seeing her for the first time.

  “When the abbey was being built, there was a great battle at its door for control of this part of the land,” said Sophia softly, urgently. Isabella nodded. She knew this part—they were taught it every year in school. “The Elkans wanted this harbor to create a great fishing port. The priestesses had been called by the goddess to build a temple here, and they had bought the land fairly. But the Elkans took everything by force, so the priestesses of Lunarose hired a small army to protect them…knowing it would probably fail. Giene led the army, and she fell in love with the head abbess, and when the Elkans were descending, ready to loot and topple and destroy Lunarose, Giene did the only thing she knew to do to save her sweetheart… She used her soul’s energy to bewitch the Elkans so that they would wander away from the abbey and never come again. But she’d used her soul, and she had become a...a Liminal.”

  Isabella stared at her aunt, her heart knocking against her ribs.

  “And to save the head abbess from even further heartache...she was told that Giene had died. But she loved Giene too much to live without her and…she killed herself.” Aunt Sophia massaged her temples. “Giene gave everything for the abbey, for her love, and then her love died, anyway. Do you understand? She is a Liminal. The lost. Forever. And she couldn't save the woman she loved most.”

  Another wave of pain moved through Isabella, and she gasped, shaking her head. “I’ve met Bryn—the head abbess. Her ghost,” said Isabella through gritted teeth. “She’s searching for Giene.”

  At the sound of Bryn, the Liminal scrambled closer to the two of them, black eyes wide. Giene moved like a sick animal, scrambling and crawling on all fours too quickly, listing to the side as she stood still beside Isabella and Sophia, listening.

  “I saw Bryn,” Isabella told her quietly.

  A single tear traced down the gray-white skin of the Liminal’s face, and she turned away, scuttling to the far wall, where she made herself as small as possible, curling up, holding her head in her hands and rocking back on her heels.

  “She...can’t speak?” asked Isabella, and Sophia tiredly shook her head.

  “I have taken care of her, as did the head abbess before me, and the head abbess before her—all down the line. Everyone at the abbey knows about her, but most people fear the Liminal. And with so many guests here, we don't want to frighten them…" She spread her hands helplessly. "That’s why she’s down here.”

  “But the ghost, Bryn—”

  “Bryn didn’t know Giene hadn't died, had only gone Liminal. Only.” Sophia barked a laugh and shook her head. “Giene's soul is gone. She will never find eternal rest. Bryn searches for what is no longer there.”

  “But…but Bryn's been coming to us. To Emily and me. She wants us to help her find Giene. We could bring them together… They could be together, Aunt Sophia.” Isabella huffed a breath.

  “Darling, you broke a lot of bones. You’re not making sense,” said Sophia, beginning to rise. “I have to go get that broom…”

  “No, listen to me,” said Isabella, huffing out. “We can bring them together! They can find peace!”

  “How, Isabella?” said Sophia, shaking her head. “The Liminal cannot step upon sanctified ground. The abbey is sanctified. The ghost cannot leave the space she’s trapped within. All of the ghosts in the abbey are trapped within the abbey. They can literally never be together.”

  “But there must be some way…” said Isabella, closing her eyes. “It's too heartbreaking otherwise. There must be some way.”

  “I’m going to go and get the broom for you, my darling. You’re perfectly safe with her here, I promise,” said Sophia, standing and placing her hands on her hips. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can…” She leaned down and kissed Isabella’s brow and turned to the Liminal, pressed, still, against the stone wall. “Giene, this is my niece, Isabella,” said Sophia softly, kindly. “Please watch over her while I get help…”

  And then Sophia was gone, out of the cave and along the shore.

  Isabella tried to sit up and cried out again. Almost instantly, the Liminal was beside her, holding out her hands to Isabella, eyes wide, mouth open again, her gums blackened, her tongue the color of night. Isabella breathed in and out, biting her lip against the pain as gently, gently, Giene helped her to a sitting position, her back against a rock.

  “Bryn came to me…” said Isabella, gripping the Liminal’s hand, then. Giene stayed very still, looking into Isabella’s face, searching, but then made a grunt, disentangling herself from the witch’s fingers, shaking her head.

  “She longs for you,” said Isabella through tears. She brushed them away, kept speaking. “She searches for you, every day. She…” Isabella stared at the Liminal for a long moment, Giene staring back. “She tries to bring you roses…” Isabella trailed off.

  Two halves of a whole.

  Two halves.

  Isabella pressed her hands down against the sand as something came to her.

  “You…you don’t have a soul,” said Isabella softly, carefully, “but I kno
w a wandering soul that would love to possess you. Giene, are you very strong?”

  The Liminal, thin and wan and ghost-like herself, nodded.

  “Do you think,” said Isabella, swallowing around the pain. “Do you think you could carry me?”

  Giene gazed out the mouth of the sea cave, up to the visible spires of the abbey.

  “Not inside the abbey,” promised Isabella. “Please. I have an idea.”

  When Giene picked Isabella up, it was excruciating, pain lancing through every bit of her, and she cried out as the Liminal tried to balance her in wasting arms.

  “No, no, it’s all right,” said Isabella through gritted teeth. “Keep going…”

  And Giene did. Slowly, carefully, she traversed the sand and up the cliff face, taking the snaking loops of the path with care.

  Isabella hoped, for both of their sakes, that her idea had merit. If the folk at the abbey saw a Liminal, there was no telling what their fear might make them do. Isabella closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing through the pain as she thought about what happened when Nadine had become Liminal: the quarantining, the panic among the Academy students and staff. People knew exactly what it took to become a Liminal, knew that it wasn’t catching, but still they feared an undead thing. And Isabella could understand that—she’d been afraid when she first saw Giene herself.

  But this was important. Bryn was in agony, a tortured existence of wandering halls, looking for a beloved she would never find. That was a agonizing existence for even the worst and most hateful of people, but Bryn had been head abbess, had dedicated her life to serving love and kindness.

  Isabella did the only thing she could do, then. She prayed.

  “Lady,” she mumbled through the searing white heat of her pain, “please let this be what you meant when I followed my aunt. Please let this be the right thing to do.”

  Somehow, impossibly, they were up on the flat ground beside the abbey. Overhead, Aunt Sophia flew on her broom over the trees not spotting them and down, toward the sea and the cave. She’d find out soon enough that they had left, and Isabella could only imagine her reaction, then.