by Jane Charles
“That she is,” Mrs. Small confirmed. “Of course, she’ll deny it with her dying breath, but she is one just the same.”
His friend eyed the housekeeper skeptically. “How do you know?”
“Dear boy, Brighid Glace and her female ancestors have always been witches, and healers, so don’t get strange ideas in your head.” Mrs. Small picked up the candle and began walking up the stairs. “She is good and don’t you ever forget that; nothing like your great grandmother.”
Blake’s stomach churned. Not just with concern over Miss Eilbeck. At some point, he’d have to face Brighid and admit that he did in fact suspect her of being a witch.
“This has to work.” Brighid dusted off the crystal and placed it in the one small window, chastising herself the entire time. Her mother had told her over and over that the crystal must sit in the window each full moon to gather energy to be of any use. Right now there was only the sun, and the crystal had sat in the trunk for well over a decade. It might take days to warm it and they didn’t have that kind of time.
Samhain was only three days away. If Callie wasn’t rescued before the sun’s rising on the first of November, she would be lost to them forever. Brighid would not be able to live with herself if she didn’t use everything in her power to bring her friend back.
Power. Why had she denied it for so long? Why had she pretended that it didn’t exist? Her mother had embraced hers, but it scared Brighid. She’d tried for so long to reject what she was and because of that, she may not be able to save her friend.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she swiped them away to better read the words in the ancient tomes. She had lost Blake or soon would. She couldn’t lose her friend as well.
Why didn’t the words make sense? It was if she was trying to read a foreign language. Squiggles and lines ran together. These books should tell her what to do, but she couldn’t read them. With a frustrated cry she slammed the book closed and turned to see what else she could use.
The glass she retrieved from the trunk lay in the center of the table. Only fog. She wiped and wiped but the glass would not clear. She would never see a vision through the mist.
Fighting the urge to fling it across the room, she placed it back on the wooden block, taking deep gulps of breath, trying the calm her racing heart.
Mrs. Routledge was a formidable witch, one her great-grandmother had feared. Brighid was not equipped to go against her, especially not when her magic was weak from going unused.
If she had practiced, as her mother insisted, she would be able to see Callie. She’d know what to do. She’d be able to read the blasted words in the books.
At the pounding on the door, her head jerked up. Blake was back. She could not let him see her this way. Though a small part of her heart held out hope that he could look past this, her head knew the truth and she could not bear to see the horror and disgust in his eyes.
“Open the door, Brighid,” he shouted.
She swiped more tears and tried to ignore his shouts.
”We need your help,” he called.
She was helping. The best way she knew how. No amount of searching the castle grounds would locate Callie. They would all be better served to be on their knees in prayer.
Brighid fingered the cross at her neck and offered a quick prayer for Callie and for herself.
The sound of keys rattling on the other side of the door caused her to drag in a breath. The only other person with a key to this room was Mrs. Small. Surely the woman wouldn’t enter without permission, knowing she was in here. Not only was it not done, it was forbidden and had been from the time the first stone was laid to the herbarium. Mrs. Small could only come in here if there was an emergency that required the healing herbs.
Her breaths came quick as the lock clicked and the door slowly opened.
Oh, God, Blake could not see her like this. He just couldn’t.
The door opened fully and he stepped inside.
“We need you, Brighid.”
She gulped, staring at him. All of her dreams just shattered. “I’m doing what I can.”
He glanced about the room. His gaze first resting on the ball in the window, then the mirror on the table and finally the books spread out before her. “I can see you are,” he said gently.
“Please, go away.” A sob broke from her lips, and Brighid brought a fist to her mouth. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
He smiled gently. “Crying? Or using your gifts?”
She turned her head, unable to look at him any longer. He knew the truth and there was nothing she could do to deny what he clearly saw with his own eyes. “You must hate me now. Please go.”
She didn’t look but she knew he was still there. The sound of his footsteps moved closer and closer. Why must he do this? Did he have to look her in the eye when he condemned her?
Blake placed a finger beneath her chin, forcing her face to him. “How can I hate you when I am so very much in love with you?”
What was he saying? “You would have nothing to do with me if I was a real witch. You said so yourself.”
“A part of me always knew you were one.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Yet, I still love you.”
It was as if a light opened inside of her. Warmth swept through her body, lightening her soul. Blake leaned forward and before she could prepare, his lips touched hers. Their breaths mingled as he molded his mouth against hers. The room charged with energy, wind rushed about them and every part of her being came alive.
When he broke away from her, Brighid stumbled back, grasping the table to hold her upright. She had difficulty catching her breath, but it was if she had come to the end of a long race, and won. She glanced around the room. The crystal began to lighten, the mirror no longer fogged. She grabbed a book and read. The words were now clear.
Blake grabbed the wooden table to steady himself. That kiss was more than anything he could have ever imagined. It was magical. Blood pounded in his head and he was slightly dizzy.
As his head began to clear, he focused on the woman before him. He always believed Brighid to be enchanting, but she truly was magical. “Can you find Miss Eilbeck?”
Her eyes met his and there was deep concern in those grey depths. “I will do everything I can to bring her back, but I fear making a promise.”
“What do you need me to do?” Brighid should not be alone in this, yet he had no idea how he could be of service. If it was only to stand by her side and hand her herbs, he would do so.
She bit her bottom lip and looked at the books. “I am not certain yet. I need to read.”
“Then I shall help you.” He grasped a book and pulled it toward him. There was nothing but scrawls and lines. “How can you read this?”
A small smile pulled at her lips. “I couldn’t until you kissed me.” She placed a delicate hand against his cheek. “I believe you brought me my magic, Blake Chetwey.”
As much as she craved to give herself over to Blake’s arms and wish everything else away, she could not. She was charged with a task whether she asked for it or not. “We need tea,” she offered brightly, no longer willing to let Blake see how much she feared failure. She must call upon all she knew, and those of the past, to guide her through the next trying days. If only there were someone who was also magical or had a connection to the spirits, but it fell to her to do what must be done and Brighid had never been more frightened in her life.
“I’ll summon the cook or one of the maids.”
“No!”
Blake stiffened at her outburst and narrowed his eyes, waiting for her explanation.
“Could you please go to the kitchen and bring back a kettle of water?”
He gave her an odd look, then did as she asked while she gathered the herbs most likely to assist with clarity. Unfortunately, she only had licorice root available, but it would do. After she had Callie back, she would see about fully stocking the herbs and would no longer be negligent
in allowing those with magical properties go to waste.
She bent to lift the cauldron from the fireplace. She barely lifted it off the hook before she let it drop again. Goodness that thing was heavy. How had the women in her family moved it? If she couldn’t lift it empty, she certainly couldn’t when it was full.
“Allow me.” Blake stepped in front of her and lifted it as if it weighed no more than a feather. The only evidence of its weight was the straining of his arms against his jacket. “Where shall I put it?”
Brighid gestured to the far corner where they were not likely to trip over it.
“Won’t you need it? Don’t witches mix all of their brews in cauldrons?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “They are cooking pots more than anything. I don’t recall my mother or grandmother ever using it. It has always just hung there, and put out of the way when tea needed to brewed.”
Taking the flint, she lit the kindling, which took to flame immediately. The wood had probably been sitting here since her mother placed it there years ago.
“Cook would have been pleased to prepare a cup of tea,” Blake offered.
“It must be brewed in here.” Once again the questions lingered in his eyes but he did not speak. “The power is in the room, as are the herbs, and the tea will be stronger if made in here.”
While she waited for the water to boil, Brighid settled before the books. The answers were here. She just needed to find them. Blake hovered at her elbow, more of a distraction than a help, but she didn’t dare ask him to leave. She might need to rely on his strength. “If you could, please write down my notes.”
“Of course.” Blake drew of a stool to the side of the table, pulled the foolscap before him and dipped the quill in the ink, waiting for her to speak. She never dreamed he would support her, or even help. She just hoped it wasn’t because of the urgency of the situation. Would he turn from her when it was over?
“I’ll need hemp seeds and hazelnuts.”
He wrote the words down without question. “The water is hot.”
Brighid glanced up. She had forgotten she was to brew tea. “Thank you.” She stopped reading only long enough to prepare the tea and tried not to grimace as she drank. Licorice was not a flavor she preferred, but it would help bring her clarity. Chamomile would do the same, but also relax her and Brighid feared getting sleepy and she could not afford to rest now.
She read page after page of the tomes and Blake continued to write when asked. The darker it grew, the more candles Blake lit. He didn’t need to be asked. It was almost as if he anticipated her needs.
Cook placed food on the small table just outside the room and Blake retrieved the tray. The two ate in silence as Brighid read and Blake made notes.
Her brain filled with knowledge of her ancestors and vivid recollections came to mind of her grandmother’s and mother’s instructions. She had blocked their words out for so many years because it was all too frightening. If only she had heeded her mother and worked at her craft, gaining knowledge and strengthening her gift, she would be prepared. Were three days enough?
Blake had never felt more useless in his life. What could he offer? Refill her cup of tea, place a plate of food at her elbow, and write notes when she spoke? There had to be more, but Blake knew there was nothing he could do.
The woman he loved was a witch. Not some creature from a storybook, but a living, breathing, enchanting, beautiful woman, who now had the weight of the castle upon her shoulders.
He didn’t understand how she could read the scratches in those books and he might never. This was a part of her he could never touch, but it was who she was. It is what her mother had been, and the women before them.
He studied the gentle tilt of her jaw and the way she bit her lower lip while concentrating. If they were blessed with a daughter, would she also carry the gifts of her mother? Would Brighid still need to come here, to Marisdùn Castle, or could a herbarium be created for her use at Torrington Abbey?
What a fool he had been to tell her that he would have nothing to do with her if she were a real witch. Even as he had uttered those words, a part of him knew the truth. On one level it was frightening. Yet on a clearer and larger level it was comforting. There was nothing evil about Brighid. She was all that was good and light, and she was about to battle, if that is what one called it, a great evil. He had no doubt that she would somehow have to fight Mary Routledge to get Miss Eilbeck back.
Brighid hadn’t said that there would be a confrontation, but the ghost had taken the young woman and he surmised she would not give her up without a fight, which left Brighid with the task of seeing it done. Blake’s main concern was how dangerous this would all be for Brighid. Could she be harmed? What if Mrs. Routledge took her, then where would they be? He hadn’t the foggiest idea what would need to be done. He couldn’t even read the blasted books.
He clenched his jaw to keep from speaking. Brighid needed to concentrate, but all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and beg her not to do whatever she was planning. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not when they had a chance at a future. Yet, he knew no matter how much he begged, she would fight to get her friend back, even if she were harmed in the process. All he could do was stand by helplessly and watch.
Damn and blast! Why hadn’t he just taken her when he was twenty-five? They would have had a few years together already. He wouldn’t have sailed away and gotten malaria and they wouldn’t even be in this damned castle now.
He corrected the thought. No doubt Braden would have invited him here, so they would have ended up here anyway and Brighid would be doing exactly what she was doing right now. The difference was, they wouldn’t have had the wasted years.
“Here we are,” came Quent’s affable voice.
Blake jerked toward the door. Quent stood at the threshold with Braden, the magistrate and the vicar’s daughter right behind him. What the hell were they all doing here? This was no time to disturb Brighid. He rose, moving to stand in front of the door to keep anyone from coming in.
Quent beamed at Brighid and touched his cheek. “My eye is much better thanks to you.”
“I am glad to hear it, Lord Quentin,” Brighid replied softly.
Braden brushed past his brother and his gaze swept over Blake as though he was trying to sort him out. Then Braden looked past him, leveling his eyes on Brighid. “Are you really a witch, Miss Glace?”
She stood, stiffening at his words. Blake cursed himself for the many times he had called her the same.
“Yes.”
“And you can help me get Callie back”? Braden took a step forward but stopped mid-step. He pressed his hand against the opening of the herbarium but it would not go through.
“What the devil!” Braden cursed. “Why can’t I get in there?”
“It is not permitted,” Brighid answered. “You are blood of the castle.”
Blake turned toward her. “He is what?”
“Blood of the castle,” she repeated. “This room was sealed off by my great-grandmother to keep it safe.”
“Safe from me?” Braden frowned.
“Safe from any descendant of Mary Routledge. Her blood runs through your veins too, my lord.”
“I was in there.” Quent frowned. “We have the same blood.”
“Only because I led you in here. It was a mistake on my part, Lord Quentin. The room has been sealed once more. You won’t be able to enter it again.”
Blake glanced back at Brighid. Why would she have Quentin Post of all people in her herbarium?
“Unless Callie’s in there somewhere, I don’t care one whit about who can or cannot enter the damned room,” the magistrate snapped. “Can you find my sister or not, Miss Glace?”
Brighid’s throat worked as she swallowed over what Blake assumed was a lump in her throat. Poor girl. It was bad enough her friend was missing, but to have these boorish men barking at her must have make it ten times worse. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring her back,
Sir Cyrus.”
Blake stayed with her all through the night and finally fell asleep, his head rested in his folded arms upon the table. What she wouldn’t give to sleep, but she didn’t have time. The books had given her some answers, but not all. And, there were still two more to read. The tomes were lengthy, handwritten by the ancestors before her, and not all of them had the neatest penmanship.
Would she one day write spells and incantations into the book for her descendants to read? If she were successful in bringing Callie back, then she most certainly would. The concern lay in the if.
Brighid blew out a sigh and slid the empty plate away. She had eaten enough hazelnuts to help with her magic that she was quite certain she never wanted to eat another again.
But, books, spells, tea and hazelnuts weren’t the only thing that could help and as much as she should probably remain in the herbarium, she needed to leave. She tiptoed into the kitchen so as not to wake Blake and then rushed to the room she had been given to change into an appropriate dress for attending Sunday services. Mother always said, “Prayer comes before all else, and then rely on the gifts you have been given.” Brighid had never really understood until now.
Before leaving the castle, she checked on Blake one last time. He still slept, so she left him and hurried into town. She normally attended the church in Tolbright with her grandmother and brother, Clive. It was the one Blake attended too, when he was in residence at Torrington, but that was nearly a half hour away, and further by foot. She just didn’t have that kind of time, so she decided to attend in Ravenglass instead.
Many parishioners had already taken their seats when she slipped inside and found one of the few empty places. She clasped the cross at her neck, a gift from her father, and glanced up at the ceiling, waiting to be punished, but she wasn’t struck dead. Should she even be in a house of God? She was a witch. It didn’t seem conceivable, but mother and grandmother always prayed, so it must be so. And, pray was what she did.
