Page 21 of A Circle of Uncommon Witches

NINETEEN

Kayleen and Stella were worried. When they had come up with their plan to send Margot to Doreen, and use Margot as a bespelled human tracker, they had been under the influence of a new batch of Kayleen’s extremely potent moon-bathed jasmine wine. Everything Kayleen created was potent; it was one of her many gifts. It was also why they were drunk for three days and didn’t sober up until after the cousins left and their house and yard were covered in dried flowers, empty cups, and a raining haze of ennui.

They had not anticipated they would lose track of Margot entirely. That when they scried for her and Doreen, using the wisps of hair they cut from them when they were girls, they would come up empty. But there it was, no location, no sign of either.

“It was a good idea,” Stella said, sitting at the table on the wraparound porch. She was in the process of filing her nails, studying a star chart, and flipping through a shadow book for spells on how to undo a shitty spell gone wrong. The last one, Kayleen had told her precisely three times, did not exist and no amount of magical thinking would summon it.

“It was a drunk idea. When has a drunk idea ever been a good idea?” Kayleen was leaning into her powers instead of wishful thinking. She was busy making a potion out of reishi mushroom, lavender, and her own highly effective CBD to open her eyes to see what she could not. “We sent your daughter who knows where, neglecting our niece in the process. What were we thinking, turning on Doreen like that?”

“We didn’t turn on her, I just suggested we use her as bait.”

“Lost bait.”

“We’re all lost,” Stella said. “It’s the story of our lives. Lost to everything but our ability to enthrall.”

“Thank the goddesses we have each other.”

They shared a smile as Stella’s Scrabble pieces—she didn’t believe in runes, thought they were too clunky—began to vibrate.

“What did you ask?” Kayleen said, leaning forward to stare at them.

“The same thing I’ve been asking all damn morning. How do we find our children?”

The pieces shifted and flew upright. Like tiny soldiers at attention, they began to march forward, a handful coming up while the rest moved back. Then, one by one, they fell over, revealing a single word.

S T O R R

The two women looked at each other. “Scotland?” Kayleen said.

“I’ll grab our broomsticks,” Stella replied, her tone dry as she looked to the closest holly tree.

“Last time we took the portal overseas I didn’t see straight for at least an hour.”

“Good thing we have both our sets of eyes, then.”

Kayleen nodded and took off for the tree. Stella grabbed her bag, throwing in the crystals, talismans, Scrabble pieces, and herbs spread across the table. She didn’t know what they would find but refused to be unprepared.

As she thought of Scotland, the land of her ancestors and the witch trials, she let out a curse. She had spent her life trying to prepare her girls. She was hard on them, harder than she knew they wanted her to be. But they didn’t understand what it meant to live with knowing that those you loved most, the children of your blood and heart, would die if you didn’t do whatever it took to keep them tethered to the earth. That they were the thirteenth generation, and that was an auspicious promise. You didn’t need a reading or the stars or dreams to tell you that. Doreen’s lack of dreams had meant one thing: that she could dream up anything. It had terrified Stella. She knew Doreen would be the witch—particularly with Margot at her side—who could alter everything. Stella had tried to protect her, while pushing her to be independent. To rely on herself, instead of anyone else. It was the only way for Doreen to grow into who she was meant to be, into who she could become. Now, she hoped that Doreen’s strength, and her power, would be the things to save them all.

She had little doubt that the two could handle Ambrose MacDonald, but the wilds of Skye and the magic buried deep in its lands were another story.

Margot, Doreen, and Ambrose walked along the cliffs as they made their way to the Old Man of Storr. Wisteria, purple and bruised, hung from the trees that bordered the land beside them. They had spent most of the day trying to reach the aunts. Doreen and Margot had tried to use their blood, words, and every timeworn spell they knew to call them. Nothing worked. Finally, they wove a strand of their hair into clovers and threw them with the ogham, while whispering where they were and where they were headed.

It had likely failed, but they’d had to try something before they moved on.

“I saw this,” Margot said, her eyes on the flowers. “The wisteria was in my dream.”

“Were we lost in your dream?” Doreen asked, kicking a rock out of her path.

“No,” Margot said. “You had pearls for eyes and were wearing a crown.”

Ambrose lifted his brows. “That sounds like Ada.”

“Or it was a warning,” Margot said. “That the queen of the dead was trying to steal your soul.”

“All our souls,” Ambrose added.

“Keep us and eat us,” Doreen said. “She’s one pissed-off cannibal.”

“She’s villainous. She’s also hurting,” Ambrose said, his voice rough.

“Would you be willing to eat your ancestors for Lenora?” Doreen asked. Then she winced. “Don’t answer that. You cursed us in a way that’s not that dissimilar.”

“I took away your ability to find love, not live.”

“What is the point of living without love?”

“I… I thought I knew, but I was hasty. Yet, I do think it may be better than living and being tortured with no way to escape or die,” he said.

“We didn’t curse you with the inability to die.”

“No, Ada did that when I made the bargain with her. I will live until the curse is broken; isn’t that payment enough?”

“You think I want you to die?”

Ambrose let out a soft breath. “I have lived far too long as it is, Doreen.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t stop the torture.”

“I freed you.”

“For your purposes. And I’m still trying to save you.”

“I’m the one who keeps saving you , Ambrose, so I think you might want to quit while you’re behind.”

“And I am telling you, Ada is hurting.”

“And when I break the curse, you get to stop hurting? Nothing to transform into now, so you’re just fine with it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, his voice heating. “I only know mortal life is not mine while I am bound to the curse.”

“You’re an idiot for making that curse, and Ada is not hurting inside. The only thing she is hurting is people. She is a monster.”

“She’s broken, Doreen. It’s not only the truth, but also how we defeat her.”

“You want us to use compassion for the person who has trapped our entire family line?” Doreen said, her nostrils flaring, her voice shaking. “What, hug her into submission?”

“With awareness of how she works, we can look for opportunity.”

“It’s not the worst idea, but I can’t help but take anything he says with a grain of salt,” Margot said, her tone dry.

“I am not speaking to you,” he said, turning to her, his tone harsh.

“You sure as hell aren’t speaking to her like that ,” Doreen said, stepping into his shoulder, glaring at him.

“I speak the truth, especially to one who is new to life and the way of things.”

“I’ve been alive longer than Doreen, and I am not new to magic,” Margot said, throwing her hair over her shoulder and shifting forward onto her toes.

“You chose to give up on love, which tells me your magic is lazy,” he said.

“I’ll show you lazy,” Margot said, raising her left palm.

“Hey,” Doreen said, stepping between them.

“I don’t think you want to push me,” Margot said, flashing her teeth.

“I would love to see you come at me,” Ambrose said, the muscles in his neck cording as he shifted his stance.

“I have to amend my earlier statement. You’re both idiots,” Doreen said, unsure how everything had escalated so quickly. She was livid with Ambrose, unable to think past him being gone from her. She didn’t care about Ada or the curse when it compounded his being dead. Which might have been reckless, but it was true. She heaved a sigh, tired and wired all at once.

She reached over and placed her palm on Ambrose’s arm. The change in him was instantaneous. His shoulders relaxed, his chin tucked. He looked to her, and then away. Doreen stared at him as he blew out a breath. After a terse moment, he nodded to Margot in a silent near-apology and walked on.

“He’s tweaking,” Doreen said to her cousin. “That wasn’t okay.”

“He’s been in her shoes,” Margot said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think it’s closer for him, or easy to project onto Ada what that misery is like.” They watched him walk away. “Eleanor left him, and he lashed out. Margaret died and Ada lost it.”

“You think he’s grieving?”

“I think he’s a bit mighty on his own thoughts, and I assume his grief is old. But as I said, I didn’t disagree. The more we know about Ada, the better off we are.”

Doreen rubbed at her eyes.

Margot cleared her throat. “Dore? Do you really believe we’ll get out of here?”

“Of course I do.” Doreen lifted her chin, studying the retreating form of Ambrose. As though he could feel her, he glanced back. She forgot to breathe, caught in his gaze. His eyes softened, and he turned away, continuing on his path. “Together we can do anything.”

“I think you already have,” Margot said, quiet resignation in her tone.

“Huh?”

“I guess I just mean you haven’t given up yet.”

“No.” She shrugged. “And I don’t plan on it.”

Later, they camped beneath the stars, taking turns keeping watch. Ambrose and Doreen sat across from each other, their backs to sturdy oaks. They didn’t speak, but she could feel his gaze on her, and it warmed the scared parts of her, giving her a little pulse of strength. Every so often she’d look to the sky. Twice she thought she saw her aunt Stella’s eyes, carved out of constellations. Surely a trick of her mind.

She met Ambrose’s gaze.

He believed in her. She didn’t think she’d really believed in herself before. Even her last-ditch effort to break the curse had been just that—a final push. She’d wanted it to work, to be able to find him and the Dead House. She’d had a month to try. She only had a little time left now. She had thought answers would be forthcoming, like shaking up a Magic 8 Ball and finding the answers there in the palm of her hands.

Instead, she was cut off from everyone but her cousin, had fallen in love with her family’s enemy, and was somehow responsible for saving her entire line before she lost her own life to the curse. She thought if she could save them all, perhaps she wouldn’t mind dying. Maybe it would be worth it for Ambrose and Margot to live lives with love, even without her. For her family to find peace and the bound souls to be set free. But she didn’t want to lose Ambrose. She was selfish, and she could admit it. She didn’t want to lose him or anyone. She had—gods, they all had—lost enough already.

“Do you think Sinclair was right and we need to complete the trials Ada created?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I do,” he said. “There are rules here. Sinclair said this world is like the real world. Ada constructed this world out of her trials. Out of that reality. If we want to face the gods, or in this case Ada, we have to win.” He sighed. “We are in two realities. The spirits, the places. Even you and me, our physical bodies.”

“The journals?” she asked.

“Yes.” He nodded. “They read as true, don’t they?”

“Margaret’s did. The others read less like a diary and more like… like how you might sound if someone emptied your head.”

He shifted, crossed his arms over his chest. His thinking pose, Doreen thought. “What do you mean?”

She brushed a fallen leaf from her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about how straightforward Margaret’s journal is. It sounds like mine whenever I’ve kept one. She’s trying to make sense of things. But the others?” She reached into her bag, sorting until she found the one she was looking for. “This is one of the other ancestors’ books we took, Sera MacKinnon. Listen to this.

“ Kindness was the key to Sera’s magic, until she discovered she didn’t like being kind. Not to the people who were mean to her. She tried hard, harder than most people might ever consider trying, and still she grew sad and melancholic. She thought dark thoughts about leaving the world, so ready to escape the pain of witnessing those whose hearts were turned. Whose greed and lust and sprouted meanness kept them hurting others over and over. ”

“Sera sounds depressed,” Margot said, from where she lay on the ground between the two of them. “Sorry, I can’t sleep.”

“Hard ground?” Ambrose asked, and his voice was gentle. He was trying, Doreen thought, to be kind.

“Weirdly, too soft,” Margot said, flashing a smile. A truce in the turn of her lips.

“Oof,” Doreen said, biting back her own grin. “Sorry about the ground, but you’re right. Sera’s entry sounds like a narrator describing her feelings. Have you ever referred to yourself in the third person, or as melancholic?”

“Her phrasing is entirely observational,” Ambrose said.

“And nowhere near a stream of consciousness. Hey,” Doreen said, crossing her legs at the ankles and trying to get more comfortable. “Did people used to talk about themselves differently? Is this like the English language before Shakespeare came along to describe the right words for how things feel?”

“I doubt anyone has ever spoken of themselves in the way of that entry,” he said, stretching.

“There’s something to it,” Margot said. “This one compared to the one from the graveyard. One sounds like a journal and the other sounds… it’s almost like a newscaster. Like someone reporting. My brain is too tired to figure it out.”

“One of us should get some sleep,” Ambrose said. “Dawn will soon be here and there are miles yet before we reach the Old Man of Storr.”

“If we reach him at all,” Doreen said, yawning and slouching lower against the tree.

“We will,” Ambrose said, and then Doreen’s eyes were closing, and the world was blinking out.

She did not dream, for she never dreamed, but when she woke, Ambrose was beside her, his hand wrapped around hers, and she thought it might be better to wake to a dream than to have them in sleep.

In the morning, they washed in a nearby stream. Margot foraged for berries and Ambrose passed around some of the nuts they’d taken from the castle. Doreen and Margot had bespelled the tin they carried them in, so it would continue to replenish from the house’s pantry. As long as the castle had food, they would too.

The next few days were more of the same. Hiking across lands so green and lush they looked like something from the pages of a children’s storybook. Blooming wild purple wisteria, arching cliffs that rose over frothing navy seas, and paths that wove in and around a constant stream. Ambrose was following the water, and it proved a good resource.

As they trekked, they talked of the journals, of Ada, of Margaret. Ambrose asked Doreen why she had fought so hard to be able to fall in love, and she had stared at him, unable to look away as she answered, “To be loved back, in kind, might be the truest form of magic that exists.”

Three nights in a row Doreen was certain she caught a glimpse of her aunt Stella’s face in the sky. It was improbable, but it filled her with hope. That perhaps their message had reached her, perhaps for once she might do something for the good of them.

On the morning of the fifth day, they awoke to discover a range of mountains that had not been there before, waiting for them.

“Teeth,” Doreen said, staring with a shudder.

Here, in this section of their prison world, two mountain ranges rose from the land. A giant one that looked like a row of distended molars, and in front of it, a small cluster of large stones. Buck teeth before the rest.

The crooked teeth were the Old Man of Storr, and he was waiting in front of the Cirellian Mountain Range for them.

“This place has no boundaries,” Margot said, studying the two juxtaposed ridges.

“It’s an amalgamation of Skye.” Doreen nodded. “Not quite right, but similar.”

“I think it’s more than that,” Ambrose said. “My castle, the chapel, the caves. All of it feels like it’s plucked from memory.”

“Whose?”

He shrugged. “Ada’s?”

“I don’t know,” Doreen said, rubbing her cheek, trying to wipe sleep from her face. “I was in Eleanor’s home. Her house seemed like it was purely Eleanor’s creation, not Ada’s.”

“Eleanor never had a home, outside of her family estate,” Ambrose said. “She died before she could.”

Doreen shrugged. “Maybe when you’re here, you have parameters you can do things in?”

“Or if Eleanor is controlled by Ada, she has certain permission to create as long as she does Ada’s bidding,” Ambrose said.

“And when she’s wearing a certain face, she can do what she wants.”

“Which is why she keeps her faces hidden.”

“Creepy.”

“Yes, okay, any ideas about what we do now that we’re here?” Margot said, staring at the rock formation.

Doreen had been thinking about it on their journey there. About Ada, Sinclair, Eleanor, the trials, and the journals. “I might,” she said, looking at the head of the stones, and how it looked like the head of a man. She took a fortifying breath. “If we want for him to help, I think we have to wake him up.”