Raven knew, however, from the spit frothing at the back of her throat and the heartburn rising from behind her chest and searing her throat, that the Eastern clan was not responsible for the magic cast that night. She consulted all the usual omens to be sure, but she knew already what to expect.
It was the girl. She had been too ready to dismiss her. And now that lame, pathetic creature had somehow summoned up the most potent of spells.
How could she have done so?
Unless . . .
Raven could hardly utter this “unless,” let alone follow on from where it led. She missed breakfast, unable to stomach food, and instead took some spiced rolls to Sister Wynne.
Sister Wynne was deafer than a white-haired ferret but partial to anything sweet, particularly if it contained cinnamon and clove. She knew astrology like she knew her own face with her star-specked eyes, orb-like features, and constellation of freckles. Sister Wynne spent little time with the rest of the coven, for she slept during the day so she could stargaze at night. Raven found her just as she was preparing for bed, her large rings of stomach covered by a long tent of a gown.
“Forgive me, Sister Wynne, for disturbing you.”
Sister Wynne’s face creased crossly, her eyes disappearing into the folds of flesh. “It’s bedtime for me, Sister Raven. You know that well enough.”
“I know and I am sorry for it. I need but a few moments.”
Sister Wynne lumbered toward her bed. “Come back tonight when I have woken.”
Raven held out the rolls. “These will be cold soon and hard. Perhaps you could toast them later?”
Sister Wynne’s nose twitched. Her lips opened slightly as her tongue hit the roof of her mouth, then fell again. “They’re warm?”
“Fresh from the oven.”
“It’s been a cloudless night, cruelly cold. I could do with some warmth, to be sure.”
After Sister Wynne had wolfed down the rolls, Raven was able to persuade her to consult the charts. The elderly witch rustled and rummaged through boxes until she found the one, now yellow and creased, from the night of Ember’s birth fifteen years ago. She then, at Raven’s request, compared it to both the night of the great yew’s destruction and to last night’s.
The pattern was there. Raven didn’t need Sister Wynne to point it out. Gemini, Gemini, Gemini. The babies, the girls, the truth. Sister Wynne couldn’t decipher so exactly. Astrology could only hint and guide so that, if one tried hard enough, most could find what they willed. Even Raven, who knew what the zodiacs told of, found herself trying to think of an alternative truth to believe instead. Could this girl truly be the baby she exiled into ignorance—ignorance of herself, her family, her roots? The child she sentenced to life in the wilderness? Raven shook her head. It couldn’t be. How could such a one have sprung from nothing to this elevated display of skill and strength? Not many witches, ever, could summon up such power. It was not possible.
Unless . . .
Unless . . .
The scent of the spell led Raven to Mrs. Silva. She dropped her basket of vegetables in the street and Mrs. Silva bent to help her as Raven knew she would. Raven touched her arm in thanks and saw, as Poppy had done, the tiny fleck of a baby, once so frail but now vital and healthy, holding on tighter and tighter to life.
“Thank you,” Raven told Mrs. Silva, and she meant it, for she was indeed grateful. There was no denial now. No alternative truth. Only a ghastly secret that Raven had thought was safely buried, knocking on its coffin lid, ready to burst out and haunt her. Switching Charlock’s baby all those years ago had been a precaution. Now it was an imperative. No one could ever know Ember was not a Hawkweed, that another far more exceptional contender to the throne existed. Raven must nail her secret back down and stifle it before it had its retribution.
Poppy excused herself from history because her head was pounding so much that each word Mr. Reed uttered made her wince. He usually got annoyed with pupils asking for bathroom breaks, but the white streak in Poppy’s hair had caused enough consternation that morning, so he made no complaint. In the bathroom Poppy splashed water on her face and leaned against the sink, staring at her face in the mirror. Registering the pain in her eyes, she acknowledged she looked as bad as she felt. Her image began to swim in and out of focus, then she swayed on her feet.
Suddenly the hairs on her body stood on end. Even the hair on Poppy’s head bristled. Before she could think what danger lurked, the attack began. First a punch, sending her flying across the room. Poppy looked around wildly for her attacker but there was no one. The bathroom was empty, just as it was when she came in. Poppy lifted her hand to her head and felt the wet stickiness of blood on her forehead. Then a blow to her ribs had her crying out and buckling over in agony. Lifted onto her tiptoes, she found herself being hurled into the door of one of the stalls. Fingers, strong and sharp, were in her hair, grabbing her head, knocking it savagely against the thin wall until the plywood cracked and dented.
“Stop!” Poppy registered in her head.
It wasn’t a voice, nor a sound, more of a message she had to read out loud for herself.
Her nose cracked against the sink as she stumbled and fell.
“Be gone!” she deciphered this time.
“Who are you?” Poppy cried out loud.
She felt her body being drawn back like a slingshot and then her head was fired against the mirror, the glass shattering at the impact. Poppy melted to the floor like she was made only of liquid, then lay in a pool of clothes on the floor. As she slipped in and out of consciousness, she wondered what invisible force she had unleashed upon herself. Then all went dark and she could wonder no more.
It was Kelly Fletcher who found her. She bent down and peered over Poppy with thickly made-up eyes.
“What happened to you?” Poppy watched the gum stretch and shrink between Kelly’s chewing teeth. She tried to sit up but couldn’t. “I wouldn’t try to move if I were you.” Kelly reached into her bag for her phone.
“What are you doing?” Poppy croaked.
“Calling the police, whaddaya think? You been attacked.”
Poppy sat up, her head swimming. “Don’t,” she said.
Kelly looked at her long and hard, then lowered the phone. “’Sup to you, I guess.” She shrugged like she was more than used to finding someone battered and broken on the floor. “Ambulance?” she asked as a casual afterthought.
Poppy shook her head, holding onto the edge of the sink to get to her feet.
Kelly didn’t offer any help, only words of experience. “Better clean yourself up before anyone else sees you. Otherwise they’ll be on you like flies.”
With that, Kelly reapplied her lipstick, licked her teeth, fluffed her hair, and headed back into the hall. Relieved that Kelly never asked her who or why, Poppy washed her face, pressing paper towels to her cuts, before opening the bathroom window and pulling herself out and onto the fire escape. The window banged shut behind her just as the school bell blared out and girls started pouring into the bathroom, pointing at the broken glass, shrieking at the blood, calling for a teacher.
Poppy had never felt so relieved to reach home. She’d pulled her hood right up and kept her head bowed on her journey, but still she’d received wary looks. The silence of the house felt like a sanctuary. Perhaps here she could think and understand what had happened to her. Then she heard it.
A woman’s voice.
A murmur.
Then a giggle.
Then her father’s voice, but sounding different—softer, happier even.
Poppy took off her shoes and climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to disturb. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do once she reached the top until she got there. Then she went to the door, still not sure why, and pushed it open. Perhaps if her ribs weren’t cracked and bruised, perhaps if there wasn’t a gash across her nose, a lump on her forehead, a cut in her hairline, perhaps then she would have stayed downstairs and waited, not been so impatien
t. But she had to see and feel the pain, get it over and done with quickly, for she’d suffered too many injuries already that day.
The woman screamed when she saw her and hid under the covers. Her dad looked shocked but, to his credit, more at his daughter’s cuts and bruises than at his own predicament.
“Poppy, my God. Who did this to you?”
“Who is she?” Poppy heard herself ask.
“Poppy?” he pleaded, but Poppy was in no mood to be merciful.
“Who is she?” Poppy heard herself scream without realizing she’d raised her voice. Pain seared through her ribs and she clutched her arms around her chest. She could feel her cheeks red and hot and the blood dribbling down the side of them.
“John, you need to call a doctor.”
Poppy couldn’t look up and see the woman’s face. It was impossible to straighten. But she detected the kind, sensible tone and felt strangely grateful for it.
“Now,” the woman added firmly.
Poppy needed X-rays. She’d cracked a rib and had a mild concussion. The doctors said she needed to stay overnight in the hospital for observation. She didn’t have the strength to argue. She dozed off, and when she awoke, her father was sitting in the chair next to her, the pale blue curtains pulled around them.
“What time is it?” Her mouth was dry and it was hard to form the words.
“It’s late,” said her father. He poured some water from a pitcher by her bed into a plastic cup and passed it to her. She sipped slowly. Even that was painful. “Are you going to tell me? . . . Who hurt you?”
Poppy shut her eyes as the irony struck home. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will. I’m your father. The police—they need to catch this person. Was it a boy? That boy I saw outside the house?”
Poppy’s eyes shot open. “No!” Her father stared at her suspiciously. “No, I promise. Not him.”
“Who then?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. I didn’t see them. It happened so fast. I’d tell you if I knew.”
Her father hung his head defeatedly. Poppy felt a moment of sympathy, then steeled herself and went for the knockout.
“Don’t you trust me?”
Their eyes met and a lot was said silently.
“I was going to tell you. Donna wanted me to but . . . ” He shook his head like it ached. He sounded worn out, spent, so different from the man she’d heard as she’d climbed the stairs.
“Did we move here for her?”
“Yes.” He said it quickly, relieved to get it out.
“But you let me think it was because of me, because I’d been bad?”
He paused this time before answering, looking out the window, thinking how best to answer. “I did. I’m sorry for that.”
“What about Mom?”
Her dad lifted his head and looked her directly in the eye, and Poppy knew to brace herself. “There’s a kid,” he said. “A little boy. Your half-brother.”
Poppy suddenly felt so tired, like she hardly had the strength to care.
“You’ll meet him. Meet both of them.”
“I have to sleep.”
“I’ve told you now. Will you tell me?” Poppy felt herself sinking, her heart beating slower, her eyes drooping. “It’s my job to protect you,” she heard her father say.
You can’t, she replied in her head. No one can.
Leo heard them before he saw them, the three rough voices grating against one another, mixing with the traffic, yet still so recognizable. He almost didn’t want to turn his head to see them. He just wanted to run. But he kept himself still, his back against the doorway, trying to meld into the corner.
He thought he’d never see them again after he’d run from that apartment he had once called home. Yet here they were, as big and nasty as he remembered. Ever so slowly, he looked around to check. Their limbs were thick, hands solid and craggy like they were made of rock, bodies of stone chipped away by a clumsy mason, necks as thick as boulders holding up heads of cement. Their boots thumped onto the pavement, and Leo winced inwardly as he recalled the feeling of those boots thumping into his ribs and those fists knocking into his jaw. Only when they opened the door of the bar and barged inside, slamming the door behind them, could Leo breathe normally again.
Keeping close to the wall on the far side of the street, he crept away, wanting to walk right out of town, hitch a ride and get as far away as possible. He got as far as the circle road when a truck stopped for him. He wanted to climb on board. There was so much to run away from—not just them but Poppy too. He thought of her face looking down on him from her window as he weathered that storm, her eyes thunderous with accusation, as though she had known about Ember, about the kiss. It made no sense. Nothing did anymore. But just one step up into the truck’s cab and he could leave it all behind him.
“You coming or not?” the driver barked impatiently.
Leo exhaled slowly, then shook his head, knowing all the while it was a mistake to stay, especially for her.
Sorrel, watching, had felt Leo’s fear as the men appeared, just as she’d felt it so many times from a fox’s or a falcon’s prey. Leo was well practiced at hiding, Sorrel noted. He knew how to hush his breathing and turn his emotions inward. When he made his escape, he trod lightly for someone so tall.
The men Leo feared were wider than he, built like the bulls in one of the hillside fields. They had flame-colored hair on their heads and chins and red skin to match. They radiated heat and Sorrel longed to snuff them out. They were ugly, angry beasts, just as the coven’s elders had taught her males would be. Sorrel yearned to use her magic but resisted until she could get closer.
She had never entered a chaff building before but now found herself following the men into a large room that was filled thick with noise and the heat of breath and sweat and the sour scent of hops and grapes. Her nose twitched at the stench and her tongue lapped against the roof of her mouth as she tried to rid herself of the taste in the air. She reached for a half-empty glass on a table, took a sip of what she thought was water, and nearly spat it out. The vile liquid fizzed in her mouth and burned her throat as she swallowed. Suddenly she wished to be home in the coven with her mother and friends close by. Then she saw the men, and the reason why she was here in this hole of a place came retching back to her.
She followed as the youngest, most pig-like of the three went out to go to the bathroom around the back of the building. A torrent of foul-smelling urine splattered onto the pavement and wall. Sorrel’s lip curled in disgust and then she made her move.
“Pig!” she called.
He turned and looked straight at her, confusion flashing into fury. But she held him in her sights as she drew nearer, focusing her pupils on his, chanting her magic under her breath. When his eyes had gone misty, she pointed a finger at him and poked him hard in the chest.
“Tell me,” she commanded.
He blinked but then he answered. “He’s my stepbrother.”
“Go on.”
“He ran away. My dad—he wants to find him.”
“To hurt him?”
“To end him.”
“Why?”
“He had a knife. Tried to kill me.”
Sorrel’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why?” she asked again.
“To stop us from killing him.”
Sorrel shook her head at this typically senseless chaff aggression. “His mother?”
“Dead. But Jocelyn weren’t his mother, not for real.”
“More.”
“His real ma gave him to her, made her promise to look after him.”
“Who was she?”
“No one knows. She never came back.”
“What about his father?”
“Even Jocelyn never knew nothing about him.”
The exit door flew open with a clang and a man stumbled out, hardly able to stay on his feet. Sorrel tried a smile, not wanting to alert the man to any danger, but the drunk’s face sobered up instantly
and he hopped back inside like a rabbit into its burrow.
Sorrel released her finger from the other man’s heart and brushed her hands against her skirt in distaste. She sensed there was no more she could learn from this pitiful creature. He swayed on his feet, still in a trance.
“I’m a brainless, useless fool,” Sorrel instructed.
He repeated the words.
“I know nothing. I am nothing,” Sorrel added, and he parroted the words back. Sorrel shook her head in disgust, then headed home, back to where the air was fresh and the women had their wits about them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was the lights that struck Ember the most. How bright the town was, as though day and night were one. The chaffs who had no knowledge of the craft had somehow conquered time and banished darkness. There were people up and dressed and full of life despite it being well past dusk. She had seen the lights from a distance once or twice and marveled at their prettiness, but now she was walking beneath them and Ember felt like a star was shining directly upon her, revealing her difference for all to see.
They’d tamed nature too, these ignorant chaffs. Trees planted one by one in neat, long rows; grass set in oblongs, short and trim; flowers running in strips; hedges shorn smooth and flat. Dogs on leashes and cats in collars. Ember felt awry and disordered in such a mathematical landscape of straight lines and pointy corners. The houses were tall with windows up high and roofs you couldn’t see the tops of. Overhead, wires sliced the sky into parallel lines and many-sided shapes. Traffic followed the dashes in the road, car after car, stopping and starting and turning.
Ember had heard the tractors rumbling in the far meadows and seen planes flying through the clouds, but this was the first time she’d set eyes on the cars that she’d been taught were so beloved by the chaffs. They puffed out acrid fumes that stung her eyes and left a strange residue in her throat, but there was something rousing about the roar of their engines and the sheer speed they traveled at. Even if she ran her fastest, she could never keep them in her sight.
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