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I don’t know where to start. I bicker with my family, but I never really speak against them. How can I say what I need to say?
“You and the rest of the family kill people. Every year, for years on end. How can you live with that? How can I live with that?”
Mum comes over and puts an arm around me like I’m still a little child. “I didn’t realise you’d never worked it out. I’d have taken the time to explain in advance otherwise—and been clearer on the details once I did give you a run-through. It’s just how things have always been done around here. It’s unpleasant, certainly. None of us enjoy doing the deed. But it needs to happen, and everyone in Mannith understands that—we never have any trouble finding the volunteer sacrifices.”
I take a bite of the cake. It ought to turn to ash in my mouth, but it’s delicious. Of course it is. “You can’t consent to being murdered,” I say. “Definitely not legally. I’d argue not morally, either.”
“And yet, people do. Every time without fail. Because unlike you, they care about this town as much as us. Those four deaths keep so many more people than that safe for the rest of the year.”
“I care about Mannith, Mum. I know that’s hard to believe when I’ve spent so long away, but I had no choice. I love the way our magic keeps it protected. But do you really have to kill to make it that way? My token cut seemed to work just fine.”
And even just doing that had made my skin crawl once I’d come back down to earth.
Mum shakes her head. “It worked because you were powerful enough to make that be sufficient and because the rest of us went through with it. If we’d all wimped out, the Dome would have withered and died.”
I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and take a large swig of the tea. Hard to believe my mum’s trying to act like I’m the one in the wrong here.
“I missed you all so much in the years I was away,” I say, keeping my eyes closed. “I was terrified to come back, but it was worth it to see you all. I’ve loved those nights out with Liam and Chrissie. Getting to know Ray and the babies. Quiet moments with you and Dad.”
The less said about conferences with Bren, the better, but it’s still been amazing to reconnect with him.
“I love this family and I want to be a part of it,” I continue. “But how can I just sit around eating Sunday lunch or going out for drinks with you all, knowing what you do?”
Mum slumps into the chair next to me. When I dare to open my eyes, I can hardly bear to see how crumpled and defeated she looks.
“What are you saying?”
I drop my head into my hands. “I really don’t know. Nothing and everything. I’m not disappearing back to London or withdrawing from the case. But I can’t just spend time with you all and pretend I don’t care about the things you do.”
“I know this has been hard for you,” Mum says. “I’ll tell you what you ought to do. Drive over to the church. Meditate properly. Lay some flowers on your nan’s grave. Perhaps have a nice chat with her if she’s in the mood. It’ll make you feel less on edge. Less conflicted about everything. More connected to the town and our ancestors.”
“Actually, that’s a great idea. And then… well, I guess we’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to totally cut contact. But I might need to keep my distance, at least for a while.”
I finish my drink and the slice of cake in silence, then head out before anything more can be said.
* * *
Non-practitioners call it the Witches’ Church. It’s a long way out from the centre of town, out past Thornber Manor, almost to the furthest reaches of the Dome on that side. It dates back to the twelfth century, though it’s been destroyed and substantially rebuilt at least four times. A fire. A lightning strike. A puritan mob. A WWII bombing raid that aimed for the armament factories and went off course.
I park my car as close as I can manage, which is a good twenty-minute walk away. Halfway up a hill, the road just stops. From there, you have to climb to the top and walk down the other side. The hill is all exposed grassy fields, scorched by the sun. The day is genuinely hot—hotter than Mannith’s usual pleasant warmth—and I’m sweating by the time I reach the bottom.
As a kid, I used to complain about the walk. “The walk is half of the point,” my nan used to tell me. “It starts to clear the mind.”
I’m not sure whether she intended it as deep wisdom or a way to quiet a whining seven-year-old, but today, I understand what she meant. My thoughts move more slowly as I walk and some of my worries subside.
At the bottom of the hill, the landscape abruptly changes. Heavily leafed oak trees form a dark canopy above and a narrow pathway below. Ivy crawls up the trunks and nettles line the way ahead. It must be fifteen degrees cooler in this dense shade than out in the open.
This is by far my least favourite part of the route, and I tread carefully to avoid hitting my head on a branch or stinging my legs, but it’s worth it for the moment when I break out into the clearing by the lake and gaze on the church.
Nowadays, the physical building stands in ruins. The west wall is fully intact, barely altered since its medieval origins, but on the other three sides, there are only a few foundation stones to show its original shape. Nevertheless, I’ve always found it more beautiful than any perfectly preserved cathedral.
There are hundreds of gravestones, many of them accompanied by statues of the grave’s occupant. They’re all faded and overgrown with ivy, so that those from a few decades ago are indistinguishable from those that are centuries old. Nothing remains untouched for long in the hidden clearing by the lake.
As always, I start by walking the perimeter of the building. Then I take a few moments to look at some of the older gravestones and statues, paying my respects to their inhabitants. There are several families buried in the graveyard, but Sadlers ancient and modern dominate. I’ve looked at the inscriptions on my ancestors’ graves so many times over the years that I feel like I know some of them. There’s a sixteenth-century statue that even through the moss and the erosion looks identical to Chrissie, and an eighteenth-century one that could definitely pass as Liam in moonlight. Our family has lived in the same place for too long. We’re basically one with the town.
I stride to the shore of the lake and pick a bunch of the white lilies that grow there, breathing in their heady scent. Then I stroll back to the eastern corner on the lake side, to one of the newest statues (not that you can tell, considering the way it’s already faded). Many of the people buried here died relatively young. And many of those who survived longer are still depicted in their prime rather than their decline. But my nan’s statue shows her aged eighty and looks just like I remember her.
I kneel before the statue, reverently lay the lilies down, and sink into a core meditation. It’s ten times easier in Mannith than in London, but it’s a hundred times easier again in this spot.
