Page 59 of A Lullaby for Witches

His hands roamed her body, cupping her breasts through her dress, pressing his leg between her thighs. Pleasure shot up through her core. But then he pulled back suddenly, his lips swollen, his eyes dark. “What is that?” he asked.

“What is what? Jack!” she exclaimed as he plunged his hand into her bodice and drew out the satchel.

It looked harmless enough—a little burlap pouch bound with twine and filled with herbs, but he must have seen the guilt in her eyes because he drew back.

“What, did you mean to poison me? Or is this some witch work, a curse perhaps?”

She didn’t say anything.

Jack fingered the little knife that he always kept in his boot. “I would be well within my rights to defend myself,” he said. But there was no emotion in his voice, no conviction. He looked tired, defeated. “I would be well within my rights to fan the flames of the rumors and expose you for the dark work you do.”

“But you won’t,” she said, tilting her chin defiantly.

He rakeed his hand through his hair, sighing. “No, I won’t. Just like you will not kill me, as much as you may like to.”

That was the problem, with such a love as theirs; they knew each other too well.

She was just about to tell him that perhaps he didn’t know her as well as he thinks, when the sound of clumsy footsteps in the underbrush rang out. Was it the town boys again? How long ago that meeting in the woods seemed now. Jack must have thought the same thing, because he moved closer, putting himself between her and the noise.

She didn’t know who she expected it to be, but she nearly lost her footing when her brother appeared in the clearing, his face pale, his eyes alive with fury. “Henry?” she asked, stepping around Jack. “What are you doing here?”

But he didn’t even look at her. “Pryce,” he said, staring daggers at Jack. The two men sized each other up like wolves circling each other. “I do hope you weren’t threatening my dear cousin with that knife.”

“Your cousin?” Surprise flickered across Jack’s face and she almost laughed. He didn’t know that Henry was not her brother! She never told him of her heritage, of the truth about her family. What did it matter now, though? What did anything matter? Soon it would all be over.

“Go home, Henry,” she ordered him through gritted teeth.

“I am not yours to order about,” Henry said in a voice that she had never heard from him before—older, mature. “I’ve come to collect you and bring you back to Boston with me. This tryst with Jack Pryce is over. I won’t have my cousin lowering herself in such a way.”

He grabbed her by the arm but she shook him off. “I’m not going with you,” she spit. “I would rather die than live as your mistress or whatever it is you think to make me.”

Jack finally seemed to snap out of his shock, and he reached for her other arm. “Listen to her, Henry,” he says. “She doesn’t want to go with you.”

“It doesn’tmatterwhat she wants,” he snapped. “She is a fallen woman, and you are in no position to make her respectable. I will care for her and the child, and she will be safe and out of your reach.”

She should have at least pretended to placate him, but they shared the same blood that was so easily stirred to passion. “You’re mad,” she told him. Grabbing the knife from Jack, she brandished it, hoping it would convince him that there was nothing for him there but danger.

But he didn’t move, only gave a humorless smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret. Do you want to end up like your poor mama? Broken and used and without a friend in the world? Do you really think that our parents will allow you to live alone with a bastard child? They may have raised you like their own, but they have limits, especially when it comes to the good name of the family and the business.”

She could not stand to hear her dead mother spoken of in such a way. She could not stand the pitying, condescending look on Henry’s face. It was not really Henry who was at fault, though; he spoke no more than the truth, though she shuddered to hear it. No, Henry was merely the vessel for all her rage, all her hatred, all her hurt and betrayal. It was not fair that she should have been denied the love she had found, nor made to live in shame for the natural consequences of that love.

The knife grew warm in her hand and she realized how foolish the notion of poison was then. Henry was still speaking, but she could not hear his words, nor that Jack was imploring her to put the knife down. All she could think of was how unfair it all was. It should have been her walking arm in arm with Jack down Main Street. It should have been her who held him close at night in their shared bed. It should have been her who owned his heart for all eternity. Henry thought that he understood her, thought that he could replace Jack. Well, he was a fool. She lunged at him as Jack called out her name, but it was too late. Henry stumbled backward.

Their bodies met, the jet buttons of her bodice pressing hard against his chest, the clandestine embrace that Henry had always craved. It was short-lived, however; something hot and sharp pierced her and, as quickly as they met, she pulled back.

She saw the shock on Henry’s face first. Then she looked down. The silver knife she had just held was sticking out of her chest, her hand still wrapped around the handle, Henry’s wrapped around hers. She jerked her head back up, still not fully understanding. The baby, had the knife touched the baby? Was there a spell to staunch the crimson flow of blood? Her head was light and, suddenly, she knew she was dying. It did not matter if the knife had pierced her baby or not, because her baby would die with her. She fell, first to her knees, and then to her back on the cold, rocky ground. No spell could save her now.

Above her stood Jack, his face twisted in anguish. Hot blood ran down her body, but she was too cold, colder than she had ever felt in her life. The scent of pine needles and mud filled her nostrils. The part of her tethered to the physical plane grew smaller and smaller, the rocks, and the tall, creaking pines expanding around her.

“What have you done?” The voice was tinny and sounded like it was coming through an old pipe. “Dear God, what have you done?”

But Henry didn’t say a word. She could not see his face, but she could imagine only too well the look of shock, the horror in his eyes. He couldn’t have meant to do it, he loved her. For all his faults, Henry had always loved her. If only he had not, then she might have still been breathing in the salt air, might still have felt the life growing in her belly.

Jack fell to his knees, his face filling her rapidly shrinking field of vision. “Margaret, can you hear me?”

Henry finally broke his silence, striding over and pulling him off her. “Get away from her, you scoundrel!”

She had never known Jack to cry before, but he cried then, his tears rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto her hands. They would be the only cleansing ritual her body would know.

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