'Elena.'
'Alex!' she squealed and embraced him.
‘What are doing here? Are you well?’
‘Sarah told me to stay put–she feared I’d be taken again.’ There was a bellow that sounded twice. ‘Alex what do we do? Should we help?'
He considered her. ‘Might be dangerous, is there any way to the clifftop from here?’
‘There’s a staircase at the back of the store, leads to a hatch.’
‘Lead on.’ He unholstered a pistol.
They ran up a flight of granite steps, to a spotless storeroom filled with teaching equipment. On the other side were stacks of crates with enough sundries to last the winter. Between two rough pillars, damp steps led further up. Alex could feel wafts of fresh air; Elena gave a whistle of relief as she breathed it in. At the top they opened a locked hatch, smothered with sod to keep it hidden. Alex pushed hard and the rust cracked in the hinges before relenting. Up on the hillside, a fat moon gleamed down on them, bright enough to highlight the village. An orange flash of light on the coast spun them both around.
‘That’s a cannon—do you see it? That’s where the thunder is coming from,’ he pointed out to sea.
Elena flinched when cracks from the cannon fire rebounded across the sky, rumbling. The cannons fired again. They put a broadside into the village, smashing homes apart with ease. After another volley the cannons ceased. Several boats were poised, away from the galleon. They reached the shore in minutes, disgorging men with torches and guns. They saw small flicks of fire as the men marched across the dunes and grassland. Their muskets firing at houses that survived the onslaught. Alex heard no screams, no panicked shouts or cries. The witches had managed to hide the villagers. He looked over at the hall; lights shone through the beams, and a mob had assembled in front of palisades. The invaders had not reached them yet.
‘Come on–let’s get to the hall before we’re spotted. Keep low and use your wits.’
Elena nodded. ‘I know of a path through the back of here, follow me.’
✽✽✽
Through thickets and scrub they kept low. Elena stopping to rub warmth back into arms, her robes pulled as snug as they could be. Alex removed his coat and draped it around her shoulders.
‘Thank you. We should hurry.’
‘Wait,’ he said, unsure.
‘We don’t have time; I must get back,’ Elena bit her lip. ‘The Sisterhood will protect us.’
‘How much do you know? How much has she let on?’
She moved away shaking her head. ‘This is not the time for questions sir.’
‘Has she told you about that girl we brought with us? Has she told you that much?’
‘I haven’t been told anything. What about her?’
‘Elena, that girl is your sister. Sarah is your true mother, not Sophia Stone– ‘
She thrust her hands into the air. ‘I know! I know.’ Elena placed a hand over her brow, as if steadying her mind. ‘I’ve felt it every day since coming here. Every day, like it’s a fever that’s taken me–this place feels right, but it doesn’t feel like home. Sophia feels like my mother, but I know she isn’t. And my sister–I want to meet her dearly, perhaps, perhaps, once this night is over.’
Alex stared. The soldiers were starting to gang up on the hall. They nestled in rocks and bushes, firing at precise intervals. The villagers hunkered down besides the palisades. They took shots of their own, some firing wild, others in formations.
‘Might be a night that never does end,’ he said, with more spite than intended. ‘I hope reuniting you with Hazel will show you what you really want.’
She stayed silent, staring back at him. A twig snapped, which made them both jump. A soldier stood there with flintlock trained. For a split—second Alex wasn’t sure if the man had seen them. The man grunted in Southerner, thrusting his gun at them, his eyes focused on Alex’s pistol. Alex cursed under his breath. The pistol grip felt heavier in his glove. Was it loaded? Of course it was. Would he have time to lift it up and pull the trigger? Maybe not. He pushed Elena aside and lifted it. The trigger pulled, making a snap and punched a shot through the chest of the soldier. He dropped to ground, shock on his face. Alex expected Elena to convulse, or to scream and shout at the injustice. But she stood there, her eyes searching his.
'I'm not weak,' she panted, a hand to her chest. 'Don't take me for a lightheaded girl.'
She bent over, clutching her stomach, gagging. After a spell she righted her posture, and breathed deep. Alex apologised, his curiosity gripping him. He pulled the corpse by one hand, finding a spot better in the moonlight. The soldier's jacket was new, his boots black and scuffed.
'Not a military man. His boots are filthy,' he said.
'That was Southerner he spoke, was it not?'
'It was.'
'Which begs the question why are they so far from home?' asked Elena.
'Mercenaries. Purses filled with guineas,' he jingled a purse. 'And orders.'
‘What does it say?’
He held the note up for her to see. It was Tuner’s signature, LPT, and the East Indian Company's seal; he pocketed the note. Alex followed Elena down the hillside, through footpaths and closer to the conflict. He herded her out of sight, asking her to stay put.
'I want to go with you, I want to help.'
'And I want to see you safe, as I have done with your sister.'
'Why?'
He considered her again, shoulders drooped, scratching his stubble. Instead of responding he gave her what he hoped was an anxious look. Gunfire was closer still now, although the villagers had not relented. Alex could see two still bodies from here; both knelt as if in prayer. His stomach dropped when he neared the skirmish. The soldiers had begun to retract themselves. They fell back in groups to the jollyboats still on the shore. He guessed what would come next: further bombardment as the mercenaries reinforced. Undisciplined, but had strength in numbers.
One—by—one a witch flew in, taking the pause in fighting to circle above the hall. Each balanced on their sticks with one leg tucked under the other. One hand folded over the front, the other free. They spun and twisted around each other, chanting. Alex stood, transfixed. The moonlight played among them, giving the bare skin of their free arms a pale glow. As he squinted a spark was forming in the centre of them; it was a dull blue, with snaps of electricity. It grew in size until it became a ball, the blue core turning a hot white and green. Alex covered his eyes when it outshone the moon; it spun there, before shooting up into a cloud. There was stillness, a heartbeat away from chaos. When it came, lightning scorched the earth, illuminating all. It cast sharp shadows on the faces of the witches for a second, then, in unison they attacked. A group swooped down on the jollyboats, another towards the ship. A cannon shot before Alex could hide, it smashed the hall's oak, cleaving the great tree in two. Shards fell on him, jigging their way into his skin. As he wiped them off, a thunderhead broke above him, shattering his ears. He covered them as they played their swansong, and stumbled his way inside.
The walls had not breached. Only branches, twigs and sticks fell about him, most burning up in the fire pit. Sarah had moved the villagers that could not fight and the wounded to the rear of the hall protected surrounded by natural stone. Those witches too young to fight helped the injured and children. Alex found a space in far off corner and started to remove the splinters that had dug deep, wincing as he tugged.
'What's happening out there?' Sarah asked.
'Your students are weaving a storm.'
'Good,' Sarah said, perched on her throne. 'Turner will soon realise he cannot take what is not his.'
Alex twisted around. He had washed off his blood with the help of a witch who was ensuring the feverish had a damp cloth to sooth. He rose, shaking the last of the ringing out of his head.
'They're Southern men–you knew that right? It's the Company you're facing Lady. There’s plenty more where that one warship came from. And if it's Isolde or Turner, they’ve got the money
to keep them paid.'
'If it is Turner, he will never have her,' she dismissed him. 'He will never have that city.'
'The obvious is eluding you,' Alex ventured, daring to push her foul mood. 'All this over Elena, all this over one girl?'
Sarah stood and walked over to him. Her white dress was grubby, her hands smeared with blood and soot. She signalled one of the young witches over and washed her hands in the bucket, wiping them dry with a clean cloth.
'There's little you know,' Sarah answered, sibilant. 'My daughters are immaculate. They are divine, that I am sure. To lose them again is to…'
Alex searched her eyes for fiction, some twitch that would give her away. There was nothing. ‘Die twice?’ he ventured.
She frowned at him dismissing his answer with a wave of her hand. Outside rain erupted, drenching the roof; the sounds of the battle were over. Hesitant, the few able in the hall wandered outside. Alex followed, halting what conversation he was about to start. Sarah took a slow step behind him. First light smouldered in the distance. Parts of the sky were sparking like hot steel under the smith's hammer. A tumult of clouds stirred, cheerful as lead. The witches had huddled together, under Selene's leadership. They stopped in front of the hall, all facing Sarah.
'We have driven them back my Cwen,' said Selene. 'Are we welcome among the villagers?'
Alex noticed a pause before Sarah spoke; her hand was stuck in a hesitant gesture.
'Of course, of course you are. Come Selene, out of this drizzle. You have all won our thanks.'
She gave Alex a warning look, and he waited for her to finish her speech before slipping away. Relief washed over him as he found Elena still at the back of the house, covered up, sheltered beside a log pile.
'What happened? Is it over?'
He looked at her, weighing his conscience with tugs of his mouth. He feigned exhaustion.
'Sarah has asked me to take you back, back to London, for safety. There's a sloop just beside a jetty–the witches use it from time to time,' Alex lied.
Elena looked disheartened. After a moment she nodded at him, a resolve in her eyes. Her hand shot up, scaring Alex, as if she was about to refuse him, but then it folded, wanting. They set off without a word, past the hall and village, past Sarah's home and down to the dock. Alex seized the tarp off the boat and locked the oars. He pulled his hood tight over his head, shielding the worst of the rain. Elena came aboard, her legs shaking.
'I cannot hear any fighting, have they finished it?'
'The fighting was taken to the hall and far down into the cliffside. You'll be safe with me. Your mother promised that.'
Alex grunted, losing the sails. The waves had calmed around them, but the rain did not relent. It soaked through cracks in the waterproofs they wore. In time they were clear of the dock, Alex keeping a wary eye on the mercenary galleon that was still anchored. It was magnificent to behold; eerie as they went past. Alex muttered a quick prayer that the witches would not follow in pursuit. That he would have a day to get to Greenmarket, and with fair weather, back home.
Strength
She watched events unfold from a corner in the hall where debris from the fallen oak had not touched. She had not intervened with any of it and stayed put, absorbing details around her. She noticed the hesitation in Sarah’s voice. Just before the Sisterhood mixed with the villagers. She also noticed how upset Sarah was with Alex, but didn’t pursue an argument. As Sarah Saville marched to her throne and sat with one arm poised under her chin, their eyes locked. Hazel paused before broaching a conversation with her. There was an intelligent woman sat on that wooden chair. One with the charisma and guile to persuade people to follow her. Hazel leaned on manipulative and cruel. But Sarah was careful to hide her true intentions. Hazel could almost see it. An ugly ambition that bobbed just beneath the surface.
'You do look like her,’ said Sarah.
'Pardon me?'
Sarah shook her head. She smiled, placing her head in her hands as if wanting to reveal a secret. 'There's a girl, Elena, she’s about your age. I bet you two would get on famous,' she said. 'She's gifted too.'
'Is she part of your cult?'
'Not yet. She is my daughter however, and the next Cwen perhaps. But, before that happens, I have to secure my legacy. I have to make good of this place. To show tyrants across England that our craft is something to be feared.'
'Your craft is something to be cherished and understood, surely? Not something to frighten and breed hate.’
'Do you think they would understand? That man is capable of being brave in the face of the unknown? They blind themselves to the world so it better suits them. Let them. Let them carry on an act of falsehood and capricious gods that set their lives in a comfortable box, all bound by rules. It is rot. Magic should be as this: feared and respected above all else. Witches, witchcraft-we should have the rule of this land, as we did before.'
Hazel stood still; her arms folded. She repeated the conversation in her mind, over and over; the words turning with a strange connotation that had not yet resolved. In the lapse of her thoughts she had finally settled a debate that had plagued her since she had first met Sarah Saville. She wanted to be as far away from that woman and this place as soon as possible. Not from fear or avarice, but it was the way in which Sarah Saville spoke to her; the way her eyes dulled and shined on certain topics; the way her lips dripped poison and honey without effort. Sarah was the architect of this little world she had built; and whatever control she had lost in a previous life was now spent on ensuring it would never be lost again. Hazel could only guess at the changes that had occurred for this woman to become what she is now.
'My dear, I would ask something of you. Could you find my sweet Elena for me? She seems to have hidden herself well,’ said Sarah.
Hazel nodded, 'I can try.'
Hazel left the hall lost in her thoughts. Dawn raced ahead of night; it brought a cool horizon and the first birdsongs that made her yawn deep. Bleary she made her down to the dock, where the Tail sat, abandoned. Parts of it still smoked; a wet musk that washed over her, giving her nausea. Sarah's right hand, Selene, was in charge of salvaging the wreck. Her and a few Sisters, with dark—ringed eyes, busied themselves with the task. It seemed futile to Hazel, why salvage an old boat like this? She strolled past, pottering through the corridors until finding the library. It was empty, with a few candles lit. Hazel marvelled at the construction behind the roof. Fluted and panelled gaps between the wood vented warm air to the surface. She could feel a strong draught underneath the stone floor that provided fresh air. It helped keep the books dry, which was the most important state to keep a book in, she had read. Elena was nowhere in the Hollows, despite exhausting every location. Gold soon found Hazel, curled up, back in the hall, a blanket stretched over her.
'Wake up. Here.’
'I am awake–I was listening to the gossip,' Hazel replied.
Gold pressed a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread into Hazel’s hands. It was warm gruel but kept her stomach from complaining. She looked up at her sister who was sat next to her; they both smiled at each other. Hazel pressed her body close.
'I have to tell you something important,' said Gold. ‘I’m not sure if this is the right time.’
'That Sarah Saville has lost her senses? That we
have to escape?'
'No, not those. But I do feel we've outstayed our welcome here.'
'What is it then?' Hazel asked, finishing her soup.
Gold eyed the hall. Certain conversations had dropped, the silence unsettled her. 'Not here, outside—but you do trust me, right?'
'I do. I do trust you.' Hazel fixed her shawl, and followed Gold outside.
✽✽✽
The galleon that had attacked was still anchored, still dressed as an East India ship; a Jack on the main mast still flying alone. It was a sad sight to Hazel, who saw the ruin that spells could wreak, again. She had never considered the Sisterhood had wielded that power. Nor had she consid
ered how used to violence they were in their crusade against the world. Gold stopped, just before some scrub, her eyes had glazed. Her mouth turned open, and then shut, as if in communion. Finally, her sister furrowed her brow and grunted, as she would when faced with something that niggled at her conscience.
'Hazel. I'm–I am not your real sister.'
Hazel could feel her heart lurch. She had suspicions. The dreams, her strange upbringing, the way Gold protected her.
'And who is my mother? Who brought me up as a child?'
'Victoria did. She is a beautiful and caring woman. She still loves you as her own. I love you too. That hasn’t changed.'
There was an odd shake to her sister's voice; Hazel had never seen her so fraught. She turned from her sister, absorbing the morning sun, watching terns play over the waves. Hazel closed her eyes and enjoyed the tattoo of sea spray on the rocks below.
'You are my sister,' she said.
'No, that's not what I'm saying–'
'Gold you are my sister and I love you as such; no matter what between us. You are from a separate family, and suffered hardships to win me. Am I right?'
Gold looked relieved, and nodded. There was a tug of a smile forming. 'Something I've kept from you for a long time–a long, long time. This is not Cyrus’ fault, you understand that? He had no choice. I was there, a young child, but I was there.'
Hazel hugged her sister tight, feeling her chest rise as she drew breath. They both flopped onto the grass. 'Tell me what happened, all of it,’ she said, 'please.'
'I was even younger than you are now. We were attacked, again, by privateers. Sarah Saville did everything she could to prevent her daughters being taken. That's you and Elena. She's your sister by blood. Sarah sent me away with the pair of you, placed all her faith in me. Her sister, Isolde, curse her name, forced Cyrus to give up Elena, or give up everything he had. By chance, Sophia Saville would not take you. And so–' she shrugged. 'You were everything to me–you, Cyrus and Victoria, a small family. They were happy times growing up together. We made the most of what we had.'
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