Page 18 of A Lullaby for Witches

“Nineteen,” I answered, suspicious of the sudden change of subject.

She nodded. “You look like your mama at that age.”

I paused, my cup raised halfway to my lips. “You know my mother?” I couldn’t think of a less likely friendship, never mind that my mother had repeatedly told me that I was not to associate with Phebe Hall.

“Oh, I knew her,” Phebe said. “I made her a promise that I would tell you about her when you were grown.”

I frowned. “Tell me what?”

I’d never known Phebe to be at a loss for words, but she sat back now and studied me with sharp eyes. “You mean they still haven’t told you?” she finally said.

“Who hasn’t told me what?” I asked, growing exasperated.

She sucked her teeth. “Child, if they haven’t told you by now then it isn’t my place to say anything. But you had better ask your mama where you came from. It’s not right that they let you go on all this time not knowing.”

“What do you mean, ‘where I came from’?”

But she only shook her head. “Ask your mama,” she said again.

Though I burned with curiosity, I knew better than to press Phebe. Perhaps she was mistaking my mother for someone else. But she was sharp as a tack, and I had never known her mind to wander. We drank our tea in silence, each nursing our own private thoughts. “Bring me some of that gingerroot next time and I’ll make you a cake like you’ve never seen,” she promised me when we were done. “And you go talk to your mama,” she said. “You need to know the truth of things.”

When I returned home that evening, Clarence and Lizzie had been there for supper, and there hadn’t been an opportunity to speak to my mother about Phebe’s cryptic advice. I spared it no further thought, for I had other matters on my mind. Matters that had dark hair and sensuous lips. Matters that had me aching with desire, counting the minutes until sundown.

Jack and I had seen each other but a handful of times since our meeting in the store, but each time his gaze would cut across the street to find me, sending thrills racing down my spine and pooling between my legs. And I would walk by, as if he were no more than a perfect stranger, unworthy of my attention. It was a game, and I savored every delicious minute of it. I wanted a child, yes, but I also wanted a conquest.

After my parents retired to bed, I slipped out into the cool, clear night with a basket on my arm. Roseroot collected by the light of the full moon is particularly powerful, and I wanted some for a charm. But that was not the only reason for my errand. A salty breeze swept around me, carrying with it the sound of footsteps. I smiled; he was coming.

I had barely turned around when his hands were on my waist, his mouth on my neck. “I need you,” he said between hot breaths. He backed me up against a tree, and I dropped my basket, fragrant herbs spilling on the ground. “I can’t see you on the street again and not know what your lips taste like, or the shape of your legs beneath your skirts. You torture me, and I only want you the more for it.”

This time there was no pretense of waiting or propriety. I didn’t have the patience to be coy any longer; I ached for his touch, for his body against mine. “Tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“I want your heart, little witch,” he gasped into my hair as I undid his trousers. “I want your soul, and I very much want your body.”

“They are yours,” I told him, though I did not add that if I was his, then he was equally mine.

For as much as I wanted a child, I admit that as he took me against that tree, I had little thought in my mind about conceiving. All I wanted at that moment was to feel him inside of me, to know what it was to reach the peak of pleasure and come crashing down in the arms of my lover, and if I got a baby from it, so much the better.

Afterward, we lay tangled together on the forest floor, leaves blowing over us as he idly twined his fingers through my hair. I was not so naive as to think that Jack would honor any of the words he had spoken in the heat of passion; thanks to my three brothers, I knew something of the ways of men. So I was surprised when he rolled toward me and lifted himself on one elbow, and asked, “When can I see you again?”

10

Augusta

Augusta was in a prickly mood. That morning she and Chris had gotten into a fight over something stupid (he kept putting his dishes in the sink even though the dishwasher was empty and RIGHT THERE), and she’d thought they had made up, but when she went to kiss him goodbye, he’d pulled away. Now the day had an anxious cast, and everything seemed off.

After refreshing her mug of coffee for the third time, she sat back down at her desk, squared her shoulders and resolved to get some brainstorming for her exhibit done. If Chris wanted to keep ignoring her texts then she wasn’t going to let it ruin her day.

Curating her own exhibit was a thrilling prospect, but she didn’t have the faintest idea what it should be about. Jill had mentioned the ceramic collection as a possible starting point, but Augusta found that, for once, she didn’t want to get lost in a dusty collection. Harlowe House was so dynamic, and she wanted to do something that would bring in otherwise unheard voices, something that would make the story of the house come to life. As she reached across her desk to turn on her computer, the binder of Harlowe family history caught her eye. It was open to the family tree.

The nameMargaret Harloweagain stood out. It was a shame that, in a family of brothers, there was no information on the only woman of that generation. If the portrait of the woman with the knowing eyes in the dining room was indeed of Margaret, then she had clearly been a vibrant, urbane young woman. How could such a beautiful portrait exist with nothing known about the sitter? In an instant, Augusta knew what—or rather,who—she wanted her exhibit to be about. She broached the idea to Jill at lunch that day.

“I mean, we would love to know more about Margaret,” Jill said, as she put her plate of leftovers in the microwave. “Hell, we would love to knowanythingabout her. I think the exhibit is a great idea, but unfortunately, I’m just not sure there’s enough there to make it work. Our archivist has scoured everything looking for something about Margaret and found nothing more than a couple of clues, and even they don’t conclusively link back to her.”

Augusta’s heart sank. There was something about the mysterious name on the tree that had captured her imagination completely. How could she walk through this house and care for the collection not knowing if this woman had walked the same hallways, touched the same things? She stirred her yogurt, lost in thought. “How about something broader, then, like women in nineteenth-century Tynemouth in general?” Maybe while she was researching, she would unearth something about Margaret.

“See if you can narrow it down a bit further. Leo might have some input, too, if you want to shoot him an email. I think he’s done some work with our archivist before as part of an outreach program for women in the arts.”

Augusta and Leo had planned to get coffee the next day, so she would ask him then. Augusta said she would keep thinking about it, but she knew that regardless of what the exhibit subject ended up being, she was going to be hunting for mentions of Margaret.

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