Page 12 of A Circle of Uncommon Witches

TEN AND A HALF

Ambrose could not find Doreen. He walked on the path, off the path, around the path, and yet he did not disappear into nowhere as she had. Behind him the Not Quite Goodbye Castle rose in the distance. Ahead of him was an endless walk—to where, he did not know—on a glistening aquamarine road. Whispers of his past kept raining down on him, backed by the steady beat of a drum that matched his heartbeat. The rhythm and chant were driving him to the edge of madness.

Nonetheless, he kept walking and stepping off the path and back on it, looking for a way to find Doreen as panic curled and unfurled like a clenched fist. The winds blew colder as he went deeper into the motherlands. He wished he could remember the stories Sinclair had told him of this world in his youth. Of a place out of time, before it or beyond it, but it was as much a bedtime story to him as Ada and the Order had been to Doreen.

Ambrose cursed Ada as he walked, railing at the sky. He had been a fool to trust the queen of the dead, for she served only herself. He’d learned that years ago, when he set the curse, and should have heeded the truth.

Ambrose couldn’t tell Doreen that in order to break the curse he would have to fall in love with a MacKinnon witch. It wasn’t simply that he refused to give up his heart. There was more to the curse than he could ever admit.

“You really want to bargain your love away?” Ada had asked him three hundred years before, the first time he came to see her.

“I no longer have a heart,” he’d said, meaning it. Every part of him was in tatters, desecrated. “I would be done with love once and for all, and I would make sure the MacKinnon witches can never fell another as long as their line exists.”

“It is a long line,” Ada said, her eyes a milky white, a flash of violet here and gone in the depths. “An impossible-to-control one. There is a cost for this curse. Love for love. Should you break it, you will break and end yourself.”

“I am already ended,” he had said, before he sliced into his flesh, giving his blood in an oath and the only vow he would ever make.

Should he end the curse, he would die, and he was not ready to leave this world yet.

Now he cursed the MacKinnon witches for locking him into this position, for taking Lenora and wasting so many years torturing him. He wanted his hands on the necks of those who had tried to kill him, and he wanted control. His heart pounded in tandem to the stalwart beating drum he heard in the air.

Ambrose cursed and walked, marched and swore, until his soles were sore and his muscles ached.

Until the road rose to meet him, and the whispers grew into fevered proclamations.

Until the drum was no longer distinguishable, but a series of thumps strummed together in an angry crescendo.

Until the rocks in the road formed a familiar slope of angles and arches.

Until he was so distracted by trying to locate Doreen—looking off to the side for a new path or clue, cursing her name as he worried for her—that he never thought to look ahead.

And walked straight into an unmarked pit.

Margot was worried. She had gone outside to wait for the aunts to return to Macabre Manor (as Stella liked to call their home) and discovered wisteria blooming. Everywhere. Tendrils of the flowers spanned twenty feet in every direction. Soft and vibrant lavender-colored wisteria snaked under and over trellises and pillars. It overtook the dark roses, smothering them and devouring them whole. The devouring of the MacKinnon roses was a bad omen, a sign the world beyond dreams was crossing over into this one.

It meant one thing to Margot. Doreen had crossed over too.

If Margot knew, so did the rest of the coven. While there were many secrets among the MacKinnon witches, the boundary of the worlds was not one of them.

Margot had left Dean behind when she went to the manor, curled up in his reading chair, his thick-rimmed glasses perched on his forehead, not yet falling down his face but precariously suspended. He had such a kissable face, and she had lied to it, telling him she was going on a work trip to buy new herbs for the shop they were planning to open. Their shop, the Inkblot, was to be a mystic tattoo store two towns over, stocked with all her remedies and featuring Dean’s talent as a tattoo artist. Being a healer was the one job she was good at, and she thought the very least she could do was give Dean a good life after hoodwinking him out of the one he deserved. He should be married to a woman who he’d legitimately fallen in love with, one who didn’t control his emotions by way of hers and supported making all his dreams come true. Whether it was intended or not. Dean deserved free will. If she couldn’t give him that, she would try and give him what she could.

She brushed at the goosebumps rising over her arms to stave off the shame churning in her gut. Margot hated the curse, and she hated how weak she was compared to Doreen. She’d never had the courage to go against the family. Or, rather, she had refused to find her courage until it meant doing whatever it took to help her cousin.

Dust kicked up along the long, thin dirt driveway that led up to the manor. A familiar and ancient station wagon came barreling down the drive. The burgundy 1984 Chevrolet Caprice classic station wagon shined in its freshly waxed glory, complete with faux-wood paneling and a rooftop luggage rack. Through the dust cloud, and over the furry, purple-lined steering wheel, Margot could make out the dark curls of her aunt Kayleen’s deep auburn hair, next to the twisted braid of her mom, Stella.

They exited the car, Stella in a pair of joggers and a white tank top that popped against her brown skin and showed off her toned arms, courtesy of the hours spent in her greenhouse, as well as her affinity for Pilates. Her aunt Kayleen wore a flowing pale-yellow gown that likely came from the pages of an autumn Anthropologie catalogue. Kayleen was only a few years younger than Stella, and while their faces bore a resemblance courtesy of their green eyes and sharp cheekbones, their style and manner couldn’t be more opposite. Kayleen had flowing reddish chestnut hair and olive skin, wore sharp heels, and had polished nails shaded her signature delicate rose. Margot didn’t think Stella owned a single bottle of polish. If she had, it would never have been the soft pinks that Kayleen favored. It would be a bright green or blue, something vibrant and demanding.

That was who they were. Both strong as steel and as powerful as the tide of a changing sea.

Margot wore a faded Clash T-shirt and ripped jeans paired with ancient Doc Martens, the scuffed combat boots having seen better days. But they were her favorite pair—Doreen had given them to her for her birthday twelve years prior. Her black nail polish was chipped, and her curls were in need of attention. But that’s who Margot was. She’d always had a hard time letting go of the things she truly loved.

“Margot, darling,” Kayleen called as she exited, waving a crystal wand to clear the dust and energy away. Margot pitied any lone speck that dared try and damage her aunt’s ethereal dress. “Are you meditating on a grapefruit seed or just counting the clovers?”

“Neither,” Margot said, not bothering to raise her voice. While her aunt and mother were in their fifties and sixties respectively, neither had an issue with hearing. In fact, neither looked a day over thirty-five. It could be the MacKinnon blood, or it could be that they were witches who were vain. Which was what Doreen used to joke Stella and Kayleen could have named their rock band if they’d ever formed one: Vain Witches. “I’m simply blooming slow like a dandelion and waiting on you.”

“Excited to convene?” her mother asked, lifting a single imposing brow.

“Doesn’t smell that way,” Kayleen added.

“No, I smell…” Stella sniffed at the air, big guffawing inhales. “Trouble.”

“Ha, ha,” Margot said.

The two of them had always been like this, finishing each other’s sentences, imparting unwanted wisdom, and talking like they always knew best. When Margot had been a child, she’d believed them. That it was wrong to be kind to the townie who ran from the sight of her, that people were fools and they deserved the addition of an affluence spell (for the MacKinnon family, of course) attached to their healing-heartache or grief-be-gone spells (that the family sold to them at cost and a half). But then Margot grew up, and all the adults in her life toppled off their pedestals as she realized she was kept fully under their thumbs. Now, she had done what they’d wanted and married Dean. She had been a “good witch,” only to see how twisted their methods truly were—especially when it came to Doreen.

“I’m here to help,” she said with a smile as fake as her recently whitened teeth, hoping it distracted from the lies choking her throat. Another cloud of dust cropped up and she blew it back as a new BMW, a vintage Volvo, a Ford Model T, and a handful of Ducatis rambled up the drive.

Margot wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to keep her expression relaxed. There were pops and cracks as the two giant maple trees in the yard filled with one witch after another. They appeared seated on branches, or hugging the limbs or trunks of the trees, before dismounting easily to the earth.

Stories of witches always regaled listeners with how they used brooms to fly. What a silly myth. As though any coven needed a broom.

Witches sat on branches, not brooms. The roots of certain trees were planted and formed connections to the soil and the hands that turned it. The MacKinnon witches traveled by maple and oak, from one township to the next. Designated homes stayed in their family lines for centuries, the land protected, the saplings and their parents serving as passages to and from continents and states and countries. It was much cheaper and faster, Stella always said (and less obnoxious), than flying by plane.

Soon the grounds of her childhood home were swarming with jam-packed picnic baskets, checkered blankets, and women overdressed to the nines. All of their voices fought to be heard, one tripping over the other with jubilant exclamation, and, underneath it all, the constant call and terrifying truth, the single, repeating, rebellious chord of the piano striking an elongated echo of the G minor key.

Margot understood its meaning. No one liked being double-crossed, and none of the MacKinnon coven looked forward to doing the double-crossing either. In this scenario, the family stood together as betrayed victims. Margot saw the truth they did not wish to acknowledge—the hypocrisy amongst these witches.

“You’re going to help her,” Margot said, going up to her mother. “Doreen. You will help her, won’t you?”

“Stubborn child,” Stella said, pulling out a purse the size of a large pot. It doubled as one, bespelled to be a traveling cauldron. “She never could do things the easy way.”

“Mom.”

“What?” Stella said, setting the purse on a table. “It’s the truth—every chance Doreen has had, she’s stomped into smithereens.”

“You can’t be talking about Jack right now.”

“Worthless boy. He was so clueless spells wouldn’t stick,” Stella scoffed.

“He was never for her.”

“So we learned.”

“No, so she proved to you. You shouldn’t have tried to force it.”

“She didn’t,” Kayleen said, entering the conversation with a thump as she dropped a bag of anise on the table. “I was the one who bound them.”

Margot closed her eyes, fighting for calm. “No kidding,” she said, opening her eyes. “How do you think Dore figured it out?”

The summer Doreen turned twenty-five, Jack Morgan moved to Pines. He was a journalist. Tall, tempting, and funny. He pursued Doreen with the single-minded focus one usually exhibited with winning a chess match. Doreen did not like Jack, but she was drawn to him.

“It’s the oddest thing,” she said to Margot on her six-month anniversary with Jack. “I think about breaking up with him but end up craving pancakes and am back in his bed. Every single time.”

Only two witches in their coven used maple syrup to bind their spells. Stella and Kayleen. On their one-year anniversary, Doreen tasted Better Elms Maple Syrup on Jack’s lips when he kissed her good morning—straight from brushing his teeth. She knew then that the aunts had spelled him, and her.

“We didn’t want her to die,” Kayleen said to Margot now. “Gave them the right sort of push is all. He was a catch, and she was clueless.”

“He was never for her, and she broke his heart.”

Kayleen frowned. “It was an unfortunate side effect.”

“He tried to kill himself.”

“He failed,” Stella said. “And we made sure he wouldn’t be able to harm himself again over her.”

“It did little to heal the pain you caused Dore.”

“Magic comes with a cost,” Stella said, and Margot threw up her hands in frustration.

“You two should come with a warning.”

Stella tutted at her daughter and went back to setting up the table for the blessing ritual to celebrate the reuniting of the family. Margot returned to her own circle, frustrated that her mother and aunt never saw reason.

It wasn’t until she took a sip of her moon wine that she tasted it. Better Elms Maple Syrup, somehow lining her cup.

Then, Margot grew worried.

Eventually, Stella walked to the stone slabs that served as steps outside the wide black double doors of the family house. Kayleen sat at her feet, off to the side, stringing together clovers and daisies. She looked like a hairspray model (not a touch askew because it would wreck the view!) as she formed long chains that extended from one group of the coven’s witches to the next. It created a circle that wrapped around the entire group, blocking out the world and binding them to one another. Chained together.

Margot ignored the wine and worked on her own chain, her fingers moving quickly as she waited, fearing what could come next.

“Sisters,” Stella began, her voice loud and clear, though she swayed just enough for Margot to wonder how deep her mother and aunt had been dipping into the moon wine. “We know why we are gathered. One of our own has gone astray and freed the witch who cursed us.” Hushed exclamations broke out, and Stella raised a finger, pointing in the air. The wind whooshed through, quieting the crowd. “I know, we’re all inconsolable at this turn of events, this betrayal , but I need you to listen. We’ve seen the portents of coming doom. The wisteria of warning blooms unchecked across this property. It’s found its way inside the house, creeping up the wall in what used to be Doreen’s room. Nothing will stop its spread, outside of her return. The attic is thick with the smell of rose, clove, and cedar, and there are a growing number of thin places in the world.”

“Not to mention the dreams,” Kayleen added, looping another small daisy to the chain before she gave a dainty hiccup.

“Yes.” Stella nodded. “As the line between us and the veil thins, our dreams show us what may come to be.”

“The Order will be involved,” Kayleen said.

“I fear that may be so,” Stella said.

Margot spoke at this. “I thought you said the Order was a myth.”

“Most myths are built in fact, child,” Stella said. “Most facts are born from myth.”

“Thanks for being so vague,” Margot grumbled, scooping up another clover. It was a decidedly Stella answer, where Margot was in the dusk, if not the dark.

“What do we do?” one of the cousins from New England spoke up. “Can we reach Doreen, bring her back?”

“We should imprison her and him,” one of the Florida cousins suggested, earning a hiss from Margot.

“Why not?” the New England cousin, Elspeth, asked. She had short pink hair and a crooked front tooth. Likely, Margot assumed, from someone punching her extremely smug face. “It’s fair play. She set him free and wants to break the curse.”

“She’s not the only person who wishes the curse didn’t exist,” Margot said, rolling her eyes.

“I mean, maybe before I realized how strong I am without the worry of my heart being broken,” Elspeth said, giving a loud snort.

“Or dying of a broken heart,” said Stella.

“Or living in fear of losing a person you’ve decided is more valuable than yourself,” said Kayleen.

“Never being in control of your emotions,” the Florida cousin added, shuddering.

“It’s such power,” Elspeth said, nodding. “We don’t have to settle. We can choose who we want and have them, for as long as we need them.”

“What do we do with the other twenty-three-and-a-half hours of the day?” Stella cackled.

Margot sat back, disgusted at how easy it was for her family to see their curse as something they could use, to not recognize they were controlling others’ free will. She thought of Dean and swallowed hard.

“None of us have suffered like our ancestors,” said Kayleen. “And none of us want Doreen to suffer at the hands of Ambrose MacDonald.”

Margot’s fingers stilled on her band of strung flowers.

“No,” Stella agreed, reaching down and plucking two clovers from where they grew by her feet. She ran her finger up and down the green stem of one before softly brushing the tuft of seeds that came together to form the flower. “Fool of a child that she is, she is ours.” Stella knotted the flower in one move, effectively binding a knot around its neck before tossing it to Kayleen. “And we don’t want to lose you either, Margot,” Stella said, lifting her eyes to her daughter. She took the other clover and held it up, then she knotted it at the bottom. “You tied my hands when you decided to help Doreen.”

“I’m not—”

“Sneaky? No, you aren’t. Left a trail a mile wide to see; all I had to do was scry to find it. You led her to the Dead House, and him.” She sniffed. “We are all chained to the fate of what comes from Ambrose MacDonald’s freedom. His line has been in league with the Order for near a thousand years. This is not the first time the MacDonald line has attempted to destroy ours, and each time they try, they have failed. It’s time to take advantage of the board.”

Cold fear bloomed in Margot’s stomach. “Life is not a game of chess, Mom,” she said, doing everything she could to keep her voice calm. Her eyes tracked the small clover in her mother’s hands.

“If you think that, dear, you shouldn’t have started playing the game,” Stella said, before she tossed the flower to Kayleen.

“What do you mean, his line has been trying to end ours for a thousand years?” Margot asked.

“There was more than one reason we bound that man, more than one reason we helped Lenora escape.”

“Escape?” Margot asked, her mother’s words no longer making sense. “Our ancestors sent her away, they didn’t rescue her.”

“Of course they rescued her,” Stella said, with a scoff. “They trusted her and she them. Which, sadly, is more than I can say for you, daughter of mine.”

“We tried to keep you out of this,” Kayleen said to Margot, her green eyes searching. “But it’s a family problem, and you are now one of the snags. You should have stayed with your Dean, and left Doreen to us.”

“What kind of person would I be if I sat back and did nothing?” Margot asked, as she slid her hands into her pockets and shifted onto her heels. She wrapped a hand around the protective stone in the left one and the sprig of rosemary in the right. Margot never did anything without a measure of preparation, and this meeting was no different.

She simply never dreamed she might actually have to use the charms she carried.

“You wouldn’t be a MacKinnon,” Stella said, without smiling. “That’s for sure.”

Margot tasted syrup on her lips and thought, for a moment, that she glimpsed an apology in her mother’s eyes. Thought that maybe she would tell Margot how to help Doreen, advise the coven to support and help one of their own.

Then Stella raised her hands, and the members of her family, her cousins—every single damned one—lifted the symbol of their coven into the air, raising the daisy chain of clovers and daffodils, of weeds and flowers. Kayleen held the two knotted clovers—Margot realized the two must represent herself and Doreen—that she had woven into the circle. She tied them together, much in the way Stella had taught Margot and Doreen to tie their shoes when they had been girls.

“Criss-cross, over and under, that’s the way the bunny goes. One ear and two, loop and swoop, and now the way the bunny knows.”

Once the two clovers were tied together, Kayleen bowed her head. The rest of the circle followed suit. Eyes open, chins tucked.

“Don’t do this,” Margot whispered, knowing what was coming. Not wanting to believe it.

There was no initiation into the family MacKinnon. The coven had reclaimed themselves when they came to America, and in reinventing themselves, they’d recovered who they were. As a witch of their line, you were born to be diligent. To work for the greater good. To be great.

There was a single spell to break a bond as strong as theirs. One Margot knew had never before been used. A spell for separation. A spell that enabled you to know a person existed, but removed them from your sight, from your circle.

A spell to expel a body from the coven.

“We knock on the door,” Kayleen said, and with the hand not holding the chain, she reached up and knocked against the air.

A loud thump sounded, booming through the forest surrounding them.

“We ask you open,” the voices of the rest of the coven called before they too raised a hand and struck.

A succession of rapid-fire booms rang through the air.

“Let her in,” Stella said, her voice low and rough. She kept her eyes off her daughter as she nodded to her sister, who, with one fluid motion, ripped the two clovers from the chain and tossed them to Margot. She let them fall into her lap. She could not stop this; she could only try to soften her own fall.

Kayleen reknit the circle in one swift motion, casting out Doreen and Margot with the ease one tosses dust from the bin.

In unison, the coven finished chanting their curse: “The circle is closed, the witches are cast out, henceforth we see them no more.”

The women stood, lifting the chain again as they went. The air surrounding Margot grew thick. She struggled to draw breath, and light—bright and blinding—cut across the grounds. The coven chanted the words to their spell, over and over, and Margot swayed on her feet. They threw the clovers into the air, and Margot thought she heard her mother say, before the clovers and life as Margot knew it came tumbling down, “The spell is the truth, the truth is the spell.”

Margot could glean a door creaking open. A warm wind filled with gripping fingers brushed against her. She threw up her arms in protection, raising the tokens in each hand and whispering a single name: Doreen.

A maelstrom of wind and laughter poured out from the not-yet-visible door to nowhere, wrapping itself around her, and yanking Margot into the darkness beyond.