The Age of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  “I don’t know if he’s going to die,” Harriet said, “because I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  “It’s the maleficia.”

  “I assumed that. What happened?”

  “I was in bed, and he came in looking like—like I don’t know what. He tried to—that is, he acted as if he were drunk, but he wasn’t, and then he—he attacked me.” Annis sniffled back fresh tears, and her face reddened. “He ripped my nightdress, and he tried—he was going to—” Her voice broke.

  “Yes, I understand his intent,” Harriet said briskly. “He didn’t succeed, I gather?”

  “No,” Annis said, her voice steadier now. “I got away from him, and then—I used the cantrip, the one you taught me, and I was holding the moonstone, and this happened!” She gestured to the senseless form of the Marquess of Rosefield. “Now I’m afraid I killed him!”

  “He’s not dead yet,” Harriet said, trying to speak with confidence. In truth, the young man looked ghastly. Even in the dim light, his color was gray, his breathing shallow. His body felt cold under her hand, as if the spirit had already gone from it. “Come now, don’t spend your energy blaming yourself. We have work ahead of us.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Did you find something of Frances’s, something we can use?”

  “I did. I hope it works.” She turned to her dressing table for her handkerchief and opened it to show Harriet. “It’s the brush she uses for the pearl powder she puts on her face. It still has powder on it.”

  Harriet leaned forward to look at it. It was a pretty thing, as much ornament as tool. The brush handle was sterling silver, and the bristles were dark. Mink perhaps, or goat hair, something soft, and nicely saturated with the white powder. “Perfect,” she murmured.

  “But we can’t leave James here,” Annis said. “Everyone will think he—that he tried to violate me!”

  “He did, didn’t he?” Harriet said, without thinking.

  “But it’s the maleficia! He would never do such a thing! Poor James. It’s not fair to him.”

  Harriet straightened. “Of course you’re right, Annis. This isn’t fair to either of you.” She turned back to the senseless young man on the bed. His lips were parted, his eyes not quite closed. She didn’t want to alarm Annis more than necessary, but the sense of urgency returned to her in a rush. “Do you know which is his bedroom?”

  “I do. It’s just past the great chamber. That big room with the double doors.”

  “Good. Not too far, then.”

  “Do you think we can move him?”

  “I think we must. We’re strong, you and I, and he’s a thin man. We have to hurry, though, before the servants are up and about.”

  Annis went to open the door before positioning herself at James’s head. “You take his knees,” she said, in a voice as steady as if she were suggesting they move a table. “I’ll lift his head and shoulders.”

  It was a practical suggestion, made by a practical girl, and Harriet was glad of it. She was also glad of Annis’s youth and strength in this moment of crisis. She did her best to carry her share of James’s weight, but her knees and shoulders felt every one of her fifty years as they struggled through the first door, then maneuvered down the hallway, past the great chamber and the head of the staircase, and on to a door that had been left open.

  “This is it,” Annis whispered. She backed into the bedroom, and with relief they deposited James onto his bed, tugging at his arms and legs until he was securely in the center.

  Not that he seemed likely to roll over and fall. James didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid, which worried Harriet. There truly was no time to lose. The longer this death-like state lasted, the more danger he was in.

  She saw Annis’s anguished glance at the unconscious man as they closed his door. They hurried back to Annis’s room, where Harriet collected her basket and Annis the handkerchief-wrapped powder brush. Annis pulled a coat over her nightdress and thrust her bare feet into her walking boots. They closed her door, and the two of them hastened to the servants’ staircase. Dawn was not far off. They paused at the top of the stair, listening for any movement, but there was only silence.

  Harriet descended cautiously, fatigue making her feel unsteady. Annis flew ahead, her steps light and sure, and waited at the bottom with her hand on the outer door. They didn’t speak. The breeze from the sea cooled their heated faces as they crossed the lawn, damp now with dew. The moon had set and the eastern sky was brightening as they ducked past the thick branches of the rhododendron and stepped up into the folly.

  As she took what she needed out of her basket, Harriet said, “I wish we didn’t have to do this. I hoped Frances would relent.”

  “I know, Aunt Harriet. But James—”

  “Of course. We have to help him. This is the only way I know to do it.”

  She laid out a candle she had taken from the inn, along with the packet of mandrake root and mistletoe and barrenwort, all things she had brought with her from New York and had hoped she would not need. She had pared her fingernails the night before and added the slender bits to the packet. She lifted the amulet on its chain from around her neck and set it beside the candle, along with three sulfur matches.

  Finally she brought out the simulacrum that would represent Frances. Her own cousin. Frances, who had made all of this happen through her selfishness and ambition.

  “Do you have the brush?” she asked in a low voice.

  Annis unfolded her handkerchief and held it out on her open hands. Harriet struck one of the matches and set it to the candle wick, then laid the manikin within the circle of candlelight. Taking the silver-handled brush from Annis, she dusted the ugly little thing’s head. The grains of pearl powder glistened with iridescence. Harriet tapped the end of the brush until she had extracted every bit of the powder. She hoped it held enough of Frances’s essence to be effective.

  She handed the brush back to Annis before she brought a saucer out of her basket and filled it with the ground herbs. Last she took out a long sewing needle. It flashed silver as she lifted it in her right hand and plunged it into her left thumb. It was the part of the ritual she hated the most, not because it hurt—it did—but because it was the wrong way to spend the power of her witch’s blood. Because it broke the vow she had made after Alexander’s death. Because it dragged her down to Christian Oliver’s level. It was the dishonorable part of the Bishop legacy, and she loathed employing it.

  Needs must, she reminded herself. This was not the time for doubt.

  She held her left hand over the saucer and let the drops of her blood, black as coal in the weak light, drip over the herbs. She watched, swirling the saucer, until the mixture begin to steam, tiny tendrils of moisture that flickered and evaporated in the predawn air. “Now hand me the brush again.”

  She dipped the brush into the sticky stuff in the saucer and painted the manikin with it. She daubed the poorly shaped head and then the chest. She spread what was left on the hands and feet. When she was done, she took a step back, gazing down at the ungainly little creation.

  “It’s hideous,” she muttered.

  “Does that matter?”

  “It does not. It’s just not the way I want my practice to be.”

  31

  Annis

  Annis agreed with Harriet that the manikin was ugly, a distortion of a human being. It looked nothing like Frances, and yet it seemed to reflect what her inner self had become, twisted and stretched and corrupted, a woman she didn’t recognize. Was that because of the maleficia?

  As the light beyond the folly rose, the sounds of the sea grew more intense, and the breeze died away. Harriet, striking in her dark skirt and heavy jacket, stood with her head bent, gazing at the manikin in her hand. Candlelight picked out threads of silver in her hair, and shadows hollowed her cheeks and darkened her eyes.

  She looked magnificent, every inch a witch, an embodiment of wisdom and courage and authority. Her voice echoed from the s
tone floor to the domed top of the folly, each word clear and commanding.

  By my witch’s blood I say

  You will yield to me this day.

  Release the victim of your spell.

  This I swear I will compel.

  Her cantrip’s results were so quick and so dramatic that Annis cried out. The ametrine awoke, glittering and glowing, and the manikin jerked to life. Its head pulled back, and its misshapen hands flailed so violently Annis feared it would rip itself from Harriet’s hand.

  She shivered, not with cold but with awe. She whispered, “What’s happening?”

  Harriet said in a low, tight voice, “Frances knows. This is Frances fighting me.”

  “Will she release him?”

  In Harriet’s grip the manikin writhed, a grotesque imitation of a struggling human being. Harriet said, “I fear not.” She held the manikin with both hands now, and Annis saw her knuckles whiten as she fought it. “She has lost control of herself. There was always darkness in her, but using the maleficia has made it worse.”

  “What can we do?” Annis breathed.

  “It’s going to take both of us.” She wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the manikin’s throat, and the left around its rudimentary legs. “We need your blood, Annis. The blood of two witches—and a lock of your hair, a tiny one, to add to the slurry. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. Do you have more of the herbs you need?”

  “There’s another packet in my basket. The needle is there, too. You’ll have to do it by yourself. I can’t let go of this damned thing. If it breaks free, she does, too.”

  “Oh!”

  “I’m sorry about this. It makes you part of the maleficia.”

  “But I already am. If it were not for me, James would not have suffered so.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. We must hurry—mustn’t give Frances a chance to work her own rite.”

  Annis stepped around Harriet, who swayed with the effort of controlling the manikin. She delved into the basket for the packet of herbs and the silver sewing needle. The saucer had cooled but was stained with the remnants of Harriet’s slurry. Annis crumbled the herbs into it. She gritted her teeth and pricked her thumb as deeply as she dared with the needle.

  Her blood flowed more swiftly than Harriet’s. Perhaps she had gone deeper with the needle, or perhaps it was her youth, but the blood, ruby red in the growing light, flowed in a steady trickle into the saucer. She watched, fascinated by the way it shone, by the way the herbs soaked it up, as if they thirsted for a witch’s blood.

  “Hair,” Harriet said, between gritted teeth. Her hands jerked and shook with the antics of the manikin. “There are scissors.”

  “Yes! Just a moment.” Annis’s thumb continued to bleed, staining her coat as she dug out a pair of tiny ivory-handled scissors. She pulled a strand of hair from its braid, more blood dripping over her wrist. She snipped the end and clipped the lock into the smallest pieces she could, letting them fall into the saucer.

  “Now heat it,” Harriet said.

  Annis did just as Harriet had done. She held the saucer over the candle flame, tipping it this way and that, until it began to bubble and thicken. “Now?” she said, glancing up at Harriet.

  Harriet’s eyes had narrowed, and she held the manikin with a brutal grip. “Yes,” she answered, in a grating voice. “The brush. I’ll hold the thing, you paint the slurry onto its head and feet. I can’t let go.”

  Annis dipped the brush into the gluey mixture and spread it across the head of the manikin. It made her skin crawl to see it cover the face of the thing, even though it wasn’t much of a face. The dark mixture blinded the pebble eyes, smothered the wood-chip mouth. She smeared the last of the slurry onto its feet.

  “There’s no more, Aunt Harriet,” she whispered.

  “Very well.” Harriet held up the manikin and drew breath.

  Annis said, “Wait! Wait just a moment.” Hurriedly she unclasped her pearl choker, with the moonstone in its center, and set it beside Harriet’s amulet. “There.”

  “Excellent,” Harriet said. She drew a long, noisy breath and expelled it. “Come stand beside me.” Annis did, and Harriet held up the manikin again. This time she chanted in a louder voice, one Annis feared might carry up the lawn to any open window:

  We command you in this hour

  Bow before our greater power.

  Witches two to witch just one

  Order your spell to be undone.

  Annis gasped at the sensations that gripped her. These were different from the ones Frances had caused. Her body began to ache, belly and bones and skin. Her eyes burned, and her blood seemed to run hotter. It was painful, but it was also exhilarating, a rush of power and energy that excited her mind and made her wish it would never end.

  She had to force herself to focus on joining her intention to Harriet’s. Their rite must succeed. It had to succeed, for James’s sake. She watched the ametrine and her own moonstone and chanted with Harriet when she repeated the cantrip. Her soul thrilled to the currents of magic flowing through the folly and out, all the way up the lawn to Frances.

  We command you in this hour

  Bow before our greater power.

  Witches two to witch just one

  Order your spell to be undone.

  She thought perhaps, when the ametrine began to glow and the moonstone to shimmer, that they were finished.

  “Not yet,” Harriet said. And when they had repeated it, she said, “Again. Until the manikin is still.”

  32

  Frances

  Frances woke feeling as if someone had placed a pillow over her face. She struggled to sit up in bed, and she clawed at an obstacle that wasn’t there. Gasping, sucking in desperate breaths, she threw off her coverlet and put her bare feet on the floor. She tried to stand, but her feet had gone numb. They wouldn’t hold her. She crumpled to the rug beside the bed, dragging the coverlet with her.

  She had left her window open for the fresh sea air, and she saw that it was nearly dawn. She tried to crawl to the window but collapsed before she reached it, her legs at an awkward angle. She struggled to push herself up on her hands, choking, unable to force a single good breath into her lungs. What was happening to her?

  On hands and knees she dragged herself to her dressing table. She pulled herself up onto the stool, where she slumped, nearly nerveless, her body refusing to obey her will. She peered into the mirror with half-blind eyes. What should she do? Was she ill? Should she ring for someone to wake Antoinette, and—

  She caught sight of the two manikins still propped against the mirror, next to the cushion bristling with hat pins. Suddenly she knew exactly what was wrong with her.

  It was Harriet. Harriet, who swore she would never use the maleficia, who pretended to be too pure, too high-minded, to ever create a manikin and work a spell with it. Harriet was attacking her, and Annis was helping. Frances didn’t need to go down the corridor to Annis’s room to check. She sensed the two working together, aligned against her.

  Of course she knew what they wanted, but she wouldn’t give it to them. Why should she?

  Her temper began to rise, that suppressed fountain of rage that never truly died down. It simmered in her blood and burned in her brain.

  Why shouldn’t she, Frances Allington, have what she wanted for once? They had everything their way. Harriet had been born to comfort. Annis was indulged and spoiled and had never wanted for anything.

  The unfairness of it fanned the flames of her anger. It grew hotter, deeper, stronger than ever before, and before its ancient fire her self-control fell into cinders. She would have her way no matter what it cost.

  This was no longer about a marriage, or a title, or the Four Hundred. This was about taking her rightful place in the line of Bishop witches. This was about showing high-and-mighty Harriet what she, Frances, was capable of.

  It was time for a final victory, and she could allow no one to stand in her way, not Harrie
t, not that spoiled brat of a girl, not even Beryl from beyond the grave.

  She fumbled for matches to light her candle. She had left her case at the foot of the dressing table, and she opened it with fingers gone clumsy, as if the nerves and muscles no longer functioned.

  She hadn’t anticipated Harriet’s attack. She needed a remedy, the same one Annis had taken, but she didn’t have the right ingredients. At this moment she couldn’t quite remember what they were. Mistletoe, she thought, which was also in the maleficia mixture. She had a bit of that left, and she could take it as a nervine, to ease blockages. There was a bit of mandrake root still in the bottom of the case, which could be a stimulant. Either herb could also kill her, but at this moment of sublime fury, she didn’t care.

  She had no starwort or wormwood. She couldn’t remember what else was in the remedy against the maleficia.

  There had to be another way.

  Suppose Annis had more than one of the remedies? It might be in her bedroom, even now. If Frances could manage to get there.

  She had to do it. The light was rising, and the staff would soon be abroad in the corridors. Swiftly she broke off a fragment of dried mistletoe and swallowed it. Her breathing still felt sluggish, as if her lungs were full of mud, but sensation began to return to her feet and ankles. Awkwardly she stumbled out of her bedroom and limped down the corridor to Annis’s.

  She could see easily now as dawn broke over Seabeck. As she had suspected, Annis was not in her room. Frances cast about for where to look for the remedy she hoped was there. It had to be, or all this was for nothing. She began the search, starting with Annis’s jewel case—the pearl choker wasn’t in it—then moving on to the drawers in the dressing table. Finding nothing, she straightened and cast an urgent glance around the room.

  The bedclothes were pulled back, even tumbled onto the floor, which was strange. There was no time to think why that should be. A shallow drawer in the bedside table was open, just a little. Her breaths coming hard now, Frances staggered across to the table to pull open the drawer. It was empty, except for a single white handkerchief, folded into quarters. Frustrated, she started to push the drawer closed, but while her hand still rested on the knob, a faint smell rose from inside it. It was the scent of pine and the flowery smell of honey. She stopped and stared at the folded handkerchief.