Dahlia’s smile dropped.
‘Violet? What are you doing here?’
***
HOLLY
‘I'm here to see Dr Hawthorne?’ Holly said, her voice more confident than she expected.
The office was a far cry from the local medical centre where the plastic benches were bolted to the floor. This room, situated in the front rooms of a grand old house with an eight-foot hedge, was renovated in period style. A ribbon of floral wallpaper wrapped the walls and a chandelier hung from the intricate ceiling rose above. The two chocolate-brown Chesterfield armchairs even had cushions.
‘We're closed, dear.’ The woman with sensible grey hair behind the desk barely looked at her as she packed a plastic lunch box into her canvas bag.
‘Is she still here? I only wanted to ask her a couple of questions.? Five minutes tops?’
‘Dr Hawthorne is a very busy woman,’ the receptionist said as she slipped on her coat and changed into her white sneakers.
Holly widened her eyes and blinked. ‘It's for a school assignment.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I can make you an appointment for July but I have to close up now. Take a card and give me a ring tomorrow.’
‘It's okay, Deirdre.’ A willowy woman in an ankle-length skirt appeared at the door. ‘I have a few moments before the Stangersons arrive.’
‘Thank you.’ Holly stepped forward, her hand pressed against her chest. ‘I'm very interested in psychology.’
‘Psychiatry,’ Deirdre tutted.
‘You go, Deirdre,’ the doctor said. ‘You don't want to miss your qigong class.’
‘Oh yes, Mr So hates it when we’re late.’ Deirdre hurried out with three bags racked along her arm. ‘Bye.’
Dr Hawthorne ushered Holly through a doorway and into an office with three framed degrees on the wall and a porcelain bust on the desk. ‘I didn't catch your name.’
‘Holly. Holly Trevelyan,’ she said as she lowered herself into an armchair, which enveloped her like a soft hug. Her nervousness drained away.
‘How can I help you, Holly?’ Dr Hawthorne steepled her fingers on the desk. Holly wished she could rifle through all the secrets in the three-drawer filing cabinet in the corner but the sight of tissue boxes carefully positioned around the room made her jumpy. This was a place where people confessed their darkest secrets, a place where sanity and insanity lived side-by-side. What happened to all the unburdened problems? Did all the confessions soak into the walls?
Holly swallowed, the strange sour taste still lingered at the back of her throat.
‘Are you studying the mind at school?’ the doctor asked. ‘I'm thrilled the school curriculums are progressing.’
‘Not entirely.’ Holly cleared her throat. ‘I'm on the school paper. I have an idea for a story about teen mental health: tips to help identify issues in teenagers. ‘How to recognise if a friend needs your help.’ So I thought I should talk to a real psychiatrist.’ Holly was careful to pronounce the word correctly this time.
‘Excellent idea,’ Dr Hawthorne said as she swept up her ash-blonde hair and fastened it behind her head with a clip. ‘Teenage years are especially tough. This is often when the first signs of mental illness appear.’
‘Right.’ Holly grabbed her pen and notebook from her bag and scribbled. ‘So, with exam stress and the other usual pressures of being a teenager, how do you tell the difference between normal growing-up and a real problem?’
Dr Hawthorne sat silently, her face welcoming but blank. Holly swallowed again as the clock on the mantlepiece ticked loudly.
‘You know,’ Holly stuttered, filling the silence. ‘When should you be worried about a friend…’
‘Tell me more about your friend.’
‘Oh, no one in particular,’ Holly said with a forced laugh, her pulse racing. ‘Just in general.’
‘Of course.’ Dr Hawthorne leaned back in her creaking chair. ‘You should watch out for trouble sleeping, agitation, loss of appetite, sweaty hands or feet.’
Holly clenched her toes inside her boots. All those symptoms sounded familiar and relevant. To her, not Violet. She frowned. ‘If you've got all those signs, does it mean you're at risk of mental problems?’
Dr Hawthorne chuckled. ‘We'd have to medicate the water supply if these were the only indications of mental illness. This is the beginning, the base level of anxiety. When these feelings begin to escalate, then a person needs to seek professional help.’
‘For example?’
‘When a person starts to lose their grip on reality, when they experience strange things which are not real such as hallucinations, voices. Nightmares and seeing yourself from a distance are other classic warning signs.’
Holly chewed on her bottom lip. Insomnia, sweaty feet, nightmares.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Should she make an appointment for herself?
‘But how do you tell? From the outside?’ she said in a rush.
‘Look for signs of confusion and fear. If your friend isolates themselves, talks about being persecuted or starts mistrusting others.’
‘You mean they talk about people plotting against them?’
‘Or being overly suspicious.’ Dr Hawthorne nodded. Holly realised she'd stopped taking notes. She picked up her pen again.
‘Mental health is not black and white,’ the doctor continued. ‘Your friend may only need someone to talk to. Someone independent. Talking can be very healing.’
‘What if a person talks about revenge?’
‘Harming others or harming themselves is a definite red flag.’ Dr Hawthorne furrowed her brow. ‘Any comments should be taken very seriously, Holly.’
Holly’s pulse raced. Finally, someone was listening to her concerns, someone who could take the problem off her shoulders. But why did she feel so flustered?
‘It sounds like your friend needs to see a doctor.’
‘But what if they won’t come? Can you force them?’
‘How old is she?’
‘Sixteen.’
'Her parents can. Or a teacher could report it. Or the police.’
Holly hid a snort. Teachers and the police had been useless so far.
‘Or you could send her to me.’
Holly's mouth dropped open for a moment.
‘What's her name?’
What would happen if she mentioned Violet's name? Would they lock her into a straitjacket and carry her off to New Norfolk? Or would the finger be turned on her? Holly, the tattle-tale, the witch girl who couldn't be trusted. Or would she be ignored by the adults like every other time? There was no proof Violet was involved in Rowan's disappearance or the incident on the stairs, so why did Holly feel the need to meddle?
The betrayal weighed heavily on Holly’s shoulders. She wanted to run but the comfortable chair held her down.
‘Oh no. It's all hypothetical,’ she stuttered. ‘It's for an article. Remember?’
‘OK.’ Dr Hawthorne’s eyes never left Holly's face. A door further down the corridor slammed closed and Holly jumped.
Dr Hawthorne stood up. ‘I have another appointment now. If you need to talk more about your article, or anything else, please make an appointment with Deirdre. Which school are you from?’
Holly hesitated for a moment. Would Dr Hawthorne call the school as soon as she left the room? The last thing Holly needed was Mrs Petrakis calling her mum. ‘Beacon Hill.’
‘You probably know my daughter then.’ The doctor smiled. ‘She's around your age. Angelika Ostholz.’
Holly coughed. Angelika's mother? Now she felt she really had to say something. Her daughter could be in danger. But Holly pulled at the sleeves of her jumper. ‘Oh yeah. Angelika's in my theatre group.’
When the doctor stood up, Holly could see where Angelika inherited her long limbs and calm self-confidence from.
‘Yes, Macbeth. I'm looking forward to the show on Friday. I'll look out for you.’
‘I'm second witch,’ Holly said,
with a mumble. ‘Thank you for your time.’
She scrambled to her feet and Dr Hawthorne opened the door. Holly paused in the doorway, her belly churning. She could still say something. She gulped.
A middle-aged couple wearing matching brown cardigans and sour expressions marched towards the office.
Holly stepped aside and sighed as the doctor closed the door.
She left the clinic in the grand house and stepped into the dark street. Wisps of fog trickled down from the mountain. The antique cast iron streetlights cast golden pools on the footpath. Holly half-expected a horse and carriage to come clopping around the corner at any moment.
Holly trudged towards the bus stop, her chest tight. She should’ve named Violet and passed the problem over to the adults. Now it would be her fault if Violet did something awful. She'd missed her chance, now it was all up to her.
She was walking down the street, past the big old houses with their high remote-control gates when a chill slithered up her spine. She glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no one there were, only shadows and puddles. She picked up her pace, her heart thumping but she kept her eyes straight ahead. The shadows were everywhere, with their cold black fingers. They reached for her, gripping around her neck, tighter and tighter.
A frigid breeze blew down the street and the wet leaves slapped in the trees.
‘Holly,’ called a hidden voice hidden in the wind, soft but mocking. ‘Holly.’
She ducked her head and ran for the bus. She hummed a made-up tune to herself and crowded her head with thoughts of birthdays and ice cream.
If she didn't listen and she didn't look, it wasn't there.
Was it?
***
VIOLET
‘I came to see you—’ Violet stuttered.
‘I thought you'd invited her.’ Anthea shrugged. ‘She seemed curious.’
‘Dangerously curious,’ said Yaya, her arms tightly folded over her grey twin set. ‘You have much to learn before you can enter that world, little novice.’
‘What did she say?’ Dahlia frowned.
‘Your heart must be pure otherwise it can backfire. With serious consequences,’ Yaya said. ‘Dark powers lie waiting for silly girls like you to make mistakes. They'll grab any chance to materialise in this world, any whisper of an invitation.’
Yaya's intense stare made Violet gulp.
Anthea sucked a breath through her teeth. ‘Yaya’s right about one thing. You have to be truly wronged for this to work, otherwise it'll bounce back at you,’ she said. ‘Remember the goddess knows all. Don't even try to lie to her.’
‘She stole something from me,’ Violet said.
‘This is not some kid’s game.’ Dahlia tightened her eyes. ‘As Yaya said, there can be real repercussions.’
‘Stop scaring her. There is nothing wrong with a little revenge spell.’ Anthea turned to Violet. ‘It's very simple. You need three black candles. I'll write down the incantation for you. Or another good one uses black cloth, white paper and cobwebs. Or a poppet.’
‘Whoa,’ Dahlia said, with her hands in the air. ‘She is not a novice. She's my niece's friend. I didn't invite her here and she doesn't belong here. It's time for you to leave, Violet.’
‘But—’ Violet said, trying to memorise Anthea's words. Three black candles.
Dahlia stood with hands on hips. ‘I want you to leave, Violet. Right now. Or I'll call your mother.’
‘Why are you making such a big deal?’ Anthea said. ‘Last week we were talking about how we needed some new blood in Circle. Here's someone who's interested...’
‘No,’ Dahlia said sharply. ‘Violet. Leave.’
Violet grabbed another biscuit and clumped towards the door with her head down. She had been so close.
‘I'll let her out,’ Anthea said and hurried ahead of Violet, past the tall bookshelves and towards the front door. She sighed as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Sorry about that. They can be such fuddy-duddies. Promise me this isn't all about some boy. Believe me, they're not worth the bother.’
‘No,’ Violet said and it was mostly true. If the spell worked and she became Lady Macbeth, everything would be the way it should be.
‘Good. Love spells are so boring.’
With a furtive glance back towards the café, Anthea grabbed three black candles, a length of white ribbon and a paperback book from the shelf, and handed them to Violet.
Violet grinned and handed over twenty dollars.
‘Blessed be,’ Anthea said as she unlocked the door.
‘Thank you.’
‘Remember what we said.’
Violet clutched the supplies to her chest with a smile. Light rain pattered on the awning above. All the other shops were closed-up for the day, except for the milk bar takeaway with its eye-aching fluorescent lights.
Violet stuffed the bundle safely into her backpack. Finally, she had a plan. As she closed her bag, the zipper jammed. Violet reached in and pulled out an unfamiliar long black scarf from her bag. She narrowed her eyes.
‘Violet.’
A shadow stepped out of a shop doorway.
Violet jumped and hurriedly zipped her bag shut.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘We needed milk,’ Lila said.
Violet squinted. Lila had never been a good actor.
‘What have you got there?’ Lila asked.
‘Nothing. Chocolate.’
‘But didn't you come out of The Three Torches?’
Violet pursed her lips. She was itching to tell someone her plan. She could trust Lila. Couldn't she?
‘I went to see Dahlia.’
Lila frowned. ‘Without Holly?’
‘You saw how Angelika faked her fall down the stairs. She's turning everyone against me and nothing I do seems to work.’ Violet covered her face with her hand to hide the pooling tears. ‘I have to try. Everything and anything. I’m running out of time.’
‘I understand,’ Lila said softly with an odd tone to her voice.
Violet peeked through her fingers. Lila's eyes were glossy but strangely calm. ‘She helped you?’
‘There was a meeting on, a meeting of witches, but everyone was really normal. They looked like grandmothers or teachers. Another one was more cool and punk rock. Anyway, the punk rock one helped me out with a spell.’ She patted her backpack. ‘I'm going home to try it out now.’
Lila nodded and bit her fingers as usual. ‘What if it doesn't work?’
‘It has to. This is my part, my chance to impress Alan Wolf. I can't sit back and do nothing and let them ruin my entire life. You're the only one left who understands me.’
‘Of course, I do. But what if it goes wrong? You know what the bus driver said. There is darkness here.’
‘My head hurts.’ Violet grabbed at her forehead. ‘I’m so tired.’
‘You need a lie down.’
‘I need to be Lady Macbeth. You won't let me down, will you? You won't tell anyone?’
‘Always.’ Lila laid her hand on Violet's shoulder.
Wiping away their tears, the friends turned down Illawarra Street. Violet didn't even notice the cold.
Chapter 10
BRIDGET
A possum scuttled along a side fence as Bridget drove slowly along the empty street. All the cars were tucked away behind the roller doors of the brick and tile houses with their tidy lawns and native trees. The curtains were tightly closed on most houses, except for the odd sliver of light and flash of late-night television. It was past Bridget’s usual bedtime too but there was work to be done.
‘Stop!’ The leader cried from the back seat.
Bridget braked and turned off the engine. ‘Here?’
‘Can't you sense it?’ the leader said.
‘There is a strange smell in the air.’ Mathilde nodded.
Bridget rolled down the window and sniffed heartily but all she smelled was wood smoke and wet dirt. There was a gnawing in her bones, a subtly growing unease
but the feeling had been there since yesterday.
‘Which house exactly?’
The leader closed her eyes and inhaled. Her fingers pressed into her third eye centre and the bridge of her nose.
While Bridget waited for the leader's answer, she assessed each house, one by one. Which family was sharing their home with a demon? She'd studied these manifestations for years, poured over ancient books but the seal had been broken as they foretold and now the evil was here. But the arrival of a powerful demon still felt academic. Bridget winced. It was obvious she didn't share the others’ powers so she tried to find other ways to be useful.
The leader blinked opened her eyes and shook her head. ‘It’s gone again.’
Bridget sighed, half with disappointment, half with relief.
‘But this is a good thing. It must know we are here searching for it. It's fearful of us.’
Mathilde murmured in agreement. ‘Shall we paint another sigil?’
‘Let's go back another street and paint one there. We can create a perimeter. Then we can contain and defeat it.’
Bridget clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. The plan sounded sensible. If it worked. But she knew better than to voice any doubts. Any negativity was seen as a sign of the demon itself.
She started the car and drove them back to Illawarra Street.
***
VIOLET
In Grade Six, Violet won the role of the Fairy Godmother in the school production of Cinderella. She was still Jeanette back then. She’d practiced long and hard, every day reciting her lines every day as she sashayed around the house. She didn't mind missing out on the main part of Cinderella. The Fairy Godmother was so much more interesting. This was Jeanette’s first taste of the stage. The first time she felt the thrill of all the attention on her. People would have to sit quiet and actually listen to her, and not tell her to go play outside or that she wouldn't understand.
At the time, her mother and father grunted at each other across the dining table. But at least there was no yelling. Things would be different soon, she had thought. Christmas was coming. Everything was better at Christmas.
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