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I give him a cautious look, so that he knows I’ve told her some things, not everything.
“Actually, I’m not a witch,” he admits, and for the first time I really hear the resentment in his voice and realize how much that must bother him. “I’m only there because my parents were able to pull a few strings.”
“Oh,” she says, staring up at him curiously. “So you go to class to learn magic and you just…”
“Sit there and look like a fool,” he says. “It’s fine, I’m used to it.”
Oh, Brom. He says that with a faint smile, trying to play it off, but I can tell he means what he says.
As he predicted, when we arrive at my house, my mother is displeased that Mary is there. She doesn’t show it of course—that would be rude and my mother has always tried to uphold her gracious, if not reserved, reputation with the town—but I can tell she’s upset. She wanted Brom and I alone at supper for who knows what, and I’ve completely foiled her plan.
So we all gather around the fire in the sitting room that I grew up in, which now feels like foreign territory. I take it upon myself to help Famke and serve tea and cookies. My mother tries to get up and tell me that she’ll handle that, but I refute her, and Brom, knowing what I need to do, ropes her into another conversation.
“Katrina,” Famke says in a low voice as I return to the kitchen after I’ve served them tea. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”
“You knew I would come back,” I tell her, setting down the empty tray and leaning against the counter. “You couldn’t expect for me to take the necklace and the note and never see you again.”
“Yes,” she says sharply, wiping her forehead with her flour-covered arm. “I did expect that. That’s why I gave you the necklace.” She looks over at the door, worry creasing her brow.
“Brom and Mary are in there occupying her,” I assure her. “He knows what to do.”
“And you trust him?” Famke says.
I frown. “Brom? Of course I do.” I grab her arm, firm, but gentle. “Famke. You said you want to protect me. You can protect me by telling me everything you know. Please. I feel…I feel I’m running out of time up there, and I don’t have any answers for any of the questions I have.”
She breathes in sharply through her nose, her eyes darting to the door again.
“Please, tell me why you gave me the necklace.”
She looks up to the ceiling for a moment, as if having a word with God, then sighs.
“The necklace belongs to my family,” she says with a rueful smile. “My grandparents in Holland were religious and also pagan. An odd pairing, yes, but it worked. That necklace was always a melding of both sides, meant to protect oneself from those who wish them harm. The onyx stone is for extra protection.”
I pat the necklace in my pocket.
Her gaze follows. “Your father knew that one day he would be gone and only you would remain. He trusted me to look after you. When Brom left Sleepy Hollow…” she looks away, shaking her head. “You don’t know how happy I was. I knew your father would have been joyous to know you had been freed from him.”
I wince. “Did he really hate Brom that much?”
“He hated what he represented,” she whispers harshly, her eyes blazing. “The lack of your free will. As long as Brom was in the picture, it meant that your future was determined for you. And he knew that your mother’s plan for your future never had your best interests in mind.”
I nod, rubbing my lips together, trying to gather all my questions in the short time I have.
“Brom’s parents aren’t his real parents, are they?”
“No.”
“Who are?”
She shrugs and goes back to rolling the dough. “I don’t know.”
“What are you trying to protect me against?” I ask her pointedly. “What was my father so scared of? What are you so scared of?”
She gives me a dark, cagey look. “Your mother,” she whispers. “That she’ll do to you what she did to your father.”
I reach out and grab her arm, harder than I meant to. “What did she do to my father? Last time you just told me she took from him. What does she take? How does she take it?”
“She takes you,” she hisses at me. “She takes what you’re made of and uses it for herself until there’s nothing left of you. She siphons, Katrina. She siphons your soul.”
I try to swallow but can’t. I can barely breathe.
“I met your father when he was twenty years old,” she goes on, “hiring me even before he got married. Then your mother came along. She looked the same age that she does now. Oh, she was frail, she was always sick, she was too skinny, except for those few days around the full moon when she seemed to glow with health before she plummeted again. Your mother hasn’t aged a single day since the day you were born.”
