Page 52 of The Women of Wild Hill

Sibyl had a secret. She’d only recently realized that’s what it was. For most of her life, it hadn’t seemed like something anyone else would find interesting. It involved her lifelong best friend, Lily.

Sibyl knew what other people’s dreams were like. She’d listened to tales of nightmares and fantasies and all sorts of sexcapades. If she’d ever experienced such nocturnal adventures, she couldn’t remember them. The only dreams Sibyl ever seemed to remember all featured the same person.

Even as a young girl, Lily had always been prim and proper and perfectly dressed.

She wore her hair in a sleek black bob. To someone who’d grown up in Nowhere, Texas, the girl seemed incredibly sophisticated and her perfectly knotted scarves indicated she might be French.

But she spoke English with a crisp mid-Atlantic accent, and though she seemed like someone who might be stuck up, she was often incredibly funny.

Lily first appeared in Sibyl’s dreams after she accidentally overheard her mother say she was normal.

“Nothing more, nothing less,” as Phoebe had put it.

That night, Sibyl dreamed she and a dark-haired girl were hiding under a staircase, listening to a conversation between two unseen women in a nearby room.

“It’s such a disappointment,” said a woman who spoke with a Scottish accent. “She’s almost reached menarche, and I’ve seen no evidence of any gifts. By the time you were her age, you were already creating complex elixirs.”

“She’s highly intelligent,” responded the other. “Not to mention extremely disciplined and determined.”

“Utterly commonplace,” the Scottish woman pronounced. “She might as well be a good cook or an excellent laundress. We’ll just have to wait for the next generation. Hopefully she’ll find a suitable husband.”

“They’re talking about me,” the dark-haired girl told Sibyl. She pulled a little package out of her skirt pocket and unwrapped a scone. She split it in two and shared one half with Sibyl. “Does your family say the same things about you?”

“Yes,” Sibyl had confessed. “My mother thinks I’m normal.” Phoebe’s latest bullshit had been weighing heavily on her all day.

“Well, we shouldn’t hold it against them, I suppose,” the girl told her. “They’ll all find out eventually.”

It was a sweet thing to say, but Sibyl wasn’t going to pretend that her mother was wrong. “It’s true. I really can’t do anything.”

The girl found that amusing. Her laugh was a series of little snorts. “What are you talking about? You can speak to me,” she told Sibyl. “But let’s keep that our secret for now, shall we?”

“Who are you?” Sibyl asked.

The girl swallowed a dainty bite of scone. “You may call me Lily,” she told her.

AS SIBYL APPROACHED HER TEENAGE years, Lily began to make appearances during daylight hours.

Whenever Sibyl let her imagination roam—during classes, on dull, rainy days—it would always lead her right to Lily.

Generally, they got along fabulously. Lily led a fascinating secret life.

She spent a great deal of time talking to a very pretty ghost no one else could see.

She had a scrapbook at home she called “the rogue’s gallery” full of men the world would be better without.

And she experimented with explosives and poisons and invisible inks.

When they were alone, Lily began to step out of Sibyl’s daydreams. She was wonderful company.

She loved taking walks through wilderness, though she never dressed appropriately, and she once said she’d never seen a snake up close before, which was odd considering they were in Texas.

And she was absolutely delighted the day they spotted a wild hog the size of a hippo.

Most kids would have run away screaming, but Lily insisted they pet it.

She called the pig Petunia. “Like the cartoon!” she explained.

She thought Sibyl must be crazy when she didn’t get the joke.

Lily wasn’t like the other girls. She knew unusual things and was always keen to share her knowledge. She could also be incredibly bossy.

“Why would you want to waste your time straightening that glorious hair?” Lily asked one day when she popped into Sibyl’s room uninvited.

“There’s someone I like at school,” Sibyl told her. “They like girls with straight hair.”

“They’re not worth your time, darling. You’re destined for greater things than those children.”

“How?” Sibyl demanded. “I failed chemistry.”

“That again?” Lily yawned theatrically. “Chemistry just isn’t your gift. There are other gifts, you know.”

“You’re being nice, but we both know I’m not as smart as you.”

“I’m never nice!” Lily said, though she often was. “Besides, why on earth would I lie to you? What good would that do?”

Sibyl threw herself face down on the bed. “This is ridiculous!” she moaned into the mattress. “I’m too old for an imaginary friend.” She felt the bounce of the bedsprings as a body plopped down beside her.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not imaginary,” she heard Lily say.

“If you’re real, why can’t anyone else see you?”

“I don’t want them to.” A hint of annoyance crept into her voice. “Would you please sit up? I’m telling you I’m here for a reason.”

Sibyl rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “What is it?”

“Your mother stubbornly refuses to give you the guidance you need, so I’ve stepped in to provide it. For instance, what do you know about corvids?”

“You mean the cars?”

Lily shook her head in dismay. “No, the birds! Ravens, crows, jays, magpies.”

“Then I guess I know nothing about them.”

“They bring messages from the Old One and other realms. Ignore them at your peril. Why are some places on earth more powerful than others?”

Sibyl shook her head. “Dunno. Why?”

“Because these places absorbed the Old One’s magic when she stopped to admire her creation.

It is in these locations that you’re likely to find witches.

Your mother hasn’t taught you a damn thing, has she?

I noticed she has the contraceptive herb silphium growing in her garden.

Most experts assume it’s extinct. Do you know how our family procured the seeds? ”

“What?” Sibyl had heard enough. “This is pathetic. First my mother doesn’t love me, and now I’ve lost my damn mind.”

For some reason this pissed Lily off more than anything. “Your mother loves you more than life itself,” she insisted. “She’s trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

“The kind of pain she experienced.”

Sibyl groaned miserably. “I’m insane and my imaginary friend is spouting Beginner Psych bullshit.”

“You’re not insane. You’re annoying as hell,” Lily told her and disappeared.

THE ONLY PLACE SIBYL WAS truly happy was the kitchen.

She’d been cooking since the age of four, but in Sibyl’s teenage years it became more passion than hobby.

Her parents both worked long and unusual hours, and Sibyl found entertainment and encouragement at the stove.

Lily often kept her company, chatting away as Sibyl chopped, sautéed, and occasionally flambéed.

She loved to listen to Lily spin fantastic tales about a paradise called Wild Hill, where powerful women plotted to save the world.

She was particularly fascinated by the resident ghost.

“Do you think people can really talk to the dead?” she asked Lily one day.

The question wasn’t meant to be funny and yet Lily snorted. “Of course! You don’t think so?”

“I’m not sure,” Sibyl admitted.

“What will it take to convince you?”

“A conversation with a ghost, I suppose,” Sibyl told her.

“Fine. I’ll see what I can arrange,” Lily told her. She didn’t seem to think it would be much of a challenge.

AFTER HIGH SCHOOL, PHOEBE WANTED Sibyl to go to University of Texas and study something practical like hotel management.

Someday the ranch would be hers, after all, and she could turn it into a spa.

Ed thought this was a terrible idea. He’d already made his position on the matter quite clear.

Sibyl needed to get as far away from her mother as possible.

It was Lily who suggested the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York.

Once she’d escaped Texas, and Sibyl felt like she’d found the right track, Lily visited her less often. It was as if Lily’s role had been to help Sibyl slip out from under her mother’s thumb.

And yet, when the ravens came, Sibyl immediately wondered if Lily, who’d always loved corvids, could have sent them. Then she arrived on Wild Hill and met the ancestors. Only then had Sibyl made the connection. Her childhood best friend, Lily, was her great-grandmother Lilith.

NOW SHE WAS BACK. WHENEVER Sibyl was alone in the cottage, Lilith came to join her.

She was Sibyl’s age now, with her black hair pinned to the side with a single barrette and a tweed suit that would have looked dowdy on someone older.

But her spirit was just as arch and mischievous as Sibyl remembered.

She was excellent company—and never, ever boring.

“I don’t feel like I’m a part of this story yet,” Sibyl confessed as she assembled hors d’oeuvres.

“Why is that?” her great-grandmother asked.

“My mother is . . . well . . . amazing. She’s beautiful and gifted. She talks to snakes.”

“To be honest, I doubt snakes have anything terribly interesting to say,” Lilith butted in. “It always seemed like a silly gift.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” said Sibyl, who’d long been curious. “The point is, I always thought she was a goddess. Then I met Brigid. She’s so fucking fabulous that death follows her around like a puppy.”

“That seems like a very mixed blessing to me,” Lilith said. “I mean, there’s nothing more satisfying than ridding the world of terrible men. But I’d rather make my own choices. Would you want death picking out your victims for you?”