Chapter 14

Chapter 14

A fter a few days of humid, variable weather, thick clouds rolled into Ipswich and the temperature plummeted once more. It was now part of our morning routine to gather in the barn after breakfast and make family plans for the day. The children drew logs from the woodpile and heaped them on the fire, bringing welcome warmth to the overcast day. Gwyneth presided over the teapot, while Matthew—who had made a second coffee siphon out of distillation equipment—made a fresh pot of his own favorite hot beverage. The happy buzz of family life filled the air, and Granny Dorcas puffed contentedly on her pipe in the rocking chair, stroking Ardwinna and then Apollo, who sat at her feet and gazed at her with soft eyes.

“I thought I’d get up on the roof and look at that leak,” Matthew said, drawing a cup of coffee for Granny Dorcas. She couldn’t drink the stuff, but adored the smell, which reminded her of long-ago evenings spent by the fire at Sparks’ Ordinary, telling fortunes and fencing stolen goods.

“That would be fine.” Gwyneth sighed with relief and eyed the dented kindling bucket placed in the corner to catch the drips. “I’m worried that if we have more rain the books might be damaged.”

I was at the central worktable, shuffling the black bird oracle cards to see if they might reveal any insights into Gwyneth’s teaching plans for the day.

“I don’t think the oracle is awake yet,” Gwyneth said with a yawn, bringing me some tea. “Patience, Diana.”

Matthew deposited the mug of coffee at Dorcas’s elbow, casting a wary glance in my direction. When I’d first shown him the cards, they flew at him and fluttered all over his face and body like butterflies drawn to a particularly sweet patch of buddleia. Since then, he’d kept a healthy distance from the deck when I had it in my hands.

Not so Becca, who had finished feeding the stove and was now hovering at my shoulder. The cards fascinated her.

“Can I try, Mommy?” Becca’s fingers reached for the black bird oracle. The Sulfur card flew out of the deck and rapped her smartly across the knuckles.

“Granny Dorcas gave the cards to me, sweetie,” I said looking across the room to make sure I was right to keep them away from my daughter.

She’ll get her turn was Granny Dorcas’s somewhat ominous reply.

“One day, someone will give you a deck of your own,” I said, not wanting to bathe the cards in the allure associated with forbidden fruit. “Maybe it will be this one, maybe it will be one of the other decks in the barn.”

“This summer?” Becca demanded.

“Rebecca,” Matthew growled.

“When the time is right,” I said firmly.

“Why don’t you make a set of oracle cards for Tamsy to use?” Gwyneth suggested, steering our family ship out of troubled waters. “You can put your special pictures on one side, and write their meaning on the other.” She set a pile of index cards on the table, along with a pot of colored pencils and crayons.

“Like what?” Becca said, clambering onto a nearby stool.

“Things that hold meaning,” Gwyneth said. “Colors, books, food, songs. Anything you like. There’s no right or wrong.”

I wondered if all the Proctor decks had started this way, with a child drawing out their inner hopes and fears and refining them over a lifetime until they sang with power and insight. It was a good way to guide a young witch on how best to use her intuition. By freeing Becca to do whatever she fancied, Gwyneth had cleared any obstacles that might stand between my daughter and her witch’s sixth sense.

The look on Matthew’s face suggested that Gwyneth might have steered us out of troubled waters only to land us in the belly of the whale. My aunt had crossed one of Matthew’s lines, and her plan for Becca seemed like coercion in his eyes.

“Would you like to color with Becca?” Gwyneth asked Pip, smoothly including her brother in the project to divert Matthew’s attention.

“Nah,” Pip said, his fingers tangled up with a ball of string. Gwyneth had been teaching the twins string games like Cat’s Cradle, the Moth, and Jacob’s Ladder. They were good for finger dexterity, which pleased Matthew. The games also taught the twins the basics of the Proctor method for building spells geometrically rather than relying solely on complicated knots. I, too, was learning this complex four-dimensional method as part of Gwyneth’s curriculum covering protection spells and basic wards. It was unlike the weaving that Goody Alsop had taught me in London, but it helped that I had always seen spells in shapes and colors rather than words like most witches.

“Are you ready to learn the Witch’s Broom?” Gwyneth asked, releasing Pip from the web of string. “Or would you like to practice on your spell-loom instead?”

“Spell-loom!” Pip said, running toward the wall where the family looms had pride of place. He took down his favorite. It was smaller than most of the looms, and simply carved with the initialsMP.

Clever Gwyneth. The spell-looms had been carefully arranged so that those at a child’s height would not tax their skills too much. As the children grew, they would have access to finer and more complicated looms.

Watching Becca and Pip with their great-great-aunt, I was struck by the physical similarities between Gwyneth and my father. They had the same crinkle around the eyes, the same patient expression, the same pursed smile that conveyed mischief as well as mirth. What might Dad have thought of his grandchildren? It was a question I’d asked myself many times over the years. Seeing the twins play with Gwyneth provided a kind of answer. Even though Dad would have disapproved of Gwyneth’s subject matter, he would have been delighted by how their minds worked, and ready to guide them toward success with a light hand.

“This is hopeless.” I kept shuffling the cards, but to no avail. “The black bird oracle isn’t sleeping—it’s gone on a cruise to the Bahamas.”

Nobody gave my griping a moment’s notice, or a drop of sympathy. Matthew tied on a leather belt with a pouch that held the tools he would need and climbed up into the rafters, scaling the bookcases and traveling across roof beams like an agile cat.

“Very nice,” Gwyneth said, looking over Becca’s shoulder at her drawing of a feather. “Did you see that on your walk?”

“No, it was in Penny’s paddock this morning.” Becca examined her drawing with a critical eye. “Only it wasn’t black—it was greeny-bluey-blacky.”

“Layer the colors,” Gwyneth said, pulling out a green and a blue pencil and shading the feather. “See?”

Becca was amazed by the transformation and eager to try it herself. She was soon absorbed in her work.

“Everybody seems settled.” My voice twanged with envy.

“You need something more active to do than brood over your cards,” Gwyneth observed. “Come with me.”

Happy to be excused from my chores, I tucked the black bird oracle into its bag. “Where are we going?”

“Mommy and I are going to the Old Place for the rest of today’s lessons,” Gwyneth told the twins. “Granny Dorcas will check on you while your father is up to his teeth in hammers and nails. She knows a great deal about oracle cards. I’m sure she’ll share her knowledge with you if you ask nicely.”

Granny Dorcas waggled her fingers, which set off a shower of sparks and tiny bubbles that popped when they burst.

“Bye, Matthew!” I called up to the rafters. I gave each child a kiss on the nose. “Have fun, you two. Learn things!”

—

At the Old Place, Gwyneth opened one of the doors in the tiny front hall to reveal a twisting flight of stairs. My aunt made slow progress up the uneven treads, pausing every few steps to catch her breath. She swore often, making her feelings on stairs, attics, the moon, the goddess, and the spirits of willful ancestors abundantly clear.

My eyes watered at her vehemence—not to mention the extreme detail—of her proposed remedies and retributions.

“Where are we going?” I asked again.

“To see to the ghosts,” Gwyneth replied. “I’m jumping ahead in the lesson plan to the subject of living with the dead.”

I wasn’t supposed to study that until after I chose my path at the Crossroads. I clambered up the stairs after my aunt, tripping over my own feet in my excitement to learn Gwyneth’s methods for keeping the Proctor ancestors in such good condition.

When we reached the top landing, Gwyneth removed a ring of keys from her pocket and pushed open the thin door into the attic. I was surprised that it was unlocked, then noticed the fuzzy ends of broken wards hanging from the lintel.

“Our dearly departed did that the night of the coven meeting,” Gwyneth said. “No man-made lock will keep this bunch inside when a Proctor is in need.”

My aunt cast an iridescent blue witchlight and sent it across the dark space. It hit an ancient tin sconce, the metal absorbing the magic and casting a bright glow throughout the rafters that revealed neat rows of trunks and boxes laid out like coffins in a graveyard.

“You’ll find most ghosts pale in modern lighting,” Gwyneth commented. “It dims their luminosity.”

Many of the boxes, trunks, and coffers were tightly closed. Some had lifted lids, and personal items dripped out of them onto the scarred pine boards laid across the beams to make a precarious floor. I spotted bonnets, waistcoats, shawls, socks, the cardboard-backed cartes de visite of the nineteenth century, and ribbon-tied stacks of correspondence.

“It looks like homecoming weekend at Amherst,” Gwyneth said, surveying the mess. “We’ll have to clean this up before we let any more ghosts out. And make sure you get everything back in the right trunk. The old folk are possessive, and take note of every skillet and pillowcase before they can be put to rest.”

I’d encountered a few household inventories in my travels through seventeenth-century archives, and I was familiar with the meticulous accounts that had been made at a time when raw materials and manufactured objects were precious and scarce. I pulled on a stocking draped over an old hook and held it up for identification.

“My mother, Damaris Proctor.” Gwyneth pointed to a steamer trunk the size of a small child. It was covered with labels from ports of call throughout Europe and Africa. The corners were nicked and dented, and the leather surface worn through in most places, exposing the wood-and-metal structure beneath.

Inside, the trunk held crystal scent bottles and delicately embroidered handkerchiefs, along with a photograph album with a cracked spine and crumbling cover. A spectacular pair of satin-covered heels with worn soles proved Granny Damaris had tripped across many a dance floor. I folded the filmy silk stocking and slipped it into a heart-shaped bag embroidered with the name DeeDee. The old-fashioned epithet Damaris must have been too much for a stylish young woman of the 1920s.

Gwyneth made faster progress than I did, for it was not the first time she’d tidied up after her ancestors. My work was slowed by the attic’s irresistible historical charms. I wanted to savor every item I touched, hear its story, and learn why the object was precious to its owner.

“And to think, we’re going to have to do this again in less than two weeks,” my aunt muttered under her breath, tossing a wooden toy into a trunk. “I hate potlucks. Who wants to eat nothing but desserts?”

I was not looking forward to the potluck any more than Gwyneth. Coven business meetings and ritual celebrations were bad enough. Potlucks were far worse, as they involved dozens of witches, enough food to satisfy a field battalion, and bruised egos once the event was over.

After Gwyneth and I returned the scattered personal bric-a-brac to their places, and the attic no longer looked as though a hurricane had blown through, we left the trunks open so that the ghosts would be drawn back to them by the power of their possessions. Gwyneth turned over an hourglass.

We waited for ten minutes while the sand trickled from one chamber to the other, but no ghosts returned.

“We’ll have to use a stronger lure.” Gwyneth went to a small cabinet set on bun-shaped feet. Unlike the attic itself, the cabinet was well protected with wards, hexes, sigils, and a stout iron lock. My aunt murmured the wards away and inserted a heavy key into the mechanism. Maybe Gwyneth would bring forward the unit on locks and keys, too. She drew the doors open and removed a small bottle with a ribbon tied around its neck. The ribbon bore a tag, inscribed with a spidery script like one of the bottles Alice found in Wonderland.

“ Nineteen October 1834, ” Gwyneth read from the bottle’s label. “ First frosts and final harvests. That should fetch them.”

The bottle reminded me of the tiny vials of perfume that my mother liked to keep on her dresser. Mom could never bear to part with them, even when the liquid was gone. Her empty bottles of Diorissimo were still on display in my parents’ bedroom in Madison.

Gwyneth held the simple glass vessel up to the witchlight. It was securely stoppered, empty except for a single, crumbling rose hip. My curiosity must have shown.

“Whenever a handful of ghosts escape, there are bound to be problems getting them back into their trunks,” Gwyneth explained, handing me the bottle.

I was surprised by its weight. The small vessel was far heavier than it should be, given its size.

“They like a good gossip, and there’s a lot of weeping and wailing when it comes time to return,” Gwyneth continued. “It’s essential to have a plentiful stock of happy memories like this one. The elders find their lure irresistible.”

“You can bottle happiness?” This was contrary to every bit of advice I’d ever received. I handed the precious bottle back to my aunt.

“No. Just the memory of it.” Gwyneth’s tone was tinged with regret.

My aunt twisted the cork in the neck of the bottle, cracking its wax seal and releasing a scent of fallen leaves and apple cider. I felt a crisp breeze on my skin, and the warm sun on my face. Children could be heard playing in the distance, their voices raised as they scampered across the meadow where piles of golden grass had been cut and gathered. A cow lowed, a bell sounded. A ship under full sail passed by The Nestling. I shielded my eyes to see it better, but my hand was not my own.

I was looking out at the world through different eyes, seeing what someone else had seen, a very long time ago.

Gwyneth put the cork back in the bottle and the scent of leaf mold and apples faded, taking the precious glimpse of the past with it. I was hungry for more, wanting to remain in that happy time forever.

I was not the only one. Greenish vapor trails appeared outside the fractured window glass, passing through the panes and resolving into small, angular rainbows that resembled those cast by prisms set out in the sun. The rainbows shone against the steep, pitched walls and along the pine boards. Some easily found their box and settled into it with a sigh. There, they brightened briefly, then went dark.

Gwyneth was ready with her wand as the wayward ghosts returned. She gently closed the lids and locked them, murmuring the spells that would keep them safely contained until Midsummer.

I watched my aunt work with interest, fascinated by the success of the happy memory bottle and intrigued by how it was created and used. The bottle had provided me with a brief timewalk into the past—one that didn’t require a special outfit so you could blend in when and where you arrived.

“We won’t get to the arts of memory this summer, I’m afraid,” my aunt said, aware of my keen attention. “Those subjects are reserved for advanced initiates who are well beyond the Crossroads and nearing the Labyrinth.” A few trunks still stood open, and she drew a weary hand across her brow.

“Who do those belong to?” I asked, lowering my voice in case there were still ghosts around who might hear.

“Naomi, Stephen, Julius Proctor, who was lost at sea.” Gwyneth pointed to each box in turn. “Granny Dorcas, who is refusing to be rehomed at the moment, she’s having such a fine time among the living. She’ll need to replenish her energy soon. Maybe Julie and Put-Put will be able to cajole her inside with an open bottle of scotch and a cigarette. And that box belongs to Roger Toothaker, of course, who haunts the meetinghouse. He’s only a relation by marriage and doesn’t believe that he deserves a death sentence in the Old Place’s attic.”

I wanted to dive into each trunk and pull out every remnant of their lives. The dented camp trunk that had my father’s initials on it and Naomi’s purple suitcase were especially enticing.

“Perhaps I should…No.” Gwyneth turned a question over in her mind. “It might be safer if…” My aunt trailed off again, then nodded. “We should let Tally out to help keep a lid on things as we get closer to Midsummer.”

At long last, I was going to meet my paternal grandfather.

“I should have realized that Tally’s presence would be necessary,” she continued. “All those years in the Army taught him a thing or two about disciplining the troops. He’ll keep the other ghosts from meddling with you at the Crossroads as well as ensure the potluck doesn’t turn into Haverhill’s haunted farm.”

“I’m going to face Meg here—at Ravenswood?” It would be a considerable home-court advantage and I was surprised that the coven had agreed toit.

“Ann called late last night. It was Meg’s suggestion,” Gwyneth said, her mouth set in a grim line. “She’s up to something— Oh hell, Meg’s always up to something. Perhaps she thinks that the family ghosts won’t be able to keep themselves from the Crossroads. Maybe she hopes the Proctors’ ancestral bones will rise out of the earth and reject you.”

It was a horrifying thought, given the number of bodies buried there.

“But Meg has no idea what powers are available to a Proctor in the Ravens’ Wood,” Gwyneth said. “This maleficio of hers is going to backfire. Meanwhile, we’ll have Tally out and about to make sure nothing is brewing, spiritually speaking.”

“You’re sure Meg doesn’t have Proctor blood in her veins?” I asked my aunt.

“Not a dewdrop.” Gwyneth sat back on her heels. “Now that we know that her challenge will take place here and not at some other Crossroads, I can take you to the exact spot where you’ll meet Meg and look for your path. It will help to settle your nerves and give you a feel for the place. We can go there as soon as I get Tally out of his trunk.”

Gwyneth carefully stepped across the boards to a row of footlockers tucked under the eaves. Some were stenciled with names, and I easily found the one belonging to Lieutenant T. Proctor, U.S. Army. The metal lid was dented and didn’t close properly.

“Ike had to bash it shut last time,” Gwyneth explained. “Once I unlock it, you’ll have to pry the lid open. That boy wedged it tight.”

Gwyneth went through her ring of keys and found the one that fit the lock. I worked the lid this way and that, putting all my might into loosening it. I even banged it up and down on the boards as though it were a giant pickle jar, hoping that would break the seal.

The lid opened with a pop and a whoosh of air that was pale green and nearly opaque. The strand of green grew longer and more transparent before it found a broken windowpane and dissipated through it and out into the air of Ravenswood.

“There goes Tally,” Gwyneth said, wistful.

I was disappointed as well. I’d hoped that my grandfather would want to apparate before me, so that we could be introduced.

“Don’t take it personally, Diana,” my aunt said, gauging my reaction. “Tally was never one to linger. And he won’t have gone far.”

“Can I look inside?” I was still holding on to the rolled metal edges of the lid.

“I don’t think your grandfather would mind,” Gwyneth replied.

Gingerly, I lifted the lid higher. Folded inside was the white suit he’d worn to his wedding with Ruby. There was a brass Army buckle, too, and a wool garrison cap pinned with two bars and piped in black and gold cord. My aunt must have cast some formidable moth-repelling spells in the attic, for the cap was remarkably well preserved. Another flash of black and gold caught my eye.

I lifted a patch with neatly clipped threads still dangling from the edge. There were no division numbers, or other identifying marks, only a spade-shaped arrow that resembled the golden arrowhead that Philippe de Clermont had given me. It was always on a chain or cord around my neck, and I touched it regularly for comfort.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s the badge for Tally’s military unit,” Gwyneth replied. “The OSS.”

I knew Hitler relied on witches and their supernatural powers, but I’d never imagined the U.S. Army had done the same.

“Tally never spoke about his OSS days to me,” Gwyneth said. “I know he was in Europe, unlike Putnam, who was stationed in the South Pacific. After the war ended, Tally was evasive about where he’d been deployed, and when.”

I drew a small circlet of brass buttons from the trunk. They were tied together with a thin red ribbon, and rattled when I held them up to the witchlight. Once, they had ornamented the front of Grandpa Tally’s uniform. Like his cap, they were in pristine condition. Reluctantly, I put the buttons back in his footlocker.

“I wonder what else he did during the war,” I said, lowering the lid.

“Your grandfather was one of the finest men who ever lived,” Gwyneth said, “utterly fearless and sound of heart. Whatever Tally did in the war was done with honor, you can be sure.”

I nodded, thinking of Philippe. The two men sounded similar, and I felt certain that they would have been friends had they had the chance.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” Gwyneth suggested, soft-voiced with understanding. “I think it’s time you saw the Crossroads for yourself.”

—

We entered the Ravens’ Wood through a narrow opening atop the rise near the witch’s tree, rather than taking the familiar path from the Old Place. It felt like an entirely different place, with none of the deer paths and tree houses that served as landmarks in the lower wood. Here the wood was bathed in a perpetual twilight that cast strange shadows in all directions.

“This is where you’ll enter the Ravens’ Wood on the night you meet Meg,” Gwyneth explained. “Ann, Katrina, and I will be waiting for you here, and together we will go to the Crossroads.”

“Where will Meg be?” I asked.

“Wherever she chooses,” Gwyneth replied. “Some challengers meet their opponent outside the wood, in an effort to intimidate them, but I don’t think that’s Meg’s style.”

Nor did I. Meg would lurk in Shadow, then appear without warning.

The wood opened its thick underbrush to let us pass, then closed behindus.

“Ravenswood has become expert at hiding its secrets,” Gwyneth explained. “It will only reveal what you are ready to see and comprehend.”

“That’s why the way to the river was so clear, and the path filled with tree houses,” I said. The wood had only offered a curated glimpse of itself to Matthew and the children.

Mirages of graveyards and ghosts of fires long extinguished shimmered before me and disappeared. In the distance, I saw the ruins of a tower, the top crumbled away to reveal a room filled with women embroidering tapestries on spell-looms. They seemed real and tangible, but when I blinked, they were gone.

“This part of the wood belongs to Shadow,” Gwyneth warned. “Nothing is as it seems, and you must learn to differentiate between truth and fantasy.”

A witch sat inside a carriage made from a gigantic hollow egg, feet pressing against the pedals that kept its wheels turning.

“There goes one of the shades,” Gwyneth said. “They’re not ghosts, but manifestations of Ravenswood’s magic and can be a help or a hindrance. I recommend you ignore them, until you become more familiar with their ways.”

We crossed a glen and passed by an enchanted garden enclosed within a baneberry hedge. Though little sunlight penetrated this far into the depths of the Ravens’ Wood, it was filled with blooms and the air was redolent with the intoxicating scents of flowers, fruits, and herbs that weren’t normally in season at the same time.

“How?” It was the only word I could utter, my mind befuddled by the strong smell of rose, lilac, and carnation.

“It’s my moon garden,” Gwyneth replied. “It blooms according to lunar phases, not the progress of the sun. At the full moon, the garden reaches the peak of its growth cycle. After that, the flowers slowly wither and then set seeds under the crescent moon. The seeds lie dormant, gathering energy, until the moon waxes again.”

On we walked, through another clearing and around a patch of red-and-white-speckled toadstools. We came upon curved stone walls covered in moss and lichen.

“This is all that remains of the Proctor family labyrinth,” Gwyneth said, surveying the green mounds. “Before witches went to Isola della Stella, many communities maintained labyrinths. We trained our kin there, tested one another, and sent reports to Venice every now and then. Some were hidden in gardens, or marked out with tree trunks, or even scratched into the ground and swept clean later.”

The Proctor labyrinth must have been impressive when it was first constructed. It still made a mark, even in its decrepit state.

Gwyneth led me past the labyrinth to the remains of a tree that had been stripped of its bark and polished to a high sheen, like the mast of a tall ship. Its circumference was easily twenty feet, and its flat top was large enough to standon.

“What is this place?” I said, my weaver’s cords animated beneath my skin.

“This is the Crossroads,” Gwyneth said, her voice echoing in the hush. “Here is where you will meet Meg. Here you will find your path through Shadow.”

“I don’t see any paths,” I said, looking at the dark ground.

“You have to find them,” Gwyneth said. “It’s difficult enough for a witch to do so without someone thwarting her at every turn.”

“So Meg’s challenge isn’t typical?” My suspicion that Meg was targeting me, not Gwyneth, was confirmed. My aunt had simply been collateral damage.

“No, but they do happen,” Gwyneth admitted. “Old grudges and feuds often bubble to the surface during these milestone rituals, and challengers step forward to distract their opponent so that they don’t notice the paths the goddess prepares.”

I thought I’d be playing defense in this challenge. It sounded as though the opposite were true.

“Meg’s best chance of beating you is to wear you down so that you become frustrated and hopeless,” Gwyneth continued. “Many witches turn away from the Crossroads after a few hours of fruitless searching. Most never return, though there are always opportunities for second and third chances.”

“So being at the Crossroads is no guarantee I’ll find a path forward into higher magic,” I said slowly, beginning to understand how hard a task I’d set for myself.

“Not at all,” Gwyneth said. “The goddess always has a trick up her sleeve that can’t be foreseen.”

“And if I find my Dark Path?” I asked. “What will Meg do then?”

“She will try to force you in another direction,” Gwyneth said. “You wouldn’t be the first witch to mistake Darkness for the Dark Path, and travel out of the Crossroads and into the territory of nightmares.”

“Elsewhere,” I said.

Gwyneth nodded.

A man sat under a tree, smoking a cigarette. He was long of limb and broad of shoulder, with golden hair touched with copper. I jumped, startled I hadn’t noticed him.

“I’m going to leave you to explore on your own,” Gwyneth said, squeezing my hand. “Stay as long as you like. Get familiar with the place. The ravens will see that you make it back to the Old Place.”

“There’s a man—” I said, pointing at the woods.

But there was no trace of him now.

“Take your time,” Gwyneth said, releasing my hand and melting into the wood.

After my aunt vanished, I walked the clearing, wanting to make sure that no one was watching me. Satisfied that I was truly alone, I ran my hands along the smooth surface of the post. With no signs or markers pointing the way, it was easy to dismiss it as just an odd relic of a tree. I put my back to it and slid down until I sat at the base, resting against the stout trunk.

I inhaled, filling my lungs with the air of the wood. With each breath, I was changed. The wood altered my perception, so that I was more aware of the enchantment that was stored in every plant and tree. My ears tuned in to the flight of the birds and the sounds made by the small creatures who lived here. The weaver’s cords in my left wrist tingled as they met the intricate web of power that extended across all of Ravenswood. My breath fell in sync with the soughing of the tree limbs and I felt a sense of calm like none I’d experienced before. I closed my eyes to savorit.

See. There’s nothing to be afraidof.

My eyes flew open. The man I’d seen earlier was crouched before me, his forearms resting easily on his knees. He looked like Tally, but he was not so young as he had been in his wedding picture or even the formal shot of him in his officer’s uniform. Bitter experience had etched the skin around his eyes, and a melancholy air surrounded him.

“Grandpa?” I held my breath, worried that he might be a shade of the wood and not a ghost at all.

Grandpa Tally nodded. His energy was bright after months spent in his footlocker, and he looked as solid and lively as I did.

“Thank you,” I said softly, moved to tears. “Thank you for trying to save Philippe.”

Shadow flickered around my grandfather, as Grandpa Tally smiled through his own unshed tears.

I had to try, Grandpa Tally said. I kept trying, too, even though Madame de Clermont warned me to keep away.

“It was unspeakably brave of you to go behind enemy lines, into Vichy France, and track down Ysabeau de Clermont when she was angry and hurting,” I said. “Most witches wouldn’t have dared.”

It was the right thing to do, Tally said shyly, as though the decision had been a simple one. I’d sworn an oath to speak out if I suspected that higher magic was being used for evil purposes. I couldn’t break my word.

“Gwyneth said you were fearless,” I said.

Without fear, you can do the impossible, Tally replied. That’s what Shadow teachesus.

“Ambiguity and uncertainty frighten most creatures,” I said, thinking of Matthew.

Tally waited, knowing there was more to come.

“My husband was raised in a black-and-white world, where good and evil were clearly delineated. Shadow terrifies him,” I continued.

But not you. Grandpa Tally was matter-of-fact. Not your mother.

“My mother feared losing my father,” I said, bitter. “She turned her back on higher magic and kept me away from the Proctors rather than lose him. She put me in magical shackles and left me alone in Madison with no sense of who I was or what I might become.”

Is that what you think, Diana Bishop? My mother stood behind Tally, hands on hips. She wore her favorite menswear: a secondhand brown tweed vest with a white shirt she nicked from my father and oversized trousers cinched at the waist with a belt.

Tally rose and drifted away, leaving me with my mother.

“You chose to turn your back on higher magic because Dad threatened to leave you if you didn’t,” I said, swallowing back tears. “How could you give up your power for him?”

I didn’t give up my power for your father, my mother said. I gave it up for you.

I stared at her in disbelief. “Me?”

I wanted to be a mother—your mother—more than anything else in the world, Mom explained. Nothing else mattered to me: not your father’s wishes, or a seat at the Congregation table, or all the power in the world.

“But—why?” I asked.

My mother’s answering laugh was rich as honey and warm as firelight. Its comfort sank into my bones, relieving old wounds.

Because I dreamed of you at night and missed you by day, Diana, she said. Before you were ever born, I knew I would do anything to hold you in my arms. I discovered that higher magic wasn’t really my life’s path—it was yours. And I wanted you to haveit.

“First I have to find it,” I said, looking around the Crossroads.

You’ll find it, my mother promised. But only when you stop looking forit.

—

That night, I lay in Matthew’s arms, my legs twined through his, as I told him about my visit to the Crossroads and Meg’s likely strategy.

“It may be for the best that Meg will be trying to deflect, rather than attack, me. I’m not good at defense,” I confessed.

Matthew chuckled. “No, ma lionne, you are not. You have too much courage.”

“Grandpa Tally was the same,” I said, hoping that Matthew would tell me more about my grandfather, Ysabeau, and World WarII.

“Hmm,” Matthew said, his finger inscribing lazy circles around the scars on my back.

We both bore the traces of our past battles: mine with Satu J?rvinen, Matthew’s with hundreds of foes during centuries of conflict. They were a constant reminder that courage, like miracles, often left a mark.

“What are you thinking?” I propped myself up on his shoulder.

“That you need one of Baldwin’s battle plans,” Matthew replied. Baldwin was the family’s master strategist and had been responsible for most de Clermont victories on and off the field.

“I’d rather have one of yours,” I said, not wanting my brother-in-law to know about my upcoming ordeal.

“Mine wouldn’t suit you,” Matthew said. “I prefer to wait until my enemy reveals their weakness.”

“Teach me how.” I tried to tickle Matthew into agreement.

He barely moved.

“Pleeease.” Maybe wheedling would work.

Matthew yawned.

I touched my teeth to his shoulder. A little nip usually got his attention.

Nothing.

“Damn you, Matthew, I’m just asking for some help!” I said, frustrated.

I found myself on my back, arms pinned to my sides, and Matthew on top ofme.

“Being thwarted is your weakness,” Matthew purred. “Impatience, too. You want what you want, when you want it. It’s your Achilles’ heel.”

“Meg’s entire purpose is to thwart me.” I groaned. “I’m never going to find my way at the Crossroads.”

“Would that be so terrible?” Matthew searched my face for clues.

“I want to succeed,” I said, knowing it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll hunger for what might have been.”

Matthew listened, his face grave. “You’ve tasted forbidden fruit, eaten from the Tree of Good and Evil. You won’t be satisfied without it.”

“Not evil.” I pushed against his chest with all my might. “Higher magic is not evil.”

Matthew rolled so that I was on top, straddling his hips with my legs. My eyes sparked in warning, and the ends of my hair were aflame.

“What are you afraid of, Matthew?” I demanded.

“That if you do succeed, I won’t like who you become.” Matthew’s fathomless eyes met mine.

I slid away, not wanting Matthew’s truth, though I had demanded it of him—a truth hidden deep in Shadow, where it could damage all that we’d shared and built together.

How could I face Meg, now that I knew Matthew’s fear? The arrowhead the goddess gave Philippe was warm on my skin, a reminder that she was not done with me, and my courage returned, carried on a wave of anger.

“You are a wolf, but I am a lion,” I said, my voice fierce. “I will not be tamed. And whether you like me or not, a lion mates for life.”

“So does a wolf,” Matthew replied. “As for your battle at the Crossroads, you have no need of my advice. A lion survives on instinct and wits.”

Wolves, like lions, were also apex predators.

“You don’t want me to be your rival—your equal.” I had heard what my husband had said. More importantly, I’d heard what he hadn’t said.

“No.” Matthew’s eyes filled with sorrow. “I want you to be my superior—to refuse Darkness because I could not.”

I lay beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Bridget Bishop once told me that there was no road forward that didn’t include Matthew. I clung to her words, repeating them like a spell, relying on them like a prophecy.

“I love you, mon coeur, ” Matthew murmured. “I always will.”

I reached through Darkness and found his hand.

My path forward may not be smooth, but it would have Matthew init.

I was not done with him yet.