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Cyrus’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, but then he pulls back, laughing. As always it seems that nothing ruffles Cyrus; he is impervious to shame. “No need to get your trousers in a knot. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on such a happy family gathering.” He turns to me, executing an exaggerated, wobbly bow. “Lydia, the least you can do is do me the courtesy of sitting down and supping with me, especially after the monstrous way your friend here has treated me.” He glares at John and makes a show of rubbing the back of his neck. “You owe me that much.”
“She doesn’t owe you a thing,” John growls, stepping in between us.
Cyrus shrugs as if he hadn’t actually expected this demand to be met. “I’m staying at The Black Mare the next town over if you change your mind. Or perhaps Mr....Barry, was it? You’d like to join me? We can engage in a more civilized discourse and see if we can’t settle this like gentlemen.”
“We have nothing to talk about,” John says with venom. “You’ve shown yourself to be a slanderous meddler and nothing more.”
Cyrus glances to me and then back to John. “Or we can talk in front of Lydia and her father, I’m sure they would be interested in what I have to say.”
Father can’t stand it anymore. “Get out!” he roars. “I don’t care what you have to say. Make your dinner plans somewhere besides my parlor!”
“Oh, I was just going anyway,” Cyrus says with an irritated hiccup. He turns back to me. “Lydia, I do hope you help your friend come to his senses and explain to him why he ought to keep out of this. If you don’t, I will.”
I keep my lips pressed tight, and watch in icy silence as Cyrus levels one last suspicious look at John before making his exit.
When the front door slams shut, John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry you had to see that, both of you. I shouldn’t have lost my composure. I’d better go,” he says, gathering up his hat and overcoat.
Father slumps down in a chair, hand over his face. “You’re a good fellow, Barrett. No need to apologize. If Martha were well, I’d ask you to stay, and she’d see a nice luncheon laid out for you.”
John doesn’t say anything, just gives him a short nod of his head that Father doesn’t see, and then moves for the door.
“John, wait.” There’s something wild in his eye that makes my stomach uneasy. For all his faults and ugliness, Cyrus was always masterful at keeping his composure. Cold and calculating Cyrus scares me, but unpredictable and erratic Cyrus terrifies me. I put my hand on John’s arm, and he looks down at me as if he’d forgotten I was here. “You won’t go meet him, will you? Promise me you won’t do anything rash.” I can’t bear the thought that a good man has been dragged into our family’s mess, that our sins might be the ruin of him.
John drops a distracted kiss on my head. “You have no need to worry. I promise you Cyrus won’t bother you again.”
Before I can tell him that’s not what I asked, he’s out the door, leaving me alone with my roiling stomach.
* * *
My sleep that night is fitful and tortured. I dream that Willow Hall is ablaze, the smoke so thick in my room that I can’t see my hand in front of my face. The laughter of a small boy echoes as beams and walls come crashing down around me. Just as my flaming bed is about to collapse in on itself, I awake drenched in sweat.
Unable to fall back asleep, my mind races, full of everything that has happened these past few days. My heart beats faster when I think about John, about all the bright promises the future holds with him, then plummets as I remember Cyrus’s threats. John is a proud man, bound by honor, and though I admire this about him, I also fear his desire to protect me could blind him to reason.
Lighting a candle, I reach for the book Mother gave me and begin to read. I need something to distract me. It’s not like the book that I bought from Mr. Brown, with its sensational stories of animal familiars and dark magic. This book describes a quieter kind of witchcraft. It speaks of spells whispered into cups of tea, herbs sprinkled on thresholds, protective sigils stitched into hems. Little rituals that exist outside the spheres of men and belong to women alone. It speaks of healing with plants, doing good. It’s a revelation.
But the book also speaks to a well of energy inside every witch, a spark, that when harnessed can be a powerful force. I read every page, poring over the printed text and marginalia alike, ferociously hungry for information. The candle burns down to a nub and I fetch another. I want to understand what I am. I want to embrace the legacy my ancestors left me, as well as my mother even if she is not a witch herself.
In the yellowed pages I learn not only what I am capable of, but I begin to see patterns in my life. That day in the street with Tommy Bishop, when my eyes filled with red and my fingers trembled with energy like lightning, or when I sent Cyrus flying backward through the air, I didn’t know what was happening; it was just my natural response to what I saw as terrible wrongs in the world. But the book explains and shows me how I can tame and channel my anger. And when I put a dark mark on Tommy Bishop with my mind, envisioned the ill luck that would plague him for the rest of his life, I can do that again too. I don’t want to bring more pain, but a deep resolve builds inside me; if it means saving John from a terrible situation, then I would do everything in my power to save him. I don’t know if there’s anything I wouldn’t do.
I read the other book again too. Fairy stories they might be, but every story starts from a seed of truth; if not, why would we be drawn to them as we are? I might not be able to turn myself into a bird, or make a plague of toads rain down, but perhaps there are lessons to be drawn from such lore. Knowledge is a powerful tool, as Mary Preston said, and I want to be as prepared as possible for what lies ahead.
Yet for the bounty of knowledge that rests between the books’ covers, there is not so much as a clue as to what to do for Emeline. I had thought to find a spell, a ritual...something that would lay out the steps to reverse the terrible events I put in motion. Wait for a full moon and mumble some ancient words? Burn the hair? But there is nothing, and so after all my selfishness, I am no closer to helping her than I was before.
I must have dozed off at some point, because I awaken to a room so cold that I can see my breath. When a movement in the darkness catches my eye, I do not start in surprise. I am used to her suddenly appearing like this. Yet her presence still fills me with an intangible sort of dread.
I clutch the covers closer to my chin, darting my tongue over my dry lips. “What are you doing here?”
Mary Preston moves into the dim circle of the remaining candleflame, her flowing veil blacker even than the night.
“You’ve read the book,” she says, ignoring my question. “Good. You will need it.”
I have learned by now that there is no use trying to follow her roundabout way of speaking, that I need to be direct with her and hold my ground. “Emeline,” I say. “The book didn’t tell me what I need to do to help Emeline.”
“So, you are ready then.”
I bristle at her implication that I wouldn’t help my own sister in her time of need. “I would not have her wander for eternity, not when I have the power to help her.”
“And yet that was not always the case.”