Page 11 of A Lullaby for Witches

She walked around the outside of the house in the gathering dusk, snapping a few pictures for Instagram. No reply from Chris. He was probably at the gym, or engrossed in a video game with Doug.

She was just about to go in search of a café so she could hunker down until eight, when Jill and Reggie caught her coming out the back door.

Jill looked surprised. “Hey, do you have a ride home?”

Augusta didn’t want to admit that her boyfriend wasn’t answering her texts, or that she was planning on sitting by herself for three hours. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just going to call an Uber or something if my boyfriend doesn’t get me first.”

“Well, we’re going to go grab a beer. You’re more than welcome to come. Reggie lives near Salem—he can drive you home after.”

“Or I can drive you home now,” Reggie quickly offered. “No need to come out if you don’t want to.”

Augusta fidgeted with her phone case. She’d envisioned celebrating with Chris, but he hadn’t answered, and she didn’t really feel like going home yet. Checking her messages one last time, she made up her mind. “Yeah, okay. I’d love to.”

It was almost eleven o’clock by the time Reggie dropped Augusta off. As she made her way up the carpeted stairs to their apartment, a knot tightened in her chest. She’d forgotten to check her phone until she was in the car and saw she had a text from Chris asking where she was. When she let herself into the apartment, Doug was nowhere to be seen, and the door to her and Chris’s bedroom was closed.

The light was off but she could make out the faint outline of Chris in the bed. Quietly as she could, she slipped off her shoes and changed into her pajamas.

The rustle of blankets. “Where were you?”

“I went out for drinks with people from Harlowe House. I texted you,” she added.

“Who?”

“Just some of the people who work there. Jill is the curator who I told you about, and Reggie is the building manager. They’re both married,” she added, knowing what his next question would be and hoping to avoid a confrontation.

Chris didn’t say anything, just turned back over in bed. She stared at his unmoving form for what felt like an eternity before finally getting ready for bed and resigning herself to a night of the silent treatment. As she climbed into bed beside him, she felt a pang of grief for the days when he’d hugged and tickled her and then fallen into bed with her, glad for her company. How long ago those days seemed now. Had she and Chris changed, or had time simply eroded whatever chemistry they had once shared? Either way, it was lonely to lie so close next to someone, yet feel so very far away.

7

Margaret

The gardener standing by,

He bid me take great care;

For that under the blossom and under the leaves

Is a thorn that will wound and tear.

—“The Seeds of Love,” Traditional Folk Song

My mother received the cream of tartar with ahumph, but did not ask me what had taken so long. “Clarence and Lizzie will be here soon,” she said.

It was a rare thing for all three of my brothers to be in Tynemouth on dry land at the same time, but whenever it happened my mother was rapturous, insisting on throwing elaborate dinners for them. Her sons were her pride and joy. They did not embarrass her, did not give her cause for worry.

Nearly ten years older than I, Clarence was little more than a stranger who appeared at the house with his wife on occasion and talked business with Father. Clarence worked at the shipping office and did not actually go to sea himself. He had a head for numbers and the reserved demeanor of a scholar. Next oldest was George, and then Henry. George had salt water in his blood and was at sea more often than on land, and though I seldom saw him anymore, he had always been my favorite. The house was a duller place without him.

I often wondered why I was such an anomaly in my family. Mother did not show the slightest inclination toward the world outside the gossip pages, let alone the art of magic. And Father, while he was always kind and generous, had not an ounce of imagination. Aside from George, my brothers were dull and would rather sit inside an office hunched over a dusty ledger than look out the window at the world around them. Sometimes it felt as if I had been born from the morning dew, simply materializing from the air fully formed.

I wanted to divest myself of the wretched corset, but Mother had the eyes of an eagle, and I knew that she would insist upon my looking “presentable” for my brothers. There was always something wrong with me, always something worthy of her criticism. Sighing, I changed out of my lawn linen dress and into a stiff visiting gown of plum taffeta and made my way to the kitchen. I wanted rosemary and borage for a sachet to put under my pillow. Even though there was no mistaking the way Jack Pryce looked at me, there could be no harm in making a love spell to encourage his affections.

Molly greeted me warily from where she was mixing a bowl of eggs, watching as I passed through the kitchen. She tolerated my presence in her domain because her position demanded it, but her dislike didn’t escape me. There was an unused pantry—once a kitchen from the early days of the house—which I used as my stillroom. It was my sanctuary, the one place where I might breathe freely. As soon as I opened the door, the warm, familiar scent of sage and lavender embraced me. The old kitchen had not been used for decades, but one window remained uncovered, and it let in a slice of soft, buttery sunlight.

When I was not able to go out into the woods or to the ocean, I would retreat into my stillroom. It was here with my herbs and dried flowers that I could bring time to a halt. Later I would look back at those days with fondness, longing. Dust motes hung suspended in the shaft of sunlight, and the sounds of the house were far away and muffled. I plucked and ground and mixed my little potions and tinctures, tipping them into bottles and labeling them.

When I had made my love charm, I wiped my sage-dusted fingers on my skirt, and emerged back into the hall just as my brothers began to arrive. Clarence and his wife, Lizzie, were first, Lizzie’s stomach bulging with child. Her keen eyes seemed to calculate the price of every stick of furniture as she swept through the hall, the exaggerated bustle of her dress nearly knocking the credenza over as she passed.

“Margaret,” Clarence said, giving me a formal kiss on the cheek.

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