Mystified

by Renee Bernard

  “That’s my grandmother’s house,” Elethea said, pointing to a homey stone cottage with a thatched roof. Bountiful herbs grew in window boxes, and a teeming garden prospered outside. A wooden fence enclosed the area, with reeds stretched to bend around the posts in alternating directions, reminding Claire of a woven basket.

  It all looked so peaceful. Nothing like she would have expected. The birds chirped merrily, and insects buzzed contentedly. The anxious knot in Claire’s stomach began to unwind somewhat in the presence of so much prospering nature. Kinney turned her head up to the sun, a wide smile cracking across her weathered features.

  “I like it here,” Kinney declared, with a nod of approval. “Much better than that dusty old castle.”

  Elethea grinned, leading them to the door. She did not bother to knock, instead pushing the door open. Claire’s brows furrowed at it being unlocked; perhaps if one was a powerful witch, one didn’t need to fear intruders.

  The cottage was one large room, with a hearth off to one side, a table, a kitchen, and a loft above where Maevis must have slept. Dried flowers and herbs hung from the rafters, and it smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. The tension released in Claire’s stomach a bit more, soothed by the familiar scent. Her mother had always smelled of vanilla, before Ticehurst. In her best memories, Claire remembered vanilla and sunshine, and her mother’s wide, rapturous smile.

  As Elethea called for her grandmother, an orange tabby with a broken tail let out a loud meow from its place by the fire. Beside it, a calico yawned idly, stretching out its paws.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Kinney exclaimed, as a gray striped cat wove around her ankles. She stooped down, scooping up the animal in her arms. “I could get used to this place, Peach.”

  Claire laughed, the maid’s delight contagious. But before she could truly relax, an old woman emerged from the back entrance to the cottage, followed by Elethea. The witch’s keen, unwavering gaze leaped from her granddaughter to Kinney before finally settling on Claire. She had a regal bearing; were her dress less shabby, Claire would have expected to see her holding court at Almack’s.

  “Welcome,” she said, making a sweeping motion with her hands. “I’m Maevis Grayson, and you must be Lady Claire. You’ve come just in time for tea.”

  Claire blinked, surprised at her crisp, polished speech. She didn’t know what she’d expected—perhaps something folksy or babbles tinged with dark references.

  “I am.” Claire nodded, and then gestured to Kinney. “And this is my maid, Kinney.”

  Maevis nodded at Kinney, motioning for them to take a seat at the thick-planked oak table. She took a canister of chamomile tea down from a shelf. She deposited leaves into four china cups on the kitchen table, going next to the kettle that had been heating over the fire and pouring water into the cups. Pulling out a chair for herself, she passed a cup to each of her guests and then looked at Claire expectantly.

  “I know you have something to tell me, daughter,” she said. “Whenever you are ready, we can begin.”

  Claire’s mouth fell open. Maevis spoke as though she already knew Claire’s mind—but how? The elder witch’s gaze was kind, caring, but so very perceptive. Under the weight of her stare, Claire found it hard to believe that Maevis didn’t see and know all.

  And there went the last bit of nerves clawing at her insides, for if Maevis already knew of her curse, and didn’t want to be rid of her, then perhaps there was hope after all. Slowly at first, then quicker as she grew more comfortable, the particulars of the past spilled out of Claire’s lips between sips of the flowery, aromatic tea. The more she talked, the more Maevis’s gaze softened, until Claire couldn’t remember why she’d ever viewed this meeting with trepidation.

  “Elethea was right to bring you,” Maevis said, once Claire had finished with the story. “What Hestia did caused our coven great distress. Magic never should be used in that way. I am so sorry for your loss, my child.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said wistfully, unable to shake the memory of her own mother—on her good days, when the sickness was slight—in the presence of such a maternal figure as Maevis.

  “All we’ve wanted for decades is to right the wrong Hestia did to your family,” Maevis said. “But it took us time to discover what she’d done. Only when the magic came back against her, and she died in such a violent manner, did we understand what had truly happened.”

  “The rule of three,” Elethea explained. “Magic always comes with a price, and such dark arts demand a heavy payment from the practitioner.”

  Claire nodded, as a small, spiteful voice in the back of her mind said Hestia’s death was justice for what she’d done to them.

  “Well, she got what she deserved then,” Kinney declared without shame. “I served Lady Madalane before that wicked woman’s curse, and I served her after. If you ask me, Hestia got off easy with a bad death. Worse is living, entombed in one’s mind.”

  “And that’s my fear,” Claire murmured, her grip tightening around the china cup’s handle. “How can I possibly marry Teddy when I don’t know if or when I’ll become a prisoner of my own mind?”

  Maevis reached out, patting her hand. The woman’s skin was wrinkled, yet soft; her touch as soothing as the blanket Claire had insisted on sleeping with as a child. And her next words—those were the most wonderful Claire had ever heard.

  “There’s a ritual,” Maevis said. “It should break the curse’s hold on you. But I must warn you, Lady Claire, it is not for the faint of heart. You must truly believe in its power for it to work, do you understand? If you do not…it will be of no use, and you’ll surely descend into the fate you fear the most.”

  Claire’s breath caught in her throat at the solemn warning. But if there was any chance it could work, then she had to try.

  “I understand.”

  “You and your beloved must meet my coven in the woods at our most powerful circle, by the light of the moon.” Maevis pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. “Yes, tomorrow night will do nicely. It is All Hallow’s Eve, when the spirits can pass from this world into the next with ease. The magic will be strongest then.”

  “How will I know where to find this circle?” Claire asked.

  “Elethea will show you, before she escorts you back to the castle.”

  Elethea nodded.

  Maevis rose from the table, wiping her hands on her apron. “We will help you, Lady Claire, but heed my words. You must believe—and so must he. Believe in your happily ever after, and so it shall be.”

  Chapter 9

  All Hallows Eve, midnight

  For twenty-five years Theodore Lockwood, erstwhile law student turned earl, had believed only in what he could see with his own two eyes. His participation in church had been halfhearted at best; he’d gone on Sundays because it was expected, and he disliked confrontation with his family more than he disliked his own hypocrisy. Blind faith, he had reasoned, was a useful tool in modulating the emotions of those who had nowhere else to turn. In times of sadness and despair, weaker minds sought comfort in the theory of an all-seeing Lord who somehow had time to answer all of their prayers.

  But now, picking carefully through the dense woods surrounding Castle Keyvnor in the dead of night, Teddy understood what he could not before—faith was an act of strength. To believe in the impossible, dropping anchor and remaining standing despite the seemingly insurmountable odds, that took the fiercest of characters.

  He had never been fierce. The ton regarded him as distinctly milquetoast; he had always thought of himself as staid and steadfast. He had thought himself like the fortified walls of the castle, believing that his predictability and unchanging mind would keep him safe against all tides of uncertainty.

  He had been so very wrong.

  Because from the moment he admitted his love for Claire to her, his life had become anything but routine. Loving her—offering himself up to her, body and soul—was like being caught in a swirling tempest with no life preserver,
nor even any sort of boat to ride out the storm.

  Claire feared madness so much, but Teddy had begun to think as he held her hand and raced through the woods that madness was the most wonderful of truths. For surely, it was insanity that had led to him not only agreeing to this wild scheme of hers, but actually believing—really, truly believing, in the most secret parts of his soul where he’d kept his emotions caged for so long—that it could work. For so long he’d denied that she was even cursed; he had thought that if he could not physically bear witness to her sickness then it did not exist. Yet he had seen—with his own two eyes, that supposedly faultless judge—Evelyn DeLisle Banfield. He had held her hand as she mourned for her son’s passing, convinced Paul died that very year, instead of forty-five years prior.

  Claire would not suffer that same destiny. He dared to glance over at her as they pushed through the trees in the mossy grove. Her fair skin glistened in the moonlight, and as her blue eyes met his he saw the nervousness he’d been expecting. But beneath that was a glimmer of hope he had not seen since they were children, innocent and stupid to the ways of the world.

  And it was enough for him to pray with everything he had that the women waiting for them in this glen could defy the very rules of nature he’d spent his entire life obeying. Break the curse, free his love, and give them a chance at happiness.

  Claire nodded. Together, they stepped into the grove, toward the waiting women whose merry chatter washed over their strung-tight nerves like the scratch of soiled gunny against a washboard. Yet as one wizened, small old woman stepped out from the rest, he felt Claire relax beside him.

  “Maevis.” She dropped a curtsy, as though she were in the middle of a ballroom and not a thicket of trees.

  The old woman—Maevis—did not curtsy, but instead came to meet them, grasping Claire’s hand in her own. Kindness shone in her eyes—kindness when she regarded Claire, but when he turned her gaze upon him he felt the sharp edge to her stare like a knife. He had the distinct sense he was being measured up, even as Maevis motioned for them to approach the witch’s circle.

  He had expected a cauldron burning over a fire, not an ancient grouping of stone at various heights. Subtle in its effect, but well cared for; not a leaf nor did a twig mar the circle. The square, flat stone at the center was as black as Castle Keyvnor itself, but the rest were gray, coated in lichen and moss, made more striking by the contrast. The center stone was knee-high, set up as a makeshift table and covered with a red cloth.

  Teddy’s gaze flicked warily from Maevis to the cluster of fellow witches before finally landing, and staying, upon Claire’s face. She was home to him—always had been, always would be, no matter what came of this wild ritual.

  “You remember what I told you?” Maevis asked, her hand still in Claire’s.

  Claire nodded. He hated the way her lower lip trembled—hated that she’d feel any sort of fear or trepidation. He must remember the end goal. Every scientific breakthrough was uncharted at first, he reminded himself. Perhaps, then, magic was simply science he had not been exposed to, and therefore hadn’t understood.

  Maevis dropped Claire’s hand and stepped back.

  “This is no place for false affection,” Maevis said, her voice clear and brusque, echoing in the otherwise quiet glen. “Nor false belief. For this magic to work, you must truly want to be here, to fight for your beloved against all odds. If that is not your wish, Theodore Lockwood, then I bid you go now. Leave this place, and let this woman be.”

  He felt the leaden weight of the old woman’s gaze, yet he did not cower. For too long he had remained on the sidelines, watching as everything he truly wanted passed him by. He grabbed Claire’s palm, pressing it between his two outstretched hands to envelop her. “I will never, ever leave you, Claire,” he vowed. “You are the beginning and end for me, even if you do believe in unicorns.”

  The tension in Claire’s body evaporated, as she burst out laughing. “You stand here in the middle of this circle, and still doubt their existence?”

  He simply winked at her, as a proper rogue would.

  Maevis gave a swift nod, never questioning their exchange. He liked that about her—how quickly she seemed to perceive exactly what was she was up against.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let us begin.”

  The witches moved into place, forming the circle with even space between them, close enough that if they stretched out their arms they would touch.

  “Think of the curse upon you and yours as a living entity,” Maevis instructed. “And like any living being, it needs sustenance to survive. To kill the curse, you must deprive it of the one thing that gives it its nourishment, its power.”

  “How does she do that?” Teddy asked. “By no longer believing in it?”

  Maevis shook her head. “It is a two-fold process. An action, paired with the total disregard of the past. You must raise your hands, Claire, and you must crush this curse with all your might until it can no longer breathe nor exist in this realm. You must annihilate it. Can you do that, daughter?”

  Claire nodded.

  “Then so it will be.” Maevis pulled back the red cloth from the center stone, revealing a wooden platter with a ceramic chalice and a few strange items of which Teddy couldn’t immediately discern the purpose. Witchcraft, he surmised, was a lot like learning a foreign language—those same letters that made up the standard English alphabet were now combined in new, unfamiliar ways.

  Maevis held the objects up to the moonlit sky solemnly. The other witches watched her silently as she tilted her head up to the sky. “With Aine’s blessing, I invoke her power and call upon her to join us here. Goddess, I ask you let the veil fall—that all who mean well shall find this circle open.”

  Maevis made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Begone, demons! Be silenced, devils!”

  A chill went up Teddy’s spine, because in that moment, faced with the absolute certainty of the lead witch and her coven, he did believe they could banish evil spirits. They were the creatures of light and merit, far from the efreets he’d imagined.

  “Let this be a holy place, sheltered by the Mother’s Cloak,” Maevis intoned, and at her words each of the witches dropped their cloaks onto the ground. The circle’s edges now reminded him of a patchwork quilt, the jewel-toned cloaks marking the boundaries.

  “We are unbound.” Maevis plucked the pin from her hair, and her long gray locks fell uncontrolled around her shoulders. “Our spirits are freed, ready for the difficulties ahead.”

  As one, the rest of the witches pulled out the wooden toggles from their hair as well.

  And then, much to Teddy’s great surprise, a silvery mist began to descend upon the forest’s edge, lapping at the borders of the circles like a cat with a saucer of milk.

  “The fey spirits are here.” Maevis nodded swiftly before walking around the circle, kissing each woman’s cheek. When she got to Claire, she went back to the center of the circle, picking up the ceramic goblet. Teddy’s body stiffened. What did they intend to do with the goblet? Would they force Claire to drink some noxious concoction? Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all.

  Yet he did not show his concern. This was about Claire, and he must remain open-minded. For her. For their life together.

  “Lady Claire,” Maevis said, her voice so calm that it smoothed the edge of his concerns. “The ribbon that ties your hair, please remove it and hold it in your left hand.”

  Tentatively, Claire untied the blue ribbon, causing her simple chignon to fall and her golden hair to cascade across her shoulders. For a second, he was thrown back to how she’d looked in the folly, with her locks wild and free. His Claire, her worries gone in that moment, surrendered to pleasure.

  How he wished they could have many more afternoons like that one.

  “Keep a firm grasp upon the ribbon,” Maevis said, as from a pocket in her gown she pulled out several black feathers.

  Teddy’s brows furrowed as Maevis passed the feathers to
Claire, instructing to hold them in her right hand.

  “The ribbon represents the heart of the curse. Do not drop it,” Maevis instructed. “The feathers represent your pain and your fear, and you will release each one when I tell you to. Now I want you to think of your worst fears, those dark worries you keep hidden inside of you, that you dare not tell anyone.”

  Claire bit her lip, her gaze fixed on the feathers in her hand. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be fine—that she need not fear anything. But he remained where he was, a safe distance from her. He knew immediately what his own worst fear was—a life without her.

  “You will walk the circle in a direction opposite to that in which the hands of a clock rotate,” Maevis said. “Your motions, combined with our words and the strength of your emotions, will unwind Hestia’s curse.”

  Claire sucked in a loud breath, her chest rising and falling with the movement. She looked over at him and he nodded, offering her a reassuring smile.

  “The bravest thing one can do is act in spite of fear,” he reminded her softly, his words the caress he could not give her here.

  “Especially when filching biscuits,” Claire said with a small smile.

  He knew she was trying to calm herself, to continue with this ritual despite her fears. She was the bravest woman he’d ever known. Pride welled up with him as he watched her turn her gaze onto Maevis, waiting for the next instruction.

  “You will walk behind her, but you may not touch her,” Maevis said. “She must do this on her own. Even if she stumbles from the power of the magic, you must leave her be.”

  The idea of allowing Claire to fall made him grit his teeth, but he did not argue. If she needed this victory to be hers and hers alone to conquer the curse, then he would stand by silently.

  Because above all else, he believed in Claire. Her fortitude. Her kindness. Her love.

  Chapter 10