Page 4 of A Lullaby for Witches

The man was the first to react, running and nearly tripping on a root as he shot one last look of horror back at me over his shoulder.

When the last of his crashing footsteps in the brush had faded, I addressed the wide-eyed woman. “If you find yourself with child, come see me and I will help you.”

I’m not sure if she was more frightened of her ordeal, or of what she had just witnessed. She regarded me with terror, disbelief. I offered her a smile, but she did not return it, or even thank me. Instead, she took off running in the opposite direction.

Soon, word spread that the Harlowe girl possessed uncanny powers and the ability to offer remedies that the town’s male physician would not, and women began making their way to my cabin in the woods. I did not ask for money in return for my services. I had money aplenty from my parents, and wanted for nothing. Instead, I collected secrets and gossip, stories from my customers. I knew which women found pleasure outside of their marital beds, and which men were impotent. I knew who had debts, and who hoarded their wealth. I knew that Delia Fisk’s husband beat her, and that she still loved him and only wanted his affection. When she came to me asking for a love potion, I made sure to slip something in it so that he would suffer from digestive pains. It was not for myself that I wanted these secrets, but because I wanted a record of the events that transpired in the lives of those around me. In the eyes of society, Delia Fisk’s husband was an upstanding, generous man who gave money to the local foundling home; who would know that behind closed doors he was a monster? He suffered no consequences, no punishment for his ill treatment of the woman who loved him. It was a rare thing for a man to be brought to justice for abuse of his wife, as men tend to band together, to protect one another. I collected these secrets and wrote them down so that somewhere in this universe, there would exist a sliver of justice for these women.

3

Augusta

The highway whizzed by through the Uber window. Augusta’s palms were sticky, and the car’s air-conditioning was only pushing tepid air through the vent. If she landed this job then she was going to have to figure out transportation; she couldn’t take an Uber every day to work.

The operative word there wasif. Full-time, benefited museum jobs in the area were few and far between, and highly competitive. She redid her ponytail for the hundredth time, and then tried to distract herself with her phone the rest of the ride.

The car stopped in front of a rolling lawn on the main street. Augusta stepped out into the muggy day as beach bag–toting tourists in flip-flops and sun hats strolled past her, enjoying the early autumn heat wave. She’d been to Tynemouth a handful of times before, mostly as a child during day trips in the summer. The coastal town was known for its fishing and whaling history, and was a popular tourist destination with its seaside hotels and up-and-coming restaurant scene. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, she squinted up the lawn to the stately Georgian house.

Harlowe House was postcard-perfect, from its garden of luscious blue hydrangea and vivid daylilies to its peach clapboard sides with white shutters. Steep steps led up the lawn and Augusta took them slowly, willing her makeup not to run from sweat. Her short, sandy curls were already frizzing out to extreme levels, and her sale-rack J.Crew blouse was sticking to her back. If her nerves didn’t do her in, this heat would.

Even with the bustle of tourists and shops nearby, the house belonged to a different time, a different world. It once must have stood among other houses just like it, but now—with the exception of some of the brick storefronts—it was the lone survivor of its era.

“Augusta?”

Augusta jumped at the voice as the front door opened.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. The bell is broken and I saw you coming up the steps. I’m Jill Wei, we spoke on the phone.”

With a sleek black bob that defied the humidity, Jill was petite and put-together in crisp capris and a flowing top. Augusta shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, wow, I love your earrings,” Jill said, returning her handshake. “You must be baking, though. Come on in. The air is terrible today—I’m so over this heat wave.”

Augusta liked Jill immediately. Some of the tension lifted from her shoulders as she stepped into the cool interior, the familiar museum scent of old wood and citrus cleaner welcoming her inside.

“Monday and Tuesday are our administrative days, so there aren’t any tours today,” Jill said, as she led Augusta through a gracious hall tastefully appointed with a mahogany credenza and Oriental carpets. A grand staircase with ornately carved balusters and a brightly polished banister dominated the entryway. The wallpaper was an understated chinoiserie in warm taupes and grays, illuminated by soft light filtering in from a window at the top of the stairs. Despite the lavish scale of the hall, the overall effect was warm and welcoming. After the dark cells and low ceilings of the Old City Jail, Harlowe House felt like a breath of fresh air. Jill caught Augusta taking in the period details and smiled. “If we have time afterward, I can give you a quick tour. I have a meeting in Boston at two, though, so it might be tight. Have you been here before?”

“No,” Augusta admitted. “I’ve always meant to but never had the chance.”

Jill didn’t seem too concerned about it. “Well, I’ll just give you the quick version for now. We have an endowment from the Harlowe family’s living descendants. There are three properties—Harlowe House, a shipping office and residence in Boston that now houses our archives, and an unfurnished summerhouse that we rent out for weddings and functions. The bulk of the collection is here at Harlowe House, and in addition to our regular tours, we do lots of community outreach and public programming.”

They passed through a sitting room and into a modern back hall, then up a set of carpeted steps. “There were Harlowes living in this house from as early as the 1780s, we think,” Jill said over her shoulder, “but it was really the fourth generation in the second half of the nineteenth century that made their mark on the fishing and whaling industries.”

“I’ve seen the name Harlowe on a lot of buildings in the area,” Augusta said. “I didn’t realize that this was the same family.”

“They had alotof money,” Jill said. “That tends to get your name on stuff.”

The floorboards creaked as Jill ushered her into an office at the end of the hall. It looked like it had once been a bedroom before being converted to an administrative area; crown molding edged the ceiling, and the walls were painted a soothing hue of goldenrod. Jill gestured to a chair across from the desk. “I’m going to go grab our administrator, who’ll be joining us for the interview. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.”

Augusta took the opportunity to catch her breath and send a quick text to Chris to let him know that she’d made it to Harlowe House. When she heard footsteps approaching, she slipped her phone back into her purse. But seconds passed and no one came in. Her neck prickled as if someone was watching her.

“Hello?” she said. Silence.

She must have imagined it. The feeling died as quickly as it had come on, and soon Augusta heard Jill’s voice coming through the door. “Augusta, this is Sharon, she’s our administrator.”

Sharon was a little older than Jill, her peppered-silver hair framing a warm and kind light-skinned face. She gave Augusta a bright smile. “Should we get started?”

Augusta nodded, crossing her ankles under her chair so that her bouncing knees wouldn’t be visible.

“It looks like you’ve had a lot of experience with visitor services and public outreach,” Sharon said as she glanced through a printed copy of Augusta’s CV. “That’s great. Can I ask why you’re interested now in switching gears to working behind the scenes?”

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