The Witch Haven

by Sasha Peyton Smith

  “But they didn’t. And then William died. I couldn’t save him, but I thought maybe I could save you. Maybe this is what I was meant for. It’s nice to imagine things have a purpose. So I started coming up to Haxahaven on nights I was supposed to be working because I couldn’t stay away from you. You’ve been haunting me my whole life.”

  You’ve been haunting me my whole life. That sounds about right. For the last four months, I’ve been more ghost than girl.

  I’m aware that I should be unsettled by his story. There’s something invasive and intimate about the idea that he’s been witnessing my dreams for years, even more so that he followed me once he made it to New York. But instead of squirmy discomfort, there is the fizzy warmth that comes with being special to someone.

  He finally turns to look at me, and it’s like staring into the sun. His eyes are wide and questioning: You matter to me; do I matter to you, too?

  His hand edges closer to mine, our pinky fingers brush, and it feels like being burned alive.

  I should say something kind. I should tell him that I’ve never felt this special to anyone, that I’m glad he saw me all those years ago, that I wish I could travel back in time and spare him the pain of his childhood. But the way he’s looking at me makes me feel stripped bare, and I’m nervous. “I appreciate all that, truly I do, but it doesn’t mean you can protect me,” I say in a voice that sounds awfully far away.

  “I know. But I don’t know if it will stop me from trying.”

  “What if we promise to protect each other? A partnership. Sherlock and Watson.”

  “Yes, but if we’re being honest with ourselves, we’re both Watson, so it’s a less than perfect metaphor.” Finn smiles, but he can’t hide his anxiety.

  “You can’t protect me. You can only teach me what to do with what I’ve been given.”

  “That’s a deal I’ll take.” Suddenly he glances to a place I can’t see. “I have to go. I’ll see you Saturday,” he says, then shimmers like a specter out of sight

  “Please, Finn—” I call after him. I still have so many questions.

  I snap awake, sweaty and wanting in the dark of my room.

  I’m jittery all over, certain of two things.

  He’s been seeing me forever.

  And I’m going to break into the Commodore Club.

  * * *

  I feel guilty all of breakfast the next morning. I feel as if I should tell Lena and Maxine of Finn’s confession last night. I don’t like keeping things from them, but for now it’s something I want to keep tucked away in my rib cage, just for me.

  Once my picked-at scrambled eggs go cold, Maxine hauls Lena and me to our usual quiet corner of the library to discuss our plans for Saturday.

  Maxine looks exhausted, like she, too, didn’t sleep much last night. She sinks her chin into her hands and sighs. “I’ve been trying to work it all out,” she says. “I have an idea, but it’s not ideal.”

  “Go on, then,” Lena prompts.

  Maxine chews on her lower lip. “Helen and I are supposed to attend a meeting of the National American Woman Suffrage Association on Saturday; there’s a girl there, a new pupil we’re fetching,” she explains. “What if I made her take you with us?”

  “Would she do that?” I ask.

  “We’d have to lie a little.”

  Lena laughs at this. “You draw the line at lying?”

  Maxine grimaces. “I’m just not a very good liar is all.”

  Her confession fills me with a profound sense of fondness. “Even after we lie to varying degrees of convincingness, would she still take us into the city like that?”

  “It would be easier to bring you than make me mad,” she replies flippantly.

  Lena tilts her head, looks out the window. “It seems like a risky bet.”

  “Hardly,” says Maxine. “When I was sixteen, Mrs. Vykotsky refused to let my little sister come for a visit. In turn, I refused to use my power to help her and Helen collect new pupils for weeks while I sulked. Helen couldn’t narrow down anyone’s location closer than six blocks. She eventually brought some girl up here who didn’t possess a lick of magic, the wrong Sarah Simmons, or something. It was a nightmare. It was also a little hilarious. Eventually, Nina came to visit, and I’ve gotten what I wanted since.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “Sarah? I think we paid her off and sent her back to her family.”

  “You’re a monster.” I laugh. “So, we go to the meeting, and then what? I run off?”

  “Obviously,” Maxine says. “Lena and I will stay and distract Helen; you and Finn will get the dagger. And besides, it’s stretching the truth at best,” she adds with a wave of her hand. “You do think women should have the vote, do you not?”

  “Well of course—” I say.

  She cuts me off. “Then it’s settled.”

  And so, in our corner of the library, our plan comes together. Maxine and Helen are going into the city, and Maxine will insist they take us along. The suffragettes hold meetings in a church basement on the Lower East Side on Saturday evenings, and it won’t take me long to sneak off and meet Finn at the Commodore Club instead. Maxine will insist Helen and the others wait for me, and I will meet them outside the church at nine o’clock, sharp.

  I will profusely apologize, make up a story about how much I missed a friend and snuck off to see her, and will accept my punishment with a stiff upper lip. Maxine is sure Helen won’t assign me to anything more serious than a week of kitchen duty. If everything goes right, by this time on Saturday, I will be a step closer to seeing my brother again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Saturday comes too soon and not soon enough. For once, I bound out of bed before the others, too nervous to stay still any longer. I tossed and turned through the night, plagued with dreams of eyeless faces, drowned bodies, and ghosts. I never saw Finn, though; my horrible nightmares last night were all my own.

  The day passes like molasses through a sieve, and by the time later afternoon rolls around and Maxine comes to fetch me from History class, my body is so full of nerves, I feel as if I might crawl right out of my skin.

  I meet Lena up in our room, and we help each other dress. I came to school in my dingy work dress, and Lena came in her school uniform, so Maxine is kind enough to let us borrow her clothes. Maxine’s dresses are beautiful, fine-seamed and dripping in family money.

  We are all of similar enough sizes, and with some strategic pinning, the dresses won’t look bad on us at all. If anything, it’s fun to use my dressmaking skills once more. I’d nearly forgotten the particular satisfaction of creating a well-fitting garment.

  Lena wears a gown of emerald green, dotted with small pink flowers, that ties in a chiffon scarf around her waist. I take my time winding her masses of shiny dark hair into a twist at the nape of her neck, but her hair is as stubborn as she is, and pieces keep springing free. I’ve never been talented at dressing hair, and Lena eyes me in the mirror as I curse and sigh and stick more pins in her hair.

  Once I’m finished, she helps me into a cream-colored gown. The short gossamer sleeves are embroidered with delicate, near-invisible ivory blossoms in a motif that is echoed in the skirt. Vines of blooms climb up the edges of the floaty fabric, ending in the sash of light pink tied at my waist. Unlike Lena’s dress, mine has a low neckline, and the bite of cool fall air drifting in from the window on my collarbones makes me feel dangerous.

  Maxine marches into our room wearing a gown of light blue silk, with a dark cobalt coat thrown on over it. Her hair is pinned up and secured with a matching silk ribbon tied around her head like a halo. I’ll never look so at ease in my skin as she does leaned up against the doorjamb.

  “How did you get dressed so quickly?” Lena mumbles around the pin she has balanced between her teeth as she continues to put up my hair.

  “I made some of the younger girls help me,” Maxine says. “They were awfully jealous to have not been invited along.”

&
nbsp; “And your hair?” I ask.

  “That little Cora is awfully talented. Her aunt was a lady’s maid for a Rockefeller.”

  “Well, la di da,” Lena murmurs, still pinning my hair up in something close enough to a bun.

  We both look at my reflection in the mirror and shrug simultaneously. I look fine enough. I’ll never have Maxine’s icy beauty or Lena’s lit-from-within glow, but I’m fine. I look fine.

  As we walk out the door, Ruby turns up her nose and says it’s un-American to think women should have the vote. Aurelia gives us a sad smile then nods in agreement.

  Helen is waiting for us by the ambulance in a maroon traveling suit, her frizzy hair contained under a wide-brimmed felt hat.

  “Thank you again for taking us along,” I greet her.

  Her face is annoyed at best. “Ah well, Maxine does love to get her way, does she not? Plus it’s not like anyone will recognize you and Lena.”

  “But I’m from New York,” I quickly remind her.

  “Not this kind of New York.”

  Lena and I share an uncomfortable glance.

  From the front seat Maxine rolls her eyes and mouths, Ignore her.

  Helen loads us into the back of the rickety ambulance, and we take off through winding country roads into the city.

  Only a few miles pass before the air grows heavy with the scent of rain, and the crackle of electricity speaks of lightning to come.

  Helen hurtles our automobile across the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge and into the streets of Manhattan around horses and pedestrians. My stomach is turning so badly, it’s a relief when we park, even though the cobblestones are difficult to navigate in my borrowed shoes.

  It’s surreal to be back in the city after so long, and I can’t help but wonder how everything about it has stayed the same. I have been profoundly changed by my time away, but the city has continued on without me.

  Carriages rattle past us. Boys shout the day’s news, evening papers clutched in their little hands. On the sidewalk we weave between people on their way home. I search for Oliver in their faces out of habit.

  Next to me, Maxine and Lena are silent. Tethers of tense energy stretch between us. After a month in the open air of Queens, it’s a relief to once again be surrounded by tall buildings. It feels like they’re embracing me, welcoming me home.

  Helen rattles on about how the city is bad for her nerves. The three of us manage to nod and smile on cue, but our minds are on the Resurrection. We make it to the meeting with only minutes to spare.

  The New York Woman Suffrage Association holds their meeting in the dank basement of a Methodist church on West Thirteenth Street. The arched doorway is small and grim compared to the electric lights flashing on the rest of the street. We pad down a carpeted staircase and into a meeting room. On the walls, sweeping felt banners declare FORWARD! THROUGH THE DARKNESS. FORWARD! INTO THE LIGHT. And WOMEN NEED SUFFRAGE TO END SWEATSHOPS. Rows of simple wooden chairs sit facing an unoccupied podium. There is a hearty crowd of women, mostly in middle age, all white, milling about and mingling. Helen greets a few like old friends and introduces us with a warm smile.

  “Anna”—she greets a young brunette woman with rosy cheeks—“this is my niece Maxine and a few of her school friends.” She gestures to us, and we offer small waves.

  A taller blonde with riotous curls springing from her low bun approaches us next. Her gray dress is adorned with VOTES FOR WOMEN pins.

  “Ladies.” Helen turns to us. “This is Ethel, Anna’s sister, the election district captain.”

  Ethel can’t be much older than Maxine; she must be particularly accomplished to be running a chapter like this so young.

  Ethel laughs and replies, “Oh, I’m only the captain for now; once Alice gets out of prison, she’ll be back at the helm. Let’s just hope it’s before my next arrest.”

  “Arrest?” I ask.

  Understanding dawns on Ethel’s face as she realizes I’m not joking. “Oh yes, we’re thrown in prison quite frequently. Being a public nuisance, failure to pay fines, breaking and entering…” She lists the charges off on her fingers.

  She finds my silent horror amusing. The sparkle in her foxlike hazel eyes is similar to Maxine’s. “Sometimes prison’s a nice reprieve from those pelting us with trash on the streets.”

  My mouth gapes as I imagine the strength it must take to bear something like that. I wonder if I’ll ever be that brave.

  She turns to Helen, and they continue chatting about the state of marches and strikes. Beside me, Lena shifts uncomfortably.

  “What’s the matter?” I whisper to her.

  She shrugs her shoulders in response, and I jab her in the side with my elbow and give her a look. “Lena?”

  “Look around,” she whispers. “None of these women are looking at me.”

  I hadn’t noticed. “I don’t understand,” I reply.

  “These women don’t care about me. They’re fighting so that girls like you can vote alongside your rich, white husbands. Not girls like me.” Any sadness in her eyes is quickly replaced with fury.

  My face burns red with shame, because she’s right. I didn’t notice, nor would I have had she not pointed it out. The world is broken in so many ways. What good is it having magic if we can fix none of them? What good am I if I’m so self-absorbed I don’t even notice?

  But guilt without action doesn’t do Lena any good.

  “You want to know the stupidest thing?” she continues. “The Founding Fathers stole the model of democracy from the Iroquois Confederacy, bastardized it, and everyone called them geniuses. These women are doing more of the same. Only certain kinds of people get to be equal.”

  I reach down and take her hand in mine. “You deserve a better world than this one.”

  Her steely eyes set on mine. “So do we fight, or do we search for safety?” she asks.

  “I think I want to fight,” I say.

  Lena casts a glance at the women around us. “Then we can’t lose.”

  Before I can respond, Anna steps up to the podium at the front of the room and bangs a gavel. The noise echoes sharply through the meeting hall, and the women quiet and take their seats.

  “Sisters, welcome,” she greets them. “Today is a joyous occasion. Since our last meeting, California passed a suffrage amendment to their state constitution. How wonderful it is to have a victory to celebrate!”

  Lena’s hand falls from mine as I take a few steps backward. I linger near the stairs. Lena’s eyes roam the room before meeting mine. She nods. I take advantage of the celebration to slip out, over dusty rugs, and up a narrow staircase, until I finally emerge into the dense humidity of New York before a storm. The smell of earth has settled thick in the air. Dark clouds roll in on the horizon, partially blocking out the last light of the dying day.

  I walk the twelve blocks to the Commodore Club quickly, my deft, city-native feet carrying me through the seas of people, stepping around horse manure and garbage, avoiding carriages and cars. It is a ballet I know well. One I miss.

  The club isn’t far from the shop where I worked or the apartment I shared with my mother and William. I purposefully avoid those blocks, like a coward too afraid to look at the buildings through the eyes of the new person I’ve become.

  I pass the exact corner where I ran into Oliver Callahan, what feels like a very long time ago. Somewhere across town he’s probably warm and laughing in a dormitory, surrounded by classmates, and not thinking at all about magic daggers and speaking to ghosts.

  I reach my destination a few blocks later; it’s impossible to miss. The Commodore Club is everything the church where the suffragettes meet isn’t. The building is not polite. It roars, taking up nearly a whole city block, punctuated by stark white pillars, like teeth in an open mouth. I pat the head of one of the stone lions on the stairs upon my approach. Good evening, please don’t devour me whole.

  I climb the granite steps to the carved oak double doors quickly, leaving no time to second-g
uess myself. I pick up the door knocker, a heavy brass stag, and I knock three times. After a heartbeat, an old man in a red velvet coat opens the door.

  He’s small, shorter than I am, and his scraggly white hair is combed over his egg-shaped head. His pencil-thin mustache is dark, like he might have drawn it on himself. In any other circumstance, it might have made me laugh.

  “Evening, miss,” he greets me, somehow looking down at me despite his inferior height. “What can I do for you?”

  How stupid am I to just now realize my plan didn’t go much beyond this moment? I thought Finn would be waiting outside for me, that perhaps he’d lead me through a back door like a detective in a novel. I’ve been so anxious about tonight, I’ve tried not to think about the details much at all. Perhaps I shouldn’t have even knocked. Maybe I’ve ruined it already.

  “Frances Hallowell, sir. Here to see Finn D’Arcy.”

  “The young Mr. D’Arcy did not inform us he’d be having a guest tonight,” he drawls.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. What would Maxine do in this moment?

  Before I can formulate a clever response, Finn appears at the top of the carpeted staircase. He’s wearing a tuxedo and all the swagger that comes with it. He hasn’t attempted to tame his curls, and the bruiselike shadows under his eyes are even more present in the electric light of the Commodore Club than they are in the dark of Forest Park. He looks handsome, dignified, dangerous.

  At the sight of me, he cracks a grin, teeth straight and white, as well formed as the rest of him. “You came.”

  “I did.”