Chapter 9

Chapter 9

T he days between Ann’s appearance at Ravenswood and the coven meeting were fraught and difficult, not just for me but for Gwyneth, too.

With more than one hundred witches on the Ipswich coven membership scroll, Gwyneth doubted they would all show up. Julie, however, predicted that the spectacle of a Proctor charged with misconduct would draw witches like honey did flies.

“You’re underestimating the level of curiosity that Diana’s sparked in Ipswich, too,” Julie warned, “not to mention the resentment some families have about the Proctors’ influence over local affairs.”

Despite Julie’s ominous forecast, Gwyneth strictly limited the number of chairs she would allow to be hauled over to Ravenswood.

“Seventy-eight is my absolute limit, Julie. Six times the witches normally present at a monthly coven meeting seems plenty,” Aunt Gwyneth said sharply, her nerves frazzled and temper short with all the arrangements.

A gleaming black van decorated with a goggle-eyed clam wearing a pointy hat trundled down the hill shortly thereafter. Ipswitch Seafood and the legend so fresh it’s magic ! were painted on the side in white and gold. Two women roughly my age climbed out of the vehicle, one fair with curly brown locks caught up in a loose knot and the other ginger-haired and freckled with a muscular physique.

“You must be Diana. I’m Tracy Eastey,” said the witch with the updo. “Julie’s niece.”

Tracy’s eyes were not the pale sea-glass green or blue I’d grown used to seeing in Ipswich witches. Instead, they were a luminous brown, like a decanter of sherry sitting on a windowsill in the sunshine, sparkling with life and light. Her coloring suggested Irish ancestry, but those otherworldly eyes told me there was plenty of Proctor blood in her, too.

“I’m Grace.” The other witch’s pale green eyes rimmed with blue crinkled at the corners, the fine lines spreading across her cheeks to tell the story of a lifetime spent on the water. “I come from the Mather branch of the Proctor family tree.”

“There you are!” Julie bustled forward, the orange and white stripes on her shorts flashing in the sun. “Did you bring the chairs?”

“Did you ask us to bring the chairs? Then we brought the chairs.” Tracy reached into the back of the van and pulled out a plate of cupcakes, handing them to Julie. “Here. Take these.”

“Tracy’s famous for her baking—and her lobster rolls.” Grace swung open the door on her side of the van and removed a tub full of ice nestled with an assortment of clams and oysters. The combined weight of the ice and the shellfish must have been considerable, but Grace carried it easily, her arms taut and athletic. I spotted Mount Holyoke College Class of ’86 printed in red on the front of her white T-shirt, along with a cartoon figure of a smiling pink-and-red Pegasus on the back.

Heaven help Becca if she wanted to attend my alma mater, Bates College, or one of her father’s colleges or universities. A tingle in my pocket suggested that the oracle cards had wisdom to share on this subject, but this was one message from the goddess and her oracle I refused to pickup.

Tracy was busy at the rear of the van and emerged with folding chairs draped over her shoulders like an oxen’s yoke.

“Let me help.” I grabbed my own fair share of chairs and followed the procession to the barn.

“We brought clams, Aunt Gwynie!” Grace called as we drew near.

“There’s dinner sorted,” Aunt Gwyneth replied. She shielded her eyes to get a better look at the plate Julie carried. “Are those cupcakes vanilla?”

“I wouldn’t dream of bringing you chocolate.” Tracy gave Gwyneth a smooch on the cheek as she passed by. “I put a bit of blackberry puree in the icing.”

“Yum.” Gwyneth licked her lips in anticipation. “Tea’s ready. Let’s have a cupcake before you bring in the rest of the load.”

It was not difficult to agree to Aunt Gwyneth’s plan, given the mouthwatering pastries. We sat around the worktable, which today doubled as a lunchroom counter and a packaging station for dried herbs. Gwyneth gathered sticks of mullein to clear a space for Tracy and Grace. They were a gift for Katrina, who used them in her divination.

We tucked into the cupcakes and tea. Grace was right; Tracy’s baking skills were very good indeed. The cupcakes were moist yet light, and not too sweet, allowing the vanilla and the blackberry to take center stage. Aunt Gwyneth, as always, concocted a divine pot of tea. It was dark and rich, with notes of lemon and mint.

“My own blend of Golden Tips from Hunan, lemon verbena from the garden, and fresh mint,” Gwyneth told Tracy after she inquired about the ingredients. “It’s as close as I’ll ever get to iced tea.”

“Not me. It’s so damned hot I’ll take all of the ice I can get.” Julie conjured a heap of cubes into her mug and then poured some of the hot brew over them.

The four of us chatted companionably. I asked about Tracy’s family, and Grace shared pictures of her two daughters. I passed my phone around so that they could see the twins with their father, their faces painted blue and white, at one of Yale’s spring picnics. Once we were on a proper family footing, the conversation turned to more urgent matters.

“What are you going to do with the ghosts when the coven arrives?” Grace asked, taking another bite of her cupcake.

“Keep them locked up where they belong.” Gwyneth’s attitude toward the dearly departed was draconian. “We are not like the Redds or the Toothakers. Deceased members of the Proctor family do not roam about, willy-nilly, apparating and disapparating at whim, frightening children, then moping and moaning in cemeteries. It’s a wasteful expenditure of energy, not to mention a source of friction between neighbors.” Gwyneth turned to me. “We keep them in the attic of the Old Place, Diana, where they can rest and recharge in peace.”

This must be why the ghosts I’d seen at Ravenswood were so clear and colorful, unlike the blurry smudges of my ancestors in the Bishop House, which were barely discernible.

“They’re stuffed into trunks!” Julie didn’t seem to approve of incarcerating the dead any more than I did. “I think that’s against the Geneva Conventions, Gwynie.”

“It’s Proctor conventions that hold sway at Ravenswood.” Gwyneth looked at me sharply. “Let me guess. Sarah lets the Bishop ghosts do what they please, when they please.”

“She definitely doesn’t lock up relatives,” I admitted. “Sarah’s approach to ghost-keeping has always been free-range.”

“My mother was the same, letting the ancestors form packs and scare the postman.” Gwyneth sniffed, looking down her long, elegant nose. “The dead are always with us, but I find more than a dozen dearly departed a real nuisance.”

I let my aunt and cousins discuss the vexed questions surrounding refreshments, assigned seats, and how Gwyneth could get the membership to leave promptly at the end of the meeting. Their words passed in one ear and out the other. My thoughts were elsewhere: on my next meeting with Katrina at The Thirsty Goat. It was scheduled for Thursday, the day before the coven met.

I’d been working regularly with the black bird oracle cards, as Katrina had suggested, and had a stack of queries that I hoped she could answer. But I was reluctant to go into town and be on public display at the café for a second time, especially after the charges Meg had leveled against Gwyneth and me. Doing so sounded like a prescription for disaster, but Katrina had insisted that I could not cower all week at Ravenswood.

“Far better for Diana to meet you right under Meg’s nose,” Gwyneth agreed, when Katrina rang Ravenswood to arrange the details.

“Thursday morning should be safe,” Katrina had replied. “The full moon energy will be near its peak, but I think Diana can manage it so long as we meet early in the day.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll be joining the rest of the coven in the town cemetery after the meeting,” Grace said, drawing my attention back to the present. “My stash of graveyard dust is running low, and I was counting on spending a few hours there on Friday night to replenish my stock.”

“I hate coven politics,” Julie said, reaching for another cupcake. She peeled off the pink, ruffled paper and took a bite. “They’re so petty.”

This was one of the many reasons I had never belonged to any official gathering of witches.

“We could always gather dust here in the wood,” Tracy suggested. “Go old-school, and return to Proctor tradition.”

“You mean go rogue,” Julie said, visibly excited at the prospect. “That’s an excellent idea. Can we, Gwynie?”

“A lot of witches were put to rest in the Ravens’ Wood,” Gwyneth cautioned. “And not just Proctors. Most of the old families have kin buried here. The town cemetery was off-limits to witches then.”

“Thorndike Proctor opened the wood for burials, and promised to maintain it as sacred space,” Julie explained. “That’s why we never cut down trees, and only gather herbs and plants when the moon allows.”

No wonder the wood was filled with power. It was storing not only Proctor magic, but the magic of other witches, too.

“We welcome the families on anniversary days,” Gwyneth said. “July, August, and September are busy months at Ravenswood, filled with rituals and ceremony.”

“Now June will be, too,” Julie said, finishing off her cupcake and dusting the crumbs from her hands. “Right. Let’s get the rest of those chairs in. Then I’ll start the phone tree to ask for volunteers to bring treats. A coven meeting without cookies is downright unmagical.”

—

Katrina’s tinted lenses were lavender when we met at The Thirsty Goat, and she wore a high-necked sleeveless dress that extended to her knees and buttoned up the front. It was made of ivory silk, and embroidered with wisteria reminiscent of the vines that sprawled over the porch at Ravenswood. Her black hair had a sheen of blue when she turned her head toward the light.

“Am I being paranoid about Meg?” I blurted as soon as we were seated with our tea.

“What do the cards say?” This was becoming Katrina’s standard response.

“Not much,” I said, shuffling the cards between my fingers as Katrina had taught me. “They’re quite fulsome on the subject of how I can support Gwyneth and help her get ready for tomorrow, however.”

I’d replenished the wood stack next to the stove when the Fire card appeared in my teacup at breakfast, and gone to town for more salt when the cards advised that Gwyneth had run out and still had windowsills she needed to protect with a sprinkle of the magical stuff.

“Perhaps the oracle doesn’t know.” Katrina turned over one of her cards and blinked. She never shared their interpretation with me, but this time the card was met with a sigh.

“What good is an oracle if it doesn’t know the future?” I demanded, slamming my cards on the table in utter frustration.

“Manhandling it isn’t going to help,” Katrina said, gathering her own cards together. “A coven meeting is a place where wits are sharp and unexpected questions are posed. I’m not surprised the oracle can’t divine what’s to come, or what the final decision will be.”

“What does Meg have against me?” I felt victimized.

“Try the cards again,” Katrina instructed. “Pick them up—gently—and ask them—respectfully—if they have any insights into what lies in your path. Leave Meg and the coven out of it, and give the oracle some room to maneuver.”

I did as Katrina suggested, moving gently and respectfully, spending a few moments with the cards cradled in my hands to atone for my rough treatment. When my fingers began their shuffling movement, the cards held less tension. They were still shy, but over the course of the next few minutes they loosened up to such an extent that I thought they might be willing to converse with me. I closed my eyes and whispered the question exactly as Katrina had formulatedit.

“Do you have any insights into what lies in my path?”

As was usually the case in matters pertaining to divination and prophecy, Katrina’s advice had been excellent. The cards moved of their own accord and I let them fall on the table. They continued to shift and rearrange themselves, then pause, only to shift and shuffle some more.

When they stopped moving, the oracle had arranged six cards before me. Four of them were stacked vertically in a straight line. Slightly beneath and to either side of the top card were two more cards. The overall effect was that of an arrow flying toward its target.

“I’ve never seen this spread before,” I said. “Do you know what it means?”

Katrina shook her head. “You’ll have to listen to your intuition.”

Thanks to the time Aunt Gwyneth and Granny Dorcas had spent poring over the deck with me, I was more experienced with the black bird oracle and the interpretation of its messages. I knew that it was best to start with the closest card, which undoubtedly represented the querent—me—now, and then move up through the spread.

Darkness.

“My fears are getting the better of me,” I said glumly. The next card was no better. “Blood.” Sacrifice, longing, and revenge were some of the meanings associated with the card.

“The Parliament of Owls must signify the coven,” Katrina said, pointing to the next card, “although in what context, I’m not sure.”

The card directly above it was The Crossroads. To the left was The Box—a rendition of Pandora’s casket releasing chaos into the world. On the right was The Unicorn, serenely sitting in a garden.

“Chaos or calm.” I didn’t need an oracle to tell me those were the two possible outcomes of Friday’s gathering.

“Let Gwyneth and Dorcas help you explore the cards’ message more fully.” Katrina put her own deck away. “And get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

—

On the eve of Bridget Bishop’s hanging, I followed Granny Dorcas toward the barn.

Remember what I told you, daughter. Fear is natural but you must not let them see it. She elbowed her way through the throng of waiting witches, casting a baleful stare over the assembly.

Hold yourself proudly, Granny Dorcas continued, still barking out instructions. You’re a Proctor, and my kin. Never let these witches forget it. Make no apologies for who and what you are.

Gwyneth waited at the threshold with Betty Prince, the coven elder I’d met on my first day at The Thirsty Goat. Tonight she was sporting neon-pink clamdiggers embroidered with starfish, and had topped them off with a matching twinset and pearls. Her white hair had been freshly rinsed and set, resulting in a cloud of violet. She held a clipboard covered with tiger stickers, in honor of the local high school mascot.

“Let’s check you in.” Betty’s eyes traveled down the length of the paper attached to her battered clipboard. “Gwyneth Proctor, present. Diana Bishop—”

“Guilty.” I covered my mouth in horror at the unexpected toad that had leaped from my tongue.

Betty gave me a reproving glance. “Everyone’s present and accounted for. Time to go in and get settled.”

She conjured a large bell. It hung in the air, its rope pooling on the ground at her feet. Betty tugged on the rope, and the bell tolled a mournful dirge.

Cousin Julie appeared with a Boston Red Sox megaphone. She lifted it to her lips.

“This meeting is called to order!” she hollered over the clanging of the bell.

Inside, the mood was somber, and low waves of conversation crested and fell. Candles brightened the space, casting dark shadows in the corners where the light did not reach. The barn doors remained open to the quiet music of the owls and herons, the soft lapping of the tide against the edges of the marsh, and the glow of the full moon. Two rings of chairs occupied the center of the barn. The inner circle was reserved for coven officers. The large outer circle was for the rest of the coven membership. As Julie had predicted, it was standing room only.

I spotted some familiar faces in the crowd: Ann Downing, Hitty Braybrooke, my cousins Tracy and Grace, and of course Meg Skelling. The rest of the assembly represented a cross section of the town’s population—young and old, male and female (though the latter far outnumbered the former), of European, Latin American, African, and Asian descent. One elderly wizard slept in his wheelchair. Had I not known better, I would have thought elderly members of the Junior League, Goths and Bohemians in their forties and fifties, young mothers, and millennials with nose rings and cellphones had mistakenly wandered into the same meeting.

The coven officers wore name badges like those I’d seen at The Thirsty Goat. The assignments ranged from the membership committee (Meg) to the education committee (Gwyneth), the divination and prophecy committee (Katrina) to the young witches activity committee. The badges also included the coven parliamentarian (Hitty), spellmaster, historian, secretary (Betty), mistress of coven ceremonies, and treasurer. As for the names on the badges, they represented a who’s who of the Salem trials: Proctor, Jackson, Perkins, Varnum, Green, Skelling, Braybrooke, Wildes, Prince, and Eastey.

There were few empty seats, and I was about to perch on the woodpile with Granny Dorcas when Gwyneth hooked me by the elbow.

“Come, Diana,” she said. “They’ve put you next to me.”

We processed to our places, neither of us meeting the curious glances of those around us. Once we were seated, Gwyneth looked into the barn’s rafters. Her mouth tightened into a line of displeasure, and I followed her gaze to where a row of ghosts sat on the central crossbeam, looking down over the proceedings. Their clothing ranged from the seventeenth century to the twentieth. One dashing young woman with bobbed hair and rouged knees blew us a kiss.

“My mother,” Gwyneth whispered, grim. “Not only did she find a way to escape from the attic, she’s released all the family’s other black bird oracles, too. Look at them, preening and posing.”

I glanced over at Julie, who had a mischievous twinkle in her eye and an innocent expression plastered over her face. Gwyneth pursed her lips, her cheeks pink with suppressed irritation.

“I call this special meeting to order,” Ann proclaimed, rising to her feet. “Before turning to our first item of business, we will, as is our custom, mark the beginning of the hanging times by remembering our sister, Bridget Bishop, whose descendant is with us tonight.”

Ann waited while the muttering and sharp looks of the coven members subsided.

“On the eve of the ninth of June, three hundred and twenty-five years ago, Goody Bishop awaited her execution. She was not the first person accused of witchcraft in this part of Massachusetts, nor was she the last,” Ann continued. “Her death fractured the wider community and caused division and dissension among witches as false allegations brought hundreds of innocents into the snare of the courts.”

Meg’s glance touched me with a dark, cold pressure, then moved away.

“Let us join together in a moment of silence to reflect upon the past, when Darkness took root in this community and we lost our way,” Ann concluded.

The birds stopped chirping, the waves quieted, and the moon hung heavy in the sky.

“We humbly entreat the goddess to keep us united and dedicated to her path in the years to come,” Ann said, bringing the silence to an end. “We will follow our customary calendar of observances at the other summer gatherings, reading aloud the names of all those accused, imprisoned, dead, and executed. This sacred season of remembrance will culminate with our Mabon ritual marking the end of the hanging times.”

The witches murmured spells to remind them to reserve the dates.

“In the interest of time, I’ve requested that the committee reports be filed with the secretary, who will distribute them by email,” Ann said, nodding at Betty. “If there are no objections, I turn the meeting over to Goody Eastey.”

Julie rose, casting an apologetic glance toward Ann.

“Sorry,” Julie mumbled. “I forgot to make copies of Meg’s charges.”

A few groans erupted. Meg straightened in her chair, visibly agitated by this slip.

“Another example of the Proctor conspiracy,” someone in the barn hissed.

“Most of you know what the charges are already, so I’m not sure why we need to kill more trees,” Julie said. “Don’t worry. I remembered Mama’s document manifestation spell. She used it whenever she forgot to sign our permission slips and report cards.”

“It’s a good piece of magic,” Betty Prince commented, hoping to assuage the disenchanted. “Julie shared it with me when I misplaced my passport.”

Other testimonies concerning the value of the spell were offered, proving that her lapse had been forgiven, perhaps even forgotten. Only Meg continued to fume.

“You and Harold had a wonderful cruise, as I remember,” Julie said with a grateful smile at Betty. Without preamble, she directed her wand into the air and swirled it around. A flurry of white paper rained on the coven, the pages sailing into the laps of the gathered witches.

Except for me. I was not a member of the coven, and, though I stood accused with Gwyneth, I had not been included in this special delivery.

“Excuse me, Julie.” Gwyneth raised her hand. “Diana doesn’t seem to have received a copy. I’ve never studied the law, but this seems out of order.”

Debate erupted on the floor and Julie, instead of being flustered by it, looked pleased.

“I was told only coven members should be privy to the charges,” Julie said, voice sweet and expression wicked.

“Order!” Hitty Braybrooke stamped her high-heeled foot several times as if it were a gavel. She had come to the meeting straight from work in a gray suit and pink blouse. “The lady from Ravenswood was not recognized by the mistress of ceremonies before she spoke.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Hitty,” Julie said, hands on hips. “Lighten up. You’re not presiding over the Massachusetts General Court tonight.”

“If I may interject,” said the coven historian, James Perkins, whose button-down collar and khaki trousers suggested he may be an academic, “we haven’t followed Robert’s Rules of Order since 1972. We voted them down as a patriarchal form of governance that privileges elite, white men and puts marginal voices at a disadvantage.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

The Ipswich coven gathering was turning into a nightmare version of the monthly PTA meetings held at the twins’ progressive school, complete with officiousness masked in deference, and unresolved resentments cloaked in virtue.

Agitated chatter broke out again following James’s remarks, and Julie lifted her megaphone in warning. The rumbling quieted.

“Diana Bishop is not a member of the coven,” Meg said, piling fuel on the fire.

“I move that an exception be made in this case,” said a quavering voice. I traced it to the old man in the wheelchair.

“Seconded,” said a tall male witch standing by the shelves, his tattooed arms crossed over his Harvard T-shirt. “If this coven follows the U.S. Constitution in its procedures, Diana has a Sixth Amendment right to know the charges.”

“Thank you, Junior. All in favor?” Julie asked.

There were a handful of holdouts, but most of the room agreed, albeit grudgingly.

“The ayes have it,” Betty noted for posterity.

A single piece of paper slowly fluttered down into my lap.

“I guess it’s time for Meg to make her formal declaration.” Julie was determined to keep the proceedings casual and low-key, despite Hitty’s emphatic stamping. “Take it away, Meg.”

Meg took her time rising to her feet and moving to the center of the inner circle. She was relishing her moment in the spotlight. My pocket buzzed and swelled as the black bird oracle cards took note of the proceedings. I patted them through the fabric, reassuring them that I had this covered.

“I charge Gwyneth Proctor with abusing her position as headmistress of this coven, and ignoring our established procedure regarding witches who seek the Dark Path.” Meg took a brief pause for dramatic effect. “Furthermore, I charge her with divulging Ipswich coven knowledge to Diana Bishop, who is not a member of this assembly.”

Meg deliberately pointed her finger at me. There were gasps from every direction. To be singled out like this by a witch was not something to be taken lightly, for a pointing index finger showed the direction in which your magic would be unleashed. All witches were schooled from an early age not to point a finger unless they intended to useit.

“Since this stranger arrived in Ipswich, she has been seeking advice and expertise without the consent of the coven leadership. Gwyneth Proctor has aided and abetted her, putting her own interests and those of her family above the community.” Meg’s finger was still extended, quivering with rage. “Goody Proctor has knowingly led Diana Bishop down the Dark Path—Bridget Bishop’s kin, whose irresponsible actions, and their deadly consequences, we remember this night. Goody Proctor has done so with unreasonable haste and a profound lack of judgment, jeopardizing the lives of herself and others.”

Darkness entered the barn, feeding on old terrors and jealousies, snaking through the room, charging the atmosphere with vitriol.

“A Bishop has returned to Ipswich.” Meg’s glance swept over the coven, lingering on those who were nodding in agreement with her. “Do you feel it? Gwyneth Proctor has allowed Darkness into Ravenswood and polluted our community.”

Gwyneth’s spine stiffened, but she remained silent.

“I humbly submit these charges to the coven for full consideration, Goody Eastey,” Meg said, returning to her seat. “Whether I am in the right or in error will be the coven’s decision, and I will abide by it. So must it be.”

“So must it be,” the coven intoned.

“Well. My goodness. That was quite an opening act.” Julie’s sharp gaze flickered to me and Gwyneth before she faced the coven. “Anyone else want to speak?”

Most hands wentup.

“Oh-kay.” Julie pinched the bridge of her nose and regrouped. “Betty, can you keep a list? And please observe the three-minute rule with respect to comments or we’ll be here until Midsummer. The bell will ring in warning if you go over your limit.”

“Goody Varnum is first, then Goody Jackson.” Betty’s formal address took the gathering a step further back in time to Salem and 1692. “Then Goody Wildes.”

One after the other, the witches dredged up old grievances against the Proctors in general, and Gwyneth in particular. Gwyneth had refused to educate her niece, Hannah Varnum stated, simply because she resided in New Hampshire. Why had she made an exception for Diana Bishop? For Phoebe Wildes, the issue was the speed of Gwyneth’s lessons, and the young mother of two dredged up her own slow progress with higher magic, which was, she claimed, a direct result of Gwyneth’s unfair judgment of her skill. Would her children enjoy the same fate at Goody Proctor’s hands? Grudge by grudge, slight by slight, Gwyneth’s reputation was brought into question.

And the disgruntled accusations didn’t stop with Gwyneth; they extended to past generations of Proctors as well. Tales of Granny Alice’s tyrannical methods of instruction and strict observance of tradition were held up as beacons of light, while legends about Gwyneth’s mother’s lax requirements, and how they had contributed to Naomi’s downfall, bubbled to the surface.

Objection! Granny Dorcas cried to no avail after each accusation. Objection!

Gwyneth and I were already guilty in the eyes of the coven. Only a few members approached the matter impartially: Katrina, James Perkins, and Betty Prince. Their probing questions were concerning, however apologetically they were delivered.

Katrina asked why Gwyneth felt compelled to deviate from her own traditions.

Was Gwyneth under some kind of compulsion spell? Betty Prince wondered.

Had I threatened her? James demanded of my aunt.

Gwyneth sat silently as her friends and colleagues vented their fears of the future and their resentments from the past. After every member of the coven who wanted to had spoken, Gwyneth raised her hand.

“Might I respond?” my aunt asked, her tone mild.

“Yes,” Julie said with a sigh of relief. “I recognize Goody Proctor.”

In a steely but quiet voice, Gwyneth spoke to the accusations leveled against her.

“My lessons with Diana did not fall under my role as coven headmistress of education. It is my right, as one of the senior members of the Proctor family, to guide successive generations in their study of higher magic as I see fit, without interference, according to the traditions of the Ipswich coven,” Gwyneth said. “Diana’s lessons took place on Proctor land, as is customary whenever a family undertakes its own program of instruction, to limit any damage to the community.”

Several witches shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. James Perkins nodded vigorously.

“True,” he said. “That’s true.”

“My niece, Diana, has just as much Proctor blood in her veins as she does Bishop blood,” Gwyneth said. “She is, without question, a member of the Proctor family. Putnam Mather was aware of what was happening at Ravenswood, and fully approved of it.”

All eyes turned to the aged man in the wheelchair. He was looking more sprightly than he had earlier.

“So I did, Gwynie,” Putnam said. “This is a Proctor family matter. I still don’t know why we’re meeting tonight. I’d rather be in bed.”

Grace, who was sitting beside Putnam, beamed at him and patted his hand.

“So, too, did the Easteys,” Gwyneth said, directing her attention across the room where a slightly older version of Julie sat, Tracy at her side.

“Furthermore, I notified our chair of divination and prophecy that Diana had been chosen by the black bird oracle, as our bylaws require.”

The assembly gasped, and whispers broke out once more.

“Goody Wu met with my niece at the café, as Ann and Meg well know, and approved Diana’s use of the cards,” Gwyneth continued. “My niece’s training in higher magic, and my supervision of it, will continue unless and until her path crosses the Ravenswood boundary.”

Gwyneth had hoisted the Ipswich coven by their own petard, using their customs to mount an inspiring defense.

Concerned by the shifting mood in the barn, Meg changed tack.

“Diana Bishop is married to a vampire!” Meg cried. “Do we really want our secrets known to the notorious de Clermont family? How can we allow Matthew Clairmont to understand the subtleties of higher magic, given what Ysabeau de Clermont did to our people?”

I shut my eyes and swore silently. The Ipswich witches knew my mother-in-law’s checkered past.

“Everyone in this room has done something that they’re ashamed of,” I interrupted, appealing directly to James for support. “History is full of misdeeds and atonements, isn’t it? Ysabeau would be the first to admit that her prejudices and fears got the better of her during her darkest days.”

Howls of protest accused me of being complicit in the actions Ysabeau had taken centuries ago, simply by extending an olive branch of compassion to my mother-in-law.

“Order! Order!” Hitty Braybrooke tried to bring the assembly under her control, banging her foot against the floor.

The tide of opinion in the barn had changed again—and not in Gwyneth’s favor.

“And what about Diana Bishop’s children? They are unnatural, of mixed witch and vampire blood.” Meg glowed in triumph. “We cannot let that Bishop woman pass an understanding of higher magic to them, either.”

“No matter how vivid Meg’s fantasies, or this gathering’s eventual determination, I will continue to share Proctor knowledge and traditions within the family.” Gwyneth’s voice rang through the barn. “The coven can strip me of my position, expel me, and report me to the Congregation, but I will not be bullied into submission.”

“You have betrayed this coven and everything we stand for, Gwyneth,” Meg spat. “You have given Darkness shelter. No good will come of it.”

I’d had enough. Without asking for recognition from Julie, and though I was a guest and therefore had no right to speak, I faced Meg squarely.

“You have an issue with me, Meg?” I demanded. “Why don’t you leave the protection of the circle and step outside. I’m sure we can settle this. Just the two of us.”

Meg’s satisfied smile told me that she’d been waiting for just such an outburst. I’d fallen into her trap.

“Very well,” Meg replied. “I challenge Diana Bishop to prove herself fit for the study of higher magic at the Crossroads.”

The coven’s answering silence was more unnerving than all the previous hullabaloo.

“A challenge has been issued. Do you accept it, Diana?” Ann asked.

The Crossroads card shimmered in my memory. My pocket warmed with satisfaction. Meg was not the only one whose expectations had been met this evening. The black bird oracle had been proven right, too.

“Yes.” I had no idea what this meant, or why Gwyneth looked so alarmed at the prospect, but, like my aunt, I would not back down from Meg Skelling.

“Is Diana ready for such a challenge?” Goody Wu asked Gwyneth, an edge of concern sharpening her voice.

“More than ready,” Gwyneth confirmed.

“So must it be,” Ann Downing said with a sigh.

“So must it be,” the coven murmured in unison.

“So must it be,” I said, adding my voice to the rest.