Page 6 of A Lullaby for Witches

Before Jack Pryce came into my life, days were for heeled leather boots, tight-laced stays and a head bowed over work. It had always been thus. At nineteen years old I was the baby of the family, and with my three older brothers all grown and with vocations of their own, it was left to me to help my parents manage the house and entertain their business guests. But the nights were mine, and mine alone. Sometimes I would walk along the rocky beach just for the thrill of feeling the sand between my toes, and other times I would meet Phebe to harvest. But more often than not it was the forest into which I would lose myself. You might envision the coast as all rock and water and salt, but Tynemouth was alive with wild woods and lush gardens, too. In the old days, there had been a settlement where the woods ramble, but in my time, all that was left were overgrown foundations and a pack of stray dogs.

The townspeople might have thought that I danced with the devil in the woods, that I held congress with demons. But there is no devil, and any demons with which I held congress were only those of my own making. The truth, of course, is always so much more mundane. It was there that I ran my practice out of an abandoned cabin, away from the prying eyes of servants and parents. It was there that I could find the herbs that I needed for my tinctures and drafts. I went because in the woods there are no expectations, no social mores. Now I wish I had not gone, for it was there that I first met Jack Pryce.

I had seen Jack in town before; it was impossible to miss the tall, lanky, young man who worked in his parents’ dry goods shop where I often did our shopping. We had never spoken beyond the required pleasantries, so when we came face-to-face in the pale moonlight, it was like meeting a familiar stranger.

Cool air touched my neck, the briny scent of the sea mingling with the fresh pines as I gathered nettles. Something rustled in the underbrush and I froze, thinking it perhaps a fox or coyote. Although the pioneer settlement was long since abandoned, there was still the occasional recluse that haunted this area and I did not relish running afoul of one. With only my thin slippers on my feet, I soundlessly moved over the fallen leaves, and took shelter behind a tree.

From my vantage I could see a group of young men tramping through the leaves and brush. They made no effort to be quiet, no effort to respect the sacred sanctuary of the woods. These were not the business and tradesmen with whom my brothers associated. These were the rough-and-tumble sons of sailors and fishermen, young men who took their pleasures in the dark pubs that lined the backstreets of town.

“Did you see that girl in the Black Horse?” one boy asked his companions. “Could see from her ankles clear up to her thighs!”

Another boy scoffed. “I was more interested in what was on her chest, or better yet, what wasn’t on her chest,” said a voice cracking with puberty.

This earned him a few snickers.

“I bet the half of you haven’t even touched a breast, let alone lain with a girl.”

“You and Tom think you’re awfully worldly just because you’re seventeen,” said the cracked voice.

If I had thought that young men were anything other than crass in private, then my assumptions were quickly put to rest. I could have easily slipped away, yet I was fascinated by this glimpse of unguarded interaction. So often, whenever I went into town, people turned away, or grew stiff and standoffish. I was so engrossed that I grew careless, snapping a branch as I moved to get a closer look.

“What was that?”

“Did you hear something?”

“I’ve heard these woods are haunted.”

“Tch, you’re all fainthearts.”

I stayed my step, but it was too late. The moon betrayed me as a thick cloud slid away, bathing my hiding spot in light.

In that moment, I knew what the deer feels when circled by a pack of desperate, hungry wolves. They would never have dared in town, but here there was only the rule of the wild, and I was the quarry, they the predators.

“It’s the Harlowe girl!”

“Say, little witch, what are you doing out here all by yourself?”

They had started advancing on me, and I, fool that I was, found myself backed up against one of the old stone foundations with nowhere to run. Could I dispel them with magic? It was possible, but there were at least four of them, and in my panic all my spells seemed to fly from my mind. Their eyes glinted with cruelty in the moonlight, their hungry expressions unmistakable. They might only have been children, but there is nothing so frightening as the energy that builds between boys as they spur each other on.

One launched a pinecone at my head, the others laughing as I ducked. I could just smell the cheap liquor on their breath as they moved toward me, when a deep voice rang out.

“Leave her alone.”

Just like that, the boys fell back. “We were only having a bit of fun,” one said.

“It’s just the Harlowe girl.”

The owner of the voice stepped into view. Tall, whip-thin and vibrating with a dangerous energy. I knew him at once as Jack Pryce.

“Why don’t you all run home to your mothers now.”

I expected the boys to protest, to insist that they were not children but men, but not one made a peep against Jack Pryce.

“Sorry, Jack.”

“If you say so, Jack.”

Cross-armed, he watched them scamper away through the leaves. I should have run also, but I was too transfixed by the moonlight in his dark hair, the dramatic shadows of his face.

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