Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fright Fest

The road becomes gravel, crunching beneath the truck tires as we make our way to the Bennet farm. Workers are still out in the corn fields as we drive past, taking advantage of the last hours of autumn light. Slowly, the farm proper comes into view. The farmhouse itself is not too large, a wooden exterior painted dark green, and a wide wrap-around porch with rocking chairs facing every cardinal direction. The meadow that surrounds the farmhouse has been transformed, as it is every year, for the festival.

Hundreds of people stroll around, some in costume, and all others in classic New England flannel and tweed. Large sugar maple trees, their leaves a burst of bright red, are wrapped up in lantern lights. Dozens of stalls sit in a large semicircle outside the barn, some selling candy apples, others popping kettle corn. Five food trucks from local vendors are parked along the grass, their owners frantically taking orders and throwing specialty tacos and bahn mi sandwiches onto piping hot grills. In the center of the meadow a large stage has been constructed. A local guitar player I’ve seen perform at Zumi’s is strumming and cooing to the audience sitting on the dozens of bales of hay strategically placed nearby.

Matthew pulls the borrowed truck into a dusty parking area, squeezing between two sedans with out-of-state plates.

“You ready?” he asks as he shuts the engine off. I stare out at the festival, watching all the children begging their parents to go into the hay maze.

“I think so,” I answer honestly.

My mind races between a dozen conflicting thoughts. Winifred was my mother’s best friend. But I haven’t spoken to her since mom passed. Would she hate me for prying into this? She’s the most powerful witch in the coven. She could curse my magic away, if it pleased her to do so. Hell, I am going to trust her to remove some of my magic this very week. What if I anger her today and she purposefully ruins my Containment? But I need answers. Why did my mother have that tome in the Manor? What secrets did it hold? Why did it look like it was made by Winifred, herself? That question alone was enough for me to open the truck door.

“Well, well, well. Look what the black cat dragged in,” a warm and drawling voice greets Matthew and me as we reach the ticket booth. A man leaning against the booth, dressed in raggedy denim overalls, tips his patchy hat toward me.

“Hi, Jack.” I smile. Jack Handler is the Bennet farm foreman and Winifred’s longtime companion. “How’s the festival this year?”

“Busy as always. But that’s how we like it. Are you here for the festivities or to pick up your pumpkins?” Jack can be all business sometimes, but he talks to me directly and doesn’t question me about Matthew.

“Both,” I answer.

“The usual thirty-one?” Jack confirms, waving over a teenage boy in a festival T-shirt and dusty blue jeans. “Billy will take care of you and help you load up everything. Let me know if there’s anything else you need!”

The boy named Billy runs over, breathless, and waves as Jack introduces him. Even he does a double take at Matthew.

“Thanks, Jack!” I grin before remembering why we have actually come to the farm. I reach out to stop him as he begins walking away to greet other festival-goers. He turns back toward me in surprise. In a low voice I ask, “Is Winifred around? I have some things I need to discuss with her.”

Jack throws his head back and laughs. “You need to get in line, Kate, like everyone else.”

I’m slightly disappointed. I hadn’t expected the royal treatment, but it stings all the same, considering all I’ve helped Jack with over the years. The reason he still has hair is because of my Follicle Stimulating Salve. But he’s right. Winifred Bennet is always in high demand this time of year.

“Any advice on how to get in said line?” I ask.

“Buying pumpkins certainly helps,” Jack chortles. “But once you’re done with that, talk to Grace over at the cider booth. She’ll let you know about Winifred’s availability.” He gives a little nod to Billy, tips his hat toward me a final time, and walks off toward the maze.

“Right this way, folks,” Billy says, gesturing for me and Matthew to follow him to the pumpkin patch.

“How powerful is this Bennet witch exactly?” Matthew bends and whispers in my ear as we walk. I get goose bumps on my arm as his breath hits my neck but I keep my eyes forward.

“Winifred is the most sought-after citizen in Ipswich,” I explain. “Not everyone in town knows that witches live among them but everyone knows if you need something, Winifred can get it done. The fall festival is the only time of year she’ll even consider taking visitors. Her schedule fills up quickly over the course of these five days.”

“Even for other witches?” he asks, incredulous.

“ Especially for other witches,” I say.

We walk together through the gate of the pumpkin patch. Several small children are running up and down the rows between the gourds, begging their parents for every new variety they come across. A husband takes pictures of his wife and baby, posing together among the vines.

“How would you rate your pumpkin-picking ability?” I ask, turning to Matthew.

“I’m better at carving them,” he admits.

“Lucky,” I say, “I’ve never been good at that.” I look toward Billy, who has recruited two more helpers, and smile. “I need thirty gourds in total, of all different sizes. And, this is very important, they need to be as round as possible, all a similar shape. No big bruises or flat parts.” Miranda always had a discerning eye for pumpkins. If I pick a bad batch, it will give her endless fodder for complaints.

The three boys grimace. This close to Halloween, the best pumpkins have already been claimed. But they run off toward the back fields which aren’t as picked over.

“So what do we do?” Matthew asks, watching the boys run.

“While they are doing the hard labor, we can find a warty devil.”

I snort at the confused look he gives me. “It’s what my mom always called the pumpkins I wanted to take home. I never cared about the perfect pristine ones like she did. I’ve always liked pumpkins that look almost moldy in their discoloration. The ones covered in bumps and knobs. Plus, no one ever wants those, so they are easy to find late in the season. Like that.” I point out one near Matthew. It’s sickly green, with a long neck and bulbous bottom, and absolutely covered in warts. He appraises it and then looks at me skeptically.

“And why exactly are these warty devils so near and dear to your heart? Do you have a soft spot for misshapen, mangled, and rejected things?” The tone of his voice is hard to place. He’s both teasing me and genuinely asking.

“No, not really,” I answer honestly. “It’s just that it takes a lot of skill to make a perfect jack-o’-lantern look scary. You have to be a pretty talented carver. Warty devils are so ugly that half your work is already done for you before you even start.”

Matthew throws his head back and laughs loudly. Several of the people inside the patch look toward us with bemusement. Ignoring the onlookers, Matthew bends down and plucks the ugly green pumpkin from the vine.

“Your devil, madame.” He presents it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, laughing as he bows with a little flourish.

He looks at me with mock seriousness. “We should probably get out of here before I cause the rest of the vines to wither and decay. I don’t think your meta-magic witch will appreciate me killing off her crops.” He glances around at the pumpkins at our feet, as if half expecting them to immediately fall away into rot.

I look off into the distance. Billy is bossing around several other farmhands who are frantically pushing a wheelbarrow around the outer patch of pumpkins.

“All right,” I say to Matthew, clutching the warty devil to my chest. “I could use some kettle corn anyway.”

The line for the popcorn booth is next to the pumpkin patch. We each grab a bag of the cheese and caramel mix and lean against the fence at the festival entrance. Matthew surveys the grounds. The corner of his eyes crinkle as he scans the horizon intently. He seems worried.

“Looking for something?” I ask, popping a piece of caramel corn into my mouth.

He shakes his head. “I’m simply taking in the sights.”

Right.

That worm of distrust wiggles its way back into my mind.

“They don’t have fall festivals in Washington?” I quiz, barely preventing myself from rolling my eyes.

He laughs. “I live in Oregon, actually. And yes, they do. I used to take my little sister every year.”

“Used to?” I ask nervously, imagining a rather tragic backstory for him.

He flashes me a good-humored smirk. “She’s twenty-five now. And married. She’s got a kid on the way, so I assume in a couple of years I’ll be chaperoning my niece or nephew around the festival grounds, buying them candied apples and trying to keep them from throwing up on the rusty old carnival rides.”

“That sounds very …” I lose my train of thought for a moment.

Matthew raises an eyebrow at me.

“… normal.” I finish. He laughs.

“What exactly were you expecting?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I can never be certain with the Pacific Gate; you’re so shrouded in secrecy. I half thought the festivals you’d attend would include ritualistic animal sacrifices and dark dealings among sorcerers.”

“And so what if they do?” he responds. “Similar things must happen this time of year in your coven.”

“I think not,” I huff.

“I’ll remind you: we came here tonight specifically to seek out a deal with another witch over an object shrouded in dark magic.”

I open my mouth to speak, to claim it’s not the same, but the proclamation rings false even in my mind. His words sting in their truth, but at least there is no animosity in his eyes.

“How about your family? Did you come to the Fall Festival often?” he asks, generously changing the topic, noticing my sudden distress.

“Yes,” I say. “It was tradition. Mom would load us all up in the car, and we’d roll the windows down and blast the stereo. It always took exactly three rounds of ‘Monster Mash’ to get to the farm.” I smile at the memory of our discordant voices trying to drown one another out.

“Once we got here, Mom would pick out the pumpkins, and Miranda would convince Celeste and me to do the haunted hay-bale labyrinth with her.”

Matthew looks incredulous. “How would that go?”

“Poorly,” I say, laughing. “Celeste would get scared almost immediately, and Miranda always ended up accusing me of cheating my way to the middle of the labyrinth.”

Matthew scoffs. “Did you climb up the walls or something?”

“Not exactly. I’d use my powers.” I hold up my right hand in explanation. To be fair to Miranda, she wasn’t entirely out of line in her complaints. “Part of hedge craft is grounding oneself in the environment. It’s how I can travel through the Ipswich Forest and never get lost. If there’s something living connected to the land, I can touch it and gain a sense of direction.”

Matthew grins. “And you used your grounding to sense the middle of the maze?” he guesses correctly.

I nod. “It always surprised me when it worked. The hay used for the labyrinth is harvested weeks beforehand. I never once felt a spark of life among the bales. And yet I still could always ground myself. I could always get a very weak signal, pointing me in the right direction. So, there must have been some final ember of life among the dried grass.”

Matthew looks out toward the labyrinth. The hay bales are stacked nine feet high and take up the entire western back field of the farm. The sun is starting to set over the tallest portions of the maze.

“What if there wasn’t a final ember?” He turns toward me. The edges of his jacket are dusty from leaning against the fencing.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“What if you weren’t using life magic in those moments? What if you were tapping into a different power?” His voice is low and quiet as he speaks, keeping our conversation private. But his eyes are alight with something akin to excitement. He continues. “What if you were instinctually adapting your training, which allowed you to ground even among dead plants? You might have been doing shadow magic.”

My mouth drops open at the claim.

“That’s not funny,” I say, actually rolling my eyes this time.

Matthew wraps a hand around my arm gently, leaning into me.

“I’m not making a joke,” he insists seriously. “You’re the hedge witch. It’s what you’re meant to do.”

“You said as much when we decorated the manor. And I’m telling you now, you’re wrong.” Every time he has made similar comments, unease twists in my chest. He has to be wrong.

Luckily for me, the conversation ends, as Billy and his two helpers approach us with a wheelbarrow filled with pumpkins. All three of them are sweaty and pant from the exertion. I pull myself away from Matthew and survey their load.

I’m impressed by the job the three boys have done, considering the time of year. Several of the gourds have unfortunate depressions near their stems or on their sides, but for the most part, they are nice and round.

“Are you planning on biking these home, Ms. Goodwin?” Billy asks uncertainly.

“I don’t think the wheelbarrow would stay straight if I tried.” I wink at him. He blushes a deep red. “We brought that truck over there.”

Billy perks up as I point out Rebecca’s truck in the makeshift parking lot. “Oh well, we can load these up for you if you want to enjoy the rest of the festival,” he offers.

“That would be incredible. Thank you for all your help,” I say as I hand him and the other two boys a tip. They all grin widely at the extra cash and begin pushing the wheelbarrow toward the parking lot. I smile back, hiding the sense of queasiness in me, my mind still chewing on Matthew’s continued claims about my magic.

“And now the meta-magic witch?” he suggests from behind me. I shake my head.

“No. Now, Grace,” I say matter-of-factly. I can’t dwell on the shadow magic argument. There are other tasks at hand.

I lead Matthew toward the table at the edge of the hay labyrinth. Grace Harper, a middle-aged blonde woman with permanently sunburned skin and an all-denim wardrobe, collects payment from a young couple for their two pumpkins. On the table before her is a cash box, a dozen or so plastic cups, a large thermos, and a “Free Cider” sign. Several people stand around the table, chatting and drinking out of the red plastic cups.

Matthew walks up to the table, and he takes no notice of the admiring stares that follow him as he fills two of the cups with the steaming caramel-colored liquid from the thermos. He hands one cup to me before taking a sip of his own. My hands growing warm from the heat, I take a small drink, and my heart is filled with maple, spices, nostalgia, and home.

“This is phenomenal,” Matthew says after several long drinks.

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” I say to him under my breath. It is a well-known fact around town, but Grace doesn’t like people mentioning it.

“I’ve added my own twists to it,” Grace says loudly, shooing away a couple who has been lingering. She turns and gives me a soft glare. Not quite resentment but also not friendly.

“And it’s fantastic,” I assure her, taking another sip, knowing all too well that the only difference between her cider and my mother’s is that Grace made this batch in a cast-iron Dutch oven instead of my mother’s suggested copper-lined stockpot.

“Mm-hm.” Grace’s lips are pursed. “How many pumpkins is it this year, Goodwin?” she barks more than asks. Matthew stiffens beside me but Grace pays him no mind.

“Thirty-one,” I answer. “And I’m told you’re the woman to see if I want to meet with Win?” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my tone friendly.

Grace shakes her head. “Farmer Bennet barely has a moment to eat, let alone a moment for you.”

“I could come back tomorrow? It’s critical that I speak to her though.” I say.

“You and everyone else in town,” she scoffs. “Her book for the week is completely full. You could try next year.” She grins at me smugly. For a moment my whole body flashes over with angry heat. I quickly have to remind myself that Grace doesn’t know about the Atlantic Key. To her, I’m another lonely Ipswicher who wants to pay a premium price for superstitious advice.

“There’s always the carving contest, right, Grace?” a voice pipes up behind us. Matthew and I both turn to see Billy shuffling awkwardly on his feet.

“What contest?” Matthew asks the boy. There are daggers in Grace’s eyes.

Billy keeps his head down, avoiding looking at her. “The pumpkin carving contest that’s held every night. The winner gets either their choice from the baked goods booth or a free meeting with the farmer.” He points to the stage where the guitar player had been strumming earlier in the afternoon. Currently, seven tables are set up on the platform, each covered with newspaper, carving tools, and a lovely jack-o’-lantern pumpkin, waiting to be carved.

I turn to Grace with questioning eyes. She shrugs.

“He’s technically right.”

“Well then, that solves the issue. We’ll compete in the contest,” Matthew says to Billy. I turn quickly to him.

“No, let’s not,” I plead. “I’ll see her on my birthday this Saturday. I can ask her about it then.”

Matthew shakes his head forcefully. “No, you deserve answers now.” He pulls me away from Grace’s booth, his jaw set in tension.

“I would very much enjoy causing that woman a particularly nasty night,” he says through his teeth as we walk past several teen girls convincing one of their friends to go on the haunted hayride.

“Don’t waste your magic or emotions on Grace. She’s been a pill her whole life. It wasn’t personal,” I say.

He nods but keeps walking briskly away, one hand wrapped around my arm, pulling me along. I grip his arm tight, to keep from falling over as we approach the stage.

“Well, well, well,” Jack says as we get closer. “Going to try your luck, you two?”

“Only if there’s space for us,” I say as Matthew finally releases me. I send a quick prayer that all seven pumpkins have been claimed.

“You have perfect timing, there are two spots left,” Jack replies, his happy voice booming across the stage.

“Oh. Can’t we work together?” I ask, looking nervously toward Matthew. If I’m going to have any chance of doing well, I’ll need a partner.

Jack shakes his head. “No teams. Sorry!”

Well, damn. “Guess I’m waiting until Saturday,” I laugh. But Matthew shakes his head, a sly smile on his face.

“Don’t you worry. This means we have twice as much chance of winning as everyone else.”

“You won’t be thinking that once you see my sorry attempt to carve,” I mumble. He and Jack both laugh.

A crowd is gathering. Billy and a few other festival workers are corralling an audience for the contest. Several other hopeful contestants are climbing up onto the stage, staring at the choices for pumpkins. Matthew hops up onto the platform and holds a hand out for me. I reach out to him, and he grabs me firmly around the waist, lifting me up onto the stage with him. I’m impressed by his surprising strength.

“You okay?” he asks me quietly, studying my face, which I’m sure is showing every ounce of my discomfort. A large crowd staring at me, a competitive event, and pumpkin carving. It’s like all my weird stress dreams from high school have come back to haunt me.

But I don’t tell him any of this. I just nod and try to breathe.

He’s standing so close to me that my nose fills with a spicy aroma. Cinnamon and rain. I relax. For a brief moment he draws his hand up and down my shoulder in a reassuring pattern, and my skin underneath my sweater heats from his touch. All thoughts of contests, shadow magic, and mysterious tomes start to fade from my mind. Matthew’s eyes meet mine. My grip on him tightens. But just as quickly, he pulls himself away from me, and I am left missing the weight of his hand on my arm.

“You’re going to be great,” he says, leading me across the stage. We walk together toward the tables of pumpkins. Each of the seven jack-o’-lanterns is identical in color, size, and ribbing. No doubt an intentional choice. I half wonder if Winifred had Rebecca plant these for her.

The stage is almost full now. I’m bemused by the collection of people who are standing up here with us. Clearly this is no ordinary pumpkin-carving contest. Where there should normally be groups of friends and families laughing and enjoying the activity, instead there are members of the city council, a local news anchor, and even one of the candidates for mayor. The candidate smiles at me meekly as I stare at her. I wonder what she hopes to ask of Winifred.

The last two free tables are on opposite ends of the stage and my stomach sinks even further. I start my trek to the other end but Matthew holds up a hand and stops me. He turns to the mayoral candidate, who is next to one of the empty tables, and smiles.

“Would you mind terribly switching tables with us?” he asks her. His voice takes on a smooth, friendly quality, with an ever so slight hint of huskiness. He offers her no other reason or explanation. I almost laugh at his naivet é . But to my shock, she smiles at Matthew and abandons her table for the one on the far end of the stage.

He turns and gives me a smug wink when he sees the surprise on my face, inviting me to take the table next to him. I hardly hear Jack as he announces to the crowd that the contest has begun. Corny spooky music begins playing overhead, and the audience begins talking among themselves as the contestants pick up their tools.

I turn my back to the crowd, pretending to inspect my pumpkin, but my blood is rushing through my head as a distasteful thought crosses my mind.

“Did you just use compulsion on her?” I hiss at Matthew. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cast forbidden magic around me. But it would be the first time he’d done so against another person.

If he’s offended by the question, he doesn’t show it. But I hear his low chuckle as he spins his gourd around, checking for imperfections.

“Honestly, Kate, be serious,” he whispers back.

“I am,” I insist. “That woman has been on local access shows for months running nasty dirty ads against her opponents. She’s not exactly known for being amenable.”

Matthew rolls his eyes in exasperation. Out of the corner of his mouth, he defends himself. “I can’t compel living people. Has the possibility that I have a natural charm ever occurred to you?”

I think for a few seconds.

“No,” I answer simply, knowing full well it’s a lie. Matthew chuckles again but offers no further response.

I look over my pumpkin in earnest now. I’m relieved to see a long scar around its stem. The top has already been carved out, and to my delight when I pull the stem off, the guts and seeds have all been removed. It won’t change the outcome of my final result, but at least I won’t have to get elbows deep inside the orange stringy goo.

The sounds of the festival come back to me now. The sun is setting and there is a warm glow in the chilly air. Screams come from the labyrinth, and the scent of fudge, cider, and hay wafts over the evening breeze. Mathew and the five other contestants are hard at work, sawing away at the flesh of their fruits. The back of my neck is burning with embarrassment. I wonder if anyone in the audience is perplexed by the woman standing perfectly still at the end of the stage.

Trying not to think too hard, I pick up one of the several serrated tools placed by my pumpkin. I search for the flattest spot possible on the skin, hoping to make things a little easier on myself, but it’s perfectly round, pulled straight from a storybook.

I plunge the sharp tool into the flesh of the pumpkin and start to saw back and forth, trying to form the first eye of my jack-o’-lantern. What I meant to be a triangle ends up as a lopsided dismal parallelogram. I try not to panic and attempt to copy the same shape for the second eye.

I spend too much time trying to get the eyes to match. By the time I’m done, fifteen minutes of our allotted half hour has been used up, and I’m left with two very strange oblong holes right in the center of my pumpkin. Gritting my teeth, I continue to work. The only thing keeping me from fleeing the stage is the hope that Matthew has some ounce of artistic ability running in his veins. Otherwise, I don’t see the point of going through with the humiliation of it all.

Once or twice, I look at his work out of the corner of my eye. He has started to form a lovely forest scene all the way around his jack-o’-lantern. The trees are carved like friezes. He is working intently on something I can’t see, but I’m more optimistic. I smile, even as my hand slips and I accidentally carve a giant slash across my pumpkin’s lip. I’m not nearly this clumsy when sewing up a human injury. Then, again, people are much easier to deal with than pumpkins.

The burning on my neck grows hot. What I thought was simple embarrassment is something more. I abandon my carving and turn around, looking for a source of the sensation. My eyes guide me to the farmhouse. To a window on the second floor. It’s blacked out, but I am suddenly certain we are being observed. Is Winifred on the other side of that glass? Is the burning a warning or an acknowledgment? I try to remember the way it felt only moments before. Had it been painful, vindictive? Or a greeting? Whatever it was, I feel nothing now as I try to stare through the window into the house.

“Aaaaand TIME !” Jack’s voice calls out. He congratulates each of us and hypes up the audience as he passes us each a tea light to put inside our pumpkin.

“Shall we start on this end of the stage?” he asks the crowd, pointing to the grumpy mayoral candidate. The crowd cheers. The candidate gives a tight smile and turns her pumpkin to face the audience. She’s carved an American flag into the face. While internally groaning at the cliche, I admit I’m impressed by her work. The lines are a little sloppy but the fifty pinpricks of light where the stars should be is a nice effect.

“And what’s the name of this artwork?” Jack asks her. Her smile freezes and she looks at him uncertainly. All the contestants look around at one another. None of us knew we were meant to name our pumpkins.

“Sp-spooky Freedom,” the candidate says, forcing a grin.

The crowd claps politely, if a little unenthusiastically.

Jack goes down the line. There’s a typical smiling jack-o’-lantern with much cleaner lines than mine. A cat in a witch’s hat. A vampire. And a particularly interesting candy-corn pumpkin, skin sliced away in different thicknesses to create the candy’s white-yellow-orange gradient effect with the fire glow inside. That one is my favorite so far.

“And now for our newcomer. What’s your name, newcomer?” Jack asks, holding out his microphone.

“Matthew Cypher,” Matthew says with a tolerant grin and a glance toward me.

“All right, folks. Matthew has created a spooky forest for his entry,” Jack says to the crowd excitedly, examining the swirling, glowing orange treetops and branch work so delicate it resembles lace.

Matthew shakes his head. “The trees are just the back of it,” he says.

With long, elegant hands, he spins his pumpkin around on the table for the audience to see the other side. There are several gasps, and my own breath abandons me.

Right on the center of his pumpkin, nestled among tall and twisted pine trees, is a perfect mini replica of my cottage. Each little roof shingle and window crack is accounted for. The doorway and windows glow with firelight, and the brightest part of the pumpkin is the white-hot smoke rising from the brick chimney. A detail likely missed by everyone in the audience is the kitchen window. Carved behind it is an almost imperceptibly small pumpkin, the crystal heirloom Matthew fixed for me last night.

“Gorgeous. Just gorgeous,” Jack tuts. “And what’s the title?” he asks.

Matthew’s blue eyes meet mine as he considers.

“Home,” he finally says out to the crowd. There is a muttering of approval rippling through the packed area, and then a sudden rush of applause. Pinpricks hit the back of my eyes. I look away from Matthew, not wanting him to see how easily affected I am by the sentimentality.

“Truly impeccable,” Jack admires. “And finally, let’s see what Kate Goodwin has to offer.” He walks to the end of the stage and holds the microphone out to me. I clear my throat of emotion before I speak.

“Nothing that can top the previous entry, I’m afraid,” I say into the microphone, earning a couple of chuckles from the crowd. I spin my pumpkin around, and the laughs from the audience only increase.

“Oh. Wow.” Jack looks a bit horrified by my creation. The microphone hangs limply in his hand.

“The title of my work is Pablo ,” I say to the crowd, with a wry smile. “As I was clearly inspired by the unique art style of Picasso.” The laughter grows as they applaud politely. What would have brought me burning shame ten minutes ago causes nothing but amusement now. My head is still swimming from the loveliness of Matthew’s carving, and I have no room for embarrassment anymore.

Jack congratulates each of us again and asks the audience for a final round of applause for all the contestants before he grows dramatically quiet.

“It’s never easy to single out a winner at these contests,” he says solemnly. “I have no doubt you each tried your very best.” I don’t miss the uncertain look he gives my pumpkin as he says this.

“But there can only be one winner. Which means I must disappoint six of you tonight.” He shakes his head with faux regret one final time before pulling a golden certificate out of his overall pocket with a flourish.

“Tonight’s winner of the Bennet Farm Pumpkin Artistry Contest, is the submission HOME !” He walks quickly over to Matthew and presents the award as the crowd around the stage breaks into enthusiastic applause. Matthew beams at me as he graciously takes the golden certificate from Jack.

The crowd slowly dissipates. The other contestants grumble unhappily as they climb down the stage stairs, until Matthew and I stand on the stage alone. I walk over to him, admiring his pumpkin up close. I’m amazed further as the tiniest of details come into view. He’s managed to even carve the correct wood grain of my door into his image.

“Do you like it?” he asks, watching me as I run my fingers lightly over the glowing kitchen window. I nod emphatically.

“I wish I could keep it forever,” I say with a slight smile. But we both know that in less than a week this pumpkin will shrivel and cave in on itself, taking all the beauty with it. “How did you get every detail so correct?” I breathe, fawning over it.

Matthew is silent beside me until I pull my eyes away from the pumpkin. He shifts imperceptibly on his feet, almost uncertain in posture.

“Ever since I was last in Ipswich, I’ve revisited that cottage many times in my mind. And in my dreams,” he says after a pause. “I’ve often thought that I’ve seen it so frequently I could draw the exterior from memory. It’s nice to be proven right.”

My heart pounds quickly as he stares at me. I can’t stop thinking about how close we are standing to each other. I can’t stop glancing at the beautiful carving he made. I can’t stop breathing him in. Cinnamon and glorious rain.

But I know he’s hiding something from me. Even through all his smiles and kindness, unspoken secrets linger in his eyes. My face falls as confusion and suspicion enter my mind once more. I look down at my feet.

Matthew takes his hand and cups a finger underneath my chin, lifting my gaze back to his. My face burns from his touch.

“I’m on your side, Kate,” he whispers.

I frown. “My side against what?”

He takes my hand and gently places a gilded foil certificate in my palm. I look down at it.

Redeem for One Meeting With Winifred Bennet

Right. The meta-magic witch.

“Shall we get you some answers?” Matthew suggests quietly, studying my face.

I swallow, my mind reeling, my skin still warm from his touch, but a chilly breeze brushes across me, and I remember why we’re really here.

We leave the stage and walk toward the farmhouse. My eyes flit up to the black windows of the second story. For a moment, the setting orange sun glints off the glass, blinding me.

By the time my eyes adjust, the noise of the festival has dipped perceptively. Excited chatter and entertained screams still echo across the meadow and through the maze, but it’s as if every tenth person has fallen silent. And I see why: a figure has emerged from the farmhouse. Standing on her front porch, her wild and curly black hair spiraling all around her face like a spider web, is Winifred Bennet. She is nodding as Jack whispers in her ear. Her gray eyes meet mine. The last time I’d seen her, my mother had just been laid to rest. Not much about her has changed in the past four and a half months. Still, my stomach clenches with nerves as we approach.

“Now, hold up one minute,” Grace, who is sitting on the stoop, stops us before we make it to the steps of the front porch. “Only he can go in,” she says, pointing to Matthew. “That ticket was for one meeting. It’s not a two-for-one deal.”

“Enough,” Winifred snaps at Grace. “Don’t ever speak to a Goodwin woman that way again, Grace.” Her eyes seethe with annoyance, and she puts a hand up in quick condemnation before Grace can protest. Then she turns to Jack.

“As I was saying, Sweetness, if Hecate or either of her sisters call on me in the future, there’s no need to make them jump through the usual hoops. They get access, just as Sybil did.” Her eyes meet mine again, and she smiles warmly.

“Whatever you say, doll,” Jack rasps happily. Winifred pats his arm a few times and then shoos him away.

“Now, I believe I owe this young gentleman some of my time.” She smiles at Matthew. “Come on in, you two. Let’s get out of this cold air!” She beckons us to follow her through the screen door of the farmhouse.

Matthew and I look at each other, and for a moment each of our faces reflect the uncertainty of the other’s. But we’ve come this far. It would be foolish to back away now, especially knowing we’ve caught her on a good day. I take a breath and step forward, with Matthew quickly following behind me.

“Good, good. Come in, come in!” Winifred says, ushering us through her threshold. “Not you!” she snaps as Grace tries to follow us through as well. She closes the door quickly on Grace’s shocked face. Before I can gather my bearings, the sound of the front door lock clicks into place.

“Now, Hecate,” Winifred says, turning to me. The smile on her face vanishes. “Do you want to tell me exactly why you’ve brought a necromancer to my farm?”