The Orphan Witch

by Paige Crutcher

  Persephone tilted her chin and looked.

  Thom’s eyes were a deep chocolate brown, with tiny flecks of cinnamon. He blinked, and Persephone held her breath.

  Just this once, she thought, please let someone see me. Her lips curved in a promise, and then it happened.

  The smile dropped from his face. His eyes narrowed.

  “I … I…” he stammered.

  Thom shook his head like he was waking from a trance. He picked up the piping hot Americano and walked out the door.

  Persephone’s heart raced at how he didn’t pause. He didn’t look left or right. She was out from behind the counter and running for the door when Thom walked directly into traffic. Horns honked, tires squealed. A blue Jeep barely missed barreling into him. A young man in a green backpack shouted Thom’s name, his student perhaps, and ran from the curb to pull the professor back onto the sidewalk.

  Looking dazed, Thom stared at the young man, before trying to cross into the street again.

  Persephone swallowed the tears as she stepped back inside the shop. She waited until the young man and his two friends had Thom firmly in hand, ushering him to safety, before she turned from the wide windows.

  Running her hands over her apron one, two, three times, she tried to force a calm she did not feel back into her body. She had done that. Nearly killed the man because she was lonely. Just like what she’d done to Devon. Because she needed so badly to be seen. Hands shaking, Persephone walked past the counter, ready to break into a run for the bathroom.

  “What a dumbass,” said her co-worker, Deandra Bishop, as she set out large coffees on the to-go station.

  Deandra rarely spoke to Persephone. At first Persephone had clumsily tried to befriend the girl, but she quickly learned Deandra had little time for talking at work—unless it was to argue with their other co-worker, Larkin.

  Persephone nodded her agreement, pausing to take a gulp of air, and look back to the large windows and the crowd outdoors that was dispersing. The front door opened and a gangly young man charged in.

  “Did you see that?” Larkin asked, hurrying in his lateness for his shift. “Professor Thom either had way too much or not enough coffee this morning.”

  “Funny,” Deandra deadpanned. “Let me guess, his near-death experience inspired another bad poem for your Depressed Poets Society?”

  “It’s my poetry workshop, Deandra, and damn.” He scratched his nose and looked over at Persephone, whose stomach was doing complicated flips as she listened to their conversation. “I hope it won’t be canceled today. Do you think they’ll cancel class for…”

  Persephone blinked, staring into Larkin’s eyes. She’d been so intent on listening, so shaken up from watching Thom try to kill himself that she hadn’t looked away in time.

  Oh. No.

  Larkin stared at her, his eyes growing perceptibly wider, the pupils dilating as his mouth formed a perfect O.

  “Larkin?” Persephone said his name softly, fear crawling along her skin. She rubbed at her arms, trying to brush it away.

  Suddenly, his lips were moving and Larkin was speaking, the words coming out in a melodic rush.

  “Her hips

  were a

  pendulum

  luring

  me in

  Swish swish

  A siren’s wish

  Come

  come

  They beckon

  me on.”

  Larkin took a step toward her like a puppet possessed. She held her breath, prepared to react when he grabbed for her, but instead he stepped past her to the large coffees resting on the to-go station.

  He fisted one in each hand, looked at Persephone, and squeezed. Hot coffee spurted out of both cups as he raised and dumped the steaming contents onto his face.

  Persephone screamed. Deandra shouted. The commotion, riding on the coattails of the excitement from the morning, sent people on the sidewalk outside rushing in. Larkin, dripping with scalding hot coffee, his skin molten red, turned to go behind the counter—straight for the espresso machine.

  Persephone dove after him. For a moment, the light in the room changed. It sparkled and shimmered. She thought she saw cobblestones and a spire on a church, then she tackled Larkin to the floor, whispering the only word she could think clearly: release.

  Larkin’s whole body relaxed beneath her. His head hit the floor, his eyes fluttered shut, and his limbs went limp. The hivelike buzz of the coffee shop was suddenly silent. Persephone turned her head.

  Every single person in the room lay on the floor, their eyes closed.

  Persephone gulped. She raised one shaky hand to her brow and wiped. Were they …

  A seated woman in a brown sweater whose face was pressed into the table snored loudly and Persephone let out a shock of laughter. Beside her Larkin gave a wheezy exhale. Asleep. Not dead. They were all asleep.

  A rustling to her left had Persephone pushing up to her feet, reaching for the table to steady herself.

  Deandra Bishop stood five feet away, very much not asleep, tapping her bright yellow nails on the counter.

  “But—” Persephone gave her head a shake. “How are you not…”

  Deandra stepped into Persephone’s sight line and gave her a long look. Deandra didn’t flinch, didn’t react like people usually did, turning ghost white from Persephone’s sustained eye contact and trying to harm herself or someone else. Instead, her amber eyes flashed with irritation and she sidestepped over the small river of pooling coffee.

  She rolled her shoulders back and stood with her chin raised, her voice dropping an octave. “What the hell are you?”

  * * *

  PERSEPHONE DIDN’T PAUSE to take off her apron or close out her station. She babbled for ten seconds, then pushed past Deandra and ran for the door.

  What the hell are you?

  Inside the safety of her ancient Volvo sedan, Persephone tried to come up with a viable answer. But nothing could explain away how today she had driven two people to try and destroy themselves, and then knocked out a room of others. Nothing aside from one word: monster.

  Persephone turned the A/C on full blast, took deep gulps of air, and tried to keep her hands steady on the wheel. She thought of how the other woman had looked in her eyes, and nothing happened, and quickly decided she’d imagined it. Deandra must have been out of earshot, perhaps in the bathroom, when Persephone spoke to Larkin, must have somehow escaped whatever Persephone had done.

  She must have been terrified.

  Persephone pulled into the long drive that led to her room in the aging Victorian house with cracked shutters. It was a month-to-month rental, and with every step she took into the house and then into her room, her nerves jumped.

  This wasn’t the first, second, or even tenth time something like this had happened. But it was the worst time. Whatever was wrong with her was amplifying and the gods only knew what would happen if she stayed a minute longer. She could imagine the confused faces of the customers as they awoke, and Deandra’s fear and revulsion. Persephone couldn’t explain herself. She’d sound crazy if she tried, and get hauled away to a psychiatric facility. Or, if someone did believe her, what then? She’d end up in an experiment locked in a crazy scientist’s basement? No, thank you.

  Persephone tugged her three-piece luggage set from under the bed. She kept one bag packed, so it was fairly easy to empty the dresser and dump the contents from her vanity and toiletry set into the other two. She paused long enough to fire off an email to the landlady, leaving the last of the rent in an envelope on the bed. She considered sending a second message to her boss at Gone Wired and giving her notice, but she couldn’t know what Deandra would tell him about the day’s events.

  So Persephone left. She got back into her car with what felt like her whole world tucked in the backseat, and drove down the main road, onto the highway, and onto the interstate. She didn’t look back. She never looked back.

  Not anymore.

  The tremble from
her hands moved into her thighs, and she jimmied her legs as she drove. At a red light she checked her phone for a missed call from her boss—or the police—and blew out a breath of relief when she saw no one had called. She tried to sing along with the radio, but her voice cracked when it came out. The people debating on talk radio made her head buzz. Her mouth was as dry as a salt lick, and she was terrified to stop. It wasn’t until the gas light came on over an hour into her drive to anywhere else, that she exited the interstate and stopped at a Gas n’ Go.

  Persephone was quick to pay for the bottles of water and granola bars while her tank filled. When she was back in the driver’s seat, she heard the phone vibrate insistently from inside her bag.

  Her heart gave a thump until she saw the name on the email. Hyacinth Ever.

  Persephone had met Hyacinth one year ago, when working as a research assistant for a nondescript job in a nondescript town. Hyacinth had been emailing Persephone off and on ever since. Her messages were always upbeat and full of the colorful goings-on in her small town of Wile Isle. Over the past twelve months, they’d formed a long-distance friendship, or something like it. It was a first for Persephone, as precious as her early edition copy of Rebecca, and she still didn’t know how to navigate it.

  P,

  Okay, I know the last time I asked you blew me off, but you have to come visit. Pretty, pretty please with whipped cream and sprinkles and cherries and all the tastiest things on top?

  Come to Wile Isle, off the coast of North Carolina. Our front porch is teeming with books, there’s a fresh pot of mint tea waiting, and the breeze from the ocean promises to blow all your troubles away.

  I’m attaching a map.

  —H

  Persephone stared at the screen. Hyacinth had asked her to visit before, but Persephone couldn’t tell if it was a piecrust invitation (easily made and easily broken) or if she’d meant it. It had been her first invitation of its sort.

  She reread the email, and a strange sense of calm spread through her. If only her troubles could be blown away. If only there were a place she could not just escape into, but where she might belong. It was the oldest of all her dreams, and she tried to swat it away, but this time it scooted closer, pressed its way into her heart.

  She downloaded the map and tugged on her lip as she studied it. It felt incredibly risky to go, especially on the heels of the episodes at the coffee shop. But what if change could happen, what if it simply didn’t show up the way you expected?

  What were the odds of receiving this particular email at this particular moment? Persephone was four hours away from Hyacinth and her island. Four hours and 240 miles from Wile Isle with nowhere else to go, and she didn’t have to stay there if once she arrived, it felt wrong. Persephone considered her bags in the backseat. If there was anything Persephone was good at, it was leaving.

  Combing a hand through her hair, she inhaled a deep breath. Salt, the sea, a tang of honey and wine. She tasted all four on her tongue and closed her eyes.

  Wile Isle.

  It sounded like forgotten words to a once beloved song. It sounded like a place to belong.

  HYACINTH EVER’S JOURNAL

  Twelve months prior

  The stars are low in the sky tonight. I’ve been standing here all afternoon in this new town, my toes dug deep into this unfamiliar earth, waiting for dusk to bring the moon out. My face has stayed turned toward the clouds, my eyes closed.

  Night-calling. That’s what Moira would call it and maybe she’s right. I know my sister wouldn’t approve of my being here, but what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

  I’ve been calling the night to me because lately I see better in the dark. It’s important to see clearly, now more than ever, and today I think I saw her—the one to break the island’s curse. She was walking down the street, coming toward me. Her red hair billowed behind her like a cape, power crackling off her in waves. She was singing softly under her breath. The song reached me first, and I knew her voice. Persephone May. She kept her eyes down, so she’s not yet found her freedom. I can help her with that.

  Because tonight, for the first time in a long time, I see the way forward.

  The stars are low in the sky, but my toes are dug into the earth and this … if Moira were here, I’d tell her this is what not giving up hope feels like.

  Two

  AUTUMN EQUINOX, SEPTEMBER 23RD

  THE NIGHT FOG CREPT along the ground like a veil trailing after a bride. The earth beneath it was a damp bed of sanctuary, the grass so green it would hurt your eyes if the fog weren’t covering it up. The ghost air, what Hyacinth had told Persephone people on Wile Isle called the incoming water vapor, stopped at five feet. The contrast made the crop of live oaks circling out from the dock feel like something in a storybook.

  Persephone was a tangle of nerves and excitement. Nerves because she would get to see her friend in person again, which was a risk. And excitement over the possibility of what it could mean to finally have a true friend.

  She watched the ripples in the water spread out as the boat tugged closer and closer to the island, and thought of the day she met Hyacinth. It was over a year ago, when Persephone worked a short stint as a research assistant. Hyacinth, while on vacation, had come into the office looking for someone, and ended up staying to get to know Persephone. It was the first time anyone had looked at Persephone and stayed. That in itself had seemed a miracle.

  “What’s your name?” Hyacinth asked the day they met. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, and I’ve been in town a few times.”

  “Persephone. Persephone May.”

  “Sea goddess, right? Persephone?”

  “Spring.” Persephone said, flicking her eyes up for the briefest of moments. “Queen of the Underworld.”

  Hyacinth rubbed her chin, and Persephone was struck by how familiar the sight was. As though she’d seen her do it before—once or a thousand times. “Abducted Queen of the Underworld,” said Hyacinth, her voice softer than velvet. “Hades stole her, didn’t he?”

  “He tried,” Persephone said, looking down at the pages on her desk. “I like to think she stole herself. Women are always so much stronger than myths can convey.”

  Hyacinth laughed. “True.”

  Persephone decided Hyacinth Ever, whose name she’d stolen from the application she handed back, was someone she wished she could befriend. A name once stolen is hard to release, and Persephone expected Hyacinth to fade away, like a Polaroid developing in reverse. Instead Hyacinth emailed one week later.

  “My island is waking up this week. There are flower carts in the street, bicycles with baskets full of books from the little free library set up by the beach, and a farmer’s market where the misfits of Wile sell their wares,” Hyacinth’s email read. “You should come visit. Come see my corner of the world.”

  Hope is a dangerous thing, and as the boat pulled into the dock, Persephone leaned all the way into optimism. She imagined once more the moment of being reunited with her friend, and in the next instant a line of static started with a tingle in her toes and shot up the backs of her legs. It prickled along her scalp, ran down her forearms, and pulsed into her fingertips.

  Oh.

  The island was charged with power. It snapped into her, and Persephone’s hands shook. She didn’t look down for fear she’d see sparks. Instead she tucked her hands in her pockets and took a slow, deep breath.

  Did Hyacinth know her island was so charged?

  “It draws you in, doesn’t it?”

  Persephone jumped. She had been so caught up in daydreaming she hadn’t realized there was another passenger on what the captain had called a ferry and any other person would call a tugboat.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman’s voice was musical, high and crisp. It swelled like the sea on the final notes.

  “The island is beautiful,” Persephone said, her blood quickening. It felt like her whole system was waking up. The waves lapped against the dock Persep
hone faced, and it wasn’t until the woman stood beside her that Persephone pulled her gaze from the sea. She cautiously studied the passenger’s profile: the woman’s sharp chin, deep-set eyes, and gorgeous linen suit the color of stormy skies.

  Lightning split the sky, and the hairs on Persephone’s arms stood at attention.

  “It’s worth the fuss,” the stranger said. “And the muss.”

  Persephone ran her hands over her arms, unable to rid herself of the sudden chill. She assumed the stranger meant accepting the limitations the island came with, such as poor Wi-Fi, or how she couldn’t board her car because the road that ran to the island was washed out. But then the woman grinned and Persephone’s fingers tingled like the tips were conducting electricity.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” the passenger asked.

  “I’m … staying with a friend,” Persephone said, testing the word out loud, shaking out her fingers, hoping the woman didn’t find her too odd.

  Her thoughts shifted again to Hyacinth. Her friend. Speaking that word felt wonderful. Persephone imagined she was the protagonist in a buddy comedy, going to be reunited with her bosom friend, ready to have a montage of adventures that ended in laughter and exuberant hugs. She couldn’t hold back the smile.

  Persephone noted the beginnings of a town off the dock. In the distance she saw lights and a road and a series of stone shops with slate roofs. The town appeared charming, though the world around it was silent.

  Thunder rumbled, and the stranger took a step back.

  “A friend you say,” the woman said. “Well, then. So it begins.”

  Persephone looked over in surprise. Was there unmistakable malice in her tone? And what begins?

  Poof. The woman was gone. Persephone searched for a place the stranger could have quickly moved to, but there was none. Persephone tried again to rub the creeping cold from her arms. It should have been impossible for the woman to disappear, but the air was as thick as a wool blanket, and Persephone tasted power on her tongue. It was sweet, but slightly tart—like a crisp green apple.