Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Three Days Until Halloween

When my eyes open, my first thought is that no time has passed at all. The sky outside the window is an inky black, the same color it had been in the woods. My next thought is the pain. My arms and legs feel as if they weigh a hundred pounds each. My mouth is sandpaper dry, and an annoying stinging covers my entire body. The only source of comfort is a softness against my cheek. Merlin is purring, curled up on my chest, his little face plopped onto my chin. I kiss his forehead lightly, only to wince as my chapped lips crack from the movement.

Merlin perks his head up, orange eyes shining in the dark. The tiniest little mewl escapes from him.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I croak, my throat raw from screaming. Wincing again at the movement, I sit up. Several objects thud around in the bed as I shift. A couple hot water bottles and cloth packets filled with warm aromatic herbs. My feet are wrapped in gauze and smell like aloe and tea tree oil. The scent is immediately familiar. My phoenix salve—made especially for burns and cuts.

Standing up, I sway, unsteady on my feet. My body aches but at least I’m not cold. My hair is dry, combed, and braided, and I’m dressed in warm flannel pajamas. If not for the pain, I could convince myself that none of it had been real. Just another round of nightmares.

Merlin hops off the quilt and runs out of the bedroom. His collar jingles quietly as I follow him down the short hallway and into the living room.

The entire front of my cottage glows in soft, flickering light. Every surface—the coffee table, my writing desk, the windowsill with my crocheted figurines—all are covered in jack-o’-lanterns. More than two dozen pumpkin faces stare at me, some grinning cheerfully, some scowling, some holding back mischievous secrets. Nearly every pumpkin we brought back from the Bennet farm is carved to a state of absolute expressive perfection. And their internal flames cast shadows that dance throughout the room.

I follow the sound of soft scraping to the kitchen. Matthew sits at the table, a couple untouched pumpkins piled onto the table beside him. The muscles of his right arm flex as he uses a flat head scraper to pull the seeds and stringy flesh out of another pumpkin. Merlin skitters past me and jumps up onto the table. Matthew relinquishes his project for a moment to give the cat a couple of scratches under his chin.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispers, “you’re meant to be watching over your mistress.”

“A job he takes very seriously,” I say quietly, grimacing at the pain in my throat. Matthew is out of his chair and in front of me before I finish the sentence.

“You’re awake.” His smile is laced with piercing relief. “You’ve been asleep all day. How are you feeling?” He scans me from head to toe.

“Confused,” I admit with a croak. My hand flies up to clasp the sharp stinging and pressure in my throat.

Matthew walks over to my stove, where my cast-iron kettle sits. “That’s understandable.” He lights the burner. “Sit down and rest. I’ll try to make you something for your throat.”

He heads back to the table. On the edge of the weathered wood surface sits my Herbal. He thumbs through a few of the pages, looking for something.

I don’t sit. I know exactly what I need. Inside the cupboard beside my spice cabinet are my teas, those for pleasure and those for intentional purposes. I grab my most powerful blend of cinnamon spice tea and the last bottle of sage honey I have. I make a mental note that I will need to resupply before the first snow falls.

Matthew stops thumbing through my Herbal and watches as I scoop the cinnamon tea into a tiny delicate bag and tie the top with string. The kettle lets out its musical whistle as I grab the copper mug meant specifically for this concoction and carefully ladle two teaspoons of the sage honey into the bottom. A bag of tea goes above the bed of honey, along with boiling water. The bag spins in the current, and a deep orange color seeps out from it. The honey slowly dissolves as well. All the while, I focus on the fiery scratchiness of my throat and imagine the relief this tea will bring. I use the handle of my thin wooden spoon to give the drink a good mix, to ensure everything is incorporated together.

I take a few deep breaths to steel myself for what’s to come. It’s hard to let cold air into my throat. I position the cup near my nose, so I breathe in the spicy steam. That is irritating too, but at least it’s warm. I turn away from Matthew so he won’t see me grimace.

I brace myself and then take the first gulp. The pain is almost immediate. My throat erupts in fire, and my eyes water as I hold back the cough that my body so desperately wants. The liquid pours over what feels like a thousand tiny cuts in the back of my throat, all the way down my neck.

But just as quickly as the burning comes, it fades. My throat is still thick and scratchy but less irritated than before. I take another gulp. Fire again, but less intense, and it fades even quicker. Another gulp—this one is almost manageable. Another and I can finally enjoy the flavor of the tea, warm and spicy. And it doesn’t hurt quite so much to breathe anymore. My muscles relax their tension as the pain in my throat subsides. When I set down the empty cup, all that’s left of the pain is the tiniest of tickles. I’m relieved. If I’d had an infection, the tea would not have been quite so effective. The damage to my throat must have been irritation from overuse. I can’t say the same for my hands and feet. Now that my sore throat has been addressed, I’m aware of the stinging underneath my bandages, and vividly reminded of the night before.

“What happened yesterday?” I ask, turning to face Matthew. He has been watching me this entire time. At my question, his face turns apprehensive, unsure. He shakes his head and sits down at the table. I walk over and join him. My warty devil pumpkin is in front of me, uncarved.

“Was it all real?” I question, not meeting Matthew’s eye. I’m almost afraid of the answer.

“Yes,” Matthew says roughly, almost angrily, which confuses me.

“Too bad,” I whisper. “I was hoping vivid hallucinations were a nasty side effect of whatever was in the sleeping draught Winifred gave me. Guess not.”

“Don’t let her off the hook so easily. She’s partially to blame for what happened. Trying to make a hedge witch not dream? She’s a fool.” Matthew is insistent. I meet his eyes and see the anger blazing in his gaze. I look away quickly, blushing in shame.

“I shouldn’t have taken it,” I say in a small voice. I’ve never walked in my sleep, but I’ve also never indulged in sleep aids either. I should have been more careful. But Matthew scoffs.

“How could you know it would trap you inside your head and put you in such a vulnerable state? Don’t put this on yourself for a single second,” he urges. “No, no I should have known,” he mumbles. I realize now that his anger isn’t directed at me.

“Well, don’t blame yourself either,” I say, offended and, despite myself, slightly amused. “You’re not my guardian.”

His eyes flash up to mine with such surprising sorrow that I immediately stop laughing.

“Aren’t, I though?” he asks softly, more to himself than to me. Inside that confounding question there is so much regret and remorse that I can hardly decipher it. All I can think to do to comfort him is to reach out and take his hand in mine.

For a moment, he lets me, and our fingers intertwine. His palm is warm and rough against mine. He looks at me, his eyes questioning, hesitant, but the softest of smiles graces his lips. I give his hand a gentle squeeze. At the first moment of pressure, he rips his hand away, breathing in sharply.

“I’m sorry,” I say, drawing my hand back toward myself.

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” he says quickly, dragging his shirt sleeve over his wrist, but not before I catch sight of the red tinged bandage he is trying to cover up.

“You’re hurt!” I say, aghast.

“Nothing serious,” he tries to assure me, but I shake my head.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Let me look.”

Matthew sighs deeply but doesn’t argue further, rolling the sleeve up again. There is a loose bandage wrapping up his forearm and even further, past where the sleeve can roll.

“What on earth?” I breathe, moving closer to inspect it, but Matthew flinches. “I’ll be gentle, I promise,” I assure him. He remains tense but doesn’t move away from me this time as I softly, very softly, lift one of the bandages. Underneath, there are angry welts and a long, curving gash that extends beyond this first bandage and into the ones surrounding it. This is really, really bad.

“Okay,” I say calmly, keeping my alarm to myself, “I need you to remove your shirt so I can get a better look at the entire wound.”

He hesitates for a moment, looking at me warily. I meet his gaze firmly, letting him know there is no room for discussion. Reluctantly, he uses his good hand to unbutton his shirt. He shrugs one arm out easily but struggles with his injured one. I assist getting the fabric off of him, placing one hand on the small of his back. He shivers slightly at my touch but doesn’t complain. Candlelight flickers across his bare chest. His muscles are tense from either the cold or pain, I’m not sure.

It takes immense effort to maintain my outward composure once the extent of his injury becomes clear. The bandages wrap all the way up his arm and around his left shoulder, down toward his collarbone. I wonder at the suffering he must have endured tending to his wounds all by himself. As well as the pain he must have suffered while taking care of me. And to then spend God knows how many hours carving nearly thirty jack-o’-lanterns? For a moment, as the candlelight and shadows flicker across his entire body, I am simply awestruck by him.

As tenderly as possible, I unwrap the gauze from his shoulder. The angry red welts and irritated skin that begin at his wrist run all the way up to the top of his shoulder in a long and deep gash. I can tell from the smell of tea tree oil that Matthew tried to use my phoenix salve on his wound. But this is too severe for that topical ointment. If this gash isn’t immediately addressed, it will likely get infected. This requires Mending.

“Wait right here,” I say to him. “I need to get some items to clean out the cut and get you fresh bandages.” He doesn’t answer me but nods softly.

Merlin patters behind me toward the pantry, but I shake my head.

“No, you go sit in his lap and distract him,” I say. He chirps in agreement and heads back to the kitchen to be with Matthew.

I walk into my dark pantry and flick on the dim overhead light. The pantry is in disarray; nothing is where I left it. Some bottles are shifted around or on the completely wrong shelf, and others are toppled over. It takes me several minutes to find everything I need, but eventually I walk back into the front room with my arms full of ointments, fresh gauze, and a bowl to hold any discarded bandages. Before heading into the kitchen, I make a quick stop at my desk and grab my bottle of Mending Medley.

Matthew uses his good arm to push the pumpkins on the table away, making space for me to set down all my supplies. I cut away the rest of his soiled bandages, and my worst fears are confirmed. The gash along his shoulder and arm is incredibly deep. And nearly a day old.

My first step, as with every Mending, is to slowly roll a charged white quartz along the irritated skin. Matthew makes no noise of complaint—doesn’t even flinch as I move the rock over the shallow parts of his injury. But the moment it grazes the edges of the deep gash, he jerks away and inhales sharply.

“I see you raided my pantry,” I say with forced amusement, to distract him.

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “I know I left it in a bit of a state. Sorry.”

I shake my head. “No need to apologize. I’m impressed with your herbalism skills.”

“Be impressed with yourself then,” he says, his voice even now. “The instructions in your Herbal are clear and organized. I would have been helpless without them.”

“I’m surprised the book cooperated with you. What diagnoses and treatment did you manage to pull from it?” I tease, moving around to face him as I roll the crystal over the front of his shoulder.

A trace of a smile hits the corner of his lips as our eyes meet; he knows what I’m doing. But his smile disappears quickly as he speaks.

“The most pressing one was your hypothermia,” he says. “You had almost no color. Your lips were blue.” As he says this, absentmindedly he cups my chin with his good hand, and softly runs his thumb over my bottom lip. Heat radiates across my face from his touch. His eyes find mine, and I’m taken aback by how tortured they are. “I found your herbal compresses and filled the bottles with hot water infused with fleece-flower root, valerian, and fennel.”

“Very impressive,” I say, barely managing to keep my voice even as he brushes his fingers against my lips. He has conveniently skipped over the part where he must have dried my hair, taken me out of my soaking wet nightgown, and dressed me in flannel pajamas, all while bleeding from the wound on his arm.

I set the crystal down on the table and move around again to address his shoulder. I pick up one of my many antimicrobial salves and dip into it with clean fingers.

“This might sting,” I say with a soft warning. He nods again and braces himself against the table.

“It felt like hours,” he admits softly as I begin to press the salve onto the edges of the gash.

“What did?”

“Waiting for you to be warm again,” he says. “For color to return to your cheeks. Once I was certain you weren’t going to freeze, I got to work on all the abrasions. Ow,” he hisses as I pass over a particularly jagged area of the wound.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling my hand away. I survey the wound again. “I have to use my adhesive to make sure this heals correctly. But it will leave a distinct scar. Is that okay?” I ask. He nods his assent.

I reach for my ice-cold clove oil. I pull the stopper out of the jar and slowly tip it over the very top of his shoulder. He inhales as the freezing ointment pools onto him, but as the oil drips down his shoulder and into the crevices around his wound, I can see the muscles of his back and shoulder begin to relax.

I put on some thin gloves so the numbing oil doesn’t affect me. “Can you feel this?” I ask him, softly prodding at the skin of his upper arm. He shakes his head.

“All I can feel is the cold,” he says in amazement.

“Good,” I say, satisfied. “That means it’s working.” Now that his injury has been sterilized and numbed, it’s time to Mend. I grab the Medley and dip a small ceramic spoon into the shimmery copper liquid.

“You might notice a little pressure and a little heat, but the cold should keep any burning at bay,” I say.

With one hand I press together the very end of the gash at his shoulder, getting the edges of the skin and muscle as close together as possible. Then, I pour the adhesive into the wound and watch as it settles and stretches into place, bonding with the skin on either side. I hum, letting my intention flow through my hands and into Matthew. This will be a slow process, and I will use up all my Mending Medley. I repeat the same steps with the next section of the injury, slowly working my way down his arm. For the intention to take hold, I imagine the adhesive properties of the Medley stitching the fractured tissue back together, creating healthy bonds and restoring the flow of energetic life to the skin. The mixture heats under my hands and gaze.

The only sound in the room, other than my humming, is Merlin’s purring and the soft whispering flicker of the pumpkin lights around us. Matthew makes no complaint as I work, but every time my skin grazes his, he shivers.

“So,” I say as I work, “you were saying about abrasions?”

Matthew lets out a breath and continues. “Phoenix Salve for the scratches and irritation. Goldenseal for the bites.”

“Bites?” I say, confused. I pause with the adhesive in my hand. I look down toward my arm and pull my pajama sleeve up to the elbow. My arm is covered in scratches and bruises, but no bites. I run one of my fingers along a small thin scratch on my arm that itches annoyingly.

“Mostly Merlin’s handiwork,” he whispers.

“What?” I stare at him, bewildered.

“Your feet are covered with claw scratches from him as well. Along with a few bites,” Matthew says, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“No,” I shake my head. “Merlin would never hurt me.” As if on cue, the black cat lets out a long, sorrowful mew.

“I think he was desperate,” Matthew explains. “I woke up last night to him scratching and howling hysterically outside my bedroom door. When I picked him up, he was covered in forest debris and shivering. The back door of the cottage was wide open. The diversity of bites suggests he initially tried to wake you as you journeyed into the woods. First little love nips, trying to get your attention as you walked. Then, when he realized you were unconscious, deeper and more intense swats and bites. When those failed, he came back for me.”

“And then what?” I ask, incredulous. “You ran out into an unfamiliar forest to find me?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s been a long time since I felt fear as strongly as I did last night,” he whispers quietly. “Yes, I ran into the woods, with no hope of direction. But then I heard you scream. I could hardly breathe from the dread, but at least I knew what direction to Shadow Walk.”

“Shadow Walk?” It’s the second time I have heard him use that phrase.

“It’s the ability to travel long distances quickly by crossing through the veil and back.”

I shake my head. “I never knew such a power was possible.”

“It’s rare. The only magics that utilize it are shadow and … hedge.” He looks up at me warily. I purse my lips but don’t respond. Instead, I turn back toward his arm. I can’t let my intention wander too much or the Mending won’t take.

For the next half hour, he sits in silence as I work. I hum quietly, helping the wound stitch back together, and keep my eyes focused on his arm. But I notice every time his gaze shifts toward me again.

Finally, I pour the last scrapes of the Mending Medley from the bottom of the container onto the shallow edges of the wound near his wrist. I prod the top of his shoulder, pleased to find the adhesive up there has already settled, forming a seamless bridge and seal. Matthew’s whole arm shimmers in the candlelight, his copper scar radiating like frenetic lightning from his shoulder down to his wrist.

I grab the gauze, take a clean crystal, and quickly graze it along the edges of the cloth. Then I wrap the gauze around Matthew’s wrist, all the way up his arm, and around his shoulder, meditating and imagining the skin healed, warding off infection and pain.

I study the new bandages, pleased with my work. Slowly, my mind leaves triage mode, and I am left in terrible awe by the size of his injury.

“What did this?” I wonder quietly.

“Hellhounds,” Matthew answers, as if that is a perfectly acceptable response. I want to laugh, but the seriousness with which he says it keeps me quiet.

“Hellhounds? Coming after me?” I ask.

Matthew nods.

“Why?” I breathe. I can’t imagine it. I hadn’t even known such creatures existed before last night.

“Because you’re the hedge witch,” Matthew says, standing and reaching for his shirt, currently lying on the kitchen table. He looks at the wrapped bandages with appreciation and moves his arm easily about, seemingly free from pain.

I want to groan.

“You keep saying that, you know. And it never actually explains anything.”

Matthew begins buttoning his shirt. “I know,” he says apologetically. “It would all be easier to explain if you had been properly trained in your craft.”

I flash with anger at his words. I walk away from him, toward the back of my kitchen, and set down the empty bottle of adhesive, admittedly a bit too loudly. The fact that he can move his arm again should be proof enough that I’m not the imbecile he so clearly perceives me to be. But I take a breath instead and turn to face him again. Last night should be proof enough to me that there are things I hadn’t been warned about.

“Then tell me. What exactly about hedge craft has been hidden from me?” I ask.

Matthew abandons the effort of buttoning the top few buttons of his shirt, giving me a wary look.

“When we decorated the manor,” I continue at his hesitation, “you were upset I didn’t know how to Shadow Walk. You also mentioned other shadow magic—Binding, Siphoning, and Guiding?” I scrunch my nose up as I try to remember that contentious conversation. “What are those?”

He considers his words for a moment.

“Binding is a form of communion with long-gone spirits,” he says. “Any ten-dollar psychic on the side of the highway pretends to talk directly with the dead. Only a hedge witch can actually do it. Siphoning is the ability to transform life energy into that of death, and vice versa. Guiding is the act of leading a spirit from this world into the next when their time has come. It is the most critical duty of the hedge witch.”

I sag against my kitchen counter, under the burden of all my confirmed fears. Once again, I’m thirteen years old, hesitating at the edge of the forest with my mother’s hands pushing me forward. There has been so much I was never taught. Even through this feeling of defeated exhaustion, I am angry. My mother violated all our coven’s traditions to name me a hedge witch and then spent my entire life hiding half my magic from me? What was the purpose of it all?

“How do you know all this?” I ask Matthew, trying to ignore the stabbing feeling of betrayal in my chest.

“The Pacific Gate has known of you since the day you were born. You were the first hedge witch in centuries. I grew up hearing about the girl in the east who would take up the mantle and walk the boundary of life and death. Where I am from, you are revered. Is it any surprise that I joined my father on his trip to Ipswich ten years ago? I had to see you for myself.”

“I’m sure it came as a nasty shock, then. To find a run-of-the-mill witch, incapable of doing anything of significance.” I laugh hollowly.

A brief look of frustration crosses Matthew’s face, and suddenly he is crossing the room, coming straight toward me. My legs root to their spot. He stops right in front of me, our chests nearly touching. His body heat warms the surface of my face. I smell the cinnamon and rain of his skin, his copper scar glowing underneath the gauze. He lifts his bandaged hand up and reaches out to me. My vision swims in surprise, and I stop breathing. Wondering, anticipating, unsure what is about to happen. But he stops, his hand just in front of me.

“This is not the work of a ‘run-of-the-mill’ witch,” he insists in a low whisper, twisting his arm around to show the extent of the bandages. “This is a miracle.” He speaks slowly, reverently.

I shake my head. “Even so, I can’t do all the things you say I am supposed to do.”

“But that isn’t true,” Matthew says in a rush. His hands grip onto my shoulders. “You Shadow Walked last night, however inadvertently. You said to Winifred that the wraith spoke to you. Only a hedge witch could hear those words. Even if you weren’t taught these talents, the magic is there, desperate to be used.”

“But why would my mother name me a hedge witch and then keep all this from me?” It was nonsensical. And if these elements were really part of hedge craft, how was it a sanctioned practice in the Atlantic Key?

Matthew opens his mouth to speak but then shuts it just as fast, a frustrated look on his face.

“That I can’t say. Your mother’s choices were her own,” he answers.

My frustration intensifies.

“I need to get inside the book, Matthew,” I say, glancing over to where the tome sits, still on the coffee table, from the night Matthew removed the curse from my hand. Margaret’s warning, Winifred’s evasion. My mother’s silence. Everything points back to the book. The desire to remove the blood magic charm has flamed beyond curiosity. Every ounce of my intuition is focused on the need to know what is inside those pages.

Matthew’s hands drop from my shoulders.

“I understand,” he says. “I wish I knew a way to help.” His forehead crinkles as he frowns, and his eyes flit back and forth as he considers different options.

“I think I know someone who can,” I say, moving away from him. At my desk in the corner of the living room, I tear a scrap of paper out of my Herbal and strike a match to light my silver-ash candle. I pick up a pen.

Ginny,

I need to meet with you. I need to know more about the King Below. And charm removal.

When?

—Hecate

I roll the paper up and wrap it in dried elderflower before holding it above the flame. Winifred’s bid not to involve her granddaughter floats through my head. But since she hadn’t worded it quite right, there is room for evasion. I cling to that loophole desperately and push the paper into the flame. It bursts into smoke, disappearing from my hands.

“What time is it?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Ten minutes to ten,” Matthew answers, walking over to me.

“Excellent,” I say aloud. Ginny will be up for at least four more hours. No true book witch goes to bed before three. “I can stay up and wait for a respon—”

I haven’t even finished my sentence when a draft blows in through my fireplace. Le Morte D’Arthur in my reading chair flips open from the wind. Dark, scratchy writing appears on the inside cover. Matthew and I both lean over the book and read the messy script.

Midnight. Salem Library. Ask for Laurie.