by Cate Tiernan
Her brows came down in a thoughtful V, and she pulled a corner of one lip into her mouth: she was thinking. “It’s just that the laws seem arbitrary,” she argued, crossing her legs under her. Today she wore faded jeans and a fuzzy pink sweater that showed the neck of a white T-shirt underneath. She looked very fresh and pretty. “I mean, look at the rules about uninitiated witches making certain kinds of magick. Why does someone need some stranger’s stamp of approval just to do what comes naturally? I hate that.” “Butwhatcomes naturally, Justine?” I asked. I was enjoying this back-and-forth discussion. I hardly ever got to have this kind of interesting, stimulating conversation. Among the witches I knew, we all just accepted the council’s laws. And other people, like Morgan, don’t really know enough about Wiccan history or the witch community to be able to fully form an opinion. “What kind of magick did you make as a child? That was natural, wasn’t it? But was it always good?” I thought about my own spell on poor Mrs. Wilkie. “I don’t believe either people or witches are always born naturally good,” I went on. “I think that as people get older and more educated, they learn to channel their goodness, to identify it, and to express it. But I think witches, and people, too, are born with a capacity for light or dark. It’s up to their parents, their community, their teachers to educate them to see the consistent benefit of good and the consistent detriment of
darkness. The council and its laws only serve to reinforce that, to provide guidelines, to help
people learn where the boundaries are.”
“But is that all they do?” asked Justine, and we were off again. For the next hour we went back and forth, discussing the various merits of laws versus no laws, outer-determined behavior versus inner-determined behavior. It was really fun, though at times I was uncomfortably reminded of the scientists who had figured out how to make an atom bomb. They had seemed to divorce the idea of how to create it from the idea of what its natural consequences would be. They hadn’t wanted to see it. In a way, I felt that Justine was doing the same thing: closing her eyes to the potentially destructive effects of her actions. But we talked on. Justine was sure of herself, sure of her own intelligence and attractiveness, and didn’t let insecurity get in the way of her speaking her mind. For a moment I wondered if I should be concerned that I was enjoying her company so much, but then thought, Nah. I knew I loved Morgan more than anything. I was doing my job, being a Seeker, finding out what made Justine tick. It was all for the report. I had talked to Morgan the night before, but it had been kind of stilted. Hearing her voice had brought back my unhappiness about my parents, about how much I missed Morgan herself, about how much I didn’t want to be here. Widow’s Vale seemed so far away from here, both physically and emotionally.
“I was wondering—are you interested in seeing my library?” Justine asked. “Yes,” I said immediately, aware that this was a show of trust on her part. For my part, a Seeker never turns down an invitation into someone’s private world. It’s often where I find the answers to my questions.
She led me through a tidy, well-stocked kitchen to a small door in a hallway. She passed her hands over the door frame: dispelling protection spells. Once opened, the door led to steps going downward. I immediately became alert and quickly cast my senses to see if anything unpleasant was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s underground,” Justine explained, turning on the electric lights. She didn’t seem to pick up on my momentary suspicion, or maybe she was just being polite. “That helps keep it safe from fire. I think the people who owned this house before me used the cellar as storage, as a wine cellar. I enlarged it and waterproofed it.” At the bottom of the stairs she flicked another light switch, and I blinked, looking around. Justine’s library was enormous. We were in one good-sized room, but doorways led to at least two other rooms I could see. The floor was made of rough wooden planks, and the walls were a crude stucco. But most bare surfaces had been painted with stylized designs of runes, hexes, words, and even some sigils I didn’t know the names of. I picked up on a general air of light, of comfort and pleasure and curiosity. If dark magick had been worked here, I couldn’t feel it. “This is incredible,” I said, walking slowly into the room. Despite the lack of windows, the room looked open and inviting. A fireplace took up one wall, and by gauging the rooms above, I figured its chimney must run through the kitchen fireplace’s. Big, cozy armchairs were strewn here and there. There were closed glass cases, regular bookshelves, wooden tables piled with stacked books. Unlike Selene’s personal library, this one wasn’t cold or intimidating. It was all laid out neatly and beautifully organized. “This is quite an accomplishment for someone so young,” I said, wandering into the next room. I saw that it led to another room, and that there was a lavatory off to one side. “I’m twenty-four,” Justine said without artifice. “I inherited a lot of this from my mother when she moved into a smaller house. Most of what I’ve contributed myself are the books on the use
of the stars’ positions to aid or hinder magick. It’s another interest of mine.”
I ran my fingers lightly over books’ spines, skimming titles. There were one or two books on the dark uses of magick, but that was to be expected of almost any witch’s library. The vast majority of the books were legitimate and nonthreatening. Or as nonthreatening as a manual of how to make magick can be. Just about anything can be misused. “My father would have loved seeing this,” I murmured, remembering the Da of my childhood, surrounded by books in his library at home. Candles burned down around him and still he read, late into the night. He’d often impressed on us kids how precious books were, learning was. “Is he no longer living?” Justine asked sympathetically. I bit back a snide retort about the definition of living and answered instead, “No, he’s alive. He’s at the B and B in Foxton.”
“Why don’t you bring him next time, then?” Justine said. “I’d be happy for him to see my library. Is he a Seeker, too?”
“No,” I said, unable to suppress a quick dry laugh. “No, but he’s in bad shape. My mum died at Yule, and he’s taken it hard.” I was surprised to hear myself confiding in her. I tend to be very closemouthed and don’t often share my personal life with anyone, besides Sky and Morgan. “Oh, how awful,” Justine said. “Maybe the library will be a good distraction for him.” “Yes, maybe you’re right,” I said, meeting her brown eyes. “This place is nice,” I said, looking around the small restaurant. It was Monday night, and Justine had recommended the Turtledove as a likely place for Da and me to have a decent meal. Across from me, the etched lines of his face thrown into relief by the flickering firelight, Da nodded without enthusiasm. Since I had gotten back to the B and B this afternoon, he had been alternately withdrawn, confrontational, and wheedling. I figured a nice meal out would help stave off my overwhelming desire to shake him. Not that I felt that way every second. Every once in a while, I would get a glimpse of the old da, the one I knew and recognized. It was there when he almost smiled at a joke I made, when his eyes lit with momentary interest or intelligence. It was those moments, few and far between, that had kept me going, kept me reaching out to him. Somewhere inside this bitter husk was a man I’d known as my father. I needed to reach him somehow. “More bread?” I asked, holding out the basket. Da shook his head. He’d barely picked at his beef stew. I was going to give him another five minutes and then finish it off for him. “Son,” he said, startling me, “I appreciate what you’re doing. I do. I even think you’re right, most of the time. But you just can’t understand what I’m going through. I’ve been trying and trying, but I need to talk to Fiona. I need to see her. Even if thebith dearcsaps my strength or my life force. I just can’t see any kind of existence where I wouldn’t need your mother.” His hand shook as he reached for his wineglass, and he downed the rest of his drink. This was the most direct he’d been with me since we’d left the cabin, and it took me a moment to find my footing.
“You’re right—I don’t understand what it’s like to lose yourmùirn beatha dàn, not
after you’ve been married and had children, made a life together,” I said. “But I know that even with that tragedy, it doesn’t make sense for you to kill yourself by continuing to contact the shadow world. Mum wouldn’t have wanted it that way.”
Da was silent, his clothes hanging on his thin frame. “Da, do you believe that Mum loved you?” His head jerked up, and he met my eyes.
“Of course. I know she did.”
“I know she did, too,” I agreed. “She loved you more than anything on this earth. But do you
think that she would be doing this ifyouhad died? Or would she be doing something different?” Da looked taken aback by my question and sat in silence for a moment. Changing the subject, giving him time to think, I repeated Justine Courceau’s offer of letting Da see her library. “It’s quite amazing,” I said. “I think you’d be very interested in it. Come with me tomorrow and see it.”
“Maybe I will,” Da muttered, tapping his fork against the tablecloth. It wasn’t a total victory, but maybe it was a step forward. I sighed and decided to let it go for the present.
On Tuesday, I called Kennet and gave him a preliminary report. I had more background checks to do on Justine and more interviewing, but so far I hadn’t turned up anything of great alarm. “No, Hunter, you misunderstand,” Kennet said patiently. “Everything she’s doing is of great alarm. Under no circumstances should any witch have written lists of living things’ true names. Surely you see that?”
“Yes,” I said, starting to feel testy. “I understand that. I agree. It’s just that you made Justine sound like a power-hungry rebel, and I don’t see that in her. I feel it’s more a matter of education. Justine’s quite intelligent and not unreasonable. I feel that she needs reeducation; she needs to be made to understand why what she’s doing is wrong. Once she understands, I think she’ll see the wisdom in destroying her lists.” “Hunter, she needs to be shut down,” Kennet said strongly. “Her reeducation can come later. Your job is to stop her, now, by any means necessary.” I tried to keep my voice level. “I thought my job was to investigate, make a report, and then have the council make a judgment. Have you already decided this matter?” “No, no, of course not,” Kennet said, backpedaling at the implication of my words. “I just don’t want you to be swayed by this witch, that’s all.” “Have you known me to be easily swayed in the past, by man or woman?” I asked with deceptive mildness. Deceptive to most people, but not to Kennet. He knew me very well and could probably tell I was working hard to keep anger out of my voice. “No, Hunter,” he said, sounding calmer. “No. I’m sure we can trust your judgment in this matter. Just keep reporting back, all right?”
“Of course,” I said. “That’s my job.” After I hung up, I sat on my twin bed for a long time, just thinking.
That afternoon I brought Daniel to Justine’s cottage. As before, she was welcoming, and though I detected her shock at my father’s haggard appearance, she made no mention of it. “Come in, come in,” she said. “It’s gotten a little warmer, hasn’t it? I think maybe spring is on its way.”
Inside, Da instinctively headed for the fireplace and stood before the cheerful flames, holding out his hands. Back at the cabin, it had been as though the fire hadn’t existed, so I was interested to see his reaction to this one.
“Are you warm enough, Mr. Niall?” Justine asked. “I know it can be chilly in these stone cottages.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Da, turning his back to the fire but keeping his hands behind him, toward the heat.
Justine and I talked for a while, and she told us stories about growing up with Avalen Courceau, who sounded like an intimidating figure. But Justine spoke of her with love and acceptance, and again I was impressed by her maturity and kindness. She got even Da to smile at the story of
when she had built a house of cards out of some important indexed notes her mother had made.
Apparently sparks had flown for days. Literally. “Mr. Niall,” said Justine, “I wonder if you could do me a favor?” She gave him a charming smile, sincere and without guile. “I don’t get many opportunities to try new magick— no one around here knows I’m a witch, and I want to keep it that way. I was wondering if you would consent to be a guinea pig for a spell I’ve just learned.” Da looked concerned but couldn’t think of any reason not to and didn’t want to refuse in the face of her hospitality. “What for?”
She smiled again. “It’s a healing spell.” Da shrugged. “As you wish.”
“It’s all right with me,” I said, and she turned to give me a teasing look. “It’s not your decision,” she pointed out. Feeling like an overbearing clod, I sat down on the sofa, relaxing against the plump pillows, waiting for some cat to realize I was there. She had Da sit down in a comfortable chair, then cast a circle around it, using twelve large amethysts. She invoked the Goddess and the God and dedicated her circle to them. Then she stood behind my father and gently laid her fingertips against his temples on either side. As soon as she started on the forms and opening chants, I realized I wasn’t familiar with it. It went on for more than an hour. At different times Justine touched my father’s neck, the back of his head, his forehead, the base of his throat, his temples. Da seemed patient, tired, disinterested. I myself felt almost hypnotized by the warm crackling of the fire, the deeply felt purring of the apricot-colored cat who had finally settled on me, the soothing tones of Justine’s low-voiced singing and chanting.
At last I recognized the closing notes, the forms of completion, and I sat up straighter. Slowly Justine took her hands away from Da and stood back, seeming drained and peaceful. I looked at Da. He met my eyes. Was it my imagination, or was there more life in them? He turned to find Justine. “I feel better,” he said, sounding reluctant to admit it. “Thanks.” She smiled. “I hope it helped. I found it in a book I was cataloging last month, and I’ve been anxious to try it. Thank you for allowing me.” She took a deep breath. “Now, how about some tea? I’m hungry.”
Ten minutes later, watching Da tuck into his cake with the faint signs of an actual appetite, I smiled my gratitude to Justine. She smiled back. To me, this healing was one more indication that Justine was just misguided, overenthusiastic in her quest for knowledge, but basically good-hearted. There was no way someone like Selene could have performed that healing rite, not without my picking up on her dark underlying motives. I’d felt none of that with Justine. She seemed genuinely what she was.
“My son told me how impressed he was with your library,” Da said. “Would you like to see it?” Justine asked naturally, and my father nodded. I felt something like gladness inside—this was the first time he had called me his son, in front of another person, since we’d been reunited. It felt good. Trust
On Saturday morning I finished writing my Justine Courceau report for the council. I’d spent
quite a bit of time with her, discussed all the different facets of true names, had further interviews with the people in Foxton, and gone through her library. The summary of my report was that she needed reeducation but wasn’t dangerous and that no serious action need be taken, once I witnessed her destroying her written list of true names. I signed it, addressed an envelope, put the report inside, and sealed it. Da was sitting in the room’s one chair. I told him what the report said, and to my surprise, he looked like he was actually listening. He rubbed his hand across his chin, and I recognized the gesture as one I make myself when I’m thinking.
“Reeducation, eh?” he said. “You think so? I mean, you think that will be enough?” “That and destroying her list,” I said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He shrugged. “I think there’s more to Justine than meets the eye.”
I gave him my full attention. “Please explain.” He shrugged again. “You don’t really know her. You might not want to accept her at face value.” “Do you have anything concrete or specific that should change what I said in my report?” “No,” he admitted. “Nothing more than I feel suspicious. I feel she’s hiding somethi
ng.” “Hmmm,” I said. On the one hand, the report was written, and I didn’t want to redo it, though of course I would if I turned up new information. On the other hand, Da, despite his manyenormousfaults, was still nobody’s fool, and it would be stupid of me not to pay attention to what he said. On the third hand, Da had just spent eleven years on the run and was probably pretty likely to be suspicious of everyone. “Right, well, thanks for telling me that,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind this afternoon.” “Yup,” Da said. “Anyway, she’s got a nice library.” “Hunter! Welcome back. Come in,” Justine said. “Hello. I’ve wrapped up my report, and I wanted to give you the gist of it before my father and I take off.” I got out of my coat and draped it over the back of the sofa, then sat down across from her.
“Oh, great. Whereisyour father?”
“Back at the B and B. He gets tired very easily, though he definitely seems better since you did the healing rite.”
“I’m glad. Okay, now tell me about your frightening report on the evil and dangerous Justine Courceau.”
She was openly laughing at me, and I grinned back. Not many people feel safe teasing me—Morgan and Sky are the only ones who came to mind. And now Justine. Briefly I filled her in on what I had reported to Kennet, expecting her to be relieved and pleased. But to my surprise, her face began to look more and more concerned, then upset, then angry. “Reeducated!” she finally burst out, her eyes glittering. “Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? Have our talks meant nothing?”