Page 34 of A Lullaby for Witches

Heaven forfend a Harlowe reputation be tarnished. “Where is she? Where is my mother?” I had never met her, had never even known she had existed until a few seconds ago, and yet all at once my heart beat fiercely with love for her. Every missing piece inside of me, every question without an answer suddenly became illuminated. I didn’t belong in this family. I had never belonged.

My mother pressed her lips, dropping her gaze to her plate. “She suffered an infection from childbirth and died, not long after you came here.”

And just as suddenly as my heart had come alive, it died again. My ears were ringing. Pushing my chair back, I stood up. I was vaguely aware of George rising and murmuring something to me as he tried to take my hand. I pulled away. I didn’t want to be near any of them, even George. I wanted Jack, only Jack. He, at least, had never lied to me. He was more soothing than laudanum, more warming than whiskey. I wanted to lose myself in a burning haze of passion and never come out. But I had not seen him in weeks, and did not know if I would see him again.

I could hear the sharp murmur of my family’s voices as I left and went to find Shadow outside. He must have sensed my pain, for he nosed my hand open, licking my palm. “I will not be like my mother,” I whispered into his fur. “I will not suffer having my child taken away from me and raised by someone else.”

After a sleepless night spent trying to imagine my mother’s face, wondering what her voice had sounded like, I set out to visit Phebe. At last, I would be able to learn about my mother, to speak to someone who had known her. My foot hadn’t so much as touched the oyster shell path when Phebe appeared at the gate, her arms crossed across her blue checked dress. “So they told you, huh,” she said. “Come on in, then.” She opened the gate and stepped aside so that Shadow and I might pass through.

I made us tea while she worked on her nets and hummed a song. Shadow lazed at her feet, occasionally snapping playfully at the twine passing over his head. My mind was a jumble, trying to make sense of the lie that was my life. There were so many questions that I wanted to ask, but every time I settled on one, a thousand more sprang up. Who was my mother? Had she been beautiful? She must have been to have fallen. Who would I have been if she had raised me? Who was my father? Would I ever know? Would I ever make sense in this world that didn’t see or appreciate magic? Would I have made sense if I’d had a mother who nurtured and encouraged my wildness?

As if reading my mind, Phebe finally spoke. “She was pretty. Long dark hair like you, but she wore it up in a braided crown. Clever, except when it came to men.” At this Phebe raised her eyes and gave me a meaningful look. “I didn’t know her much outside of church, so I was surprised when she came to me in trouble. I guess she thought that I could fix her problem.”

I winced at being referred to as a “problem,” but I wanted to hear more, so I said nothing.

“I told her that I didn’t do that kind of thing.” Phebe abruptly stood up and disappeared into the back of the house, her long skirts swishing. When she returned, she was holding a book. “Your mama gave this to me for safekeeping. It was her wish that you should have it when you were of age. Well, you’re of age now, I suppose.”

I ran my fingers over the butter-soft leather of the cover. Inside, an elegant script covered the pages, interspersed with an occasional sketch. This had been my mother’s; she’d written these words and left them for me. As I imbibed her personality through the slanted cursive and loopingPs, I suddenly felt a little less alone. Here was an explanation of who I was, of that which I was capable. Here, at last, was a link to my past. I was not a ship adrift on lonely waters, but a boat in harbor, anchored, safe.

I could feel Phebe watching me, pressing her lips like she wanted to say something. “You be careful of what you read in there.”

“Have you read it?”

“Of course not. It wasn’t mine to read. But I knew your mama and I know the sort of magic she favored, the darkness in her that could flare up like a candle flame.”

I thought of my mother, of Jack and the baby inside of me. It was too late for my mother, but perhaps I didn’t have to make the same mistakes she had. “What about you? Have you ever used dark magic?”

Phebe gave me a long look, and I had the impression that I had offended her, though I didn’t know how.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told her when she asked me. People make assumptions, they like to conjure up some romantic and silly notion about what they think I ought to be. Now, I don’t mind being known as a wise woman, but I’m not a witch and I don’t work dark magic. What’s more, I’m not here to hold your hand as you figure out who you are. If the darkness calls to you, then you’ll have to find your answers within the book.”

Chastened, I closed the book and spoke of it no more. I wanted to know every single thing about my mother, from the color of her eyes, to how she carried herself, to the songs she used to sing. But I would have to make do with the book, and the hope that my aunt and uncle would share some crumbs with me about my mother, low though their opinion of her seemed to be. If she had followed a dark path, then so, too, would I.

After the tea was finished, I tucked the book into my pocket. Phebe hung on the gate as I said my goodbyes. “You be careful, Margaret Harlowe,” she told me. “Don’t let the promise of easy magic lead you further into the trouble you’re already in.”

18

Augusta

In her dream, Augusta was standing behind a young woman, watching her comb her long dark curls. The woman was wearing a tightly fitted bodice, and though her back was to Augusta, she somehow knew it was Margaret Harlowe.Turn around,she willed the woman in her dream.Turn around and let me see your face.But Margaret did not turn around, she continued combing her hair in long, deliberate strokes while quietly singing under her breath.

And then, as was the way with dreams, Augusta wasn’t just watching Margaret, shewasMargaret. She could feel the comb sliding through her hair, could smell the lily-of-the-valley perfume dotted on her neck.

Just as she was looking up to meet her reflection in the mirror, a car alarm went off outside and Augusta jolted awake. The delicate melody that Margaret had been singing still spun its way through her mind, though.Let no man steal your thyme. It was so familiar, yet she couldn’t for the life of her think where she might have heard it before. With her eyes closed, she lingered on the edge of waking, desperately trying to keep the dream from fading away.

But it was gone. When she finally opened her eyes, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Some days she still woke up and expected to see the hanging plants and tapestry pinned to the wall of the room she and Chris had shared for years. Instead, now she was greeted by the slightly demonic grin of Mickey Mouse on her dresser, and a fadedTitanicmovie poster.

It was Saturday, which usually meant pancakes. Sure enough, when she’d sleepily shuffled into the kitchen, the smell of sizzling batter greeted her.

“Look who’s awake,” her mother said, expertly flipping a pancake. “I was about to go in and check that you were still breathing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Augusta managed between yawns. Already the dream was little more than a hazy memory. “Is there any coffee?”

Her mother nodded toward the coffee maker on the counter and went back to her flipping.

Perching on one of the counter stools, Augusta blew on the piping hot coffee. “I found some boxes under the bed,” she said, watching her mother’s reaction.

Her mother didn’t look up. “Oh?”

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