Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

What We Do With the Shadows

By the end of the afternoon, the storage boxes are empty, every trinket is in its place, and each tiny lightbulb in the house glows orange. Black lace shades cover table lamps, and orange garlands are draped across fireplace mantles. Pumpkins, comical witches, and ghost figures are stuffed in all available nooks and crannies. Glowing jack-o’-lantern lights twist around the main staircase banister. Every flat surface has a candy bowl waiting to be filled with chocolates, caramels, and sour sweets. The manor finally feels like home again.

I send Matthew to fill tiny dishes with candy corn and place them in my sisters’ bedrooms. While he is occupied, I run up to the attic and grab the mysterious book, placing it inside my canvas bag, hiding it underneath a pile of fake spiderwebs and woolen pumpkins.

“Dinner will be around seven,” I say to Matthew as we walk back into the gatekeeper’s cottage. Merlin chirps at us happily from the kitchen. “I have some things I need to work on …” I gesture vaguely around, hoping he won’t ask any probing questions.

“I have some work as well,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin.

The tome is burning a hole in the side of my canvas bag. I leave Matthew in the kitchen and rush toward my room. Merlin scampers after me.

I wait for him to run inside before locking the door.

“Can’t risk being interrupted,” I whisper to him conspiratorially. He jumps up onto the bed and stares at me, his orange eyes glowing in the dark room.

After a few steadying breaths, I dump the contents of my bag onto the bed’s woven quilt. Merlin chirps as wool pumpkins, cobwebs, needles, threads, and scraps of paper all fall around him. Finally, with a soft thud, the leather tome lands on my bed.

I grab it eagerly and open it to the first page. My eyes widen at the sight of shimmering red ink. The words have returned.

The King Below shall never again know my secrets.

Sybil Goodwin

Now that I’ve already seen my mother’s name, the shock of grief is not as intense, and I focus on the sentence above her signature. The King Below. The name Margaret Halliwell invoked in my dream. The name I thought my subconscious invented. Softly, I let the tip of my index finger brush against the words again. The ink is cold and smears against the paper. I quickly pull my hand away and watch as the red liquid spreads across the first page, as it had back at the manor. It bleeds to the edges of the tome and then disappears as if sinking into the paper itself.

I stare at the blank page in wonder. There are ways to extract secrets from people. All I have to do is cook up a course of my mother’s Spill-Your-Secrets Spaghetti.

One bowl of that, made just right, and anyone would tell me their most protected thoughts. But a book with secrets? I’ve never seen anything like it. And I can’t very well make a book eat spaghetti.

I light the candle that I keep on a stool near my bed. The match hisses as I strike it, casting shadows all around the room.

“Maybe there’s a trigger?” I say to Merlin. He quirks his head, his collar letting out a single soft chime.

I hold the book up to the candle and turn it over and over, inspecting the binding and seams, looking for any sort of secret release that will bring the ink back. The cover smells like real leather, and the paper inside is thick and rough, but nothing is mechanically unusual. I close and open the book several times, waiting to see how long it takes for the red ink to return. But my mother’s handwriting doesn’t grace the page again.

“Well, that was a bust,” I murmur. I sit on the bed and think, my hand still running along the spine of the book on the off chance I missed something. Merlin nuzzles my arm with his forehead.

“Maybe it’s time to bring out the big guns, huh, buddy?” I say to him as his scratchy tongue licks my fingertips. I give his head a pet and lay the book down on my quilt.

I walk over to my small vanity and pull open the drawer with the false bottom.

Buried among packets of rare herbs and dusty crystals is a silvery opalescent chain with a talisman hanging on one end. It is a brass lacework cage welded around a carved moonstone, a gem particularly adept at detecting different forms of magic. It glows in different shades, depending on the type present. Celeste gave it to me for my thirtieth birthday last year. Ever since she found success in the world of celebrities and influencers, her gifts have become rather extravagant. I’ve never really found use for it before this moment, other than as a piece of ornate jewelry.

I walk back to the bed, clutching the necklace in my hands, the moonstone dangling toward the ground. I open the book and gently lay the talisman across the blank first page. Less than three heartbeats pass before the milky white stone begins to darken in color, first turning a very pale blush and then quickly deepening to a ruby red.

Blood magic.

The air rushes from my lungs. I snatch the talisman up and make a protective sweeping motion across my chest before I shove the book off my bed. It lands upside down on the floor, several of the yellow paper pages bending inward. The moonstone turns a dull forest green in my hands, sensing the resonant hedge craft that’s always on me. My breath comes in short gasps as I press my back up against my bedroom door, staring at the tome. What on earth was a book steeped in blood magic doing in my mother’s house?

What had she been hiding?

There is a quick and urgent knocking on the door behind me.

“Kate? Is everything all right?” Matthew’s hurried voice is muffled through the wood.

God. Why won’t this man let me be?

“Yes! Everything’s fine!” I call back. I open my door to his surprised face. His eyes begin to scan my dark room, but I squeeze out and shut the door quickly, stuffing the moonstone into a pocket in my pants. I’m eager to put space between the book and me.

Matthew frowns. “I heard a noise. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Absolutely. I knocked my bag off the bed accidentally. I’d stuffed it full of decorations for the cottage, so it hit the floor pretty hard.”

Matthew’s frown deepens.

“Kate,” he says, leaning toward me. I hold my breath.

“If I told you that you can trust me, would you believe me? Despite what I am. Despite where I come from?” He stares at me, assessing me or searching for something, I can’t be sure. I begin to blush under the heat of his gaze.

“It was just my bag,” I answer, my voice firm.

Without giving him a chance to respond, I duck away and head out into the front room. I want to lose myself in my kitchen and not think about all the kinds of forbidden magic that I’ve brought into my cottage. Housing a necromancer is one thing—the Atlantic Key can’t punish me for honoring Sanctuary. But being in possession of a tome protected with blood magic? That’s a different beast.

Although, for all I know, maybe it’s not a coincidence that I found such a book the day after Matthew showed up. Maybe he’s behind it? Maybe he planted it in the attic somehow?

The thought makes my skin crawl.

“I was thinking of whipping up some dinner,” I call over my shoulder. “Are you hungry at all?” The question comes out too loudly. I can hear the nervousness in my own voice.

I stop when I get to my table.

My mother’s crystal pumpkin, the one I had shattered in the attic, sits atop one of the plates. It shimmers in the lamplight, intact. Only the green curling stem remains cracked off, sitting to the side. I bend down to examine it. The edges of the pumpkin are perfect, forming together seamlessly; every tiny, fragmented shard has been accounted for.

I turn around. Matthew stands at the doorway, watching me.

“You did this?” I inquire with a quiet whisper.

He nods.

“How? I thought you weren’t good with creation.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But fixing that wasn’t an act of creation. The pieces were already there. One of the first lessons of shadow magic is learning to reverse destruction.”

I stare at him and then at the crystal.

“But why fix it?” I ask. My hand trembles as I run my fingers over the pumpkin’s rind.

He cocks his head as if the answer should be obvious. “Because it’s precious to you,” he says.

Guilt flushes through my cheeks. I can’t believe I’d just been mentally accusing him of sneaking forbidden magic into my mother’s house.

He walks into the kitchen and stands close beside me. “I left the final piece for you,” he says, pointing to the stem. I give him a questioning look. He responds with a knowing smile. “Lesson number two of shadow magic. There’s power in placing the final piece.”

I’m strangely bemused by his kindness. Sitting atop my work desk is a small clay pot filled with a special adhesive, my magical Mending Medley. I grab the pot and a small paintbrush from a cup on my desk. Matthew watches me quietly.

Dipping the brush into the shimmering copper liquid first, I then draw it along the edges of the spiraled green stem. Placing some adhesive along the top of the base as well, I join the two pieces together. The temperature of the crystal grows warmer cupped in my hands. It heats almost to the point of discomfort against my skin. Then, slowly, the heat dissipates. Only when the crystal cools to the original temperature do I pull my hands away. The pumpkin is in one piece, with a thin bronze scar near the top serving as the only evidence of its temporary destruction. Matthew runs a finger softly around the shimmering edge of the adhesive.

“It may not be as seamless as yours. But there is power in remembrance,” I say with a smile, echoing his words back to him. He laughs quietly.

“It’s all the more beautiful for it,” he says. I stare at the trinket and realize I agree. The bronze line is a record of the pumpkin’s history, proof of what it has survived.

I should be angry with Matthew for practicing shadow magic in my home, but I can’t bring myself to be upset, not when this is the result. I carefully pick up the crystal pumpkin and walk it over to one of the kitchen lamps. As it comes into the direct light, it illuminates the kitchen walls with hundreds of translucent orange sparkles.

“Lovely,” Matthew says behind me.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I say, turning to him. “For this, and for your help today.”

He smiles. “It was nice to see that house come alive again. Your sisters are lucky to have you.”

My heart gives a soft thrumming pang. Merlin mewls at my feet. I scoop him up and give him a large snuggle. He smells like pumpkin pie.

“Are you hungry?” I turn to Matthew. Merlin thinks I’m speaking to him and gives my neck a small nuzzle.

“Famished.” Matthew nods.

“Sit then,” I demand.

“As you wish.” With a barely suppressed grin, he follows my orders and fluidly takes a seat at the table.

I set Merlin down carefully and walk over to my stove, lighting the burners and placing a pot of water on top. Matthew’s eyes are once again on the back of my neck. For the first time since he arrived, I don’t want to rush away and escape from his gaze. This necromancer who terrified me last night has shown himself to be nothing but considerate, gracious, and kind.

And a little cocky … I remind myself with a slight smile.

But I can’t grow complacent. I think back to the question he’d asked before I’d run into the kitchen.

Am I capable of trusting him?

I’m astonished that a part of me wants to. But for all his generosity, there’s still a lot he hasn’t told me. I’d trusted him once, when we first met. And I’d been proven wrong then. I also can’t ignore that he’d come to my door seemingly out of nowhere, with a story about needing rare ingredients, yet he was more than happy to waste his first day in Ipswich otherwise occupied. It didn’t add up.

My mind elsewhere, I grab a packet of ravioli, a bushel of Brussel sprouts, and a brown package of bacon tied up with twine I’d purchased from the butcher a few days before. My plan is to brown some butter, saut é the bacon and sprouts, mix all these ingredients together, and call it a day. I need something simple but hearty—my brain can’t focus on much else—and this meal always does the trick.

The ravioli goes straight into the water, already boiling thanks to my less than stable emotions. I begin to chop the Brussel sprouts in half, my hands shaking slightly. One especially pesky sprout keeps rolling away from me. I let out a frustrated laugh as it slips my grasp for a third time.

“Allow me.” I freeze as Matthew’s hand wraps around and steadies my own as he grabs the errant vegetable. He neatly slices it in half with the knife. I look over my shoulder, his face dangerously close to mine. He lets go, but not before gently pulling the knife out of my grip.

“I’m perfectly adept in the kitchen,” I say with a slight huff once I’ve found my breath. Matthew smiles, continuing to chop the greens.

“Of that, I have no doubt. But I want to pull my own weight,” he says.

Mollified, I watch him for a few moments. He makes quick work of several more sprouts. Longer pieces of his dark hair dangle in front of his face as he looks down at the cutting board. One of his cheeks has a slight dimple when he smiles. It’s adorable.

Enough, Hecate, I berate myself.

Turning my attention back to the meal, I move rapidly through dicing the meat, throwing a liberal helping of butter into a searing-hot saucepan. The butter melts almost instantaneously, turning a lovely shade of golden brown. Matthew tosses the halved Brussel sprouts into the pan, where they hiss and pop as they begin to fry. The bacon goes in next, the grease melting and crisping up the sprouts even further.

“Pasta water,” I say to Matthew. He grabs half a ladle of the foaming water from the pot and adds it to the brown butter sauce, giving it a little more substance.

“Is the pasta ready?” I ask. He nods and grabs my spider spoon, using it to catch all the ravioli that are floating to the top of the pot. He transfers them to my sizzling frying pan and I toss the dumplings to coat them with the glistening butter sauce.

Within minutes, the meal is ready. Matthew spoons the ravioli into individual dishes while I place a loaf of pumpernickel beer bread and some honey butter onto the table.

Matthew sets both dishes down and ushers me toward one of the empty chairs, pushing it in for me. He sits beside me and immediately takes a bite of food. There is a gracefulness to the way he eats, spearing ravioli, sprout, and bacon all on his fork and chewing appreciatively.

“I should be smarter and always make sure you take a bite first,” he admits with a quick wink. “But your cooking is too good to resist.”

“I’ll confess, I’ve been surprised by your inherent trust in me,” I say, smiling despite myself.

“Well then, we are both full of surprises,” Matthew grins. “I half expected you to kick me out the second you saw the resurrected pumpkin.”

I laugh. “The thought crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

He laughs as well, taking another bite.

“Besides,” I say with a shrug, “what you did to the pumpkin isn’t so far off from what I do when someone in Ipswich comes to me with a bad scrape or broken bone.”

Matthew stares at me for a moment before speaking. “Would the rest of your coven think the same? Or would they reject me if they could see what I do?”

I shake my head.

“Every woman in the Atlantic wishes she had such talent for practical magic.”

That gets another laugh out of him, referring to his shadow magic as a simple, practical craft.

“Then why is there animosity between our two covens?” he asks.

“Because you aren’t only fixing broken objects, are you? Shadow magic is control over bodies long unoccupied or, even worse, the resurrection and enslavement of souls that should be left to rest.” Most covens forbid necromancy, but it is an especially insulting craft to the Atlantic Key, where reverence and respect of our ancestors’ spirits is paramount. The few times my mother spoke of necromancers, she wove tales of corrupted hexans and witches digging up the bones of their long-dead forebears to make them serve as powerful thralls. She always said that ancestral magic is a gift that must be given freely, not forcibly stolen.

Matthew looks thoughtful, considering. “I won’t argue your point against disturbing resting souls. But what’s the harm in using what they leave behind? Why should the untapped potential go to waste?”

I shake my head. “You don’t ask permission.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s quite the assumption. And that’s quite the standard to have when, if I recall correctly, your own mother rarely asked permission before enforcing her will over her own guests.”

He’s not wrong. And I hate that. I can’t bring myself to respond. I take a bite of dinner instead. It’s good, salty from the bacon and sprouts, softened by the mild cheese of the ravioli. I chew on it thoughtfully.

“What are you thinking?” Matthew asks, after a moment of silence.

“I’m thinking that you have caught me in a trap of my own hypocrisy,” I admit with a slight grimace. Matthew leans back and smiles his classic grin. I realize for the first time that it isn’t necessarily smugness that lights his face, but amusement. As if he is fascinated and entertained by the whole world around him.

“Hecate Goodwin, you are nothing like I first believed you to be,” he says.

“Really? You are exactly as I thought you would be, Mr. Cypher,” I lie. He laughs happily.

“I think you’re secretly warming up to me.”

“I think not,” I lie again. He is undeterred, taking several more contented bites of dinner. Memories of meals my mother cooked occupy my mind. All the marriages she helped foster, all the children born nine months after she prepared a fertility meal, all the opinions swayed. She really had blanketed the entire village of Ipswich in a veil of her own control. But it was always for good. To help and heal and protect.

But she was hiding something. I bite my lip at the thought of the book lying at the edge of my bed frame, bent and abandoned. And the warm vermillion from the moonstone.

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

“If I told you that you can trust me, would you believe me?”

I stand abruptly from the table. Matthew stops eating and looks at me, concerned.

“Everything okay?” he asks, moving to stand as well.

“Yes. Keep eating,” I hold up a hand to prevent him from leaving his seat. He eases back down but keeps his eyes on mine. “I … I’ll be right back.” I turn from the table and leave the kitchen, heading to my room.

Inside, the book is still on the floor, exactly as I left it. My hands shake a bit, refusing for a moment to pick up the tome.

“You carried it all the way down the hill from the manor, Hecate. You didn’t grow a third ear then, and you won’t now,” I whisper to myself.

Still, I take one of my shawls off the chair where Merlin usually sleeps and wrap it over the book. The bundle is heavy in my hands as I walk carefully out of my room, suddenly afraid that one wrong step might cause the book to burst into flames. Or dissolve into blood.

Matthew stands up from the table when I return.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. No doubt my fear and confusion are etched on every corner of my face.

Words don’t come to me. Is this really the right choice? I had worked hard to hide the book from him this afternoon. But now, after he has fixed a pretty glass trinket and complimented my cooking, I’m preparing to reveal it all? I almost step back into the shadows of the hallway, but our eyes meet. There is no amusement on his face, only concern. One of his hands is outstretched and brushes up against my arm as if he instinctively wants to steady me. I lean ever so slightly into his touch, bemused by the relief it gives me.

“I found this in my mother’s attic today,” I say, unwrapping the shawl from the book. The dark leather of the tome is rough against my skin. “I’ve never seen it before. It was well hidden. I think it’s magically bound. But I can’t figure it out.”

Matthew’s brow furrows.

“May I?” His hand leaves my elbow and reaches out toward the book. I let him take it. Gingerly, he inspects the binding, the brass buckle, the spine. Then he flips it open to a random page and runs his fingers all along the handmade paper. “The craftsmanship is impressive. What makes you think it’s magically bound?” he asks.

“Flip to the front,” I instruct softly. He does as I say and breathes in sharply. I sneak a glance. Sure enough, the scarlet red words are back on the first page.

“Gwaed. Magic of the blood,” he whispers, looking at me. I nod solemnly. “Your mother’s?”

“I don’t know why she would have this. It doesn’t make sense.” But it must be hers. Mags had spoken of a book. What else could this be?

“This writing. It’s in her hand?” he asks. I nod again. He lets out a long slow breath.

“What do you think it is?” I pressure.

Matthew studies the book some more before looking back at me. “I can’t say for certain what this book is. But the writing on the front is heavy magic, a kind I’ve seen before. Simple but powerful. A protective charm has been placed over the pages. Only the blood of the book’s owner can unlock its contents. No one else can access it.”

“Is that why the ink disappears every time I touch the signature?” I ask. Matthew’s face pales at my question. I take a step back in alarm.

“You touched these words?” he whispers urgently.

I nod, startled by the panic in his voice.

He snaps the book shut and slams it onto the nearby coffee table, making me jump. He turns back toward me, placing both his hands on my shoulders.

“You have herbs here, yes? Any premade pastes for drawing out poisons or venoms? On the off chance a hiker stops by with a snake bite?” He speaks calmly, but his grip on my shoulders is deathlike.

“Y-yes, of course,” I stammer.

“Good.” He says. “I need you to sit down and tell me where I can find them.” He leads me firmly to one of the quilted chairs in my living room.

“Pantry. At the end of the hallway. There’s a glass cabinet against the back wall. All poison control mixtures are in the yellow ceramic pots—” I haven’t even finished my sentence before he leaves me and runs to the back hallway. I sit, suddenly exhausted, and listen to the sound of Matthew rummaging urgently through my supplies.

While he’s gone, I take account of myself. My head feels fine, my breathing isn’t labored. My pulse is quicker than normal, but I attribute that less to any dark magic and more to the general stress of Matthew’s reaction. Less than a minute passes and he is back by my side, setting down several of my most potent poison controls.

“Is this entirely necessary?” I ask, almost laughing. But the seriousness of his gaze silences me.

“With which hand did you touch the ink?” he questions quietly. I lift my right hand up. He grabs it, roughly at first, but his grip gentles when I let out a surprised breath. He inspects my palm and fingertips carefully. The heat from his hands warms mine as he traces my lifeline. I shiver at his touch, not realizing how cold my skin had become.

“You’ll need to trust me, Kate,” he says. He reaches into his pants pocket with his free hand and brings out a small leather case, no larger than a snuff box. He releases my hand for the shortest of moments to flip the case open and grab the object inside. A small but deadly sharp silver pocketknife with a spine made from pale bone. He grips my hand gently again before I can pull away.

“Are you going to explain to me what’s going on?” I demand, trying to get free of his grip.

He tightens his hold on my wrist. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to prevent me from wriggling away.

“Blood magic is one of the most powerful crafts,” he says. “But it’s also the greediest. That wasn’t an ordinary protection charm. There’s no such thing as ‘ordinary’ with Gwaed. Charms and curses are two sides of the same coin in that craft. You’ve likely been infected. I need to draw it out.”

I stop struggling immediately. Matthew looks at me, waiting, his hand still gripping mine. I manage to nod my acquiescence.

He spreads some antiseptic paste all over my palm and fingertips. The scent of eucalyptus is intense, burning my nostrils. He holds the blade of the knife up to my hand and presses the tip against my pinky finger. A tiny bead of scarlet-red blood forms. He has cut me so gently that I don’t even bleed enough for gravity to pull it downward. He repeats the process on my ring and middle fingers, and again, scarlet beads form anticlimactically. His shoulders relax slightly.

But when he presses on my pointer finger, I let out an involuntary cry. Pain shoots through my hand, but not pain from the knife. It’s an icy-cold searing that pierces through to the bones of my finger. I watch with horror as a thick black sludge pools from the tiny wound.

Matthew’s eyes dart to mine, flashing regret. He wastes no time with calming words, instead, he holds my hand close to his lips and whispers things that I can’t hear over the blood pounding in my ears. His breath warms the back of my fingertips as black liquid continues to pour from the newest wound. Matthew takes the knife and makes several small slashes underneath the first. The black blood pours from these cuts as well. He grimaces and makes one final slash right at the base of my finger where it meets the palm. Several drops of normal bright red blood seep out.

“It’s not nearly as bad as it could have been,” he says to me, his grimace fading into relief. “The infection hasn’t spread very far.”

He turns back toward my hand and continues to whisper. I realize it’s not that I can’t hear him. He is speaking a language I don’t recognize. Welsh, perhaps? A twinge of annoyance at my own helplessness pesters me as he works. But there is nothing to do except watch. At one point, it almost looks like shadows pour from his hands and wrap around my finger. But I blink and the darkness is gone.

Finally, all the cuts begin to bleed red, and then cease soon after. Matthew wipes away the droplets of blood that have collected on my wrist with a damp cloth. He then applies a soothing balm all along my hand. Milk thistle and jewelweed. Gently, he uses his thumb to massage the ointment into my skin. I revel in the feeling of warmth returning to my fingers.

But despite his tenderness, I can’t ignore the stinging of the cuts forever.

“Allow me,” I tell him after a little while, slowly pulling my hand away and dipping my fingers into the soothing ointment. I softly massage the medicinal cream into my skin, humming several low notes as I do. The vibrations travel all through my body but I direct them toward my hand, sighing with relief as they work with the ingredients of the cream and begin to feed intention and energy into my wounds. Matthew watches, his eyes widening, as the cuts in my skin go from raw and open to thin pink lines, to hardly any marks at all.

“Amazing,” he breathes when I am done. “Truly, phenomenal.”

I hold my hand up for both of us to inspect. The only signs of the ordeal are several patches of skin around my pointer finger that are a tinge redder than others. But that irritation will soon fade.

Matthew takes my hand into his, drawing it closer in curiosity. “I could never manipulate living flesh so perfectly,” he says.

I shake my head and laugh at his phrasing. Nothing like a necromancer to dehumanize the skin.

“Have you ever tried?” I ask.

His eyes are wide as he looks at me. “I’d likely do more harm than good. If not to the subject, then to myself.”

“Even so, it’s thanks to your expert surgery skills that I’ll walk away without a mark,” I say. “Deeper cuts and wounds are harder to heal so seamlessly. There are a handful of people in Ipswich who have scars similar to the pumpkin over there.” I look over at the crystal sculpture Matthew fixed. The bronze highlighted crack shimmers in the candlelight.

He doesn’t respond, just continues to study my hand. His fingers run over my knuckles, his thumb brushes against my wrist. My skin is extra sensitive after the magic that has coursed through it. His touch sends shivers up through my arm.

“Did the ink come into contact with any other part of your body?” he asks suddenly. I shake my head quickly.

“You swear?” he demands to know.

I have half a mind to roll my eyes and tell him I licked the book. But this isn’t the time for jokes. And I don’t want that bone knife anywhere near my tongue.

“I swear,” I say firmly. He searches my face before acquiescing.

“Okay,” he says. “So, now we need to know what your mother was so desperate to hide that she dabbled in blood magic to protect it.”

I shake my head, bewildered. “She enforced the avoidance of forbidden crafts more than any other elder.”

Matthew’s eyes turn sympathetic. He is still holding my hand, but no longer in such a way as to inspect it. No, now my palm rests on his, our fingers nearly intertwined.

Hesitantly, I pull away. He stares down at his own hand and stretches it softly. Merlin has hopped up on my chair and is pawing at my forearm, worry in his eyes.

“It’s all right, my sweet thing,” I say, grabbing a hold of him and bringing him close to my face so I can kiss the top of his furry head. He immediately begins to thrum with a loud vibrating purr.

“If the book really does belong to my mother, perhaps my blood will unlock it? I only touched it before. I never gave it blood,” I suggest, scratching Merlin under his chin.

“And thank goodness for that!” Matthew exclaims without humor. “If you’d offered your blood to it, I shudder to think what could have happened.”

“Would it really have been so severe? My mother and I share blood.”

Matthew shakes his head. “Gwaed doesn’t work like that. Blood is unique to an individual. Your trying to open it would be no different than if I had tried. Only your mother’s blood can resolve the protection.”

I frown. This magic is so foreign to any that I’m used to. To me and mine, bloodlines are continuous, our greatest source of power.

“My mother is gone, though,” I say.

“Which is probably why the infection stayed so localized,” Matthew says. “I was barely able to sense the magic surrounding the book until I saw the inscription. It’s weak. If your mother had been living and maintaining the protection, the curse might have eaten you from the inside out within an hour.”

I shudder, suddenly understanding the urgency with which Matthew had acted. Still, why would my mother possess something so evil? What was inside that book that needed such extreme protection?

“If we wait long enough, will the magic eventually fade?” I ask.

“The curse? Maybe. But not the lock. Unless you know of someone who specializes in spell removal, that book is protected indefinitely.”

The answer comes to me almost immediately. “Winifred,” I whisper.

“Sorry?” Matthew questions after a moment. I turn to him.

“Winifred Bennet. She’s the coven’s meta-magic witch. She might know how to get inside this book.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of her sooner. “I’ll go to her tomorrow. She lives on a farm outside of town. She and my mother were close, so she might agree to see me,” I say to him. His eyes narrow, considering.

“We’ll go together, if that’s all right with you,” he finally says, smiling when I agree without hesitation.

The truth is, I want Matthew with me after all that has happened tonight. I am not sure my meeting with Winifred will be a peaceful one. She can be erratic at the best of times. There’s no predicting how she might act if I come to her and accuse my mother of dabbling in forbidden magic. But perhaps she won’t be surprised at all?

I stare at the tome’s cover. I should have recognized Winifred’s handiwork on the leather etchings the moment I found it. Similar hash marks make up the design of Mom’s Recipe Book, Miranda’s Navigator, Celeste’s Star Chart, and my Herbal.

Winifred is the only witch within eight hundred miles capable of creating an item like this. She might even be the one who cursed it in the first place. Perhaps my poor mother is innocent, after all. But either way, tomorrow I will confront the most powerful witch in the Atlantic Key. I’ll need all the backup I can get.