The Orphan Witch

by Paige Crutcher

  “Just a bit more,” Hyacinth said, giving Persephone an encouraging smile.

  “I said no,” Moira said.

  Persephone watched the two women stare at each other until Hyacinth looked away first.

  “You’re trying your best,” Moira told Persephone. “That’s more than enough for now.”

  Hyacinth studied Persephone and winced. “She’s right. Besides, I think you’re ready to put your newfound knowledge of herbs to use.”

  Persephone knew that regardless of how powerful she was, she wasn’t making the kind of progress the women wanted or needed. Mary Miller, the foster mother who almost adopted Persephone, once told her that expectations were the road to resentment, and Persephone couldn’t have agreed more. However, Mary Miller wasn’t under a time crunch to break a curse.

  They left the Arch for Hyacinth’s garden, stopping in the kitchen for a chocolate biscuit and tall glass of milk on Moira’s orders.

  Persephone loved the garden at Ever House. It was a garden with a mind of its own. It grew what the witches needed, and what it thought they should have. Hyacinth said it was a divine kind of magic.

  Hyacinth sat in the garden, with two small pots by her feet, a tiny bag of soil in her lap, and a sultry indie singer crooning from the portable speakers she had set high up in the tree behind her.

  “Why do I feel like this is not what a real horticulture class experience would have been like?”

  Hyacinth flashed her teeth. “It would if you’d gone to school on island. Miss Sully was a stickler for incorporating fun into even the hardest lessons.”

  Persephone sat down and dug her toes into the soil, savoring the feel of the cool earth. Grounding was a way of life for the witches, and Persephone couldn’t imagine going back to wearing shoes after she left. She banished the darkening thoughts trying to creep in at the idea of leaving Wile Isle, and reached over to scoop a handful of soil from Hyacinth’s open bag.

  “What was it like going to high school? My impression of it is a strange compilation of John Hughes movies meets Mean Girls meets Clueless.”

  Hyacinth blinked twice. “That sounds … savagely fashionable.”

  “You didn’t have an outfit-focused, self-organizing closet then? One you magically tricked out?”

  “If only I’d thought of such a thing,” Hyacinth said with a laugh.

  Persephone tossed a sprinkling of dirt at her, and followed Hyacinth’s movements and filled the small pot with the rest of the soil.

  “School was pretty average. Boring mostly. I grew up with the people who attended and there weren’t a lot of surprises. The hardest thing was not using magic on someone if they annoyed me. Hormones were the most formidable frenemy I had.” Hyacinth reached into the pocket of her loose flannel and pulled out a packet of seeds. She passed the packet to Persephone. “What about you?”

  “I didn’t attend an in-person school,” Persephone said. “It was hard at times, easy at others. Lonely, mostly.”

  She didn’t mean to say the last part out loud and flushed at the admission. It was embarrassing to admit that you never fit in, never had the kind of friends you coveted from make-believe movies.

  “I think high school can be lonely for anyone, in person or not,” Hyacinth said. “But it totally sucks you didn’t get to go if that’s what you wanted.”

  Persephone brushed her bangs back from her face. “Thanks. On the plus side, no one ever tried to shaving cream my locker.”

  “I don’t even want to know why you think that’s a thing,” Hyacinth said, suppressing a grin. “But if you want, I can freeze your bra later tonight.”

  Persephone grinned, and gave her head a solid shake. “Hard pass.”

  Hyacinth pulled a second packet of seeds from her pocket and shook it at Persephone. “Well, then. As the incomparable Miss Sully would have said, ‘It’s time to begin today’s lesson, class.’ Which means, let’s make some mothertrucking magic.”

  The lesson of the day was growing an herb from the kernel of a seed.

  “These are rosemary seeds,” Persephone said, giving the seeds a closer look.

  “Correct. A plus to my best student! Now can you tell me what they are used for?”

  “Sautéing chicken?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Okay, fine.” Persephone studied the seed, and the words she had read earlier that morning sprang into her mind. “Rosemary is a clever herb, and it can be used to aid in memorization, for purification, in a wreath for handfasting, as an aid in fertility—those two seem to go together, don’t they? For protection, to repel bugs, and in place of frankincense.”

  “Very good,” Hyacinth said, clapping her hands together. “How do we grow the seeds?”

  “Water and sun?” Persephone asked, mostly teasing.

  “And a bit of this and a bit of that,” Hyacinth said, and waved Persephone on. “Demonstration time, dear student.”

  “I’m starting to think I might have been one of those students who skipped a lot of class,” Persephone said, rolling her eyes, but she did as Hyacinth asked. Holding a seed between her middle finger and thumb, she used the pointer finger of her free hand to dip into the soil and create a little pouch. Then Persephone licked the seed, dropped it into the hole, blew dirt ever-so-gently across it in a covering, and closed her eyes.

  She saw the seed nestled in its bed, saw the way it should look in the stages of growth and the end result as a full-fledged sprig of rosemary.

  “Grow,” Persephone whispered.

  The air shifted. A breeze caught the edge of her bangs, the tips of her ponytail, and blew them back. Hyacinth let out a little sound of delight, and that deep vibration of the island pulsed once between Persephone’s hands.

  When she opened her eyes, a beautiful four-inch rosemary plant waited, small but sturdy, in her pot.

  Persephone gave a squeal as she brushed her fingertips across the soft spikes of the plant.

  “You have earned a gold star and a smiley face,” Hyacinth said, clapping.

  Persephone beamed at her, and then gaped, as Hyacinth waved a hand over her own small pot and her own sprig sprung up.

  “In the garden,” Hyacinth said, “we learn how to give life.”

  Persephone gave a happy sigh. “What you do is incredible.”

  Hyacinth set the pot aside and leaned back onto her hands. “I’m good at this, here. The plants, the garden, it comes natural.”

  “It’s amazing.”

  Hyacinth shrugged, not quite meeting Persephone’s eyes. “It is what it is, I suppose. How has it been for you? Do you remember the first time you used your power?”

  Persephone ran another finger over the rosemary plant. “Hmm. When I was three a bee stung me and I stung it back. Is that what you mean?”

  “Emotional sparks can trigger magic,” Hyacinth said, with a nod. “Magic is energy, and energy charges.”

  “It’s stronger here.” Persephone looked off, along the herbs growing in the neat six-by-eight square planters. She swore she could hear the flowers waking up. “It’s like being plugged into the island.”

  “Because you’re meant to be here,” Hyacinth said. “I knew it the moment I saw you. It’s in the blood.”

  Persephone sighed, an ache right beneath her rib cage opening up. “I wish I knew more. About my blood, about my parents.”

  “I do, too,” Hyacinth said. “The Goddess knows I tried to find out. There’s just … nothing there.”

  “But we are cousins.”

  “Third cousins, twice removed,” Hyacinth said, with a smile. She turned to the clove tree behind her and, using not a shear but her fingers, sealed off a break in the stem of the clove plant before passing it to Persephone. Persephone ran the sprig under her nose without breaking eye contact. She still wasn’t used to the sensation, and it was one she savored.

  “We share great-great-grandparents. Three times down, and so we are third cousins removed by two generations.”

  “Two g
enerations of witches?” Persephone asked, because some moments it all felt too big, too extraordinary, to be true.

  “Yes. Our great-great-grandmothers were cunning folk like their parents before them. And their parents’ parents are the original settlers of Wile Isle.”

  Persephone nodded and stretched.

  “How are you doing?” Hyacinth asked. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

  “It is.” Persephone felt the pang of loss every time she thought of her mother and grandmother. Of how she had spent her whole life tending the secret, fervent dream that one day the family she so desperately wanted would be hers. “But I’m glad to be here with you and Moira.”

  “If you don’t mind putting a pin in this lesson, I think I’ll walk a bit,” Persephone continued, the ache of loss rubbing raw.

  “Of course,” Hyacinth said, studying Persephone’s face.

  Persephone gave a forced smile, before standing, dusting off, and crossing to the road. “Oh,” Hyacinth called, before Persephone had traveled too far, “don’t follow the wind.”

  Persephone looked toward the path. “I don’t know what that means,” Persephone called back, on a sigh. She wished there wasn’t still so much unknown to her.

  “Yes, you do, Persephone,” Hyacinth replied, her voice sounding like it was circling Persephone’s feet. “You’re waking up. Keep your eyes open and don’t follow the wind.”

  Persephone wrapped her sweater more tightly around herself and gave a nod. Breathing in the salty air, she closed her eyes and tried to find her balance.

  I am a witch, Persephone told herself. I have magic. I just grew a freaking plant from a seed.

  Persephone walked until the garden and home were out of sight. Turning back, she studied the house on the hill, which appeared to shoulder part of the small mountain. She really was grateful to Hyacinth and Moira. She hoped she could be who they needed her to become. They thought she was powerful, special.

  She hoped she wouldn’t let them down.

  Giving in to instinct, she dropped down to press her palms to the road. Persephone asked the earth which way to go, closed her eyes, and felt the decisive tug. It was the same as the one she’d felt the first night in Ever House, while deciding which room would be hers.

  Persephone followed the tug to a bend in the road. A strong gale blew up from the east and nearly knocked her over. She stumbled a step forward and the earth beneath her gave a violent shudder.

  Don’t follow the wind.

  Persephone’s feet froze, and she looked left to right at a split in the road she was certain had not been there a moment ago. She peered into the distance, and studied the inviting yellow house standing like a proud flamingo on the beach. An invisible arm wrapped around Persephone’s middle and yanked, once. Toward the house. She felt the urge rise, and within a blink it was gone. Another tug rose up, like hands slipping into hers, and pulled Persephone in the opposite direction.

  How do you know which way the wind is blowing you on an island that pulls a body both ways?

  She took a step forward and the space in front of her went white around the edges. The air itself wavered.

  Looking over her shoulder, Persephone saw a third path she’d missed the night before. It was covered by wispy hanging branches of two oak trees. Crossing to it, Persephone peered beneath the branches, and pushed them aside. A small sign posted to the left of the larger oak read: WELCOME TO WILE ISLE (EST. 1620).

  The wooden sign announcing Wile Isle looked old at first glance, but on a second look Persephone realized the carving was fresh. Hyacinth and Moira said they didn’t go into town often, and Persephone’s heart sped up at the thought of getting to look around on her own, to see if there was a library or town hall with records, something Hyacinth may have overlooked that might help Persephone glean new insight into who her grandmother had been. She reached out and ran her fingers along the grooves of the words imprinted on the sign.

  The sound of laughter and the straining notes of music caught in her hair as the wind blew the strands back from her face. Through the canopy of trees Persephone crept, tasting the sea on her tongue, savoring the scent of sap.

  She followed the music. Her boots beat a gentle rhythm on the road as anticipation sped her feet forward. She emerged on the other side of the crop of trees, and stepped into … a fairy tale. There was no better description for the picture before her.

  The road was flagstone; gray and white stone buildings along the border, slight and cheerful. The grass was a bright green, brilliant in a way Persephone hadn’t expected to find on an island. The roofs of the little cottages were slate, the paint along the trim new. Laughter tinkled out from the open window of the shop nearest to Persephone, and she crossed to it. The door stuck on the first try, but after a second heave it gave and Persephone tumbled across the threshold.

  Inside, the shop looked nothing like the outside. It was a bakery of sorts, and smelled of sweet biscuits, raspberry jam, and fresh buttermilk cookies. It was the patrons, though, who gave Persephone pause. They were dressed in period costumes made up of bustles, hoops, and petticoats, tux and tails, and the world’s tiniest hats atop ribbons of curls.

  “Your dress is wonderful,” Persephone said to the woman nearest to her.

  “Oh!” The woman looked down, and brushed invisible crumbs from her bodice. “The finery is for the festival. We’re preparing for it, you know.” The stranger tilted her head. “You aren’t from the island. You must be a guest.”

  The last town Persephone had lived in over the Christmas holiday had a similar dress-up holiday festival, but they were months from Christmas and seeing so many people in costume in one small shop at once was startling.

  “I’m staying at Ever House,” Persephone said, studying the timepiece pinned to the woman’s lapel. The hour was wrong, but the piece itself looked authentic and reminded her of the clocks in Moira’s kitchen.

  “Ah.” The woman offered another smile. “The center of things. Are you coming to the festival then?”

  “Festival?”

  “It’s really more of a show than a festival, but I guarantee you it’s the only show worth seeing in any town or port.” The woman waved her arm like a queen addressing an imaginary audience. “A spectacle of wonder for the senses to behold. The most marvelous magnificent show.” The stranger hopped up, gave a twirl, and ran over to the window.

  Watching her reminded Persephone of Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. In fact, the way everyone in the shop moved felt like it was out of a film. The costumes, the pauses …

  The pauses.

  In time. In space.

  Persephone looked around more carefully. She hadn’t put it together at first, but the people weren’t all talking or moving at the same time. Some paused, others swept into action as though awakened from a dream.

  Persephone looked over to the counter. A woman with auburn hair and pale skin ran the workspace. She exited through a door on the side of the room after looking up and seeing Persephone. Time slowed, and Persephone watched as the rest of the patrons in the room shifted from in motion to in repose. Persephone took a breath, exhaled, and saw the air had turned to mist.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  The mist moved. It formed the shape of a person, and took one step, then another, and another, heading straight for Persephone. The blood in Persephone’s veins turned to ice, and she ran for the door, yanked it open, and tumbled outside.

  Persephone exhaled a stream of cold air. She looked for the path back to Ever House, but it was gone. Panic set in and her heels rapped against the cobblestones as she hurried away from the bakery. Two streets over she saw an individual cottage. It was beset by two black iron streetlights, like something from a gothic novel. Beside the wide front window was a handmade sign with carved elegant script. It advertised: LIBRARY FOR THE LOST.

  She crossed to the library with its funny name, and looked over her shoulder.

  The mist was gone.

 
; Persephone let out a slow, careful exhalation.

  She waited, counted down the seconds, until a full minute had passed.

  No one, mist made or otherwise, was following her. No one was there at all.

  The sense of danger faded. Had her imagination run wild from an overuse of magic this afternoon in the garden? Whatever it was, real or not real, there was nothing there now.

  Persephone took a second, deeper breath, and peered into the library through a dusty window. She spied a polished wooden table tucked between two cream wingback chairs. Along the wall behind it were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves adorned with row after row of books. A new sense, this one of longing and belonging, washed over Persephone, and she decided danger or no, she might as well escape inside.

  Persephone raised a hand to reach for the door when it swung open.

  The young man on the other side of the door wore navy suspenders, a cream button-up shirt, and dark green pants. His long hair was tied back with a leather cord, and his cheekbones looked like they could slice through glass. Persephone’s heart gave a hard knock in her chest. She thought he looked impossibly dangerous for a librarian, until he startled when he saw her. Then he looked as irritated as any interrupted intellectual.

  “You’re a surprise,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  He flashed half a smile and Persephone’s breath caught. His smile looked lived in, worn around the edges. The sleeping dragon in her belly woke, its wings unfurling and giving a hard flap.

  “That sounded rude, didn’t it? I’m not expecting anyone.” He studied Persephone, and his smile dimmed. “Who are you?”

  “Persephone,” she said, before glancing over her shoulder again.

  The man’s eyes narrowed a fraction before he looked beyond her. A hard wind pushed down the path, nearly knocking Persephone off balance. She blamed his square jawline shadowed with stubble, and the delicious imperfection of his crooked front tooth for how her knees went weak.

  He sighed, a long and irritated sound. “The temperature is dropping. You aren’t meant to be here. You should be on your way.”

  The wind gusted again and he stepped inside the door. Persephone huffed at his rudeness, but stepped in after him, eager to escape its chill. He turned to look at her, an expression of incredulity on his face, and she quickly averted her eyes.