Page 41 of A Lullaby for Witches

Margaret

’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blowing snow inclemency,

’Tis not such cold that makes me cry,

But my love’s heart grown cold to me.

—“The Water is Wide,” Traditional Folk Song

I feel the energy change as soon as he enters the house. The delicate balance of old and new, feminine and masculine, is disturbed by his presence. I might hate men for the wrong done to me, but hundreds of men have come and gone through my doorway over the years, and none have aroused my attention such as this one. No, this man carries a dark energy within him. He is the angry sea, and the young woman, my champion, the little boat upon which he releases his wrath. But more than that, he threatens to undo that for which I have been working.

Leaving books open, gently nudging her in the right direction is all fine and good, but soon I will need to do more. I watch her as she absorbs what has just happened, and I can see the confusion in her face, wondering what caused the painting to fly. Does she know whose blood runs through her veins? Does she know how I watch her, and why? She may not know she needs me yet, but she will, and I have need for her.

It had been nearly a month since I had learned the dark truth of my origins, a month since Jack had left my heart tattered and bruised. Tynemouth was suffocating with its smallness, every familiar building a reminder of what I had lost. I could no longer walk past Pryce’s Grocery without Jack’s betrayal piercing me anew, nor stand outside of Phebe’s empty cottage and feel anything other than a guilt so heavy as to be unbearable. I needed a change of scenery. So when I received a letter from George in Boston saying that he needed to see me about a personal matter, I all but leaped at the chance to escape. I had not spoken with George at any length since the revelation about my family that night, and I missed him, even if he was not truly my brother. Any part he had played in the deception I could forgive, if only because I was so very lonely, and longed for some shred of normalcy and love.

It felt good to leave Tynemouth behind, even if only for a day. Though Boston could not boast of the same wild beauty as the coast, there was nonetheless a singular energy that pulsed through the city and bade me come take up my place among the tall edifices and bustle of people.

The Boston office was a grand building, much improved and expanded in the recent decades. Our home in Tynemouth was modest, and my frugal parents lived below their means, but Harlowe Mansion was a true beacon of commerce and industry. I found George in the large wood-paneled office downstairs, looking altogether out of place among the heavy account books and imposing brass lamps. He rose from the desk, where he’d been tapping his pen against paper, gazing out the window. “Maggie,” he said, embracing me. “But aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Indeed, his eyes did look strained and red, and immediately my anger at my favorite brother faded. No matter that we were truly cousins; he would always be my brother. “Come now,” I told him, leading him to the deep window seat where we could sit together, “a world where you are sad and down is not a world I care to live in. What’s happened?”

He fiddled with the end of his curled mustache. “It’s Ida. She’s having doubts. I told her that I had a voyage coming up after the wedding and she didn’t take it well.”

My first instinct was anger on George’s behalf. Perhaps I could punish Ida with a spell, make all her hair fall out. Who was she to complain when she had the greatest prize of all laid at her feet, that of George’s love? But I stayed my anger, folding my hands in my lap.

“And she is willing to lose a lifetime of domestic bliss because of a few short months at the beginning of her marriage? Bah,” I said. “The girl is a fool.”

George gave me a sad smile. “She’s the best of girls, but I appreciate your loyalty.”

“She just has to be brought round,” I told him. “Shall I speak to her?”

He looked dubious. “I’m not certain that would be such a good idea.”

“George, I say this with all the esteem I hold for you—you have had a golden life, untouched by tragedy or adversity. Things have come easily to you and—no, let me finish—you’ve not had to struggle. You love Ida and she loves you. This will be resolved, but you may have to fight. Are you willing to fight for her?”

“Of course I am!” he said testily. “Only I don’t see how we can come to an agreement. I cannot give up my occupation and—”

I stopped him. “No one is asking you to give up your occupation, least of all Ida, I suspect. She only wants to know that you prize her above all else. You must show her how much you will miss her, how much it pains you to leave her behind. If you love her as you say you do, then you must let the love shine through each and every word you utter to her. There can be no room for her fears and insecurities to fester.”

“And if she does not change her mind?”

“Then she was not the woman you thought her to be. But if she is all things good and kind as you have told me many times, then she will.” I watched couples stroll arm in arm outside the window, oblivious to the bittersweet vignette within. “If I had someone worthy of such a love, I would do anything to keep them,” I said, trying not to let the bitterness creep into my voice. “I would cross oceans for them. I would fight battles for them, would carry them broken and cold home, tend to them and keep them safe with me always. I would not rest until they were by my side, where they belonged.”

The sun had sunk low into the sky, the dim light coming through the windows no more than a grim reminder of coming winter. “Maggie,” he said softly, taking my hands in his. “If ever there was a woman deserving of such a love, it is you.”

The office was very quiet, the only sound the faraway traffic of Boston. I looked away quickly so that he could not see the tears filling my eyes. Was I deserving of such a love? I had thought so, once, but now I was not so sure. Phebe’s words sat heavy within me, and I wondered if she was right after all, that I was selfish and naive. “Well,” I said briskly, whisking a tear from my eye, “I have kept you from your work long enough.”

He rose with me. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for—”

I stopped him with a kiss on the cheek, my hand lingering on his jaw. “Do not mention it. You would do the same for me.” We parted—him back to his work, and I back to Tynemouth. Little could I know that it would be the last time I would ever see my dear George.

24

Augusta

Augusta’s knee bounced under her desk, her mug of coffee untouched. She was supposed to be writing up condition reports, but all she could do was replay her encounter with Chris the night before over and over in her head. She needed to tell Jill or Sharon about the painting and what had happened, there was no getting around it. Even if she hadn’t seen any damage, that didn’t mean that something hadn’t come loose within the mounting mechanisms, or that a miniscule crack hadn’t formed in the paint. Besides, she was fairly certain she should disclose that someone had been on the premises after hours.

---