Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

An Ancient Duty

I haven’t seen Matthew Cypher in ten years. Days before my twenty-first birthday, leaders from nearly a dozen different covens had gathered in Ipswich to discuss a group of teenagers who were practicing magic dangerously in the Midwest. The leaders had stayed at Goodwin Manor for a week as they strategized how to deal with the rogue members of the Michigan Six. I spent that time running around the kitchen, cooking from my mother’s Recipe Book while she, Margaret, and Winifred hosted the congregation.

On the third day, Matthew and his father, Malcolm Cypher, had shown up to the council uninvited. Before I’d known who he was, Matthew and I forged a quick friendship as the only two twenty-somethings of the group. I snuck him down to the—at the time—derelict gatekeeper’s cottage that sat at the edge of our property. We’d split a bottle of cinnamon mead from my mother’s pantry, and I’d told him of all my plans to convert the cottage into a true home of my own once I turned twenty-one.

When my mother found us tipsy among the dust motes of the abandoned cottage, she’d been furious with me. It was then that she told me the truth: Matthew was not some harmless hexan from the southern or Rocky Mountain covens; he was the heir to the Pacific Gate. I’ve never forgotten the smug smile on Matthew’s face as his deception came to light. He’s wearing that same smirk now.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asks, his grin only widening at my shocked face. His dark chestnut hair looks black against the rainy night, but his eyes, glacial lake blue, are just as vivid as I remember.

“What do you want?” I ask him through the cracked door, still gripping my fire poker.

“Sanctuary,” he says bluntly.

I scoff. “You can’t be serious?”

“Are you or are you not the hedge witch?”

“That duty is archaic,” I protest. There is no way I will offer housing and protection to a hexan from the Pacific Gate. “What are you even doing in town, Matthew?”

His head perks, amused surprise flashing across his face.

“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.” He smirks again. My eyes narrow at the smug look.

“I think not,” I say firmly. The ghost of my twenty-year-old self smiles in satisfaction as I shut the door in his surprised face.

My small victory lasts only a moment before a flurry of turning pages calls my attention toward my desk. My Herbal, making its opinion known as always, flips open to a most inconvenient page.

The Duties of a Hedge Witch

Though she will exist on the boundaries of society and coven alike, a hedge witch’s role is a vital one. A source of healing, sanctuary, and hope, she is to offer shelter, aid, and an ear to those who need it.

It’s the first page I ever wrote in my Herbal. I always disliked it, seeing the small paragraph sitting dead center in an otherwise empty page. My mother had made me write the paragraph dozens of times, dissatisfied with my messy handwriting and the hasty sketches I drew to make the page feel fuller. Even after I was able to produce semi-legible script, my Herbal continued to deem the page unworthy. As soon as I finished writing the words, the paper would come loose from the binding of the book and scatter into ash.

“Winifred made yours more temperamental than usual.” Mom had laughed after the six or seventh attempt.

“A temperamental spell book for a temperamental witch,” Miranda had sneered.

Eventually my mother poured a teaspoon of her piping hot Seal-It-In Spun Sugar on the page to prevent the Herbal from discarding it. The crystalized scorch mark is shaped like an accusatory finger, pointing at me in disapproval as I consider the page.

“Fine,” I grumble, rolling my eyes.

Stomping back over to the entryway, I throw open the door. Matthew is leaning against one of the wooden posts of my porch, running a hand through his dripping hair. He looks exhausted, muddy, and soaked through, as if he’s been walking for miles. There is no sign of a car nearby, and it is a long way into town.

A part of me does feel for him when he looks up at me hopefully, all smugness gone from his expression. Still, I shake my head.

“Hedge witch or not, I am never required to put myself in direct danger,” I say firmly. He is still a hexan of the Pacific Gate. And given how we’d last parted, how could he possibly expect me to let him into my home again?

Matthew’s mouth opens, and he squints at me, almost in bewilderment, before closing his eyes and giving a soft laugh of disbelief. When he opens them, he stares at me intently and leans in toward the door.

“Well met, Hecate. A curse upon me, I swear I mean no harm to you.” His voice is barely a whisper, but the power of it sinks all the way to my core.

An irrevocable oath.

After receiving such a promise, it would be a direct violation of my magic to deny him shelter.

“One minute,” I say, resigned. I quickly close the door again and run toward my stovetop, grabbing my olivewood salt keeper. I sprint back and sprinkle a line of coarse salt across my entryway. Another one of my mother’s wisdoms: “A line of salt prevents evil from entering your home. A broken line reveals dark intentions.”

I open the door to meet his confused but amused face.

“I warn you now, any mischief and I’ll enact a curse that will follow your children and your children’s children for the next two hundred years,” I say, stepping out of his way. He needn’t know how empty the threat is. I couldn’t even curse warts onto a toad.

He laughs and holds his hands up as he crosses my threshold. “I don’t bite the hands that feed me.”

The wooden floor creaks beneath his waterlogged shoes. But the line of salt remains undisturbed. My shoulders relax slightly, and I close the door, muting the noises of the storm.

Matthew stands in the entry and takes in my cottage. His eyes flick from the roaring fire to the lumpy upholstered sofa covered in chunky knitted throw blankets, to the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

“Cozy,” he says, looking at the crocheted decorations and wreath in the kitchen window as he unbuttons his wet, woolen gray coat. “You’ve done well with the place.”

“It does the trick,” I mumble. It’s strange having him here. The last time we’d stood in this room together, it had been little more than a dusty ruin. I’d told him how this cottage was my place of refuge from my family. How I would spend countless afternoons here after my father got sick with leukemia. How the derelict walls were my escape from the sadness of the manor after he passed. Miranda and Celeste both hated the cottage, convinced it was haunted by a long-dead groundskeeper, a rumor I had started myself to keep them away from my sanctuary. The cottage, even in its ruined state, was the place I loved most in the world. The place I wanted to be whenever I was away from it. It was my home.

I’d told Matthew all of this. As I spoke, he had looked at me with such interest, such care and understanding, that I had been convinced I’d made my first true friend. At the time, I thought we bonded over a shared desire to find a sense of belonging, a sense of home. But looking back on it, he must have seen my loneliness and vulnerability as weaknesses. And he’d delighted in playing along to fool me.

Matthew gracefully drapes his coat over his arm. Underneath, he is wearing slate pants and a deep midnight-blue V-neck sweater. The edges of a baby-blue collared shirt are visible at his neckline and wrists. He is taller than I remember, the longer I stare at him, the more space he takes up. He smirks, noticing my gaze.

“I can hang that for you,” I say, averting my eyes toward his coat.

“Thank you,” he says as I reach for it. It is soaked through, heavy. For a moment our hands brush. I flinch away, trying to hide how my hands shake with nerves. He is unusually warm to the touch, despite coming in from the storm.

“Would you like something to eat?” I ask as I hang his coat on the stand near my door. Blessedly, my voice is not nearly as shaky as my hands.

“Thank you.” He smiles in relief, eyeing the leftover dinner still on my stove. I take the broom off my small table, and usher him to sit.

I assemble a bowl of the leftover meal and place it in front of him, along with a fork and a sage-green cloth napkin. Merlin jumps up onto the table, intending to inspect this new source of food. I scoop him up in my arms.

“Anything else?” I ask, holding too tightly onto Merlin as I force myself to look at Matthew. I want nothing more than to leave the front of the cottage and barricade myself in my room. A Pacific Gate hexan. The heir to that coven, no less. I grew up hearing horror stories of the forbidden magic that is allowed to run rampant on the other coast. And now I’ve welcomed the second-highest-ranking member to my dinner table. Five minutes ago I had been dozing off by the fire. How did this happen?

“Some salt, please,” Matthew replies. “Preferably a variety that hasn’t been sprinkled over your front threshold. If you don’t mind.”

I force myself not to immediately glance toward my door. Merlin takes my surprised distraction as an opportunity to escape my arms.

“I think you’ll find the meal is seasoned well enough, actually.” I try to make my voice stern, but it has the same subtle softness I’ve never been able to fully chisel away, even in my angriest moments.

“If you say so.” Matthew grins. He piles a portion of the pasta and burrata cheese onto his fork and takes a bite.

The change in his expression is immediate. Now it’s my turn to smirk. Even lukewarm, this recipe is always outstanding. The emotions on his face shift as every new flavor hits. Initial surprise morphs into astonishment, which in turn becomes appreciative curiosity. And still, beneath all that, there are echoes of sadness in his eyes. The edges of my grief must have spilled over into the dish as I cooked it.

“Wow,” he breathes before taking another bite, bigger this time.

“Still think it needs salt?” I ask.

He has the decency to look chagrined. “Can all Atlantic Key witches cook like this?”

“Only ones trained by Sybil Goodwin,” I answer honestly. He takes another bite before leaning back into his chair.

“I’ll never forget the food the last time I was in Ipswich. There must have been three dozen witches and hexans crammed into your house, all fighting for time to speak to the congregation. Madhouse. The only peace came at mealtimes. The Texan Hexans ate out of the palm of your mother’s hand.”

“I remember,” I say. Chill-Out Chili served with Butter ’Em Up Dinner Rolls. As soon as the southern coven had arrived with their blustering, aggressive attitudes, we had shifted the menu around. It had taken all the chili powder in our pantry but had done its intended job. Or so I had been told. I’d been exiled from the house before I got to see its effects. Exiled because of Matthew, I remind myself, determined not to get too friendly. My mother had seen to it that both Celeste and I were removed from the Manor for a few days after my disobedience. Miranda, on her honeymoon, had missed the drama. We went to the Bennet farm, where Rebecca kept a watchful eye over us, and we in turn entertained a five-year-old Ginny with small shows of practical magic and tarot readings. By the time we were allowed to return home, the other covens had left to carry out judgement on the Michigan Six.

“My father forbade me to touch another of your mother’s meals after that first dinner.” Matthew laughs.

“That was wise of him,” I say. He grins.

I’m surprised by his trust as he takes another bite of food. Perhaps he doesn’t realize how extensively my mother trained me in kitchen magic. Regardless, the pasta I made tonight is perfectly safe. But he doesn’t know that.

“I was very sorry to hear of her passing last June,” Matthew says, studying me as I study him. He looks at me with a sincerity I don’t trust. It has to be my own residual grief still present in his meal. I turn away from him and start wiping my counters with a clean rag, swallowing repeatedly to banish the lump in the back of my throat. He doesn’t push the subject further. The only sound for the next few minutes is his fork scraping against the edges of his bowl.

I put away pots and pans as he finishes his meal. Every so often, I twist my head to stare at him out of the corner of my eye. He is the glaring anomaly in my perfect home, a mess I can’t wipe away with my rag.

“So, Matthew Cypher …” I say when there is nothing left to clean.

“Yes, Hecate Goodwin?” he says in response, patiently waiting.

“Kate, please,” I correct him.

“Kate, then.” He smiles.

“What is a hexan from the Pacific Gate doing in Ipswich? Have you come to ruffle the feathers of all the women of the Atlantic Key? Or just me?”

He grins. “That wasn’t my reason for coming. Though I would be lying if I said it wasn’t entertaining to see how easy it is to ruffle you all.”

I let out a little huff of annoyance, but he isn’t wrong. We can be a flighty, jumpy bunch.

“Do you think my presence will be noticed?” he asks.

I nod. “If you’re seen, it will be the talk of the coven.”

“Well,” he says casually, “I do intend to be seen. So I guess we have that to look forward to while I’m here.”

I frown at his use of we , as if he and I are now on the same side simply because I am allowing him to shelter in my home for the night.

“You didn’t say why you were here,” I remind him.

He nods. “No. I didn’t.”

I glare at him for a moment, though I know it doesn’t look nearly as threatening as I would like. Matthew chuckles.

“I’ve come to collect some ingredients I need.”

“What?” I scoff. “You traveled all the way to New England, seemingly spontaneously, given your need for sanctuary, just for a few ingredients?”

“Well, some are very rare ingredients,” he offers. I frown in disbelief.

He relents. “I did leave in a hurry—you’re right. My father and I had a small … disagreement. I thought it would be a good idea to get away for a bit. I’m in need of some plants that grow near this coast anyway, and I knew there was a hedge witch who could provide me sanctuary.” He tips his head, acknowledging me. “Coming here was the choice that made the most sense.”

My frown deepens. “My sanctuary is not meant to shield people from petty family drama.”

Matthew tsks. “It was a bit more than petty drama,” he says.

“So, I’m housing a fugitive of the Pacific Gate?” That thought is deeply unappealing. With my luck, half of Matthew’s coven will show up on my doorstep in the morning, looking for their wayward heir.

He shakes his head. “I’m no fugitive. My father’s anger flares fast, but it dies just as quickly. I’m hoping by the time I’ve done all I need to do here, he will have moved past our disagreement.”

“Well, at least tell me the ingredients that you need.” I say. If I can get him his supplies, then perhaps he can leave and wait somewhere else for his father to calm down.

Matthew’s lips twitch, and I suspect he knows exactly why I made that demand.

“One of them is night-blooming ipomoea harvested on Samhain.”

I stifle the groan inside me. Moonvine. I have some in my garden at this moment. But it will be useless to him unless picked in six days’ time.

“That’s irritatingly specific,” I say.

Matthew shrugs. “My craft tends to be demanding.”

“And what is your craft?” I ask bluntly, curiosity flaring. I’d never asked ten years ago.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise at my question. The energy of my cottage shifts. It’s Matthew’s powers mixing in the air of my own, confusing me, throwing me off balance. I had forgotten how palpable his presence could be.

“That’s quite personal,” he teases.

“Well, you know I’m a hedge witch,” I grumble, embarrassed by my faux pas.

“True.” He grins, then hesitates for a moment, and I can almost convince myself I see a flicker of uncertainty before he speaks again. “I study shadow magic.”

The euphemism is not lost on me, and my whole body goes cold. He’s a necromancer!

Shadow magic is rare, almost as rare as hedge craft. It is also one of the darkest magics a witch or hexan can practice. Of course, it is forbidden to members of the Atlantic Key. I can only imagine how my mother would have reacted, knowing I was harboring a necromancer. Miranda too would be horrified. Celeste … well, Celeste would probably overlook his coven connections and spend the entire night flirting with him. He was exactly her type. Tall, dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes, with an incredible jawline. And powerful.

I turn away from him and walk back to my kitchen counter, willing myself not to react to what he has told me or blush at my own thoughts.

I can feel his stare on the back of my neck.

“Like I said, easily ruffled,” Matthew laughs softly behind me, but there’s an edge to his tone.

I had been reaching for a coffee mug, to make him something warm to drink, but I grimace at his taunts. Let him freeze. What do I care?

“I’m going to bed,” I say abruptly, turning around. He looks at me in surprise but rises from the table.

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

He has no idea.

“The guest bedroom is this way.” I point toward the hallway door.

“I remember,” he says.

I try not to react to the casual way he references our first meeting, but my neck heats. I allow him to take the lead, not wanting my back turned to him at any moment.

The guest room is cleaner than it was when he was last here. Rotten floorboards replaced with strong wood planks, the walls cleared of dust and cobwebs, but it is still the sparsest room in my cottage. A queen bed, one small side table, and a tiny chest of drawers with some guest towels inside that have never been used.

Matthew looks around the room in approval.

“This is perfect, thank you,” he says. In any other circumstance, I would laugh. The bare-bones room is hardly perfect.

“Do you need dry clothes? Pajamas?” I ask. His sweater and shirt are bone dry, but his pants are soaked below the knee.

“No, I don’t wear clothes when I sleep,” he says, his grin lighting up the darkness. He is trying to get a rise out of me again.

“How interesting. Neither do I,” I shoot back quickly, refusing to be caught off guard. A little thrill shoots through me as I catch his eyes widening. “But unless you want to wash your own sheets, I suggest you keep your clothes on tonight.”

“As you wish,” he mumbles.

“Goodnight, Matthew,” I say, pleased at having successfully shut him up.

“Sleep well, Kate,” he whispers as the door creaks shut.

For half a second, I stand still, my mind reeling over the situation. Pulling the rue sachet out of my pocket, I bend down and hold three fingers to the guest room door.

“I ask for your protections,” I whisper quietly, drawing intention from the inherent evil-repelling qualities of the plants in the pouch.

Slowly, I draw a long arching circle around the wooden frame and let my body fill with panicked energy. Then, with a violent motion, I slash through the invisible circle I’ve drawn and wedge the rue pouch just under the threshold. If Matthew opens this door, an alarm as loud as a banshee scream will ring in my mind. It’s a simple ward that will last only until dawn, but I feel better.

Then, as fast as possible, I change into a clean nightgown, brush my teeth, and climb under my covers. It takes over an hour for my mind to calm down from the strange turn the evening has taken, but eventually I do fall asleep, all the while knowing that the safe light of dawn cannot come soon enough.