Page 62 of A Lullaby for Witches

“That’s not what I mean.”

Her mother drew in a ragged breath. “Because it’s not my place to sully my daughter’s memory of her dead father.” She gave Augusta a pointed look. “Okay? So enough of that.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Because you guys didn’t get along, I’m just supposed to forfeit any sort of memories of him?”

“I swear to God, Augusta, this is not a conversation I’m having with you, especially when you’re acting this way.”

Her mother’s words rolled off Augusta’s back. If she didn’t want to talk about Augusta’s dad, fine. There were plenty of other questions that needed answers. “How come you keep all our family stuff hidden away? Why do I have to go digging just to learn who I am?”

“You’re not making any sense—you know exactly who you are. You are Augusta Jean Podos and right now you’re being a serious pain in my ass.”

But Augusta wasn’t giving in. “I want to know about where we come from, about all the names on the family tree. How come we never visited anyone for the holidays? How come—”

Slamming her hands on the table, Pat cut her off. “Fine. You want to know about our family? I’ll tell you. Our family is a disaster. There are feuds, rifts, tragic deaths and more divorces than happy marriages. My own grandmother told me we were born under a bad sign and that if I cared about our family at all that I wouldn’t have any children to continue the curse. I wanted to protect you from the bad luck and sadness that seems to follow every generation, but it looks like you want to go down that road, too. You had a good relationship, job and place to live, and you threw it all away to come live here and start over again—and for what?”

“So it’s just superstitions? That’s it?” She had expected some big dark secret,somethingconcrete about their origins. “Of course we have divorces and deaths—every family does. You could have told me the truth all along. I’m not a child.”

“You’remychild,” Pat retorted.

There had to be something more. Her mother was down-to-earth and eschewed all things occult and supernatural. Augusta couldn’t believe that Pat would accept the idea of a family curse. “You didn’t want me to know about our family because you’re suddenly superstitious? Jesus, Mom, you never even let me believe in Santa.”

“It’s not just superstition,” Pat mumbled, not quite meeting her eye. In all her twenty-eight years, Augusta had never heard her mother mumble. Pat always had something to say and knew exactly how to say it.

“What?” Augusta demanded, afraid that she’d already heard the gist of it.

Her mother shot her a peevish look. “I said, we’re descended from one of the Salem witches.”

Augusta blinked. It was a running joke in Salem that everyone was a descendant of one of the dozen or so convicted witches, and it seemed like every tourist who came through the Old Jail was also convinced that they were a descendant. Some probably were, but mostly it was their own family lore or wishful thinking. Was her mother really one of those people? Why had she never mentioned anything about this before? It wasn’t impossible that her family really did have some tenuous connection to one of the witches; after all, her family had lived in Salem for generations.

A fog that she hadn’t known was clouding her mind suddenly lifted, and Claudia’s story about Phebe and the mysterious girl who had gotten her mixed up in some kind of trouble came back to her. Margaret looking after Augusta, choosing her to see Margaret’s story. The books she had found in the attic, filled with what she had thought were recipes but now realized were herbal charms, spells. Margaret had lived two hundred years after the infamous trials, but she had been a witch all the same. Of course, she wouldn’t have been a witch in the way the tourists who came through The Old Jail envisioned witches with pointy hats and broomsticks; she would have been more of a healer than a witch.

“Augusta? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, I heard,” Augusta muttered. “You lied to me and isolated me from our family, all because of some dumb superstition.” It didn’t matter if Margaret had been a witch in the true sense of the word or not. It was ludicrous to believe that their family carried a curse because of one eccentric ancestor. But then again, what if Margaret reallyhadpossessed some sort of power? Wouldn’t that explain Augusta’s visions? Her head spun. Everything she thought she knew about her life turning upside down.

Pulling out the box of family documents from under the bed, she let herself get lost in the web of names. Podos, Gennetti, Bishop, Cooke, Barrett, Montrose, Hale. Why had no one ever told her who she was? Who had all these people been, and how had they shaped her? She refused to believe that her family was cursed, or had some dark, tragic roots. But what if there was some truth to it, even just a little? She thought of her interview with Claudia, and the way certain stories were passed down by families. If she was truly related to Margaret, then maybe there was some grief that ran through her blood, passed down generation to generation, manifested in untimely deaths, broken hearts and melancholy dispositions.

She had always been lonely, adrift. Maybe that was why she had clung to Chris for so long. Older parents and no cousins or siblings or really any extended relatives to share their family history. With Margaret, she made sense. She was descended from a powerful woman, a woman who had been wronged.

Without really knowing why, Augusta threw on some shoes and grabbed her car keys.

“Now where are you going?” her mother called from the kitchen, where she was elbow deep in the dishes with which Augusta would usually help.

“Out,” she answered, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as she pulled up and turned off the car, she felt better, like she could finally breathe again. This was right. This was where she belonged. Somewhere, deep down, she knew she was being impulsive, but it felt good to give in.

She punched in her code and let herself into the house. Jill or Reggie might see that she had come in at night, but really, who cared? All that mattered was that she was where she was meant to be. She alone was steward to Margaret’s legacy, and thus the legacy of Harlowe House. Inside it was quiet and still, and she closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of old wood.

“I’m here,” she whispered to the empty house. “Just because you finished showing me your story doesn’t mean you have to leave.”

Such welcome words I never heard. I would have come regardless, but to be invited, well, that is no small thing. It makes my work infinitely easier, lessens the energy I must expend to complete the magic. This is what I have been waiting for all these years. My champion, my blood, my vessel. This time there will be no interruptions. This time we shall finish what was started.

I feel her stiffen in surprise, then give a little sigh as I make myself at home.

Margaret, she says in her mind.

Augusta, I answer.

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