At Valéry’s request Veronica had moved the Fortnum & Mason hamper to the attic, settling it behind a stack of steamer trunks, cartons tied together with twine, discarded bits of furniture, and aged valises. She trod lightly on the attic stairs, and didn’t turn on a light until she and the dog were inside. When the door was securely closed, she pulled the string of a single bare bulb beside the door that barely illumined the dusty, crowded space. She jammed a chair under the latch, then turned to cautiously slide the hamper out of its hiding place.
She had nothing with which to work a spell, neither water nor herbs nor salt nor candle. She hadn’t dared try to collect such things, not when she had promised Valéry. She hadn’t celebrated the Sabbats, major or minor, in a very long time. She hadn’t looked into the stone since the night he had discovered it.
The crystal would answer her, or it would not, but she had to try.
She uncovered it and set it on the bare wooden floor. She knelt before it, cupping it in her palms, and spoke very low, with Oona watching from the shadows.
Mother Goddess, hear my plea:
Let my fault forgotten be,
And let there be a babe for me.
She spoke it three times three times, peering into the stone for any response.
There was none. The crystal, which usually flared to life when she approached it, which sometimes glowed of its own accord to get her attention, which had shown her the spirits of her ancestresses and guided her uncertain steps when there was no one to teach her, would not answer her. Its dull gray surface was opaque in the dim light, with no spark in its depths.
She let her prayer die away, but she stayed where she was, gazing disconsolately at the stone. “I didn’t mean to turn my back on the craft,” she murmured. “Valéry begged me, and he has had so many losses. So much pain. I thought—I just wanted to reassure him. He was so worried …” The thin, whispery sound of her voice threaded through the dusty attic. She wasn’t sure whom she was addressing. All of them, perhaps, all the women who had handled this stone, who had called on it, relied upon it.
She thought of Olive, and Rose, and Elizabeth, and the way the stone had blazed inside the circle of the coven. Of course, they had done things properly. They had herbs, and salt, and new candles, everything the grimoires prescribed.
She didn’t know what to do. Surely the grimoire had spells for fertility, but did she dare take it out? It was difficult to read at the best of times, and in this light it would be impossible. She couldn’t risk carrying it to her bedroom, or any other place where Valéry would see it, and know she had broken her promise.
She glanced at the small dormer window set into the peaked roof of the attic. The stars were beginning to fade. The early sun would rise soon. Valéry might wake, and wonder where she was. It was obvious she was wasting her time here, but it hurt to give up.
“Maybe,” she said mournfully to Oona, “I’m not meant to have a child after all. Maybe that girl I saw, the image Mama sent—maybe it wasn’t me. Perhaps I am the end of my line, the last of the Orchiéres. The line of Valéry’s family died out, and unless one of the queen’s nieces has inherited the power, the line of the Glamis witches will also die out.”
She sighed and got stiffly to her feet, pausing to rub her knees. She bent to replace the wrappings on the crystal. When she lowered the lid of the hamper, she let her palm rest on the wicker top for a moment. She closed her eyes, feeling this was a final farewell. She wondered who might one day come across the old Fortnum & Mason hamper, and open it out of curiosity.
“Well, Oona,” she said aloud, as she opened her eyes. “I suppose I made a terrible mistake, but I did it for love. You and I know that. Everything I’ve done, I did for love.”
It was true, she thought, as she picked her way through the clutter of trunks and boxes toward the door. Love of family, of friends, of country, of her queen, of her house and her husband—these were what mattered. If it was the end of the practice of the craft for her, she could at least feel content with the knowledge that she had offered the best she had.
She was just reaching for the string to turn off the light when Oona emitted one short, sharp bark.
Veronica glanced back, a command for the dog on her lips. It died unspoken.
Light pierced the woven wicker of the hamper and cast an unsteady lattice pattern on the slanted ceiling. The stone had come alive.
With a soft cry Veronica hurried back to it. She barked her shin on the corner of a trunk, and nearly tripped over a cast-off floor lamp, but in the space of a breath she was crouched beside the hamper again, throwing open the lid, tearing off the silk covering.
They were all there, the faces appearing and disappearing through the glowing mist inside the crystal. It was, as it had always been, like dreaming of them, the crone with the stone in her hands, the sharp-faced woman, the old woman with the wild mane of silver hair, and the beautiful one. Her mother. Morwen.
“Mama,” Veronica breathed, and the whirl of faces ceased.
Morwen gazed out at her, a faint, sweet smile on her lips. In her mind Veronica heard her mother’s voice. All will be as it’s meant, Morwen told her. You have the greatest gift already. Love him. Let him love you. Nothing else matters.
A heartbeat later she was gone. Other faces took her place, curious faces, laughing ones, some that scowled as if finding their descendant unworthy. Veronica stayed where she was, meeting their gazes, smiling even at the frowning ones.
The sky beyond the windows of Sweetbriar was already turning rosy when she left the attic, and she and Oona hurried down the stairs and along the corridor to the bedroom.
She opened the door as quietly as she could. Valéry sat up as she came in, peering at her through sleep-heavy eyelids. “Where have you been?”
Veronica said, without a twinge of guilt, “Oona needed to go out.”
Yawning, Valéry threw back the covers and patted the sheet. “You must be cold.”
“I am.” She crossed to the bed and slid beneath the blankets, snuggling close to Valéry’s warmth. He put his arm around her and she tucked her head against his shoulder, just beneath his chin.
“I was thinking, Véronique,” he said. She felt the rumble of his deep, sweet voice against her cheek. “No matter what le docteur has said, we should keep trying.”
Veronica turned up her face and kissed his cheek. A bubble of happiness rose in her breast, and she chuckled. “Were you thinking that, darling?”
“Ah, oui.” He turned his head to kiss her lips, long and hungrily. He rolled on his side so he could take her in both arms, pull her close, and nuzzle her throat. “At the very least, my dear love, it will be great fun.”
Acknowledgments
In the writing of this complicated book, I am indebted to a number of talented and generous people. The independent editor Michele Whitehead provided a critical eye when I needed it; my faithful friend Catherine Whitehead advised me on French; the excellent writer Rosemary Edghill gave me advice on contemporary Paganism; my great friends and wonderful colleagues Kay Kenyon and Sharon Shinn provided support and guidance and often inspiration.
I can hardly thank Lindsey Hall, my editor at Redhook/Orbit, warmly enough for her vision, her eye for detail, and her painstaking and perceptive editorial style. Peter Rubie, my agent at FinePrint Literary Management, has all my gratitude for his energetic support of this book and this writer.
I felt my mother’s spirit with me as I worked on this book, and I’m deeply grateful for her influence.
The entire experience of creating A Secret History of Witches has been magical.
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A Secret History of Witches Page 43