Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Meta-Magic Witch

I freeze at the question and the coolness in her gaze.

“There will be no further discussion until I am at ease,” Winifred says, giving me a pointed look. Matthew steps between us, blocking my view of her.

“My name is Matthew Cypher, ma’am. We met about ten years ago, during the Michigan Six convocation. Kate has honored me these past few days by acting as my host while I stay in Ipswich.” He reaches out a hand to Winifred, but she shakes her head, refusing his greeting.

“My memory hasn’t abandoned me, boy. I know who you are,” she scoffs. She looks him up and down in a stern appraisal.

“It’s so like a hexan to praise the honor of an Atlantic Key witch and yet exercise none himself. Forcing sanctuary. In this day and age? Barbaric.” Her eyes shift back to me. My thoughts jumble, unsure what to do or how to get her back to a better mood.

“Well met, Winifred, a curse upon us, I swear we mean no harm to you,” I say, hoping the oath will soothe her worry.

She gives me a resigned look.

“Fine,” she snaps and walks slowly past the two of us as she murmurs her general disapproval. Matthew shifts as she moves so that he is always between her and me. She uses a cane to support herself—that’s a new addition since the last time I saw her. It thuds firmly against her hardwood floor, somehow lending her more authority than she already has. She lowers herself into a quilted chair in the front sitting room, letting out a long groan as she does so, and shifts around on the fabric, finding the perfect position.

“Now, what do you want?” She looks up at Matthew expectantly.

He doesn’t miss a beat under her judging gaze. “I competed for this meeting with the intention of letting Kate take advantage of it,” he says.

“Really?” Winifred’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “You ask nothing of me?”

Matthew shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

Winifred frowns before shrugging. “That makes my life easier, I suppose. What can I do for you, Hecate? Sit down!” she insists, pointing at a small couch across from her chair.

I walk forward but Matthew steps with me, still blocking my path to her.

“It’s fine,” I say, resting a hand on his shoulder. His brow furrows, but he steps aside all the same. Winifred snorts, amused, I assume, that Matthew thinks he could stop her from getting to me if she wanted.

I walk over to the couch and look around at the house I used to know so well. The sound of the floorboard creaks, the odor of pungent incense, the subtle silent crackle of Winifred’s magic in all the walls. It’s all at once familiar and alien to me. A place I know intimately and yet haven’t seen in years. I sit down slowly on the loveseat and look at my mother’s closest friend.

“Win …” I pause. How do I explain myself? I look to Matthew, standing tall next to me. He gives me a reassuring smile. I take a deep breath.

“I was visited by Margaret Halliwell the night she died,” I say. Winifred squints in confusion.

“Impossible,” she says, shaking her head. “Margaret was bedridden, practically comatose. I was with her that last day. She did not leave her house.”

I swallow.

“I believe she came to me after her moment of death. As a wraith.”

Winifred’s eyes widen, and the air in the room suddenly crackles with her energy. The room grows dark as Matthew’s intention bears down and surrounds me, shielding me from whatever attack might come from the meta-magic witch. I grip the edge of the couch, ready to fling myself in front of him if Winifred loses control.

“Oh, calm down you two,” Winifred snaps. The crackling in the air stops as she regains control of herself. The lamps in the room glow brightly again as Matthew slowly retracts his magic. “I was surprised, that’s all.” She looks wistfully at the front door. “I shouldn’t have locked Grace out. I could use a glass of whisky right about now.”

I wrap my arms around my stomach to keep my torso from shaking with nerves. The rough warmth of Matthew’s hand rests down on my shoulder.

“A wraith you say?” Winifred gives me a pointed look, her lips pursed. I nod. “Did this vision speak at all?”

“She said the veil was weakening. She said someone called the King Below was testing me. And she told me to find my mother’s book to understand why she named me a hedge witch.”

“A very talkative wraith, it seems,” Winifred grumbles. “And you’re certain this wasn’t a dream? It’s not uncommon for members of the coven to sense the moment an elder passes. If you were asleep, you may have been particularly susceptible to that psychic release. What?” she snaps angrily, looking at Matthew. My eyes fly to him; he’s scowling at her.

“Lying does not become you,” he says through gritted teeth. I look back to Winifred. Her temple is pulsing as she gives him an irritated look.

“Do not pretend to understand me, boy.”

“Win,” I interject, needing to have her ire directed away from Matthew. “I thought it was a dream at first as well. But the past few days have convinced me it was real.”

“How so?” she asks.

“I found a book. At the Manor. I think it was my mother’s. The book Margaret told me to find.”

“And?” Winifred looks at me stony-faced. “What did this book say?”

“Well, that’s the thing. It’s sealed with a complex magic. All it says is ‘The King Below will never again know my secrets.’ The rest of the pages are blank.”

Winifred lets out a deep breath. “Well then, perhaps that’s for the best.” She sighs.

My stomach sinks at that response.

“I was hoping, for my favor, that you would drain away the Binding magic, so that I might see what’s inside those pages.” I ask the question, despite knowing her answer will not be the one I hope for.

“Why on earth would I do such a thing?” Winifred scoffs. I study her face, taking in her total lack of surprise over what I have told her. Annoyance, frustration, and even some worry etch the lines of her face. But no hint of surprise.

“You already know about this book, don’t you?” I guess, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

She purses her lips but nods, folding her hands onto her lap.

“Your mother came to me a few years after Miranda was born and asked me to make another book. I wondered if there was something wrong with the Recipe Book I’d made for her. She assured me there wasn’t but claimed she wanted to get started early on Miranda’s.” Winifred shakes her head at the memory.

“I thought it unusual at the time. I don’t start working on spell books until a witch is closer to her thirteenth year. But Sybil was my best friend, so I made one for her. It was beautiful too. Leather from one of my favorite steers. Wood binding from that oak tree outside. Took me months to carve magic into those pages but it was one of the most powerful I’ve ever created. Each sheet of paper brimming with intention. Miranda would have been lucky to have it.” She pauses, her eyes lost in previous decades and previous choices. Then they clear and flash to me.

“I didn’t know the book’s true purpose until after you were born. When your mother named you a hedge witch, Margaret and I confronted her. We wanted to know why she took your choice away.”

“Did she tell you?” I ask. My heart races, I’m nearly leaning off the couch as I wait for her to answer.

“No,” she answers bluntly, and my shoulders sag. “No, she didn’t. But in the course of our interrogation against her, Margaret found the book I’d made all those years ago. And to our surprise it wasn’t empty, waiting for Miranda to claim it. It was full of horrible, forbidden magic.”

Her eyes flit toward Matthew, daring him to be offended. He stands at my side, his jaw tightly clenched, but he makes no comment. She turns back to me.

“I was disgusted, of course,” she says. “She was on track to be an elder of the Atlantic Key, and there she was with an artifact of the forbidden crafts. I didn’t know what to think.”

“What kind of magic was in the book?” I ask, horrified by her story.

“I will not speak on it,” Winifred says tersely.

“Well, what did she say when you confronted her?” I push, exasperated.

Winifred lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“She tried to make us understand. Told us she’d never been happy only being a kitchen witch. She said the Containment had ruined her life. Prevented her from reaching her full potential. That she had to search out sources of power beyond the natural gifts of our ancestors. Margaret and I didn’t want to hear any more after that. We left.”

“I don’t believe this,” I whisper quietly. All the blood rushes from my head, and the room tilts as I try to breathe past her words. Winifred looks at me with aching sympathy.

“Some witches are never happy with what they have. Luckily for you, Sweet Pea, that’s never been a flaw of yours.” I can tell she is trying to compliment me, but the words burn against my chest. Content Hecate. Quiet Hecate. Stagnant Hecate—making endless to-do lists in her cottage at the edge of the woods.

“You said she sought out other sources of power?” I force myself to say, to get back on track of the conversation. “Was the King Below that source?”

Winifred’s eyes widen, but she tilts her head.

“I’m unfamiliar with that name. If she ever mentioned it, I have forgotten. But between you and me, Sybil wrote down lots of nonsense. I wouldn’t put it past her to have made up such a figure.”

She’s lying to me. I can see it in the way she grips her cane. Feel it in the perturbed shift in her magic. Matthew’s annoyed huff beside me all but confirms my suspicion.

“But Margaret said the name. And Ginny—”

“Do not!” Winifred says, her voice suddenly in a screech. “Do not get my granddaughter involved in this. I forbid it!”

The magical command from the elder twists around me, turning around my mind in a confused flutter. A direct bidding. But there is no way for me to follow the order since Ginny is already involved. If Winifred senses her command failed, she gives no indication.

“The book—” I say, once again trying to redirect the conversation.

“Enough, Hecate,” Winifred snaps. “I am shocked at your behavior. You should have reported the wraith sighting. Such an omen is disastrous this close to the New Year. And you should have destroyed the book the moment you realized it was forbidden. Where is it anyhow? Have you brought it with you?” She scans my body, giving the leather satchel at my side a suspicious glare.

“No,” I answer simply, thanking all the fates that I’d had the foresight to leave it at the cottage. If I had it on me and Winifred directly bade me give it to her so she could destroy it, I’d have no choice but to obey. And then all my hopes of getting answers would go up in smoke.

“You will bring it to me,” Winifred says casually. A command but not technically a bidding.

“I will not,” I say, jutting my chin out in defiance.

I shouldn’t have said it. I know that even before the words leave my mouth. It’s a deadly mistake.

There is a heartbeat of silence after my rebuke; and then Winifred loses her composure.

Her magic plunges into me like crackling, freezing electricity. All my muscles tense as her magic invades my own. I let out a cry, trying to push her out, but it’s no use. Winifred’s meta-magic scours through my veins and energy, filling all my empty spaces and then emptying out. Repeatedly. Over and over. Scorching my psyche. I cling to the couch to keep from slumping to the floor as my vision blackens. I am utterly at her mercy; she could strip me of all that I am in this moment.

“Enough.” Matthew’s command is said calmly, quietly even. But the change in the room is sudden. The meta-magic dissipates from my skin and mind immediately. I gasp as my lungs fill with air and my vision returns. I feel nauseous but otherwise intact.

Winifred sits in the same position as before, so it takes me a moment to notice how the scene has shifted. A silky black cord encircles her neck. It floats, not quite touching her, but pulls itself tighter, getting closer and closer to her skin. Winifred reaches up to rip the cord away before it can trap her.

“I wouldn’t do that. Even a single graze can infect you,” Matthew says, staring at her unblinkingly.

“What is this?” she breathes. Her eyes are wide as she looks at him, and I’m shocked by the fear on her face.

“Leftovers of a curse I pulled out of Kate last night. A curse her mother’s book inflicted on her.” His voice is clinical, almost bored. I stare at the black cord in amazement. He had saved that writhing nasty piece of blood magic?

“Get it off me,” Winifred says through gritted teeth. “I bid you to remove this at once.” Such a direct command from an elder would be impossible for an Atlantic Key witch to ignore. But Matthew stares at her, unbothered.

“Are you capable of behaving yourself?” he asks, in a low and quiet voice. Winifred nods quickly. After a beat, the black cord untangles around her neck. Matthew opens his hand, and the curse slithers down across the floor and up to meet him. Like a snake’s shadow, it disappears into his sleeve. “Apologize,” he demands, still looking at Winifred.

I look between them, in shock. Completely at a loss.

“I’m sorry, Sweet Pea.” Winifred turns to me, her eyes misty. “That was wretched of me. Your mother would be so disappointed. I swore to her I would always protect you, and now look at what I’ve done.”

I turn my face away from her. However sincere her regret, I can’t quite forget the feeling of having been so invaded. Matthew is by my side instantly.

“Are you all right?” he rushes to say, cupping my chin, attempting to lift my face to meet his eyes. But I flinch away from him. Slowly, he lets his hand drop. I try to ignore the flash of hurt that crosses his eyes. “Can you still feel your magic?” he asks tensely.

Winifred stands from her chair. She sniffles and wipes at her eyes. “I didn’t take anything from her. I would never do that.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you plan to do this Saturday?” His calm facade cracks ever so slightly as he says this. There is real anger in his eyes. Winifred stiffens.

“The Containment is for the good of the witch. More so for Kate than anyone else. She’ll finally be protected,” she says, a stray tear falling down her cheek. I want to scream in frustration. She is echoing the same mysterious sentiments that Matthew has been saying for days. I bury my face in my hands, trying to block it all out.

“You’ll be taking away half of who she is supposed to be. It’s a betrayal,” Matthew says.

This accusation proves too much for Winifred. I can feel her intention pulsing in grief-stricken confusion. She lets out a strangled whimper and hobbles away through the French doors that lead to her kitchen, a series of sobs escaping from her.

I want to warn Matthew. To insist he be quiet. He got the upper hand on Winifred and is lucky that she has fallen into a delicate state. But if she swings back, if the winds of her mind change again, she could still strip him of his craft while barely breaking a sweat. She could do to him what she had almost done to me, and we don’t need an inter-coven war on top of everything else.

Matthew and I are alone in the room together. A grandfather clock ticks loudly in a corner by the fireplace, I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s deafening.

“Kate, I need you to tell me if you’re all right.” He’s calm again but insistent.

“We should leave,” I rasp. “She could gather herself at any minute. She won’t let you walk out of here, knowing what you could do to her. I’ve never seen her look so afraid. She’ll never forgive you.”

“You forget I’m not restricted the way your coven is. I’ve studied defense against magic like hers.”

I shake my head. So hubristic. “Have you ever seen someone excommunicated, stripped of their magic, Matthew?” Finally, I lift my eyes to meet his. Though I’m looking at him in defiance, he lets out a relieved sigh.

“No, I haven’t,” he admits, holding my gaze.

“And you don’t want to. We should leave,” I reiterate. I never should have brought him here.

“No, please not yet.” Winifred’s soft voice comes from down the hallway. Her skirts rustle as she hurries back into the sitting room. She has composed herself, but the regret of her earlier actions is set deeply into the lines of her face. I stand up, steadying myself on Matthew’s arm. He welcomes my grip, clasping me tightly with his free hand.

Winifred walks up to me but pauses a few feet away, recognizing she’s not welcome any closer. She holds a vial out to me.

“What is it?” Matthew asks.

The liquid inside the vial is a silvery translucent blue. Like pure seawater around northern glacial fjords. It reminds me of Matthew’s eyes.

“Tranquilum,” Winifred says. Her eyes flutter over me, examining me. Tentatively, her magic reaches out and prods the edges of my own.

“Stop that,” I hiss at her, surprised by my own bravery. She flinches back but looks at me with pleading eyes.

“I can see the stress in your aura. Something’s eating away at you. You’re not sleeping well are you, my dear? Nightmares?”

I don’t respond, not surprised that she’d been able to detect that. She nods, taking my silence as confirmation.

“The Tranquilum will take the bad dreams away. There’s no sleep more peaceful and steady. There’s enough in here for two nights. I can make some more and send it to you or bring it on your birthday. But you should take this vial now. You need to get some sleep. Please, Sweet Pea.”

The repeated diminutive breaks me. For a moment I am sitting with Rebecca on the front porch swing, watching mom and Winifred walk the fields, the insects of summer buzzing around me. The farmhouse and all its crackling magic feels like home. I know I shouldn’t, that it will put me into her debt, but I grab the vial out of her hand.

“Thank you,” I whisper. She nods and then her eyes fall to where my hand is wrapped around Matthew’s forearm, his other hand clasping us together.

“I don’t suppose I can warn you against falling for him, can I?” she says, looking at me again.

I stiffen, pulling away from Matthew.

“You always assume too much, Win,” I respond coolly.

“Do I?” she wonders, her delicateness fading. “Maybe ask him sometime why he never came back to Ipswich after he and his father gate-crashed the convocation, hm?”

“Goodbye, Winifred,” I say, desperate to get Matthew away before her eyes alight with fire once again. I turn and leave, trusting the creaks in the floorboard to tell me Matthew is following.

I burst out the front door of the farmhouse. The night sky is pitch-black, but the festival is well lit. The sounds of gaiety fill the air and are exceptionally jarring after the events that unfolded inside. Both Grace and Jack are sitting in rocking chairs on the porch, waiting. A long line of Ipswich citizens has formed outside at the edge of the stairs. They all look at the open door hopefully.

A low wailing comes from inside the house, and Jack rushes past me to comfort and assist his lover. Grace has a look of horror on her face at the sound of Winifred’s tantrum but quickly falls into her role.

“All right, everyone, Farmer Bennet is done with meetings for the night. I know—I’m sorry—we will try to find a time to reschedule you.”

I don’t hear what else she says as I walk briskly away from the house and the fair. Matthew doesn’t stop me until we are all the way to the truck, which is now loaded with large orange pumpkins and my single warty devil in the back bed.

“Kate, stop,” he says before I can open the passenger door.

“Why do you still have it?” I say, whirling toward him as my frustration finally breaks. There are a million things that I want to scream about, but this is the one my mind has latched on. “Why do you still have the curse? After all your talk of trust! You’re going around hoarding deadly blood magic abominations?” I want to stamp my feet and beat at his chest. It’s only my desire not to mimic Winifred’s erratic behavior that keeps me from throwing a full tantrum.

“I wasn’t going to sit there and let her attack you,” Matthew says defensively.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I insist.

Matthew sighs. Speaking slowly and calmly, which only infuriates me more, he explains.

“What would you have me do, Kate? Release the curse into the woods behind your house and hope that it infects an unlucky deer before it follows the urge to come back and finish the job it started with you?”

I stare at him, unsure how to answer. Sensing my hesitancy, he continues. “Blood curses don’t go away once they leave their target’s body. They fester whether or not they are infecting someone. And they will always return to finish the job if given the opportunity. I have to keep it tethered to me until I can find a way to destroy it.”

I groan and put my head into my hands. Margaret’s wraith. My mother’s book. And now this. I am being haunted by all that is dark and secret. I long for my Herbal and its Ghost-Be-Gone Gin and Tonic recipe.

“Kate,” Matthew says softly, “I promise, I will destroy it as soon as I can.”

I lift my head away from the sanctuary of my palms. “Fine,” I breathe. “Please just take me home.” I don’t give him time to respond, jumping into the cab of the truck and slamming the door shut.

The trip to the cottage takes longer than it had earlier in the day. Matthew drives gingerly in the darkness. Even so, the pumpkins roll around comically in the back of the truck bed. We ride mostly in silence until Matthew looks at me from the corner of his eye.

“So, are you not going to ask?” he says.

“Ask what?” I question, holding my hands up to the heating vent of the truck’s cab, hoping to bring some warmth into my fingers. My whole body has slowly gone cold ever since Winifred invaded my magic.

“Don’t you want to know what the meta-magic witch was referring to? About why I never came back to Ipswich.”

“Oh,” I say lightly. “I figured the climate didn’t suit you.” There’s more sass to my voice than I intend, and Matthew smirks.

“The truth is I do want to ask,” I admit after a few moments, “but I also know that Winifred wants me to. So I’m keeping my mouth shut. I’ve always been more spiteful than is good for me.”

Matthew laughs out loud at that, and I manage to crack a smile as well. We drive in silence for another few miles. It’s a dim night made even darker by the spindly tree branches that stretch out over the lane we’re driving down.

“I was banished,” Matthew says softly after a while.

I sit still for half a heartbeat, convinced I didn’t hear him correctly.

“What?” I ask, incredulous.

“I tried to return to Ipswich a few months after the convocation. I couldn’t get closer than Salem.” He laughs as if the memory amuses him.

“Why would you have been banished?

His smile becomes mischievous but contrite. “I suppose I overstepped my welcome.”

“And now?” I question, “After ten years of banishment, how are you able to be here?”

His smile fades as he parks the car in the small drive outside my cottage. It’s quiet in the cab of the truck as the engine goes silent. No crickets are chirping in the woods this evening.

“Banishments end when the witches who cast them die. Two witches were involved in mine.” His voice is soft, apologetic.

I suck in a breath. “I see.” My mother. And Margaret.

“If it’s any comfort, I deserved it,” Matthew says. “I knew your mother was upset with me for running off with you that first afternoon. And my father did warn me not to eat anything more from Sybil Goodwin. But when a kitchen witch offers you a slice of warm banana bread, how are you supposed to refuse?”

I know exactly what recipe he’s referring to. Ban-Ban-Banana Bread. It’s moist and rich, with a chocolate base and gooey, melty caramel chunks mixed throughout. A sweet cream glaze decorated with dried banana chips always graced the top. Mom made it all the time when I was a kid, though she never added the black pepper, briny sea water, or chrysanthemum petals that were the key ingredients for its magical effect.

“So your first instinct once the banishment was lifted was to come and bother the daughter of the witch who cursed you?”

He turns to me.

“That’s not why I came,” he says seriously. “And am I really such a bother?”

He has a whisper of a smile on his lips, but his eyes are sincere, curious. I feel his breath against my cheek and realize how closely I am leaning in toward him.

“No,” I answer honestly. He smiles and there is a note of relief in his expression.

“I’m glad,” he admits, turning away from me and pulling the key out of the ignition. Before he steps out of the car, I reach over and grab his jacket, stopping him. He turns back to me.

“Why are you here, Matthew?” I ask. My chest feels lighter the moment I voice the question I’ve been holding in for so long. He looks at me for several heartbeats.

“I had a lot of reasons for coming.”

“Well, tell me one, at least. And please not the excuse about the herbs. That was the most bogus story I’ve ever heard.” I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t; he just stares at me.

“I needed to see you,” he says after a moment.

I don’t say anything, but I’m certain he can hear the rapid pace of my pulse. He looks out the front windshield, toward my cottage.

“The Pacific Gate, we have our own rituals that take place on Samhain. As soon as I felt the banishment lift, I volunteered to come to the Atlantic to gather the necessary ingredients. My father was furious. He didn’t think I should be wasting my time with it. But I had to come back, to see this place, to see if you’d found what you wanted. I thought about the day you showed me the cottage. I couldn’t wait to see it again. To see you again. I left my father behind in a seething rage. I’ve never been a patient man,” he admits with some chagrin.

“I traveled through the night, through the rain, only to be met with your wariness and barely concealed hostility.” He gives me a lopsided smirk. I glance down at my hands, my own turn to feel chagrined.

“But it didn’t matter. Because you had built all you wanted. And I was happy for you. Proud too.”

I want to cry. I’ve spent days assuming the worst about him. And here he was, confessing only innocence.

“I have two more questions,” I say, my breath shaky.

“I will try to answer them,” he says, looking at me with some unease.

“First, as a necromancer, can you call on spirits to haunt someone? Or send them a message?” I ask.

Matthew nods slowly. My stomach drops.

“Did you send the spirit of Margaret Halliwell to me? To warn me about the King Below?” My biggest fear ever since I’d found the tome in the manor was that Matthew was somehow wrapped up in all this mystery and intrigue. His arrival was too perfectly timed not to be.

Matthew shakes his head emphatically. “That wasn’t me,” he insists, staring straight into my eyes. And I believe him.

I let out a deep breath of relief.

“Okay,” I say with a smile, letting go of his jacket.

He steps out of the cab and walks around the front, to open my door for me. I will my heart to stop beating quite so quickly, but it refuses to listen. My head throbs from my rapid pulse. Somewhere out in the forest, a howl breaks through the trees, sending nightbirds scattering and rustling the canopy. Matthew takes my hand as I get out of the car. I barely have time to register the touch before he leads me, quickly, into the cottage.

When we enter, Merlin gives me an earful, annoyed by how long I’ve been gone. He runs from my touch, wanting to punish me by withholding affection.

“Great,” I grumble. “Now my cat hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Matthew coos, bending down and scooping Merlin up into his arms.

“Right,” I smirk, watching the two of them snuggle as I head into the kitchen. A wave of exhaustion hits me from every angle. I want nothing more than to fall into my bed and enter a dreamless sleep. The vial of Tranquilum feels heavy in my pocket, the promise of a peaceful night.

Within two minutes, I have a kettle on the stove and a mug in hand. From my cupboard I pull out my favorite blend of Somnia tea. Matthew sits at the kitchen table, still holding Merlin, and watches as I prepare the nightcap.

“Would you like some?” I ask him as the kettle begins to whistle.

“Please,” he says. I sift the loose leaf tea into two metal bubble-shaped strainers and pour boiling water into each cup. I place one of the mugs in front of Matthew and take a seat at the table.

“What’s next on our adventure list?” he asks as I uncork the vial of Tranquilum in my hands.

“Well, we can leave the pumpkins for tomorrow. It will be a dry night,” I say. I’m not certain of the weather forecast, but I don’t want to spend the next hour moving all the gourds into my front room. “Tomorrow I have to carve them all for the grand display. I’m sure you can imagine how well that will go.” I shudder at the foreboding task. If Matthew thinks my pumpkin carving tonight was bad, he just needs to wait and see how monstrous my creations become ten pumpkins in. “As for the more mysterious element of our week, I suppose we need to find another way to get rid of the magical barrier on the book now that Winifred has refused.”

Matthew takes a sip of the tea. “Any thoughts on how we might do that?” he asks.

“Zero,” I say, tipping the vial into my cup. “You?”

I don’t know how he answers. The last thing I remember is the drip drip drip sound the Tranquilum makes as I put it in my tea.