The Orphan Witch

by Paige Crutcher

  “More,” Dorian demanded, and so Persephone gave. She clung to, writhed against him, and nearly went over the edge.

  The light shifted, the bell chimed again, and Dorian began to fade.

  “No,” Persephone growled, reaching, trying to hold him to her.

  The last thing Persephone saw before he and the library were lost to space and time, was the desire and promise in his eyes.

  HYACINTH EVER’S JOURNAL

  Ten years ago, July 15th

  Her name is Stevie and she’s a Sagittarius. Her blond hair is always worn down, even when the summer sun is so hot my sweat sweats. Ariel can’t stop looking at her. She does everything but crawl in her lap.

  At the diner Stevie gets up to go to the bathroom and Ariel stands to let her pass, making sure her fingers graze her shoulder. When they sit side by side on the lawn for the outdoor showing of Some Like It Hot, Ari’s knee inches over until it presses against Stevie’s. She’s first to refill her soda and has read Emily Dickinson to her aloud, but it was when Ariel made her the clover crown that I stopped glaring and started seething.

  My best friend is gone. A pod person has replaced the girl who counted the stars with me and laughed at my jokes until our sides hurt. This new Ariel only has time for Stevie.

  And Stevie? Stevie is a moron.

  “What are you doing with that spoon?” Stevie asked me, when she came out into the garden the other morning. She’s staying at Ever House, and I’ve yet to work out the best way to get rid of her.

  “It’s a spade,” I said, rolling my eyes because she couldn’t see them. “And I’m digging. Planting in the soil.”

  “Oh.” She sat beside me and watched. Not moving an inch when I scooted over to reach for the new bulbs, just breathing down my neck and staring like a drunken owl.

  “What are you trying to grow?” she asked. “A beanstalk?”

  “Yeah, that’s not a thing.”

  “How else did Jack escape?”

  I snorted. “You mean the children’s story ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’? That’s bullshit.”

  “All stories have an element of truth,” she said, leaning closer so I could smell her jasmine perfume.

  I thought about it. “Then the element to that particular story is Jack got into magic he knew nothing about and it screwed him over.”

  “I thought it was that he wanted to escape,” she said, biting on her lower lip.

  The truth of that hit too close to home, and I squinted at my bulbs. They were not beanstalks. They couldn’t take me where I wanted to go.

  “Do you plan to travel?” she asked. “Or are you staying on island like Ariel?”

  The shake I gave my head was so fierce it rattled my teeth. “I’ll leave one day,” I told her. “And I will go everywhere and see everything.”

  She laughed like I said something extraordinary, and bumped me with her shoulder. Then she asked me what the “tiny fork” was, and I had to explain the trowel.

  And this is who Ariel has chosen over me. A girl with hair the color of straw, and the IQ of a carrot.

  It’s enough to drive a being to hate.

  Eleven

  THE KNOCK ON THE door came at precisely one thirteen in the afternoon. It was an ominous time in Moira’s estimation, as she had never liked the number thirteen. Other witches might swear by the numerical significance as a great foretelling, but for Moira, thirteen was the age when she relinquished her virginity to a tourist with fast lips and hips who took far more than he gave. It was the number of times Moira had tried and failed to fall in love before she met the one who got away, and the number of years separating her sister from her. Having practically raised Hyacinth, and loving her in a way Moira imagined a mother loved a daughter, Moira thought this should cancel out some of the negative association she had with the power number. But the truth was Hyacinth kept at least thirteen secrets from Moira and none of them were good.

  Moira supposed, as she thought on it, she actually associated the number thirteen most with her sister. Which might have been why when the knock fell, she knew it wasn’t for her.

  Still, Moira opened the door.

  The woman on the other side wore the body of a girl and the eyes of a witch. She did not smile at Moira, or adorn a pretense at all. Instead the woman peered past her inside the house.

  “I’d ask to be invited in, but you’ll find I don’t need any invitation.”

  Then the stranger swept past a gaping Moira into the main room.

  Moira herself had spelled the house, warding it with herbs collected on a full moon and whispered over at midnight, during the peak of her power. She’d done this three times, salting the perimeter and carefully pressing promises upon the grains. No one should be able to pass who was not of Ever blood. It was the simplest and most common spell in the book.

  “Who are you?” Moira asked the stranger.

  The woman crossed to the sofa and sat sniffing the air. “Jasmine,” the stranger said. “The house still smells of jasmine. Get your sister, Moira Mae Ever, tell her the truth has come home.”

  Moira did not want to leave the woman-child she had never before seen standing in her living room, but once the command was issued she found herself compelled to walk up the stairs to the second floor and to Hyacinth’s rooms. She found her sister inside, settled on her window seat, growing hyacinths from the palm of her hand. It was a trick Hyacinth had used when she was eight and didn’t want to face her punishment for feeding posies to the girl who pulled her hair.

  “What have you done?” Moira growled, standing in the doorway, arms pinched across her chest. “Someone, who I do not know but clearly has been here before, has walked into our home and demanded your presence.”

  Hyacinth blew the flowers into the air. They drifted down to the hardwood beneath her feet, the petals falling free. Hyacinth stood and reached for the hand mirror on the window seat. Moira watched the tremble take over her sister’s hands. The mirror shook as she tried to hold it.

  “I have done what needed to be done,” she said, not meeting her sister’s eyes. “The curse will be broken.”

  “Of course it will,” Moira said, her words sharp. “We have Mayfair blood on our side, we have our Persephone. Your plan will work.” She studied the stubbornness settling across her sister’s face. “This person is not the plan.”

  Hyacinth gave her head a hard shake. “For six weeks we have trained our Mayfair witch. She can barely control her magic. You know it, I know it. Aether is the hardest of elements to control, and hers is refusing to merge with her.” Hyacinth hesitated, sighed. “Plus, she’s about to switch sides.”

  “What? What on Wile Isle do you mean, switch sides?”

  “The Ways.”

  Moira rubbed at her forehead. “That’s impossible. She would never go to them, especially not after all they’ve done to harm her, harm us. Hyacinth, Persephone is family. She loves us.”

  “It’s happening.” Hyacinth swallowed, but lifted her gaze to her sister’s. “I knew it would, but I tried to stop the tide. I failed. We’re out of time, sister.”

  Hyacinth moved past Moira into the hallway, glided down the stairs, and marched into the living room. She stopped a foot from the stranger. Took her measure. Then, with a deliberate coldness that made Moira’s skin crawl, Hyacinth bowed her head and pasted a smile on her lips.

  “May the Goddess bless you,” Hyacinth said.

  “And keep you well,” the stranger replied.

  Then Hyacinth handed the mirror over, and the woman held it up to her face. Moira could see the image reflected there.

  “It’s … it’s not possible,” Moira said, her words clouded with shock.

  “I am many things,” the stranger replied. “Possible is only one of them. Come, daughters, the clock is ticking down and we have spells to cast and worlds to save.”

  * * *

  TOO SOON PERSEPHONE was back on the cobblestone path. Her arms empty of Dorian, of the grimoire. Her mind over
flowing. As Persephone walked, static crackled in the air around her, clinging to her hair, causing the ends to rise up. Her powers, long dormant and buried, were waking.

  Aether coursed through her veins, her senses heightened. Persephone paused to take a deep breath, coughing out as she tasted the salt of the seawater and the buttery flavor of the tuna fish swimming offshore.

  The tug returned, a strong yank to her midsection. Persephone turned against it, in the direction of Ever House and her cousins, only to find her feet refused to budge.

  “Oh, come on,” Persephone said, grinding the words out. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Wrong way.”

  A shiver rankled up her spine at the sound of the voice. Then the voice shifted, one growing into two, and two into twenty. First the voices were a whisper against her mind, and Persephone fought it. She pressed her hands to her head, and tried to shake them away.

  They grew louder.

  Persephone tried to drown them out by humming. She sang the alphabet as loud as she could, but the voices would not be denied. Thinking to just ignore them, she attempted to walk away, but the island refused to let her pass. She couldn’t budge a toe forward.

  She let out a frustrated groan and looked up at the sky. “Fine, I give up.”

  The voices quieted.

  Persephone looked around, then down at her hands. “Who are you?”

  “We are with you always, we are the Many.”

  Persephone closed her eyes. “You’re from the library.”

  “We are from everywhere.”

  “Are you the library?”

  “No. We are the Many.”

  Persephone ran a hand over her face. Talking spirits. From the library. Terrific. Her element was technically called spirit, so Persephone supposed it could make a certain kind of sense that she would hear them, except … why now?

  She opened her eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “We are the Many. We would never hurt you, daughter of Artemis, granddaughter to Viola. We are with you always.”

  Persephone had dealt with a lot this day, but this was too much. She turned and tried to return to the library and demand Dorian help her. Nothing happened. The tug yanked against her core. The island wanted her to follow through in another direction. It would not be denied.

  She stomped her feet, knowing what little good the temper tantrum would do. If magic had shown Persephone anything, it was that to fight this would come with a price and there was a good chance she would fail.

  “You win,” Persephone said to the island, and to the spirits she could hear but not see. “Show me the right way to go, then.”

  Persephone followed the wind. It carried her to the beach, onto the sand, and unsurprisingly, to Way House.

  “Of course,” Persephone said. “I’m doing this now, am I? Showing up, again, all alone after what I did to Ellison. This is brilliant.”

  “The locket. You are not alone.”

  “No, I’m not. I have an hourglass and a host of vague voices in my head from a mythical land no one else can travel to unless they’re dead. I’m so glad to have such good company.”

  Persephone reached beneath the oversized shirt and felt at the hourglass talisman. She pulled it free. The locket had grown. With great care, Persephone opened the false bottom and a small ruby tumbled out.

  “A stone,” Persephone said, her tone wry. “I suppose I throw this at Ariel when she tries to kill me for attacking her sister.”

  Her power thrummed steadily through her, a combination of energy, adrenaline, and determination, and she sighed again but kept walking. Persephone walked around to the back of the house, and took the narrow stairs. She did not do so as an effort to sneak up on the women, but to show she was meeting them as family might, as equals. It was the last bit of hope she had.

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Ariel Way stood waiting.

  * * *

  ARIEL HAD FOUND her sister in an immovable state hours earlier, and her own rage had threatened to consume her. But as soon as she called for Ellison, had reached out and shaken her, Ellison coughed herself back to life. Ellison was frozen, not dead, and it was the first time Ariel had ever seen the particular spell performed. Calling the Veil was not a simple casting—only an extremely powerful witch could pull such magic off. Ariel had only heard of one other being able to achieve its results. Amara Mayfair. It was Calling the Veil that had frozen the witches away in the hinterland. Ariel should know; she and Hyacinth had both tried and failed.

  When Ariel and Hyacinth attempted to perform the spell, Stevie got caught in the cross fire. She was frozen for one day. In the Arch. Where she had followed Ariel and Hyacinth without their knowing. When they were finally able to undo the magic, Stevie was altered.

  She was also infatuated with Hyacinth, and Hyacinth did not turn her away.

  To say Ariel disliked the particular spell was a severe understatement. If it were a bug, she’d pull its wings and head from its body and grind the leftover for good measure.

  Now Persephone stood in front of Ariel, one of Hyacinth’s minions, with power rolling off her in waves so strong Ariel had to force herself steady.

  “Why are you here?” Ariel asked.

  Persephone didn’t speak; she only held her palm up, offering the ruby sitting in her hand.

  Ariel’s eyes were as quick as lightning, looking from Persephone’s face to her hand and back again.

  Persephone tossed the stone into the air, and Ariel caught it with ease. A green light flashed out between the two witches.

  “I believe this must belong to you,” Persephone said.

  * * *

  SHE HADN’T ACTUALLY planned to throw the stone at the witch, but it had grown hot in her hand at the sight of Ariel. So Persephone followed her gut instinct and offered it.

  Ariel whispered a word Persephone could not hear. The light faded and she studied Persephone with curiosity.

  “Why would you bring me this?”

  Truth or lie. Hyacinth had said witches could not lie to one another, but Persephone had learned that to be untrue. Persephone thought perhaps witches should not lie to one another, that to do so would be a mark of disrespect. She could only keep to her instincts for the choice she made next.

  “It came to me within the past hour, and I thought it would be a good start in asking for a truce.”

  Ariel snorted. “What sort of fool are you, or do you take me for one?”

  Persephone arched a brow in response. “You’re my family.”

  “And yet you came to Wile and instead of seeking us, you sought the Evers.”

  “I wasn’t aware of who you were when I arrived.” Persephone clasped her hands together, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. “Up until two months ago, I didn’t know who my family was, let alone that there was a curse or a feud. Hyacinth sought me out. I came to help, and once here all I have done is try to help break the curse.”

  A throat cleared as a shadow moved into sight. Persephone’s gaze lifted to meet the steel blue eyes of Ellison Way.

  “She knows nothing, Ariel. I told you.”

  “I’m sorry—” Persephone was cut off mid-sentence.

  “There will be time enough for apologies,” Ellison said with a no-nonsense wave of her hand. “Come inside, for the day grows short and the shadows linger. There is much you don’t know Persephone May, and I fear much we all must learn before the Goddess is done with each of us.”

  Ellison plucked the stone from her sister’s hand and went inside.

  Ariel leaned in, her eyes on the locket hidden beneath Persephone’s shirt. “Don’t think I don’t see you,” she said, before she stepped around Persephone and walked inside.

  Persephone checked her chest, and shook her head. They hadn’t attacked, had instead invited her in. Maybe there was cause for hope yet.

  She studied the silhouettes of the two sisters just inside the door. Warriors, both of them, queens in their own
right. She wondered what that would make her, thought of Hyacinth and Moira, and hoped they would forgive her for crossing this line. Then, taking a deep breath, Persephone took one step, then another, opened the door, and walked inside.

  * * *

  IF HYACINTH AND Moira’s house was an example of cleanliness and order—even with a fair amount of magical clutter—this house was its polar opposite. It reminded Persephone of the expression “coloring outside of the lines,” because everything was just this side of haphazard. A rug with a corner turned in, a bright purple wall with the brushstrokes sloppily pushing into the white edges of the connecting wall.

  The sink she passed in the shotgun kitchen was full of dishes, and the counter smudged with crumbs. The living area was a sea of color. Purple sofa, bright jade sitting chairs, navy blue footstools. A wood-burning stove stood in the center of the room, on it a small black bowl sat with pink smoke fuming from its open mouth. In the corner was a large triangle bookshelf, with assorted tools stacked upon it, and a huge chunk of black obsidian sitting on the top shelf. Above it was a woven tapestry depicting the Theban alphabet. The ceiling was a maze of wooden beams, cut into intricate shapes that reminded Persephone of lace. The floors were a dark hardwood, and not one wall in the entire downstairs matched another.

  Somehow though, it worked. The lingering smell of sage and hearth fire, the candles burning in almost every corner—the touches felt homey, inviting. There was a pillow on the sofa with cross-stitching that read: Witch, Please, and a sign over the hearth that announced: I am never frightened, not even in the darkest forest, for I know that I am the darkest thing there.

  There was humor and heart here, and it struck Persephone that both were harder to come by in Ever House. For all its charms, Ever House felt like it had a mission. This house was simply a home.

  “Sit,” Ariel said, standing before the small pot wafting the faintly pink smoke. “You’re making the house nervous.”

  “Does the house … feel things?” Persephone asked, sitting down on the jade chair and immediately falling back into a deep cushion. She struggled to sit upright while Ariel rolled her eyes.