Chapter 11

Chapter 11

N ext morning, the slam of car doors and chorus of ecstatic barks and chirrups indicated that Matthew and the children had arrived. I flew out of the Old Place to meet them.

“It tingles!” Becca was already out of her seat, hopping from one foot to the other. Tamsy hung from her arms, eyes wide with astonishment. “See if you can feel it, Pip.”

Pip climbed down with more caution. He stood, unsteady, then bent over to put his hands on the earth.

Becca removed her lavender sneakers. “It’s even better with bare feet!”

Matthew released the back hatch and Ardwinna tripped out on her long legs, graceful as a ballerina. She gave a good shake and slunk off to the scrubby brush on the side of the property, sniffing to see if there were any creatures hiding there that she might be able to chase.

Apollo stuck one paw out of the cargo area, then slowly released another. Gingerly, he dropped them to the ground so that he was half in the car and half out. Apollo’s eyes widened in surprise. As a magical creature, he felt the same tingle Becca had. He slithered until he was fully out of the Range Rover, at which point his Labrador disguising spell evaporated, revealing the splendid griffin underneath. My poor weaving was no match for the power of Ravenswood.

Matthew lowered the hatch and it snicked closed. At the touch of his eyes, the world was set to rights. We met halfway between the car and the house, each of us eager for the reassurance of physical contact.

“I don’t like being separated from you,” I said as he folded me in his arms.

“I don’t, either, ma lionne, ” Matthew replied.

We held each other, my heart beating in a rapid rhythm. Matthew’s pulse was equally strong, though slower, and my own quieted to match, reveling in our instant connection.

“Mommy!” Pip thundered toward us, one shoe on and the other forgotten by the car. He barreled into me without regard for the fact that I had no vampire blood to withstand such an enthusiastic reunion.

“Steady, Philip.” Matthew stayed Pip’s momentum with a firm hand. “ Maman cannot hug you with broken arms.”

“Mom!” The fireball of energy that was Becca plowed into the family hug. “I love it here. The ground is welcoming me. Can we stay?”

“You are always welcome at Ravenswood, Rebecca.” Gwyneth had followed me out of the house, leaving plenty of space for the family to come together before she joined in our reunion. “All of you are. I’m Aunt Gwyneth.”

“Thank you for having us.” Matthew gathered the children closer. It was an instinctive movement, and Gwyneth’s eyes flickered as she registered it. “It’s a pleasure to meet another member of Diana’s family.”

My husband’s tone did not match his words. It was wary, like his embrace of the twins. Gwyneth pretended otherwise and approached Matthew with her hand extended.

“Matthew de Clermont.” There would be no effusive hugging between my aunt and my husband. “My brother, Taliesin, met your mother during the war. She left an indelible impression on him.”

So Gwyneth had known about Ysabeau’s interactions with Grandpa Tally.

“Which war?” Matthew’s expression was carefully neutral but his eyes narrowed.

“World War II,” Gwyneth replied, without missing a beat. “He was in the Allied intelligence service.”

“My mother never mentioned him.” Matthew absorbed this piece of information with his usual impassivity, but I suspected that it was not the whole truth.

With a bright smile, Gwyneth turned to the children.

“You must be Philip.” She gestured toward the griffin, who was preening in the strong sunlight. “Who’s your friend?”

“Apollo,” Pip said shyly. “And he’s not my friend. He’s my familiar.”

“I thought as much. Do you see that big rock down by the marsh?” Gwyneth shielded her eyes and directed our attention to the enormous granite boulder that dominated the shore. “That’s where your grandpa’s heron familiar, Bennu, first appeared to help him learn his knots so he could make spells.”

Pip’s eyes were round. “Really?”

“Really.” Aunt Gwyneth beamed at her great-great-nephew. “You look like your grandpa, you know. All those freckles.”

Pip giggled.

“This is Tamsy.” Becca, feeling left out, held her doll up for Gwyneth’s inspection. The bone ring around the doll’s neck shone in the light. “She wanted to come home, too.”

Gwyneth drew a sharp breath. “I imagine she did. Where did Tamsy get her ring, Rebecca? It looks very old.”

Rebecca shrugged. “It was in the dead raven’s beak. I thought she’d want me to keep it.”

A gentle buzzing in my pocket suggested that I could ask the oracle about Becca’s decision.

Ardwinna was the last to welcome me. She had finished a thorough exploration of the hedge and was panting with all the excitement of new smells and sounds.

“Hello, sweetie.” I ruffled her fur and scratched her ear until her back leg thumped in ecstasy. “I trust everything meets your expectations?”

The deerhound’s vigorous tail-wagging confirmedit.

“Where are my manners!” Gwyneth clapped her hands. “You’ve had a long drive, and must be thirsty. Who wants lemonade? And I have blueberry muffins, too.”

Becca nodded enthusiastically. Thankfully, her reliance on blood as a major source of nourishment had waned as she aged, and she was less finicky about what she consumed.

“Yes, please,” Pip said.

Gwyneth beckoned the twins toward the house. “Let’s get out of this bright sunshine and get everybody fed and watered.”

Ardwinna, who knew what both fed and watered meant, loped past Gwyneth to the promised land of the kitchen, the twins behind her. Apollo glued himself to Gwyneth’s side, chattering away and letting out the occasional chortle. He spread his wings wide, his feathers ruffling in the breeze.

“Yes, there are a great many birds around here.” Gwyneth responded to the griffin as though she understood perfectly what he was saying. “I don’t imagine you have anything to worry about, Apollo. You’ve got wings and a beak. Surely that’s all you need to join in their flights?”

Matthew and I remained where we were. A shimmer of awakened power filled the space between us with golden motes that attracted the dragonflies and bees that hummed over the meadow.

My husband searched my face, caressing my cheek and drawing a wayward curl away from my eye. His expression of wonder reminded me of the first time we’d dared to touch each other in love, the power of our connection undeniable.

“You look like you’re seeing me for the first time,” I said, resting my cheek in his hand.

“Maybe I am,” Matthew replied softly.

I kissed his palm and his eyes smoldered with unmet desire. Then he remembered where we were. The moment passed, but we would return to it later. He took my hand and we strolled toward the house.

“We’ve barely got time for an early lunch and a whirlwind tour of the Old Place and Orchard Farm before we have to go to Salem,” I said, knowing how many questions Matthew must have about my experiences at Ravenswood. “Can our catch-up wait until after the ceremony?”

“It sounded urgent last night,” Matthew said, frowning. He suspected something was not quite right.

“You’ll see why when we get to Gallows Hill,” I said. “Essex County is not like Madison County. The witches here are in a league of their own.”

Matthew’s frown deepened, but he let me lead him into the Old Place to join Gwyneth and the twins.

It was, I knew, only a temporary reprieve.

—

“Good Lord.” Matthew surveyed the cars that were parked haphazardly near the intersection of Bridge Street and Boston Street, a short walk from Proctor’s Ledge. It had been cordoned off so that the witches could find a place to park on a busy summer Saturday, when Salem was filled with tourists buying black hats and potion bottles filled with scented oil.

I sighed. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Matthew was familiar with the close relationship between witches and their modes of transport, be they car or broom. Vampires were the same, although they prioritized raw horsepower over everything else, including fuel economy and the environment. But nothing could prepare you for the sight of a hundred parked cars driven by witches from all over New England on the anniversary of Salem’s hanging times.

Curious visitors took pictures of the vehicles to share with the folks back home. The snapshots would no doubt feature the SUV with a flying black witch attached to its roof rack. The bumper stickers Sarah was so fond of were all represented, as well as others that were unique to the area. we are the daughters of the witches you didn’t hang ! proclaimed one popular example. 1692 —they missed one ! read another.

And it wasn’t only the bumpers that carried messages. An ancient VW Bug was covered in pagan symbols and crescent moons. Nineteen nooses decorated the side of a paneled van, one for every accused witch hanged over the summer of 1692. The owner had not forgotten poor Giles Corey, pressed to death under a rock-covered plank when he refused to confess. The rear of the vehicle was embellished with a painting of said wooden plank with Giles’s name inscribed in red paint. The other side of the van was dedicated to the five unfortunate souls who had died in gaol: Ann Foster, Sarah Osborne, Lydia Dustin, Roger Toothaker, and Mercy Good, who was born in prison and died before her mother was hanged. Four large tombstones and one tiny marker for Mercy were silent testaments to lives lived, and tragically lost, centuries ago.

I spotted Grace’s Ipswitch Seafood truck pulling into the parking lot, with its enchanting bivalve.

“The family are here.” I straightened Pip’s collar, and made sure that Becca had shoes on. Since arriving, she had preferred to go barefoot. “Aunt Gwyneth will be with two of Mommy’s cousins. We’ll walk to the memorial together, and then put Aunt Gwyneth’s flowers under Granny Bridget’s stone.”

“I miss Apollo,” Pip said, clutching his long-eared rabbit, Cuthbert, for comfort.

We’d left the animals behind under Granny Dorcas’s watchful eye. It was going to be difficult enough to manage the children while supporting Gwyneth. A griffin with a Houdini-like ability to shed his disguising spell and a scary-looking wolfhound with very sharp teeth would have made it impossible.

“Hi, Aunt Gwyneth!” Becca removed Tamsy from the seat belt she’d fashioned from Ardwinna’s dog leash. Sadly, we had not succeeded in leaving the doll at Ravenswood. Our daughter trotted off, eager to meet more Proctor witches.

“Do you want to go with Becca?” I asked Pip as Matthew carefully removed a large bouquet picked that morning from the back of the Range Rover. Grace’s van was filled with empty crab pots, so she’d carried Gwyneth and we’d brought the flowers.

“I’ll stay with you.” Pip was still adjusting to his new environment. His clinginess was a departure from his usual roll-with-the-punches approach to life.

Matthew eyed Pip with concern before his features smoothed out into something that was gentle yet determined.

“I could use your help with this vase, Philip, if you have a spare hand.”

Now occupied with important business, Pip started to relax. By the time we’d met up with the Proctors, he was even giggling at some of the more overtly witchy car decorations.

“Have you seen that?” Grace asked, picking up on Pip’s interest. She pointed to the city’s water tower peeking over the summit of Gallows Hill. It was painted Salem and ornamented with a black witch’s silhouette flying skyward on a broom. She gave Matthew a nod and a smile.

“Ri-diculous,” Pip said, giggling again. “Everybody knows witches don’t need brooms to fly—just spells!”

“Exactly,” Grace said. “Tell me about your rabbit.”

Pip was quick to abandon Matthew now that he’d met a kindred spirit who appreciated his stuffed companion.

“Thanks for bringing the flowers, Matthew.” Tracy took charge of Gwyneth’s elbow, making sure our aunt didn’t stumble over the broken pavement. “I’m Diana’s cousin Tracy. Welcome to Salem.”

“It makes quite an impression.” His was a classically obscure vampire response.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” Tracy said. She hoisted a bag filled with snacks and water bottles onto her shoulder. “I thought Julie and the kids might need munchies and some hydration to keep their blood sugar on an even keel.”

“Good idea,” I said. Matthew might have been reserving judgment, but I was thrilled to have Tracy’s eyes on the twins.

We made our way to Pope Street. A knot of witches indicated we were close to the memorial.

Matthew’s step faltered.

“From what I’ve been reading, Bridget Bishop was something of an outcast amongst the witches of the area,” Matthew murmured. He checked on Becca, who was skipping next to Gwyneth, and Pip, who was enumerating the family’s other pets to Grace. She didn’t seem at all surprised that one was a griffin.

“Don’t let the crowd fool you,” I replied. “They’re only here to get a sneak peek at the memorial. And you.”

“They’re here!” Julie burst out of the throng, her long arms extended, and her legs encased in a pair of hot-pink Bermuda shorts. She picked up one knee. “I’m not a flamingo! You can call me Aunt Julie like everybody else!”

Julie’s joy was infectious. Even Matthew lifted a corner of his mouth as she swept toward us like an airplane in flight.

“My goodness, Philip, you’re very tall for your age,” Julie told Pip, winning his undying love. She cemented a place in his heart by shaking Cuthbert’s ear. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“And you must be Rebecca.” Julie’s hand touched Becca’s raven-dark head and Matthew tensed beside me. He’d heard my tale of how Peter Knox had tried to invade my mind with just such a touch.

“Look what I found,” Julie said, seeming to draw a small black feather from Becca’s long tresses. “It told me to give it to you.”

“You talk to feathers?” Becca’s face lit up. “I do, too. And birds. And sometimes the trees, but they’ve been quiet lately.”

“I talk to the wind, and cast spells for the fishermen to keep their boats from being damaged in storms,” Julie replied.

“ Christ Jesu, ” Matthew said under his breath, “ Filia mea custodiat. ” Falling back on medieval Catholicism was a sure sign he was under stress.

“Neither of your children is in any danger,” Gwyneth said softly. She was not Catholic, but she knew Latin. “Not with so many Proctors here.”

“Who would like to meet Put-Put? He’s even older than Aunt Gwyneth.” Julie put her hands on her hips and waggled her eyebrows like Tinker Bell.

“I beg your pardon!” Gwyneth said tartly, but Julie’s grin only got wider.

Julie led the twins off like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. There was something irresistible about her sparkling web of magic and possibility.

“Should you go with her?” Matthew asked, holding the heavy bouquet in one hand as though it, too, were a feather.

“We’ll all go,” Gwyneth said firmly. “Together. The moon is near nadir, and they’ll be waiting for Diana.”

I was surprised. “Who knew I was coming?”

“Everyone within reach of the coven phone tree, of course,” Tracy replied. “Come on. Let’s not keep the old biddies waiting.”

We were yards away when the whispers began. Then came the curious looks. There were a few pointed fingers, too. Pip and Becca, oblivious to it all, had made friends with the elderly man from the coven meeting. Standing next to him was the young lawyer who’d invoked the United States Constitution in my defense.

Matthew took account of every narrowed eye and acid remark.

“That’s her,” one witch whispered to her neighbor. “And that’s her vampire.”

“Steady,” I murmured. It was the advice Matthew always gave Pip when he forgot he was part vampire and acted on his instincts.

My husband, however, was all vampire. He remained calm, but the ticking of the dark vein in his temple and the set of his jaw revealed that he was on guard, and would move swiftly if anyone made an aggressive move.

“Are you all right, Gwyneth?” Matthew inquired, not taking his eyes off the crowd. His protectiveness had quickly enfolded my aunt.

“Perfectly fine, Matthew,” Gwyneth said serenely. “You worry about the flowers. Everything else is under control.”

We joined the rest of the family.

“Marvels and magic, you are tall, even for a vampire,” said the old man in the wheelchair. “Come closer so I can get a good look at you.”

“This is Put-Put,” Pip told Matthew, shifting his weight between his feet. “He was a soldier, too, just like Grand-père. But he fought on a ship. So did Uncle Ike, but that was in a different war, and he was a merman.”

“A Marine.” Ike was the lawyer with the Harvard T-shirt. He had luminous jade-green eyes and high cheekbones, and was as tall and broad as Matthew. He extended a hand to my husband. “Isaac Mather. Put-Put’s grandson. Most people call me Junior, but I prefer Ike.”

Matthew’s eyes widened slightly at the familiar last name, then returned to normal as he clasped Ike’s hand. The two men exchanged a look like those I’d seen pass between Matthew and Marcus, and Gallowglass and Fernando. It was the look that soldiers gave one another, a recognition that they were brothers-in-arms no matter which side they fought on, who shared a common code of honor. My husband’s shoulders relaxed a fraction more.

“Bend down, young man,” Put-Put said testily. “My neck doesn’t work that way anymore, and I still can’t see you.”

Matthew did so. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Sir.” Put-Put looked like he’d bitten into something sour. He pointed to his hat. It was embroidered with USS Essex and had a badge of three bars, three stars, and a white eagle. “I left the officer corps to Tally. Then my son went to Annapolis, and I was outranked. As for Junior, he enlisted in the Marines and broke his mother’s heart.”

Put-Put’s look of pride indicated that he thought the world of Ike, no matter what he said with his dry New England wit.

“That’s Captain Junior to you, Master Chief.” Ike grinned down at his elder, who gave him a sharp salute. “Let me take those flowers, Matthew. What on earth were you thinking, Aunt Gwynie? This vase is so big you won’t be able to read Bridget Bishop’s name on the stone.”

Gwyneth had been out in the early hours of the morning, selecting blossoms for the bouquet: white anemones with their dark centers, red roses, white snapdragons, purple irises, bright marigolds, sprigs of azalea from the shrub outside the farmhouse, and the velvety celadon leaves of silver ragwort.

Now that Matthew’s hands were free, he was able to gather Becca in one arm and Pip in the other.

“And here is Ann with the rest of the coven. Perfect timing as ever!” Julie said brightly.

She maneuvered into place behind Matthew, linking arms with Tracy and Grace. The three witches were smiling, but steely resolve shone in their eyes. The Proctors were going to present a unified front at today’s proceedings, no matter what bombs were lobbed our way.

I swung around to see who had joined Ann today. Meg Skelling’s uncanny eyes met mine. She hissed.

Matthew’s spine straightened, his teeth bared in a terrifying smile. Ike quickly passed the flowers to Grace.

“Hey, squirt,” Ike said to Pip. “You want a lift so you can see better?”

Pip held his arms up. “Yes, please!”

In one smooth move, Ike lifted Pip onto his shoulders. It was an exhibition of controlled strength. Matthew drew Becca closer.

“Come here.” Put-Put beckoned the members of the Ipswich coven over to where we stood. “We need to show the Salem witches that we outnumber them.”

Ann hesitated.

“I warned you,” Meg said, low and venomous as a snake. “I warned you that Diana Bishop would share our sacred knowledge with that creature.” She forked her hands in Matthew’s direction.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I sent a black thread toward her. It wrapped around Meg’s fingers. I tightened the lasso’s hold and she gasped.

“Don’t fork with me,” I said, deadly serious. “Not today.”

“Dang. You beat me to it, Diana,” Julie said, her eyes glowing with amusement and power.

“If you can beat Julie to a spell, you really are a Proctor.” Grace’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“What is she talking about?” Matthew murmured, his lips close to my ear. “What sacred knowledge?”

“Later,” I replied under my breath. “Ann. You haven’t met my husband, Matthew Clairmont. Ann is the high priestess of the Ipswich coven, Matthew.”

Ann’s name tag proclaimed her position, as did those worn by Hitty Braybrooke, Betty Prince, and Meg. Katrina was there, too, her tinted glasses a mournful gray in honor of the occasion, and her parasol black.

The screech of a poorly controlled microphone split the air, capturing everyone’s attention.

“Welcome to this special soft opening for the Proctor’s Ledge memorial,” a city official said, interrupting the growing tension among the Ipswich coven membership. “We didn’t expect such a crowd.” The woman laughed, nervous. “But we’re delighted that you can all be here on this sunny day.”

“She makes it sound like the martyrs’ memorial is a new Dunkin’ Donuts,” Tracy muttered.

“And forecasting the weather is not her forte,” Katrina said, twirling her parasol to block the sunshine. “A storm is headed this way.”

Everyone looked up in disbelief. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but we all knew better than to question the chair of divination and prophecy when it came to making predictions. I shrugged off my own sixth sense that a brewing storm was an ill omen and returned my attention to the ceremony, ignoring Meg’s fixed stare.

“We are all aware, here in Salem, that today marks the three hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of the first hanging to take place at Proctor’s Ledge,” the official continued. “While we will welcome the general public here in July, it felt neighborly and right to give this special community VIP access.”

Julie groaned. “Now she’s turned it into a movie premiere.”

“And I’m told that one of Bridget Bishop’s direct descendants is with us today?” chirped the city official.

Pip and Becca raised their hands.

“Three actually,” I said, stepping forward.

“It’s showtime,” Ike said, putting Pip down and taking Gwyneth’s arrangement from Grace. “I’m right behind you, coz.”

Julie had called me coz when I was outflanked by unfamiliar witches at The Thirsty Goat. Was it a Proctor endearment, or a warning to any witches within earshot to back off or face the family’s collective wrath?

I gave Matthew a reassuring smile and bent to kiss Becca on the brow.

“Can I come, too?” she asked, her expression full of entreaty.

I hesitated and looked to Matthew. All eyes were upon us, and much depended on everyone remaining composed. He nodded and I took Becca by the hand.

“Do you want to go with us?” I asked Pip.

“No, I want Dad to pick me up like Uncle Ike did so I can see you from here,” Pip replied.

“Wise wizard, for one so young.” Tracy handed Pip a granola bar as a reward. “Here. You don’t want to get light-headed at high altitude.”

The crowd parted before us, falling silent as we passed. It was not out of respect, but rather a sign of how amazed the witches were to have Bishops walking freely among them. Once my back was turned, however, snippets of bile floated to my ears. I heard the words fault and blame, as well as the distinct phrase She deservedit.

I spun around, using my teacher-stare to reveal the identity of the witch who had said those unforgivable words. Ike put himself between Becca and the crowd. He was ready to clobber anyone who laid a finger on my daughter, first with Gwyneth’s heavy crystal vase and then with his bare hands.

The guilty party wasn’t hard to spot. She was red-cheeked and defiant, but I could smell her fear.

“Don’t.” My voice was rich with the promise of magic to come and a lock of red-gold hair whipped against my cheek like a lick of fire. For all I knew, my head was ablaze with anger.

The witch’s eyes dropped to the ground.

Coward. I used silent speech, sure that most of the witches present would hear me. The gasps told me that my assumption was correct.

A smattering of applause sounded from the Proctor encampment.

“Listen, Mom,” Becca said, her eyes wide. “They’re clapping for Granny Bridget. She must be famous in this town.”

I smiled and nodded, moving her closer to Ike. Together, we went to the curving stone wall of the memorial. The names of the martyrs were arranged in a terrible timeline of executions. Bridget’s stone was the first, and the only one to read June 10, 1692 .

“Ready?” Ike asked.

Becca nodded, thinking the question was for her.

“I guess so,” I replied, taking a deep breath.

Ike nestled the vase filled with brightly colored blossoms at the base of the wall under Bridget’s name. He stepped back so that Becca and I could approach.

Becca, who was no stranger to memorials and spent hours in the deClermont chapel whenever we visited Sept-Tours in hopes of seeing Hugh de Clermont’s elusive ghost, wasted no time in plucking a single red rose from the arrangement. She kissed its velvet petals and touched the flower to Bridget’s name before putting it at the foot of the vase.

“Well done,” I said, my heart filled with pride at my daughter’s dignified sense of ceremony.

It was my turn.

I rested my hands against the stone wall in silent communion with my ancestor, who had faced the gallows alone. As a historian, I was not surprised that Bridget’s fiercest enemies in 1692 had been her onetime friends. It happened all the time, in every century and every culture. But I was angry that such allegiances could be so quickly cast aside. A tear fell from my eye into the vase of flowers. Then another.

The change of barometric pressure, combined with my rage and heartache, was too much for the atmosphere to bear. The heavens opened, clouds roiling in a sudden tempest.

“Wow,” Ike said, blinking away the sudden torrent of raindrops.

Many of the witches had umbrellas with them. They, too, had smelled an approaching storm and come armed to Proctor’s Ledge. Katrina held her parasol so it would protect Put-Put and Gwyneth from the downpour.

“Woo-hoo!” Julie cried, whipping a bucket hat out of her back pocket and slapping it on her blond head. “There’s a new sheriff in town, and her name is Bishop.”

Startled by this announcement, I released a lightning bolt into the sky.

“We don’t see much ground lightning on the coast,” Ike commented mildly, taking Becca’s hand. “You might want to follow it up with a bolt from the blue, coz, or a bit of spider lightning, just in case there are any meteorologists among the tourists.”

I waved my hand above my head as though I were diverting the raindrops, and a gratifying clap of thunder and a network of silver illuminated the underside of the darkest cloud. I took Becca’s other hand and the three of us ran toward Matthew and the rest of the family.

Matthew caught me in his arms. He’d put Pip down at the first hint of lightning, so that our son didn’t become an electrical conduit.

“If you intended to make it rain, you should have warned me to bring an umbrella,” he said, pressing his lips against my ear in a kiss.

“Weren’t you a Boy Scout?” I said, my shoulders shivering in the white shirt that was now stuck tome.

“Hardly,” Matthew said, eyeing my body appreciatively.

“I was a Girl Scout,” Grace said, handing my husband a large golf umbrella. “And our Mount Holyoke education taught us to be prepared for any crisis.”

“Thanks, Grace,” Matthew said, holding it over me and the children.

“God, I need coffee,” Ike said, releasing the brake on Put-Put’s chair. “I bet you do, too, Grandpa.”

Matthew’s expression turned wolfish and hungry.

“Let’s stop at The Thirsty Goat on our way out to the neck,” Gwyneth suggested. “We can take our drinks home and steam in front of the fire with Granny Dorcas.”

The prospect of dry clothes was enough to get us all moving toward the parking lot.

Our fast retreat was halted by Meg and some of her cronies. They strung themselves across the path, a moat of malevolence that would be difficult to cross. In the thick of the mob, the cowardly witch who hadn’t the courage to face me before now did.

“Tss,” Meg hissed.

The rest of the witches took up Meg’s strange song, until the air filled with the sibilant sound.

“Go back where you came from,” Meg said, her strange eyes sparking green and black. “We don’t want Bishops or vampires here.”

“Why is she mad?” Becca asked her father.

“Because you don’t belong.” Meg spat at the ground near Becca’s feet.

Julie was nose to nose with Meg before Matthew could move. Vampires were fast. But magic? It was always faster.

“All righty, Meg.” Julie had a handful of fire in one hand, and a curved blade in the other. “Ike told me never to bring a knife to a firefight, so I brought both.”

Meg’s eyes flickered with alarm. Julie was more powerful than she seemed.

“Grace. Ike. Get everybody into the cars and then home,” Julie said in a tone that didn’t welcome negotiation. “We don’t want Becca and Pip to get sick on their first day in Essex County. It wouldn’t be much of a welcome, would it, Meg?”

“Go,” I told Matthew. “I’ll stay with Julie.” My hands were itching to make more magic.

“I appreciate the offer, coz, but Meg and I need to chat about a few things—nothing that need bother you,” Julie said. “We don’t want you falling sick, either. Not with the Crossroads in a week’s time.”

“What crossroads?” Matthew asked, his vampire instincts on alert.

“Let’s go home,” I said. “To Ravenswood. Where we belong.” I swept the line of witches with a deadly stare, daring them to disagree withme.

None did.

—

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me!” Matthew exploded.

We’d been arguing since the children went to bed. First, the twins had demanded answers to at least a million questions while they sipped warm apple cider in front of Gwyneth’s fire. My aunt supplied as many as she could, while I remained as quiet and invisible as possible.

Matthew seethed with his own unanswered queries, and after dosing him with a full pot of coffee, Gwyneth resorted to pulling red wine out of a cupboard. Julie and Ike tried to smooth things over, too, but their efforts were in vain.

The agonizing afternoon we’d spent with the family at Proctor’s Ledge and the stilted conversation over dinner seemed a positive picnic compared to what was happening now behind the closed door of Grandpa Tally’s study.

“Lower your voice,” I said. “You know how sensitive their hearing is. Becca and Pip have been through enough today.”

Matthew nearly put his fist through Tally’s oak desk trying to curb his tongue and his temper.

“You should have told me as soon as this vendetta with Meg started,” Matthew said. “I would never have allowed you to remain here alone, had I known.”

“Allowed me.” I was incredulous. “I don’t require your permission to live my life, Matthew.”

“It’s not your life!” Matthew gripped me by the elbows. “It’s our life. Why can’t you see that your magic touches all of us?”

“You mated and married a witch,” I retorted. “You knew what you were getting into.”

“I thought so,” Matthew shot back. “Oracles? Prophetic twins? Higher magic? Dark paths that meet at a crossroads?”

Until now, these had never been part of our life. The Proctors were, as I feared, challenging Matthew’s control over his ingrained prejudices and deep Catholic faith. Years ago, I’d confessed that I felt the pull of darker, higher magic and was afraid Matthew might not be able to accept it. He’d reassured me then, saying that there was darkness in him, too.

“What happened to loving my darkness?” I demanded.

“I said I couldn’t hate you for it, because I fought against my own every day.” Matthew’s pupils shot wide, giving him a dangerous, wolfish look to his face. “But not hating you and loving your darkness are two very different things. My God, the children understand that and they’re only six.”

“The twins have had the benefit of your fine medieval education,” I hissed in reply. “I was raised by ordinary witches, not someone who studied philosophy and theology at the University of Paris under Peter Abelard and can use logic to thread a camel through the eye of a needle.”

Matthew blinked, taken aback by my vitriol.

“As for Darkness, I’ll know more about that once I defeat Meg at the Crossroads,” I continued.

“If you fail—” Matthew growled.

“I’ve never failed a test in my life,” I replied. “I just have to hold Meg off until I see the Dark Path.”

“I know more about Darkness than you do, Diana,” Matthew said. “I don’t want it to be part of your life—or the life of our children.”

“Darkness is a part of life,” I cried. “It’s only a problem when you pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“I have never ignored it, or its power,” Matthew replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “Darkness has been my close companion for some time.”

“Bullshit.” I pressed my finger into his chest. “You’ve experienced pain, trauma, sin, and agony. And you’ve turned that all inward until you convinced yourself that you are Darkness incarnate. Well, I’ve faced Darkness here at Ravenswood, and I hate to tell you but you aren’t it!”

Matthew’s jaw tightened with fury.

“Go ahead. Let it out,” I said, my voice as level as one of my grandfather’s neatly arranged bookshelves. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Matthew, or your Shadows, or your anger. But you are filled with fear, and it makes you Darkness’s willing prey.”

“Everyone fears Darkness,” Matthew said. “To think you are immune from it is unforgivable hubris.”

“The goddess forgives everything,” I told him. “And you don’t even have to flagellate yourself to earn it.”

Matthew recoiled in shock. Normally his faith was off-limits when we argued, but tonight’s disagreement was far from normal.

“Why do you need to do this? Are you unhappy?” Matthew demanded. “Is there something lacking in your life—something I’m not providing you that I should?”

“This is not about you, Matthew.” I took his clenched fists in my hands. “My desire for higher magic is innate. It’s in my blood, on both sides of my family, and like blood rage there isn’t a drug to cure me of it.”

My words hit a painful bruise, and Matthew looked away.

“If you take the Dark Path at the Crossroads, I will follow you,” Matthew promised. “God help us then. God help Rebecca and Philip. Will they lose both their parents, just as you lost yours?”

“Would you ask me to give up my power—my self— like my father demanded of my mother?” I cried.

The farmhouse’s screen door creaked open and slammed shut.

“What was that?” I asked Matthew.

“Philip,” Matthew said. “He’s talking to Apollo.”

“Why was he outside?” I’d left Pip upstairs, tucked into bed.

We found him in the mudroom trying to remove his boots. Pip was soaked to the skin, trembling, and carrying a droopy rabbit.

“What’s wrong, Pip?” I said, gathering him close. Apollo joined in, enfolding us in a damp, feathery embrace. He clacked and chirped with worry.

“I’m sorry,” Pip said before he burst into sobs.