Page 39 of The Witch and His Crow

‘What is it?’ I trailed my fingers over the spine, feeling the ridges like bones within a spine. There was a weight to it, but not something I could explain with metrics. It was deeper than that, as though something peculiar lingered in the very fabric of the book.

‘A grimoire. Myfather’sto be specific.’

‘You stole Jonathan’s Book of Shadows?’ I couldn’t hide how impressed I was. Opening the first pages, I found another world of language and symbols. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before, mostly in history books. But here, these shapes, spells and drawings felt different. More… believable.

Old magic. Forgotten ways. The craft as it had been before Eleanor Letcombe gave her life to the Witch Hunters, protecting witch-kind.

‘Technically, it belonged to my mother, but when she left me, it was given to Jonathan, who gave it to me. Or he took it. What exactly happened is pretty murky.’ Romy came to stand beside me, peaking over my shoulder.

I swallowed. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother’

She nudged me with her shoulder. ‘No you’re not. How can you be sorry for someone you didn’t know? Anyway, she abandoned me. We don’t have nice feelings about her, okay?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ And I didn’t. My condolence came from a far more personal space. ‘I’m sorry foryou. I know thefeeling of navigating a world without the people sworn to protect us.’

‘As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Hector, what creates more of a bond between two friends than the mutual feeling that we never got to truly know our mothers? Look, how exciting, we have something in common.’

Romy had a way of speaking from a place of pure honesty. It was almost overwhelming. So, I focused on Jonathan’s grimoire and the issue at hand. ‘Care to explain how this book exposed Jonathan’s deceit?’

She reached over me, flickering through pages. I saw diagrams thatlookedfamiliar but was as much a different language than that I had never spoke before. Pages upon pages of script, hand-written, clearly all from different hands. I was holding Romy’s family history in my hand, long forgotten, from a time when witches had magic and not Gifts. Finally, she came to a stop near the end of the book. A crisp white page had been folded up and stuffed into the pages of the book. I plucked it out, unfolding it to reveal…

‘A letter?’ I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was addressed to Jonathan and signed off clearly by one familiar name.

F. Tomin.

I fought the urge to launch the letter across the room. Another urge, a darker one, wanted to find a burning fire and throw the book into it. Seeing that name unlocked something dangerous within me. Not only did it spoil my insides and send my mind into a vortex of dark thoughts, but I reacted physically--lip curling, teeth flashing, muscles tensing.

‘Found the letter in his study. Thought the best place to hide it was in my mother’s grimoire, since Jonathan has made itexplicitly clear that even the thought of her disgusts him. One, he’d never put me down to taking them, and two, if he did, he’d never think to look in the grimoire.’

‘Smart,’ I said, forcing out the word through the sickness that bubbled in my stomach.

‘You can borrow it, if you want,’ Romy said, her voice almost a whisper given that the noise in my head was so loud I almost didn’t hear her. ‘I think it will give you some answers, perhaps even spark some more questions.’

It was the sorrow in her voice that finally drew my attention from the letter, back to Romy.

‘My father,’ she spat, ‘is an evil man. As I’m sure you’ve worked out by now. But this letter… I cannot put into words how sorry I am.’

There was no stopping my heart from dropping like a stone. I felt it thud in my stomach, followed by a wave of sickness. ‘Sorry for what, Romy?’

‘Jonathan hasn’t just been working with the Witch Hunters recently. As you’ll find out, he’s been dealing with Tomin foreighteen yearsnow.’ Romy didn’t blink once as she spoke, perhaps to nail home just what she meant with her emphasis on the timeline. She actually pointed to the top of the letter, to a date written there.

Eighteen years. Eighteen years since my parents were killed. Murdered. Put down like diseased cattle. The date was of the night before their murder.

I dared not to read the first line for fear of what I’d find.

Turned out, I really had no self-control.

The Tanners were an unfortunate mistake.The letter read. I knew that name. It was Salem’s family name. Even before I continued reading, I knew where the letter would go.Be sure that the Briar’s home is secured before our arrival. If we are to act swiftly, it must be clean and quiet…

I snatched my eyes from the letter, unable to read another word. Folding it up, I slipped it back in Romy’s hand. ‘I don’t need to read this.’

My mind was a storm. Distracted, I could hardly gather a coherent thought without thinking about Jonathan’s involvement with Tomin. How it washismistake Salem’s parents were murdered the night prior. Then…

My throat dried like stone baked beneath summer sun. I tried to swallow but almost choked. Romy didn’t need to explain any further, nor did I need to look down at the letter and finish reading. I had no doubt Jonathan had some involvement in my parent’s murder. The admission of guilt was practically written across Romy’s face.

Her sense of responsibility to me. Her desire for me not to partake in the Witch Trials. And now this, her sorrow and guilt. The pity she looked at me with. They were all tale-tell signs of the truth.

But I was weak. I was one more truth from breaking. And if I wanted to survive the Witch Trials and see punishment duly handed out, I would need to gather the frayed threads holding me together and grasp them tight.

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