“Cool?” I scoff. “Cool?” I want to inform her that I am wholly unconcerned with being cool, that if my time were my own I most certainlywouldbe in a decaying library somewhere,withoutcandles, and if there was any other demon both qualified and available,thatdemon would be the poor bastard currently subjected to her inane, insulting ramblings while I would’ve been left to my work, and what in the realms of all that is evil have I done to deserve such punishment?
But, despite the raging mental diatribe, the only words that find their way out of my mouth are, “I never said I didn’t like you.”
A soft sigh. A graceful lift of the shoulder. A quick dashing of a single tear I’m certain she didn’t mean for me to see.
Damn it. Again.
“Perhaps we should begin anew,” I say. “I’m Dr. Merrick Sutherland, your liaison andprofessor, if that term helps you feel more comfortable. And you, Miss Elizabeth Bonnivarde, are third and last in the line of Bonnivarde witches, a line that stretches back centuries, beginning with Calista Bonnivarde, first anointed Guardian of the Grave. As your birthmother bound your powers and buried your legacy, you require educational assistance in order to comprehend, reconnect with, and channel your magic to the task at hand. Our arrangement is no more or less complicated than that.”
The witch looks up at me, her eyes newly alert. “She bound our powers? Seriously, that’s a thing?”
“Have you ever utilized magic or experienced it in any intentional way before this evening?”
She shakes her head.
“You likely couldn’t even sense it, except perhaps in dreams or other altered states of consciousness. But now that your mother has passed on, the binding is broken. Your ability to perceive and wield your magic has already awoken, and will surely continue to strengthen until you’ve reached your full potential. I’d like to guide you through that process, if you’ll allow it.”
Not that she actually has a choice, but in light of the tears, I figured a new tack was in order. Polite. Soothing.
But the fiery witch is anything but soothed.
“If you’re so smart, professor, tell me something. Why does everyone else know so much about my history when all I’ve got is a big blank space? I don’t remember this house, or my parents, or pretty much anything that ever happened in this town before tonight. Flashes, maybe, but nothing clear. My sisters and I never talk about it. We all agreed years ago. Well,Rachelagreed, and Kate went along with it, and I never bothered fighting back, because that’s our special little dynamic. The last time I tried to bring up our past, I was voted off the island. Even now, with our mother’s death staring us in the face, theystillwon’t let me in.”
“I’m sure it’s… complicated. For all of you. Relations are rarely straightforward or painless at the best of times. Add magic into the mix, and a shared history of estrangement… it's bound to be a difficult road to navigate.”
“Difficult road?” Her tone is derisive. “Do you have a family, professor?”
Family. The word knifes through me, as it always does.
Silence descends, nothing but the soft sounds of her breaths and a dripping pipe in the distance, and she watches me with those luminescent eyes, hopeful, as if I might offer her words ofcomfort or some explanation for the state of things—hers, mine, the whole bloody world—and for a moment I wish I could be someone else for her. Someone who could wrap his arms around a woman in need of comfort without my skin crawling, without feeling as though I might shrink and suffocate and turn to bitter dust. Someone who could whisper all the usual promises—everything will work out, you’re stronger than you realize, love triumphs over evil.
But a psychologist, I’m not. A human, I’m no longer. And compassionate, I never had the chance to become. Not as a tormented boy locked in the attic. Not as the man who finally escaped. And certainly not as the servant of Hell the man was—all too prematurely—forced to become.
“Believe it or not,” I say instead, falling back on knowledge, my only real companion, “I’ve got just the book for you.” I scan the spines until I find what I need. “Here we are.The Witches Bonnivarde: A Consolidated History, compiled by T.S. Manning, 1997.”
Her eyes widen as I hand over the tome—a scrapbook of sorts, containing birth and death records, newspaper articles and interviews, sketches and photographs, scholarly annotations. The book’s content spans centuries.
“Normally I require cotton gloves at the very least, a mask to be even more careful, but since this is a relatively recent publication printed with copies rather than originals, all to do with your personal history, I’ll make the exception.”
“How magnanimous of you.” The smile returns, bolstering us both, and she opens the book carefully, revealing the first of several portraits—copies of the original sketches on file in the archives.
“Oh shit!” she gasps. “I know her! It’s the ghost!”
I step round behind her to peer down at the sketch, catching the scent of her hair. Rose and vanilla, as sweet as the summer gardens of Oxford.
“You’ve seen this woman?” I ask, shoving away the memories. “In spirit form?”
“She showed up with my mother tonight. Mom vanished after a few seconds—totally on brand—but this woman stuck around. She led me down here, actually.”
“Is she still with us?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Interesting.” A theory begins to formulate, but it’s too soon to share.
“Calista Bonnivarde,” she reads from the caption. “You mentioned her earlier. Who was she, exactly?” She turns her face toward mine for an answer. I didn’t realize how close I’d gotten until our cheeks accidentally brush, and some long-forgotten organ thumps hard in my chest.
“Sorry. I… I didn’t realize…” I jerk backward, flustered, and she turns her attention to the next sketch, fingers trailing delicately down the page. Her fingernails, I’ve just noticed, are painted the color of a robin’s egg. “She’s your ancestor,” I say softly. “The very first in your magical line.”
