Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I pulled the car into a vacant spot outside The Thirsty Goat. Its wooden sign swung on an iron bracket, moving with the breeze blowing off the water. The gentle creak took me back to sixteenth-century London, and the similar sounds on our street in the Blackfriars. I sat for a moment, gathering my strength to enter the café and meet Goody Wu. Though Gwyneth had warned me the summer tourists would begin to descend on the place any day now, the street was quiet and only a handful of people were enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. I peered through my windshield and the café windows, trying to see who was inside, but the doubled reflections and bright light made it impossible.

There was no choice but to go in and face whichever members of the Ipswich coven might be gathered inside.

Though there were a few curious looks from customers, the only familiar faces were behind the counter, where Ann and Meg were readying themselves for the late-afternoon rush.

Meg was waiting for me at the till when I approached the counter.

“Diana. What can I get for you?” Meg’s strange eyes were a bit less alarming than they had seemed on first meeting.

I glanced over the menu. “How’s the oolong?”

“Delicate,” Meg replied shortly.

“I like something heartier,” I replied, looking for another option.

“We have our own Thirsty Goat blend,” Meg suggested. “It’s malty and stands up to milk.”

“Perfect,” I said.

The bell hung by the door tinkled and Goody Wu entered the café. Her signature round tinted glasses (today their hue was amber) were perched on her nose and she was carrying a lightship basket along with a violet parasol.

“Your tea’s waiting, Katrina,” Ann said, nodding toward a secluded table in the corner.

“We’ll need a bigger pot, Ann,” Goody Wu replied. “And another cup.”

“Sorry,” Ann said, bustling behind Meg. “I got the message you would be here at two-nineteen sharp, but I missed that you were expecting a guest.”

“The ether doesn’t always transmit such subtleties,” Goody Wu said.

Katrina studied the paper cup filled with black liquid that Meg put before me, reading the name of the tea off its tag. Goody Wu shuddered.

“Tea from a bag ? In a paper cup?” Goody Wu was incredulous. “That’s no way to treat a fellow witch, Margaret Skelling.”

“I assumed she wanted it to go,” Meg replied.

“She?” Goody Wu’s delicate eyebrows shot skyward. “What is it you are always saying in coven meetings— She is the cat’s mother ? Leave that dreadful concoction where it is and come with me, Diana.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed to speculative slits.

“If you would bring a fresh pot, Ann?” Goody Wu folded her parasol and directed me toward a waiting table. “And a proper cup for Diana.”

My knees felt bowed under the weight of the other witches’ curiosity as I walked the short distance to Goody Wu’s table, grateful that there weren’t more witnesses when my legs wobbled. Goody Wu sat opposite, inspecting me as if I, too, were a type of tea.

Ann brought the fresh pot, along with some milk and a sticky jar of local honey. She plopped a teacup before me. Goody Wu preferred her tea served in the Chinese fashion, in small cups that you cradled in your hands.

“We won’t be needing them,” Goody Wu said, waving off the milk and honey as though they were annoying mosquitoes. She emptied the small clay pot into our cups and handed it back to Ann. “You don’t adulterate the perfection of Iron Goddess.”

“Anything else?” Ann said, clearly wanting to linger, hoping that she might learn why Goody Wu had invited me here today.

“We have everything we need, Ann,” Goody Wu said. “Don’t let your tea get cold, Diana.”

Ann obediently whisked away the honey and milk. Just as obediently, I picked up my cup and gave it an inquisitive sniff. Warm, slightly toasted floral and nutty aromas met my nose. I took a cautious sip. My eyes widened in surprise.

Goody Wu smiled with satisfaction. “It’s very good, isn’t it? My sister sends it from China. It comes from the mountains of Fujian. This one is not baked as long as many you find that are imported from Taiwan. I prefer it that way.”

The tea was surprisingly flavorful and robust. I took another sip.

Goody Wu lifted the lid of her basket and removed a red satin bag embroidered with golden dragons.

“Meg’s energy can be a bit intense for an oracle like you or me,” Goody Wu said. “My cards find it disruptive, but a good shuffle helps them settle.”

I choked on my tea. “I’m not an oracle. I just have a deck of old cards.”

Goody Wu drew her deck from their bag and moved the cards slowly between her fingers. They were longer and narrower than the cards Granny Dorcas had given me, with faded red brushstrokes spelling out a mystery on one side and a painted network of fine lines on the other that resembled the crazed cracks in a piece of old porcelain.

“As a historian of magic, you know that oracles can be people and places, as well as things,” Goody Wu said.

“I’m a historian of science,” I replied, quick to correct the witch.

“Hmm. Why don’t you take out your own deck?” Goody Wu suggested, looking at me over her amber lenses. “I find the oracle is most cooperative and has the greatest clarity when I’m not ordering it around.”

“I left it at home,” I said hastily, “for safekeeping.” The last thing I wanted was the black bird oracle rising like a murmuration of starlings and flying about The Thirsty Goat.

“You’ll find them in that giant bag of yours.” Goody Wu stopped shuffling and turned over the top card. She smiled with satisfaction. “You should reconsider toting that thing around. It’s terrible for your back and shoulders, and it’s the root cause of your headaches.”

Lately, the list of contributing factors to my recurring evening headaches had been lengthy: department politics, research funding deadlines, graduate student assessments. Coming to Ipswich and meeting the Proctors hadn’t shortenedit.

“I’m sure they’re in the spellbox on my bedside table, Goody Wu.” I’d secured them before I left, turning the small key in the lock to keep them from wandering.

“Call me Katrina,” Goody Wu said in reply, her eyes glittering with amusement behind her tinted lenses. “I’ve used it since coming to Ipswich, to keep the other witches from mispronouncing my real name, Siyu.” She fixed her gaze on my bag.

I sighed and lifted the Bodleian Library tote from the neighboring chair. I’d rummage through it, just to show Goody Wu—Katrina—that she was wrong.

My fingers brushed against one soft edge, then another. The precious Proctor oracle cards were strewn all over the bottom of the bag, mixed in with my car keys, some old receipts, and the pair of sunglasses I thought I’d lost last week.

“Oh no!” I scrabbled them out to see if they were damaged.

Goody Wu slid a turquoise silk bag toward me. It, too, was embroidered with a dragon in brilliant greens and silver, and it had a thin ribbon tie at the top.

“Thanks, but I have a box for them at Ravenswood.” Not that my efforts to keep them there had been successful.

“You’ll find bags more useful than boxes, and less likely to be searched when you go through airport security,” Katrina commented.

The thought of the cards tumbling out of my tote when I was searching for my passport was alarming. I shook my head.

“I’d rather not carry them around. They’re so old—a family heirloom,” I said. Katrina meant well, but she couldn’t imagine what the children stuck in my tote bag over the course of a day.

“The black bird oracle won’t tolerate being left at home,” Goody Wu said. “The cards will find a way to be with you—some of them inconvenient. It’s best to keep them with you, and in their own bag, from now on.”

I picked the last cards out of the tote and gathered them together in a neat stack. Goody Wu was right about their mood, just as she had been about their location; they were agitated and unhappy. Gently, I moved them through my fingers to calm them.

Katrina flipped one of her cards over. This time the card was met with a low sound of disappointment and she returned to her shuffling.

“More hot water?” Meg was back with a steaming kettle. “I know how you like a second steep.”

“And a third, and a ninth.” Katrina squinted up at her. “If I need anything, I will call. If I don’t call, I would appreciate some peace and quiet.”

Meg’s eyes were fixed on the cards that were shuttling between my hands.

“Which deck is that?” Meg asked, bending closer to make out the details. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before. Is that a Bishop oracle?”

Card 17, The Siege, snapped out of the deck and swatted Meg across the nose.

“Dorcas Hoare and her daughter, Tabby, made them,” I said, retrieving the card with its image of a castle ringed by cannons and explosions.

“The black bird oracle.” Meg looked aghast—and envious. “It’s been lost for generations. Where did you find them?”

“They found me,” I said, glancing at Katrina, who was now bright pink with the effort to suppress her laughter.

“Which is why I’m meeting with Diana now,” Katrina said. “As chair of the coven committee on divination and prophecy, it’s my responsibility to register all the oracle decks in current use. Remember what happened in 2000?”

Meg’s skin was greenish.

“Too many oracle cards were out of their bags and being handled by unskilled witches,” Katrina said severely. “They bickered and squabbled until we had a magical version of the Y2K panic, and we mustn’t let that kind of trouble brew again.”

“I’ll leave you to it, Goody Wu.” With a final backward glance at the cards, Meg returned to the counter. Once there, she launched into a long, whispered conversation with Ann.

Katrina muttered something in Chinese.

“What was that?” I suspected that one should pay close attention to Katrina’s words, whatever the language.

“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” Goody Wu’s expression soured. “I am often reminded of it around Meg. Without an enemy, Meg isn’t fully alive. It’s a pity. She would be a great witch if only she could give up her belief that the goddess’s deck was stacked against her.”

I’d given in to the urge for vengeance years ago, when I decided to spellbind Satu J?rvinen in retaliation for how she’d tortured me to learn the secrets of my magic, and for being in league with Peter Knox and Gerbert D’Aurillac. But I’d been motivated by more than righteousness; there had been anger, too. Without knowing it, my spellbinding had been stained with Darkness. Perhaps I needed to acknowledge that before continuing with higher magic. If I didn’t, the second grave I might unknowingly dig could be my own. Or Becca’s.

Meg’s presence in the café, and the interest she’d taken in the black bird oracle, felt more threatening when I thought of my daughter. I gathered the cards together, ready to make my apologies and return to the safety of Ravenswood. But Katrina was attuned to shifts of energy in ways that I was not. She sensed my restlessness, and the reason for it, too.

“Stay where you are,” she commanded, “and keep the cards moving. The oracle needs to be grounded, not flitting around Essex County in your gas-guzzler. You need to rethink that, too. Witches should know better than to abuse Mother Earth by wantonly consuming her resources.”

It was the second time a witch had reprimanded me for Matthew’s choice of transport. I couldn’t imagine what they would make of Baldwin’s jets and helicopters.

“This witch is married to an overprotective vampire with a pathological fear of car accidents,” I replied.

A card dropped out of my hands.

“A Wake of Vultures.” Goody Wu’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “Your husband needs to change his attitude.”

Good luck with that, I thought, returning the card to the deck. It responded with immediate tension and three cards flew out of the deck with an audible pop, like slices of bread springing from a toaster.

“The Cauldron. Sulfur. Mercury.” These were alchemical emblems and easier for me to interpret. According to the oracle, Matthew was going to have to change. “The vessel of transformation. Spirit and soul. Judgment and desire.”

“As I told you, oracles don’t always respond well under the pressure of direct questioning. Sometimes, it’s better to let the messages drift into your life and suggest small changes, rather than demanding they blow on a trumpet to proclaim matters of enormous import.” Katrina’s mouth widened into a smile. “And it’s much more pleasant than dragging your cards out after the alarm clock rings in the morning, in a daily ritual like brushing your teeth. The oracles like a bit of wildness.”

This was an entirely different way of using the cards than the regular consultations recommended to me by Granny Dorcas and Aunt Gwyneth. I was intrigued by Katrina’s alternative and its flexibility, which suited my temperament—and schedule—better.

“Aunt Gwyneth said you could help me understand the connection between higher magic and the black bird oracle.” I kept my fingers moving, the cards shuffling. “I understand that higher magic resides in Shadow, though it touches on Light and Darkness, too. But where do the cards fit in?”

Before Katrina could answer, the cards thrummed between my fingers and the edges of two cards poked out from the deck. I froze, not knowing what to do next.

“When the goddess takes our call, we usually pick up on the first ring,” Katrina said wryly. “Go ahead. Your answer awaits.”

Gingerly, I removed the two cards and placed them face up. Card 19, The Key, and card 22, The Mirror.

“Restate your question,” Katrina instructed. “Then look at the cards and tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

I closed my eyes to concentrate. “Where do the cards fit into the practice of higher magic?” I whispered.

My witch’s third eye flew open.

“They’re the key to greater knowledge, as well as greater mysteries. The cards open the doors to new possibilities and provide fresh solutions to old problems. They will grant me freedom but carry with them the weight of responsibility.” I was amazed by the words tumbling out of my mouth. “The cards help to differentiate between truth and deception.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Katrina nodded. “Gwyneth told me that the black bird oracle chose you for a reason. You show promise as a seer, Diana Bishop.”

Katrina’s blessing fell on me with the gentle warmth of an eiderdown cloak. My shoulders, which had been hunched up around my ears in self-defense, lowered, and my chin rose in pride.

“And will you help me, Katrina,” I asked, adding hastily, “if I do decide to walk the Dark Path?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Goody Wu gathered her cards and slipped them into their bag before tucking it under the lid of the lightship basket. “I’ll meet you here next week. The exact timing will be up to the portents and signs. When I know what they recommend, I’ll call you.”

“Until then?” I asked, putting the black bird oracle in the bag Katrina had provided.

“Carry the cards with you. Follow Gwyneth’s advice, of course, but remember the cards don’t know you yet. If you feel them stirring, be sure to handle them so that they know you’re paying attention.”

“All right.” This sounded doable. Matthew wouldn’t mind if I stayed at Ravenswood a bit longer.

Katrina and I left the café together. As we walked out onto the sidewalk, Meg’s malevolent stare bored into my shoulder blades. I shivered.

“What was that?” Katrina asked.

“Meg Skelling isn’t happy that you and I met,” I replied. “I have a feeling she might cause trouble.”

“Trouble is Meg Skelling’s modus operandi. ” Katrina waved her hand dismissively, as though Meg were an unnecessary milk jug. “Don’t let her Darkness follow you back to Ravenswood. Leave it here, where it belongs.” She pointed to the garbage can overflowing with used coffee cups and sticky napkins.

I laughed. “I’ll give it a try.”

When I returned to the car, a raven’s feather was lodged in the door’s handle. I hesitated, then tucked it into my tote bag. The black bird oracle jumped and hopped with excitement.

I’d ask the cards what the feather signified later, when I was home.

—

My fears about Meg’s malevolence were realized two days later when Ann Downing paid an unexpected call.

Aunt Gwyneth and I were in the barn, where I was working with the black bird oracle. Within a few shuffles the cards rose up, agitated and fluttering. When they settled down on the table, six cards faced me, arranged in a rough triangle.

“The Raven’s Wing spread,” Gwyneth said, peering at the cards. “You’ll have to confirm it with Granny Dorcas when she wakes up, but as I recall that’s a spread about what the future holds, what resources you will need, and the challenges you will meet along the way. A useful spread, although not always terribly precise.”

Granny Dorcas was napping in her rocking chair, her snores regular and sonorous. There wouldn’t be help from that quarter anytime soon.

My aunt’s spine stiffened and she looked toward the barn door. It was partially closed, as a storm was bringing cooler temperatures to the area.

“Ann Downing is here.” Gwyneth put out a restraining hand. “Stay where you are. I’ll see what she wants.”

Gwyneth stepped outside and drew the heavy door across the opening. She left a small gap, and I could hear their conversation.

“Good morning, Ann,” Gwyneth said. “What brings you to Ravenswood?”

“Nothing good,” Ann replied, her tone dour. “Is Diana Bishop with you?”

“Yes,” Gwyneth said. “But I don’t see why that’s any concern of yours.”

Ignoring my aunt’s instructions, I left my stool and heaved the door open.

“Looking for me?” I said, meeting Ann’s surprised gaze with a steely resolve that would have made Granny Dorcas proud, had she been awake to witnessit.

“Let me in, Gwyneth.” Ann was at the end of her rope. “I need a cup of tea before I deliver the bad news.”

Gwyneth ushered Ann past the table where the cards were splayed out, and deposited her in the rocker opposite Granny Dorcas. My aunt sat next to our ancestral grandmother, gently rearranging the woven coverlet that had slipped from the old woman’s knees.

I filled the kettle without any trouble. The automated magic in the barn didn’t require a single spell, which was a blessing since I couldn’t use other witches’ magic and might flood the place. By the time the water boiled, I’d arranged three mugs, some milk, and a pot of sugar on a tray and spooned the leaves into the teapot. I poured boiling water over them. The tea would need to steep for a few minutes, but then we would have Ann’s bad news.

“Well?” Gwyneth demanded the moment I deposited the tea tray on a nearby stool.

But Ann was in no mood to negotiate. “Tea first.”

Impatient, I monitored the five-minute countdown on my watch. When the bell dinged, I sprang into action.

“Sugar, no milk,” Ann instructed, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “Goddess bless me, I’m parched.”

I put a generous amount of sugar in her cup and added milk to Gwyneth’s and mine. The stirring spells went to work as I delivered the drinks to the waiting witches.

“Thank you, Diana.” Ann took a deep draught of the hot brew then sighed with satisfaction.

“What happened in town, Ann?” Gwyneth held her cup between her hands, as though she needed the tea’s comforting warmth more than she needed a drink.

“I didn’t want you to hear the news secondhand,” Ann began apologetically. “You know how quickly the phone tree starts buzzing.”

The coven phone tree was the blessing—and curse—of every witch. Quick to respond in an emergency, real or imagined, witches relied on it for gossip, exchanging recipes, and arranging childcare, too.

“Meg’s asked for a meeting of the coven next Friday,” Ann said in a rush. She took a hasty sip of tea. “I had no choice, Gwyneth.”

“We don’t usually meet under a full moon,” my aunt commented. “Emotions will be running strong.”

Ann sighed. “I know. But Meg insisted, and according to Hitty Braybrooke she has a right to be heard immediately.”

As I suspected, Hitty was the coven parliamentarian. Every gathering needed witches to arbitrate disputes and govern procedures. Coven meetings deteriorated rapidly into gripe sessions without someone keeping a tight rein on the proceedings.

“We must hope that harmony and balance prevail,” Ann said. “Full moons are a good time to manifest those energies.”

Gwyneth looked skeptical. “What is Meg’s grievance this time?”

“Me. And my custody of the black bird oracle.” I’d felt Meg’s malice at The Thirsty Goat as she watched every move Katrina and I made.

“Diana’s right,” Ann said, “but Meg’s concerns extend to you, too, Gwyneth. She’s accused you of flouting our protocols with respect to training novices in higher magic. All pupils, Hitty confirmed, must be presented to the coven membership before any lessons begin.”

“That rule only pertains to outsiders,” Gwyneth said. “Diana is my flesh and blood—a Proctor. The coven didn’t interfere when the Greens and the Vinsons embarked on their own course of higher magic training, not even when it brought down the Ferris wheel at the Topsfield Fair and loosed the carousel horses on the crowd.”

Ann winced at the memory.

“Meg has claimed that Diana is an outsider, and that the Bishops’ decision to abandon the community and move west trumps her Proctor bloodline,” Ann replied. “I’m sorry, Gwyneth. Hitty has ruled in Meg’s favor. There’s nothing for it but to meet.”

“Even though it will be the three hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of Bridget Bishop’s hanging?” Gwyneth let out a small sound of disbelief and her mouth twisted into an expression of distaste. “A bit heavy-handed, even for Meg.”

Tea sloshed over the lip of my mug.

“Sorry.” I wiped my dripping hand on my leggings.

“Summer is always difficult for our gathering as we remember the hanging times.” Gwyneth snapped her fingers twice. She handed the napkin that materialized over to me. “This will only make things worse.”

“Other witches go on vacation in the summer,” Ann explained, my confusion evident. “We stay in Essex County and mark the names of those who lost their lives during the panic, no matter if they died by the hangman’s noose, or were pressed to death, or perished because of neglect and heartbreak. We begin by keeping vigil for Bridget Bishop on the eve before her execution, and continue until we reach Mabon, when the last of our sisters and brethren were murdered.”

Sarah usually forgot it was the anniversary of Bridget’s hanging until weeks after the fact. Then, she lit a candle and put it in the window. What Ann was describing was far more elaborate.

“You look surprised,” Ann said.

“I am,” I replied. “The Bishops don’t seem to be very popular in this part of Massachusetts.” Before Ann could respond, my aunt spoke.

“Well, if Meg and the coven want to question my teaching methods or how the Proctors pass their legacy from one generation to the next, they can do it here.” Gwyneth’s expression was forbidding.

“What’s wrong with the meetinghouse?” Ann asked, careful to keep her tone just short of an accusation.

“You know how restless the ghosts are during the anniversaries,” Gwyneth said with a shake of her head. “Some of the old families fail to keep their kin close to home, and I don’t want them latching onto Diana.”

“I’ve already been around to the Redds,” Ann said, trying to reassure my aunt. “They won’t leave the attic door open this year.”

“They’re not the only ones, Ann.” Gwyneth shook her head again. “Diana will not face the coven under a full moon, on the eve of Bridget Bishop’s hanging, at the site of the old gaol. Diana will be at Ravenswood that night, with her family.”

The room fell silent except for the snap and hiss of the logs in the stove.

“Very well, Gwyneth. We’ll gather here at eight o’clock,” Ann said at last. “The sun sets at—”

“Eight-twenty,” Gwyneth said. “I look forward to welcoming our sisters and brothers then.”

—

Later that evening, I pressed the buttons on my phone that would connect me to Matthew. I wasn’t the goddess, but he picked it up on the first ring nonetheless.

“Diana.” The syllables rolled in his mouth and over his tongue, as though he were savoring the relief of being connected once more.

“It’s good to hear your voice.” Being at Ravenswood without Matthew and the children had been my decision, but the nights were especially lonely.

“You sound rattled,” Matthew said. I could imagine the worried frown that accompanied his words.

“Not rattled, exactly.” How was I going to explain what was happening in Ipswich without Matthew racing to my rescue? “Coven politics, that’s all.”

“Ah.” As a veteran of numerous academic departments, Matthew was well versed in the bitterness that could linger in small communities.

“My presence at Ravenswood has been noted, and now I have to be formally presented to the coven,” I said, clinging as closely to the truth as I could without unduly alarming him.

Of Meg Skelling, and her charges against Gwyneth, I made no mention.

“It sounds positively biblical,” Matthew murmured.

I laughed. “Hardly. They’ve picked next Friday for the event.”

“June ninth?” Matthew had been reading about Salem and the witch trials. “That’s the day before Bridget Bishop was executed. You’ll be staying with Gwyneth a bit longer, then.”

“I’m sorry, my love, but I can’t very well walk out and leave her without responding to the coven’s invitation,” I explained. “The anniversaries are a big deal here, and emotions are running high.”

“Do you want me to come?” Matthew said. “Rebecca and Philip would be fine with Chris and Miriam for a few days.”

“That wouldn’t be wise,” I said hastily. “It’s not any old anniversary of the hangings, but the three hundred and twenty-fifth. Usually, a few members of the coven go to Proctor’s Ledge and leave offerings where the gallows stood, but this anniversary is turning into a special remembrance because of the opening of Salem’s new memorial.”

“I read about it in the news,” Matthew said thoughtfully.

“The site doesn’t officially open until the nineteenth of July,” I said, “but the authorities have invited the area covens to visit next week.”

“Bridget deserves to have her family present,” Matthew agreed. “I know you don’t want me there for the coven meeting, but should I come for the public ceremony, and bring the children?”

I was torn. Part of my heart remained in New Haven, and I missed my own family despite all the excitement surrounding the Proctors.

“I don’t want their first meeting with the family to take place at a time of sorrow and grief.” This was entirely truthful, and my fingers relaxed slightly on the phone. “I know it’s another change of plans, but I’ve been learning a bit more about the oracle cards, and Becca’s ravens. Granny Dorcas didn’t send the birds, by the way. She said that only the goddess could command them.”

“I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.” Matthew had experience with the goddess’s crafty agreements and clever invitations.

“At least we know the Proctors had nothing to do with it,” I said, hoping this would please him.

“If you change your mind about Proctor’s Ledge, let me know.” Matthew was disappointed—even hurt. He was making every effort to put some slack in the silver chain that bound us, witch and vampire, but it was not easy for him.

How long would it be before Matthew’s protective instincts made it impossible?

“It’s just a little while longer,” I promised. “For now, it’s better if you stay away. The coven is struggling to accept a Bishop in their midst. I can’t imagine what they’d do if a vampire came to town.”

After we said good night and the line was disconnected, I held the phone a few moments longer, as though I could maintain my connection to Matthew.

“Nine more days,” I whispered, putting the weight of all my magic into my words so that they had the power of a spell.

In my side pocket, the black bird oracle hopped and danced. I drew out the bag Goody Wu gave me. One of the cards was threatening to burst through the fabric.

The Crossroads.

It suggested I’d made another step down the Dark Path by agreeing to stay at Ravenswood.

Shadow crept from under the bed, dimming the light of the waxing moon and shrouding me in doubt.

Had I done the right thing? My finger hovered over the screen of the phone. Should I call Matthew back, and tell him about Meg Skelling?

“ Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, ” I said, uttering the traditional prayer to protect a witch’s sleep before turning out the light.