by V. V. James
Today, I’ll lock myself in. Some magic is too fragile to withstand disturbance.
Some magic is too dangerous to interrupt.
Today’s ritual is all about seeing, so I don’t switch on the electric lights inside. Instead, I find and trim four oil lamps. They’re survivors from a time when Sanctuary’s women set them anxiously on windowsills to light a sailor’s way home from sea.
I hope they’ll light my way to some answers.
The chart I’ve decided upon is at the bottom of the fourth drawer. I can’t remember the last time I took it out, because I’m not permitted to use it for consultations with clients—another legal restriction, but for once, one that I wholeheartedly agree with. All magical practice is slippery, shifting, potentially treacherous. But divination more than most.
I let my thoughts settle as I make my preparations. Fear and anxiety, like silt, take time to sink to the bottom of my mind, leaving everything clear and still.
From the garden I gather white carnation, and from the locked greenhouse, bittersweet—one of the nightshades. Its purple, five-petaled stars lie in my hand. I’ll pluck out and grind the fleshy yellow stamen. These two blooms are truth-tellers.
From the lowest shelf in my workroom, I take two brown glass jars: one of dried cedar bark, the other of mugwort oil. Humble mugwort is one of our oldest aids—it’s there in the Nine Herbs Charm and elsewhere in the Lacnunga. Chinese poems have praised it for more than two thousand years. I set the jars on my workbench, then fill one of my silver dippers from the barrel outside.
My scrying bowl I keep wrapped in linen. It’s flawless obsidian and reassuringly heavy in my hands. At the sink, I first rinse it with rainwater, then wipe it all over with mugwort oil to purify it. Finally, I place a handful of cedar bark in the burner and pass the bowl through the smoke.
It’s a triple purification. To some, this appears fiddly business. The occasional skeptic will accuse me of staging ritual work to inflate my fees. But it’s no more than any other skilled practitioner does: the athlete who stretches, the surgeon who scrubs and gloves.
The final instrument to prepare is myself. This requires a tincture of salvia. Here in Connecticut, Salvia divinorum became a Schedule I substance in 2012. Licensed witches have exemption to cultivate and prepare it, but only for personal consumption. The salvia is in the same greenhouse where I grow the nightshades—and a dozen more toxic or narcotic plants besides. I secure the lock once I’ve cut what I need with silver scissors.
Salvia’s effects are short-lived, so I make sure everything else is ready before I down the infusion. I trim the lamp wicks. Soon, I’ll be seeing with the inward eye. I call Aira inside, then close and secure the door. It’s time to begin.
A witch will only turn to divination in desperation.
I’m desperate.
Thirty-Six
Sarah
Throughout history, practitioners have tried to refine divination techniques. The ritual has countless forms, using objects ranging from bones and tea leaves to clouds and animal guts. Yet divination always requires a question, posed by the witch, and expects an answer, yielded by the ritual.
Often, though, no answer comes.
Despite centuries of magical scholarship, no one knows why. Was the question framed incorrectly, or the witch’s mind insufficiently focused? One theory holds that there’s always an answer; we’re simply incapable of understanding it.
I need an answer today, for Harper’s sake. So I’ve considered the question carefully.
“How did Daniel die?” demands a response that’s too complex.
“Was Daniel’s death an accident?” would be useful, but only if the answer is yes. If it’s no, that brings me no closer to what I need to know.
So I’ve hit on what I hope is the right question.
In the dim light, I trace my chosen path through the chart. Words. Gestures. Wiping the bowl again. Filling it with rainwater. Dabbling my fingers in as I consecrate it to the true sight. Letting fall a single drop of oil, which spreads in a shimmering film across the surface to cleanse perception so that it shows me no lies.
I drink the salvia preparation. The effect is almost immediate. The world inverts. All that is real is contained in this bowl. All that is illusory shimmers around me in the lamplight.
I feel the brush of Aira’s fur at my ankles and hear her mew. Familiars are our anchors to the real world, their animal natures closely connected to the earth. They keep us attached to all that is known—all that is familiar. More than once, it has been Aira’s gentle presence that has guided me back to myself.
The final steps of the chart, those I’ve chosen for this divinatory journey, are ready in my head, at my fingertips, and on my tongue. I speak words. Shape sigils.
And finally I look into my bottomless bowl and ask the question: Who killed Daniel Whitman at Sailaway Villa?
And I look.
And I look.
And no answer comes.
My eyes dart around. The answer may be heard, or felt, or seen.
But I hear nothing, and feel nothing, and see only my own reflection, shimmering and distorted.
Then Aira screams as my obsidian bowl shatters, and its blank black depths are the last thing I see as I crumple.
Thirty-Seven
Maggie
I’m nearly at Fenn’s booth when the place explodes. At least, that’s what it sounds like.
I break into a sprint. The front door is locked and shuttered, so I run around back, and in the side alley I collide with Bridget Perelli.
She’s hurtled out of the yard of her grooming salon next door. Behind her is a bedlam of barks, howls, and whines.
“What the hell?” Perelli bellows. She starts thumping on the gate that must lead into the yard of the witch’s booth. “Sarah, are you in there?”
Something crunches beneath my boots. Shattered glass. I check in both directions, but it’s undisturbed by footprints.
Perelli is rattling the door handle, still calling for her friend. No reply, so she digs into her pocket and pulls out a bunch of keys, flipping through them.
“We’ve each got a key to the other’s place,” she explains, fitting it to the lock. “It means we can keep an eye out. My salon’s got lots of gear that’s easily swiped, and obviously there’s plenty in Sarah’s booth that someone might want. I guess Sarah’s not in, since she keeps this unlocked when she is. But Pierre told me what happened to her house. Those fuckers.”
The gate opens, and we both take in the scene.
The two windows on either side have blown out. The property’s back door is still fastened but hangs oddly within its frame. There’s a garden that looks mostly undisturbed, but here and there blooms have been severed, stalks mangled. A greenhouse in the corner is intact.
Through one of the gaping window frames I can see flickering flames. A fire started by an arsonist? But no, they’re small. Regular. Candles or lamps. So Sarah Fenn must be inside, even though the gate was shut.
Why lock herself in?
Perelli is peering frantically through the other window, trying to get a view between the iron security bars.
“Sarah? Sarah?” she calls. Then, “No, don’t!”
That’s for me. She throws out an arm as I reach for the loose back door, but I’m already reeling back. Something just twisted my guts in a powerful spasm and bile is rising up my throat.
“Security ward.” Perelli explains. “A deterrent. Wait, let me.”
I’m doubled over, coughing, and spit onto the ground. Perelli pulled out her keys again and is fingering what I thought was the fob. I can see now that it’s a small, shining disk engraved with twisting witch marks. She wraps her fingers around it and steps up to the door, gingerly pulling at it with her other hand.
With a shriek, a long-haired tabby shoots out. Fenn’s f
amiliar. The creature dives into the alley.
“Sarah? Jesus.”
Perelli is inside, now. I see her crouch down by the workbench. Then with a grunt, she’s back, dragging Fenn beneath the arms. The witch is dazed, her head lolling. But there’s no sign of an explosion. No soot or smoke.
“Check her over,” Perelli tells me, lowering Fenn to the ground. “There are some broken lamps in there. They could start a fire.”
She heads back inside, and I’m vaguely aware of her moving around the workroom. Then Fenn moans and my training kicks in. I perform the standard A-B-C first-responder checks, but her airways and breathing are unobstructed and she’s returning to groggy consciousness.
I ask if she’s hurt, and if so, where. But Fenn murmurs a no, and when I reach for my radio to summon an ambulance, she lays a hand weakly on mine.
“Not necessary.”
“What happened?”
“Brew gone wrong, right?” says Perelli. She’s standing in the doorway, and it occurs to me she’s been inside for some time. “You okay, Sarah?”
The witch nods as I help her sit upright. The cat slinks back into the yard and jumps into Fenn’s arms. The creature’s presence rallies its mistress.
“What happened?” I ask again.
“Just brewing,” Perelli repeats as Fenn says what sounds like divining.
“It’s okay, Bridge,” the witch tells her friend. “It’s not illegal, not when it’s just for me. I was scrying.”
“Scrying? Like, trying to see things? What things?”
“What do you think, Detective?” Her tone is harsher than before. As if she’s wary of me. “Who committed the murder that my daughter is accused of.”
“And?”
“Nothing. I saw nothing.”
“But what caused…”
I gesture to the glass, the loose door, and battered flowers, the still plainly freaked-out cat, its tail flicking.
“I must have made an error in the ritual. Divining isn’t something I trust much or perform often. But in this case, I thought it worth attempting.”
An error? I don’t know enough about witchcraft to judge how likely that is, or whether it would produce this sort of damage.
“Do you need help getting home?” I ask.
“Thank you, but I’ll need to make sure my premises are secure. It’s not just my things I’m worried about. I keep full client records, and I’m obliged to ensure they’re safe. Bridge, could you call…?”
“Pierre?” says her friend. “Sure thing.”
As Bridget calls her ex and explains the situation, Fenn gets to her feet and takes cautious steps.
“You see,” she says. “All in working order. How come you were so close by, Detective Knight?”
“I wanted to speak to you about that newspaper article. To let you know that it was in no way approved by me, and to say that if you and Harper feel unsafe at any time, you should contact the station, and assistance will come immediately.”
“Thank you. We’ll do that.”
“So Harper is back in town, is she?”
Fenn’s face closes up. The cat in her arms opens its jaws, baring small, sharp teeth.
“My daughter is her own person, Detective. I’m sure she’ll be back when she feels it’s safe. But I’d remind you that she’s seventeen years old, and in the past couple weeks she’s been injured in a fire in which her boyfriend died, has been accused of his murder and of being an unregistered witch, and her home has been attacked. You can’t blame her for preferring to be somewhere else right now.”
It’s true. It’s all true.
“Pierre’s on his way,” says Bridget. “Let’s get you sat down inside, Sarah. Nice meeting you, Detective.”
Perelli extends a hand for me to shake. It’s a clear dismissal. Then she leads her friend into the wrecked workroom, leaving me on the wrong side of a door I can’t enter.
I phone Chester.
“Have you made those calls?” I ask. “In fact, is Rowan Andrews on a plane right now?”
“They check out,” he tells me. “We had a good talk, and they’re available to come immediately. The Moot gave excellent references. Was just gonna give you a call when I got distracted.”
“Distracted? Eye on the ball, Chester. Book them a flight. You know this is our priority.”
“I know,” he says unhappily. “It’s just… I was driving back to the station and, well, the road goes past the Sentinel offices.”
“If you stopped to give Varley a talking-to about jeopardizing our investigation, then I take it all back. Excellent policing, Sergeant Greenstreet.”
“It’s not that. They have a display case outside where they put up their front page each week. Special editions, too…”
“Special editions?”
“You’d better go see,” he tells me. “’Cause it’s being distributed right now as a one-page free sheet to all the usual outlets. And it’s really, really bad.”
Shit. What is Varley playing at? I need to see this. And I know the sad Starbucks regularly carries the Sentinel.
Except once I get there and see what Varley’s done, I find I’ve lost my appetite.
And also, I reckon, my job.
Thirty-Eight
Sanctuary Sentinel—Special Edition
CHIEF ALLEGES COVER-UP IN “WITCHCRAFT MURDER”: SHOCKING NEW EVIDENCE “IS PROOF”
ACCUSED MAY FACE DEATH PENALTY
EXCLUSIVE
By Beryl Varley, News Editor
Biased state authorities are disregarding evidence in the tragic party death of Daniel Whitman, it was alleged today.
In an extraordinary intervention by Sanctuary’s veteran chief, Tad Bolt, the widely respected lawman revealed that the investigating officer, Detective Margaret Knight, had asked him to “hush up” crucial evidence.
Daniel died ten days ago, in circumstances still unexplained, at a start-of-summer party. A witness has claimed that witchcraft was used to attack Daniel, causing his death.
New evidence
The Sanctuary Sentinel has seen photographs from footage filmed that night—which has been in the possession of the investigating officer for a week—that plainly shows inexplicable phenomena.
No arrests have been made. However, a number of voices are naming Harper Fenn, 17, daughter of Sanctuary’s only registered witch, Sarah Fenn, as a person of interest. Harper Fenn was formerly the girlfriend of Daniel Whitman—a relationship that ended shortly before the night of the party.
Death penalty
Should “unnatural homicide”’ by witchcraft be proven, a quirk in Connecticut state law mandates the death penalty. Sanctuary resident and emeritus Little Ivy law professor Malcolm Empson told the Sentinel he believes it is “inconceivable” that Connecticut Governor Tara Miller, a Democrat, would enforce the penalty.
As such, he says the only possible reason for not pursuing a clear case would be “political correctness.”
Nonetheless, it appears that nervous state-level authorities are considering shutting the case down.
Chief: “No confidence”
Detective Knight is believed to have returned two days ago to Middletown, the headquarters of the Connecticut State Police, presumably to consult with superiors.
“I no longer have confidence in the state-level investigation,” says Chief Bolt. “Therefore, I am formally recusing myself from any involvement and taking a leave from duties. This will enable me to actively support my son Jacob, and the Whitman family, at this painful time. Dan Whitman was a boy much loved in this town, and that’s the sort of folk we are in Sanctuary—we protect our own.”
The Sanctuary Sentinel will bring you updates on this story as it develops.
Thirty-Nine
Sarah
Bridget is helping Pierre repair
the damage to my booth. He was furious at first, thinking it was another attack, like the house. I told him it was just a malfunctioning spell.
But was it? Was that explosion a divination gone wrong?
Or was it my answer?
I’m still woozy from the salvia preparation I drank. While Pierre boards up the shattered windows, I move mechanically around my workroom, trying to empty my mind as I put things to rights. Bridget is in the garden, fingertip-searching for broken glass. Then she joins me and does the same inside: scouring corners, scrubbing counters. She keeps urging me to sit down and rest.
So I do, and I watch them, these two who have been my friends the longest. Even when we were at middle school, Pierre would gather scraps from his uncle’s lumberyard and build us dens and hideouts. Bridge would scavenge junk to add a finishing touch. A carpet. A chair with a busted-out bottom.
My role was to admire their industriousness and get swept along in their plans. Neither of them was ever much interested in my gift. To them, it was simply one more practical skill like their own, only less useful for our games.
I still remember Bridget’s apprehension the first time I asked her to support me as I performed a spell. The quality of her energy was clear and dependable, like the natural strength you find in trees and plants. She never much relished being part of my magic, but as my friend and the person I trusted most, she did it.
It was much later when I met Abigail, at prenatal classes. Her interest grew as we hung out during baby playdates. She was intrigued by the craft objects in my house, and unlike reluctant Bridget, Abigail asked if she could participate in a spell. Her energies complemented Bridge’s, and for nearly a decade I worked with the two of them: reliable Bridget and passionate Abigail. Their support enabled me to try more complex magic and ensured I never had to turn away a client in need.