Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Six Days Until Halloween

Drizzling rain patters on the window. The Massachusetts sky is still asleep, and the morning fog is a long while from burning off. Merlin purrs on the pillow next to my head, his little paws stretched out onto my arm. I stare up at the wooden planks of my bedroom ceiling, with no memory of having fallen asleep. Absentmindedly, I rub my wrist. No stinging, no fingernail marks on the skin.

“ ‘The King Below tests you …’ ” I mutter, the epithet unfamiliar to me.

I’m no stranger to vivid, peculiar dreams. But last night’s was particularly cryptic.

“Find your mother’s book and you’ll know why she named you a hedge witch.”

In the Atlantic Key, tradition dictates a girl wait until her thirteenth birthday to choose her magic. But my mother chose my path the day I was born. As the sun set that Halloween, she swaddled me in a forest-green blanket, named me Hecate Goodwin, and proudly announced to the women gathered around her that I would be a hedge witch. An ancient practice, I would be the first in any coven in almost two centuries. This sent rattled whispers scattering among the women of the Atlantic Key.

Why had Sybil Goodwin done it?

What could a simple kitchen witch want with a hedge witch for a daughter?

How could a girl with no choice ever truly belong to her craft?

That particular whisper haunted me throughout childhood, an ever-present specter of doubt hanging over me as I trained. And with no living hedge witch to mentor me, I had to rely on the scattered knowledge of my mother and other coven members. But now, at almost thirty-one years old, I have grown used to hedge craft, isolating as it may be. How disappointing for my subconscious to bring up old wounds. Hadn’t I gotten over my stolen choice long ago?

“Strange dreams as Samhain nears. Not the best omen for the New Year,” I whisper, letting my wrist fall back to the bed. Merlin nuzzles his face against my neck, his whiskers tickling my skin. The sound of rain against the window strengthens. Perfect weather.

I want to stay in my bed, take Merlin into my arms, and grab the book on the side table. It’s a collection of Arthurian romances thick enough to lose myself in. But today is a workday. I have to tell myself this three more times before finally rising from bed.

In the pantry at the back of the cottage there is a large glass cabinet that holds my latest concoctions for the Raven a customer is perusing the decks of tarot cards next to our table, and it gives me a few moments to collect my thoughts. Despite the bluntness of the question, Ginny’s tone wasn’t cruel. She’s been going through a pining phase the past few months, longing for a romanticized version of a faraway, interesting life. The question has more to do with her than with me.

“I don’t find it tiring,” I answer. “Gathering ingredients, creating all the inventory for this store—it’s all part of my craft. That would be like asking you if you ever get tired of reading.” I give her a friendly smile.

Ginny shakes her head, giving me a hesitant but defiant look.

“But I choose my craft, Kate.”

And there it is. That which sets me apart from all others of the Atlantic Key.

“So did I, technically,” I say, fiddling with the glass pen in my hands. “When I was thirteen, the coven gathered at the edge of Ipswich Forest, and I declared my craft before the elders. Just like you did.” The memory of that day would never fade. The pitying whispers as we all walked down the hill from Goodwin Manor. The coven’s scrutiny making me squirm. I could feel the forest’s disapproval too, the way the trees loomed over us in foreboding judgment, recognizing me as an imposter, a girl only playing at being a witch.

“Why did you choose it?” Ginny asks. She’s not the first witch to pose the question, nor the first to make it sound simultaneously like a question and accusation. Why had I played along with my mother’s meddling? Why hadn’t I ultimately chosen to follow the traditions of the coven instead? Unfortunately, the answer to her question will disprove my earlier attempt to lump us together.

“My mother bade me to,” I answer honestly, clearing my throat awkwardly as Ginny’s eyes go wide.

I’d resisted at first. I’d planned to run into the woods in protest until I was allowed my own choice. But, at my first sign of defiance, my mother had grabbed my hand, gently but intently, and placed it on the maple tree that marked the forest’s edge.

“Do as I have bidden, Hecate,” she had whispered into my ear. As an elder of the Atlantic Key, my mother’s direct bidding was steeped in ancestral magic, impossible to ignore without incurring the coven’s wrath.

I had obeyed. Unwilling and unready, I chose the path my mother commanded.

“But either way,” I say to Ginny, “I’m glad that she did. I’m very suited to the demands of my craft.” It’s for this very reason that, despite my hesitance over Winifred Bennet’s participation, I’m looking forward to my Containment. After all these years, I will be the one truly choosing.

Ginny purses her lips, unconvinced.

“You don’t ever get lonely?” she pushes.

“I have Merlin,” I offer, which only causes her to roll her eyes. “I am alone, yes. Such is the lot of a hedge witch, existing on the boundary of things, never fully integrated. But that’s okay. I am fine to be alone with my thoughts.”

This isn’t entirely true. Since my mother’s passing last summer, I’ve increased the frequency of my visits to the Raven & Crone. Without them, I would go days without talking to another person. In those long stretches of isolation, it’s too easy to become acutely aware of the cavity my mother left behind.

“But hasn’t there ever been someone you felt improved the silence? Someone you would want to bring across the boundary with you?”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “That book you’re reading is a romance, isn’t it?” I guess. Ginny often assumes the personality of whatever story has currently captured her attention. Before I can sneak a glance at the cover, she slams her ink-splotched hand on top of the book, obscuring any identifying information. My goodness. She’s worse than Celeste was at this age.

“Fine. If you must know,” I say. “There was someone once. A man my age I knew about a decade ago. Charming, funny, respectful. Gloriously handsome, with the most intoxicating scent—cinnamon and rain. We were fast friends. And even faster enemies.”

Ginny’s eyes, which have been giddy over the prospect of my long-lost romance, crinkle in confusion.

“Unbeknownst to me, he was a hexan of the Pacific Gate.” I say this last sentence with all the intonation of a schoolgirl telling her friends a scary story around a campfire. While every coven across the country has its eccentricities, only the Pacific Gate refuses to restrict even the most abhorrent forms of magic. Magic that corrupts the practitioner, requires dangerous amounts of intention or sacrifice—even magics whose only uses are pure evil—are allowed. The Pacific Gate is anathema to the Atlantic Key.

Ginny’s slack-jawed expression of horror is delightful. Hopefully that will teach her not to ask meddling questions.

She squints at me, possibly noticing my subtle smirk.

“I think you’re lying,” she says, jutting her chin out.

“Maybe I am,” I say with a casual shrug, returning to work in my Herbal.

With my to-do list attended to, it’s time to fill out my daily journal entry. The Herbal, sensing my intention, flips to the back section that holds my diary. A fresh blank page waits for me to start writing.

October 25th—

Odd dream last night. Subconscious messages?

My hand pauses. I should check in on Margaret Halliwell sometime this week. Dreams are finicky things and always open to interpretation, but still. I rub my wrist again, remembering the painful sting of her touch and the strangeness of her words.

“Ginny,” I say, setting my pen down again. She looks at me warily.

“Have you ever heard of someone called the King Below?” Maybe somewhere in her thousand-book collection there might be a reference, a thread for me to follow.

She frowns, considering.

“Not off the top of my head. Do you want me to do a recall?” Her eyes gleam with intention. She loves a good research topic, a reason to deep dive.

The door to the Raven & Crone chimes as several more customers walk in. Rebecca greets them warmly, and I’m reminded of the duties to the shop that I’m neglecting.

“No need,” I say quickly.

“Really, I don’t mind. I’ve been meaning to forget this book anyway,” Ginny says eagerly, holding up the book in her hands as a sacrifice. I was right: it is a romance.

Book witches have the ability to remember anything they have ever read, but they must give up other knowledge to do so. Like all crafts, their magic requires sacrifice. If she were to do a recall, the book in her hands would slowly be consumed, the ink disappearing until every page was blank. Ginny would also forget all its contents. She looks at me hopefully, eager to practice her craft. But there is no reason for it, given that I’d most likely made up the King Below in my subconscious imagination.

“Some other time,” I whisper as Rebecca leads a customer toward the back. Ginny frowns, disappointed. At only fifteen, she needs an adult witch to supervise anytime she practices magic of that degree. I stand up from the table and help Rebecca with the checkout. An old woman holds several bags of our turmeric powder.

“This will stain anything it touches,” I warn her as I place the yellow powder in a brown bag with the Raven & Crown logo embossed on the front. “But I recommend it in a pumpkin seed hummus. It will be a great addition for this time of year. And so good for the heart.” She smiles her thanks before paying Rebecca.

“Ah. What I wouldn’t give for some of your mother’s Pump-Up Pumpkin Seed Hummus,” Rebecca says wistfully next to me. “I haven’t had a decent workout since I ran out of my last batch.”

“I’ll make you some,” I offer. My mother trained me in kitchen magic. She felt all witches should know the basics of that craft, though neither of my sisters had ever shown any interest in it.

“Oh! Would you? I didn’t want to ask, but that would be amazing.” Her voice giddy.

“Sure, it’s no problem.” I laugh at her excitement. “I don’t have anything to do this week anyway.”

“Except read Le Morte D’Arthur ,” Ginny interjects, giving me a piercing glance.

“Right,” I say after a beat.

Rebecca gives me a look. “And planning for your birthday,” she reminds me with a disapproving tut.

“You sound just like Grandma whenever you make that noise, you know,” Ginny says to her mother.

Rebecca’s lips purse, her face suddenly a mirror image of her daughter’s.

“How is Winifred?” I ask, doing my best to hide my smile.

“Crazy as always,” Rebecca says with a flick of her hand. “Though I’m sure she’d love to see you. Why don’t you go to the festival?”

I shake my head. The Ipswich Fall Festival is held at the Bennet farm every year. Attending has been an annual tradition for my mother and me since I was a child.

“I don’t think so. Too many memories. Besides, I’ll see your mom at the coven gathering this Saturday.”

“I understand.” Rebecca gives me another of her sad smiles before a look of realization dawns on her face, and she closes her eyes for a moment.

“Oh. Kate. You should call your sister today,” she says.

“Celeste? Why? Is everything okay?” I don’t like the worried look in her eyes. The last I’d heard from my little sister, she was yachting off the coast of Grand Cayman, acting as the personal astrologist to some hot-shot actor she swore was nicer than I’d believe. My mind runs away for a moment, fearing the worst for her. Maybe there’d been a hurricane I hadn’t heard about.

Rebecca shakes her head. “No, not Celeste. Miranda.”

“Why would I do that?” I ask after a moment. Rebecca knows my older sister and I have never been especially close. Her lips purse again, but her eyes are still sad.

“Today is going to be hard for her. I heard from the elders a few hours ago. Margaret Halliwell passed away last night.”