Page 60 of A Lullaby for Witches

Everything had gone black, but still their voices, the vibrations of their energy, surrounded her. She was in her body, but she was above it. She was dead, but she was still there. Air rushed around her, catching her up in its stream, and suddenly she was dancing in the leaves above them. She could feel the mist that hung heavy in the clearing, every damp particle fusing with her very soul. She was everywhere and nowhere, a ship drifting without a port, a starling swept up in a storm with no perch in sight. She was the dolphin caught in the fisherman’s net, a vibrant life force with no body to call home.

“She’s dead.” Jack’s voice choked with emotion. “You’ve killed her.”

“I saved her,” Henry lashed back. “She would have killed one of us, and then she would have been a murderess. A pregnant murderess, no less. Would you really see her name splashed across the newspapers? Have her stand in front of a judge and jury and sentenced to death? And besides, you are party to this.”

She could practically hear the color drain from Jack’s face.

There was a long silence, and when Henry spoke again, there was a tremor in his voice. “We—we need to bury her.”

“Bury her—! Henry, you’re mad.”

“No,” Henry said coolly. “I am the only one who is thinking clearly. We cannot leave her body here for anyone to find.”

“She deserves a proper burial. We owe her at least that much.”

“Well, aren’t you a Samaritan? You didn’t seem particularly concerned about what she was owed when you were fucking her.”

Jack started to say something, but Henry was not finished. “I saw you, taking my sister against a tree like she was a whore, your hands all over her. Deny it all you want, but you’re an engaged man, and you’ve been seen cavorting with a woman who is now dead. Who do you think people would believe—a Harlowe, or the son of a small-time grocer?”

“I loved her,” Jack said quietly.

“You got her with child, knowing you would never marry her. You didn’t love her. You used her.”

A choke escaped Jack’s lips, and soon they were lifting her, moving her. Then cold, grainy dirt cascaded over her.

That was my end. At least, that should have been the end. But now I have the chance to finish things, the way they should have been finished. I only need to go a little deeper, root myself a little firmer inside of her. But before I can, we are interrupted.

33

Augusta

“Augusta? Augusta!”

Augusta cracked open one eye, expecting dirt to come cascading down onto her face. Her head was pounding and it felt as if someone had poured cement in her lungs. But instead of a shallow grave, she was in the old kitchen, light spilling in from the doorway. She was herself. Not Margaret, not a ghost. And it wasn’t Jack nor Henry who stood over her, but a very pale and very agitated Leo.

“I know what happened,” she breathed. “I know what happened to Margaret.”

“You don’t look good. I think we should find you somewhere to sit down,” he said, but she was barely listening. The light bulb above them buzzed; everything was too vivid, too harsh.

“It wasn’t Jack. It wasn’t Jack! It was her own brother, Henry. He was jealous and he killed her.” She could still feel the knife slicing through her, hot and sharp, and she automatically put her hands to her stomach. The baby. The grief she felt at losing a child that wasn’t hers—had never been hers—cut deeper than almost anything she had ever known. She fought back tears. “Then they buried her somewhere, but I don’t know where.” She shuddered at the memory of the light dimming around her, the cold earth opening up to swallow her.

She might have been back in the present day in her own body, but she still felt the acute loss echoing through her. Margaret had lost the child, lost her life, but it was Augusta who felt as if she was grieving. She had seen Margaret’s sad story play out, and yet she was desperate to go back.

“This ends now,” Leo said grimly, helping her up. “I should never have encouraged you or taken you to see my mother. This isn’t good for you. You can barely walk.”

She brushed aside his concerns. Now she would be able to curate an exhibit and tell Margaret’s story. Not just an exhibit, she could publish a paper. It wasn’t every day that a historic mystery was solved, and she had a secret weapon of firsthand knowledge. Of course, she could never divulge what had happened to her, but she would know what information to research, would know the answers before she even started.

“I’m telling Jill you’re sick and taking the rest of the day—no, the week—off,” Leo said as he took her hand and led her out to the staff kitchen.

This snapped Augusta back to attention. “No!” She jerked her hand away from him, almost losing her balance. “I want to stay. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

There was some surprise in Leo’s face, but mostly disappointment. “All right,” he said with infuriating calmness. “It’s all right. Why don’t we go for a walk, then? Get some coffee?”

Normally she would have leaped at the chance, but she didn’t want to leave Harlowe House. She belonged there. Carefully, she made her way out of the room, bracing herself against the wall as she went. “No, thanks. I’ll be in my office.”

“Augusta.” He reached for her, but she pulled away.

She sat in her office, staring straight ahead, numb. When she and Leo had kissed, everything had seemed so bright and promising, but now she could barely think of anything except for the feel of the knife piercing her, the cold earth swallowing her up. It felt as if she had left a piece of herself—an important piece—back in the ground with Margaret.

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