I was on my way down the second flight of stairs when Erasmus found me.
“Elizabeth, can you spare a moment? The hour is late, I know, but if you would just step into my workshop…”
Tired as I was, I recognized the seriousness in his tone. In any case, I doubted I would be able to sleep if I did go to my bed, for my mind was still whirling with the events of the day, my senses still strung taut.
The workshop was in its usual state of muddle which, to anyone other than Erasmus, would appear chaotic. He was happy to work in such confusion, seeming to know exactly which pile of papers to search through for something, or which heap of leather hid a particular tool, and so on. He bade me sit on one of the high stools while he himself prowled the room.
“You must be fatigued, I should not keep you from your rest, but … well, now that the notion has properly formulated in my mind I cannot but speak. I must speak,” he insisted, absentmindedly snatching up an awl and tapping its wooden handle in his palm as he paced the floor. “The fact is, I am a man accustomed to solitude, that much you will know of me. My work requires me to be absent from home at a moment’s notice, to travel to who knows where and who knows when. And it is more than probable that during the execution of my duties I will encounter no small measure of danger.”
He hesitated, looking at me as if to reassure himself that I was following the direction of his ramblings. Which I was not. He dropped the awl onto the workbench and instead took up a scoring knife, with which he proceeded to gouge random patterns into a scrap of leather as he spoke.
“Such a manner of living is not conducive to … companionship.”
“Companionship?”
“If that is the word. Is that the word?”
“It is hard to know.”
“It is a good word, is it not? A good … concept?” Seeing my baffled expression he took to striding about again. “Forgive my clumsiness, I am all thumbs with this subject, and not expressing my wishes clearly in the least, I can see that. And why should my wishes be of any importance, indeed? Is it not only fair that yours be considered? Considered! Now I have made them sound trivial, when of course they are not, they are of the utmost importance in this matter. They being your desires, your opinions, your thoughts, your … feelings. And there, now I add confusion to dissemination, and how can I expect you to clearly discern my intentions?”
“I’m sorry, Erasmus, I really don’t understand what it is you are trying to say.”
“And why should you when I can hardly understand it myself? This is, I have to tell you, an unfamiliar condition of mind for me. New territory. Uncharted waters. Unmapped regions.” He stopped pacing and stopped talking and instead stood looking directly at me. He ran his hand through his unruly hair, pushing it from his brow. As if making up his mind about something he suddenly stepped up to me and took my hands in his. His expression was intense, his gaze unwavering, when he said, “I believe Nipper had it better when he called you my wife.”
I was amazed. “Erasmus, are you asking me to marry you?”
“An impertinence, I grant you, but not one I have undertaken lightly. We share a strangeness in our lives that sets us apart from others, Elizabeth. That alone would not be a basis for a marriage, of course, but when added to everything else…”
“Everything else?” I asked, trying but failing to keep the laughter out of my voice.
“You have every right to mock me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I am in earnest, I promise you. I have come to regard being in your company as the most desirable of all things. When I am not with you I find myself distracted and maudlin. When I am with you I am even more distracted—heaven knows how a man can exist in such a state and be of any use—but there it is. I would not be without you, Elizabeth. I cannot, in truth, imagine a life for myself now that does not have you at its center.”
“I … Erasmus, I am astonished.”
“But not completely surprised, I think?”
“No,” I said, forced to admit to myself and to him that he was right. I had sensed his growing fondness toward me quite some time earlier. And I had come to like it. More than that, I had come to wish for it. For in my heart, even amidst all the fear and danger, I had held on to a small, bright hope that I had found someone I could dare to care for myself. And at that moment, when at last I felt truly free, I saw that such a thing might truly be possible.
Erasmus spoke gently, his voice tense with emotion. “Elizabeth, when Tegan Steps back to her time, when I deliver her back to Willow Cottage, do not go with her. Stay,” he said. “Stay here with me.” He did not allow me to answer at once, but led me over to the workbench by the window. “I almost forgot, in all the excitement … I have something for you.” He reached beneath the bench and produced a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a red satin ribbon. “A token of my … admiration,” he said simply.
I tugged at the bow and the knot undid smoothly, the ribbon slipping from the parcel and dropping onto the workbench. I folded back the paper and found inside a book, newly bound, fashioned from soft, supple leather of darkest green, embossed and decorated with intricate swirls and scrolls of gold. “Oh, Erasmus! It is beautiful,” I said, my voice betraying the emotion I was struggling to hold in check. When I read the words that he had so lovingly tooled into the cover pent-up tears of relief and happiness spilled over at last. “Elizabeth Hawksmith’s Book of Shadows!”
* * *
It is now five days since the solar eclipse. Five days since I dispatched Gideon from our lives once and for all. Five days since Tegan was freed. Five days since Erasmus made his convoluted proposal. So much has happened in such a short time. As I sit here at the desk in the drawing room, the sunshine streaming through the tall window behind me, I am filled with an unfamiliar sense of peace and contentment. Nipper is seated, cross-legged, on the rug at Erasmus’s feet, having the delights of far-flung exploration explained to him. Erasmus has fetched a globe and placed it beside them, so that the boy can spin the thing again and again, point to a place upon it, and listen agog as Erasmus tells him wild tales about the location he has chosen. The pair have already become so close. It warms my heart to see two people who have of necessity spent solitary lives now reveling in each other’s affection. Here is the father the boy never knew. Here is the child the man thought he would never raise. We are a curious little family, but strangely suited. We have, each of us, known loneliness and been forced to turn it into independence, further distancing ourselves from those who might care for us. We have each fallen victim to those who prey on the unprotected, and emerged the stronger for it. But we need be solitary no longer.
It was, naturally, painful saying farewell to Tegan. For so long my main goal had been to be reunited with her; it was a wrench to accept that I had to let her go on without me, and that my place is here. At first I thought I could not do it. I thought I did not have the right to send her off alone. I had left her once before and it had taken her a long time to forgive me. How could I abandon her now, simply to satisfy my own desires? But I had not considered properly how changed she was. Her transformation was more than merely the passing of years, and more even than the wondrous results of all the magic she had acquired and absorbed. She was a strong woman now, able to be alone without being lonely, able to accept the needs of others without seeing them as a rejection of herself. She has much to do, and she does not require my presence to achieve what lies ahead of her. Indeed, I would only hold her back. She was at pains to make me see that, and to convince me that my happiness lay with Erasmus and Nipper, and that she wanted more than anything for me to be happy. She told me I had earned that happiness. Had I? Does anyone? Are happiness, contentment, fulfillment things one can gain through deserving deeds or effort? I think not. I think they are gifts, and when we receive them we are meant to embrace them gratefully, wholly, joyfully, for we may not be offered them a second time.
As I sit here and write I am remi
nded of the Book of Shadows I bequeathed Tegan. It became hers, as it should, and now I have a new volume in which to record my life, my spells, my thoughts, my healing recipes … everything that is part of being a witch. Erasmus must have spent many hours making this exquisite book for me. He told me he started it the day we arrived in London. It seems a part of him was already setting in motion his plan to make me his wife. When he presented it to me I was overwhelmed and could not stop myself from sobbing. He was alarmed at the sight of my tears, dabbing at them with his red-spotted handkerchief. I had to work to convince him that they were tears of delight. It is obvious that the book was made with such care and attention to detail, using the very best paper, so that every time I write in it I am reminded of the love that went into making it. I will record our daily lives within its covers, setting down Nipper’s journey from boy to man, recounting Erasmus’s Time Stepping, committing to paper what it means to be a wife, a mother, a witch, here and now, or anywhere and anywhen else that Erasmus’s work might take us. All will be bound neat and safe within this new Book of Shadows.
* * *
There is a warm summer breeze blowing, and from up here on the small hill behind Matravers I can see the willows that give the cottage its name swaying gracefully. I find I want to stop, to lean on my staff and take a moment to look. The garden is at its prettiest this time of year, even though it has been left to run a bit wild with no one here to see to it. Well, a bit of wildness won’t hurt. Let the grass of the lawn grow tall for once. Let the mice and rabbits and squirrels have the best of the veg from the kitchen garden, and the birds can feast on the fruit that I won’t be here to gather. It will all wait for me. The house is going nowhere. And one day, when I come back, I will light the Aga stove and put the kettle on to boil and think of Elizabeth, and then I will be home for keeps.
It’s strange to think that all I wanted to do was return to Willow Cottage, and now that I’m here I can’t stay. It is my home. It is the place I will one day settle down in, but not yet. I’m not quite ready for that. There are places I need to see, things I need to experience, people I need to meet, if I’m going to stand a chance of working out who I am now. And what it means to be Tegan Hedfan, Balik Kiis, Tegan the Blessed. I’m pretty sure Taklit was wrong about me ever being the Greatest Witch Living, but there’s something in me driving me to make sure I am the best that I can be. And I think I can do that now. Now that Gideon is gone. Now that Elizabeth is happy.
“And I’ve got you, haven’t I, Aloysius?” He’s beginning to show his age a little. The white fur is not as thick as it was, and he’s lost a few whiskers, but he’s up for a bit of traveling still, and seems happy enough to ride on my shoulder some more.
I turn and look at the slender figure standing beside me. She’s eating properly at last, and beginning to find her voice, but she needs time. I think a bit of somewhere sunny might do her good.
“You ready for this, Florencia?” I ask, and she nods a little nervously. “Come on, then. Time to go,” I tell her. We pick up our backpacks and swing them over our shoulders. I take one last look at home and then I plant my staff firmly and push off for the first stride of many to come. And I sense the slight sadness at leaving as it is quickly replaced by the thrill of heading off into an unknown future.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks again to my tireless editor, Peter Wolverton, and to Emma Stein, for their patience, diligence and hard work. I am grateful to all the team at Thomas Dunne and St. Martin’s Press for the energy and care they put into my books. There are so many people involved in getting a story from the writer’s feverish mind into the hands of the book lovers, and I could not do without a single one of them. I like to think there is one crucial person tasked with fueling all that necessary activity by providing plentiful piping hot coffee of exceptional quality. Or possibly tea!
I would also like to thank my readers. It was their enthusiasm for The Witch’s Daughter that led me to write a sequel. I have them to thank for the time I have enjoyed revisiting characters that have become my friends.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAULA BRACKSTON is the New York Times bestselling author of The Witch’s Daughter, The Winter Witch. The Midnight Witch, and The Silver Witch. She has a master’s degree in creative writing from Lancaster University in the UK. She lives in Wales with her family. Visit her online at www.paulabrackston.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY PAULA BRACKSTON
The Witch’s Daughter
The Witches of the Blue Well
The Winter Witch
The Midnight Witch
The Silver Witch
Lamp Black, Wolf Grey
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Three
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Paula Brackston
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE RETURN OF THE WITCH. Copyright © 2016 by Paula Brackston. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover photograph © Stephen Carroll / Trevillion Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Brackston, Paula, author.
Title: The return of the witch / Paula Brackston.
Description: First edition. | New York: Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015042049 | ISBN 9781250028815 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250028822 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Witches—England—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | Occult fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PR6102.R325 R48 2016 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042049
e-ISBN 9781250028822
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: March 2016
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