Page 63 of A Lullaby for Witches

We are together, her and I. A host and a guest. A body and a soul.

34

Margaret & Augusta

When I open my eyes, my old stillroom greets me, though it is empty and stale now, a musty fug hanging in the air. A spiderweb tickles my face and instinctively I swat it away. I marvel at the way the sticky silk clings to my fingers; I have never felt anything so wonderful.

An electric torch rests on the ground, but I don’t need it; I can find my way in the dark as well as any cat. I have seen my house from afar all these years, but now I move through it as I once did. I pick up a crystal vase, reveling in the satisfying weight of it in my hand before placing it down again.

In the kitchen I pour myself a glass of water and stand there, letting it dribble down my chin and stain my shirt. Glorious, it is so glorious. Then I go to the lavatory and turn on the light so that I might see my reflection in the mirror.

The face that gazes back at me in wonder is not me, but I know it so well that it may as well be. My curls are lighter and shorter, and freckles dust the bridge of my nose. I frown. The clothes do little to flatter the female form. No matter, I shall make do. Somewhere deep in the brown eyes I see fear, but I cannot dwell on that. I am free, and that is all that matters. Though I inhabit her body, I am not privy to her thoughts, her memories, her fears. Just as well—I have no interest in them.

I move through the house like that for hours—exploring, touching, experiencing. There is a whole world outside that door, but for now, I just want to rediscover my home. I have time now. I can do all the things that were denied to me. All that is missing is Jack.

When I showed Augusta what became of me, I learned something, as well. I had always thought that it was Jack who delivered the fatal blow. But it was Henry. All these years I saw the knife in the wrong hand, felt the blade slice into me from the wrong direction. It might not have been Jack’s hand, but if not for him and what he did, I would not have been on those rocks that night, and Henry would not have come to defend my honor.

Sunlight filters in through the museum curtains and I am soon to lose my solitude. “Oh, Augusta! You’re in early.” It’s the woman named Jill. She looks startled to see me, her cherry red lips open in surprise. I give her a wide smile and try out my voice.

“Just wanted to get started on some research!” I say. My words come out chipper and higher than I intended.

Her gaze lingers on me a moment too long, and I know that she can sense a difference, but cannot put her finger on it. “Okay. I hope you’re feeling better today,” she says. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

When she’s gone, I resume my inventory of my house. Aside from my portrait, which used to hang in the dining room, it is as if I never lived here. Perhaps I should have let Augusta make her exhibit first, but I suppose I can tell my own story now.

I watch as tours of people come stomping through my house, loud and oblivious. When I can no longer stand the sight of unwiped shoes on my carpets, I take myself outside. As soon as the salt air touches my face, I am reborn, my new body baptized in sunlight. I shrug out of the cardigan and let more of the air caress my skin.

My tether has snapped and I am free from my prison at last, a butterfly taking flight from its chrysalis. For the first time in over a century I can see outside the walls of my house, experience the world beyond. Tynemouth has changed, and it is harder to see the ocean now from the front lawn. Technology of which I was only vaguely aware before now hurtles down the street in front of me. Instead of fish carts and horses trudging by, cars clog the air with their exhaust, and there is an unpleasant tinge to the air that I cannot quite place. Just like my new body, I feel a surge of anger that those charged with stewardship of such a gift should squander it so.

I catch my reflection in a shop window as I walk down Main Street, and I cannot but help admire it again. When I catch the eye of a young man, I wink, then throw my head back and laugh. Such freedom! But my joy is short-lived, and I turn melancholy when I pass the building that used to be Pryce’s Grocery, now a shop selling knickknacks and souvenirs. Jack. The sands of time have long since claimed him. I do not know what became of him, but I have often wondered. He never got his just deserts. Did he return to Lucy? Did she bear him children? Did they grow old together? Did he ever come to the spot on the rocks again and think about what might have been?

All the strangers in my midst are from an unfamiliar time and place, and loneliness washes over me. I would give anything to have George swing me up in his arms again and pepper me with compliments. I would give anything to have Shadow at my heels. Someday I may very well meet them on the other side. This mortal vessel can only bear me for so long. This time, though, I will leave the earth when I am old and wrinkled, and on my own terms.

I pause in front of Phebe’s cottage, or rather, where it used to stand. No trace remains of the oyster shell path or the wooden gate. I strain my ear, trying to hear the shells tinkling in the wind, but they are gone now, their chaotic melodies nothing but a forgotten memory. I wonder whatever became of Phebe, if she ever forgave me. She is a regret that no time can erase.

My stomach rumbles and I laugh. Another reminder of my body! I swear I shall never tire of it. Though I long to stand on the rocks and feel the ocean spray on my feet, I turn back toward home to find something to eat.

The refrigerator yields a bounty of food. Such wonderful things I have never tasted! I sink my teeth into a peach, letting the juice run down my chin as my mouth explodes with sweetness. I am eating my fill when I sense a male presence behind me, and turn. Leo, in the flesh.

“Augusta?” He watches me as if he’s never seen the girl in front of him before. “Jill said you were in early. Are you sure you want to be here today?”

I let my gaze run over him, making no pretense of hiding my interest as I lick the sticky peach juice from my fingers. He is fine looking with his frank gray eyes and an open, almost boyish face. Not as tall as Jack, but well-built and cutting a fine figure nonetheless. He takes a step closer, hesitant, and I can smell the decadent scent of him, all cedarwood and soap.

“Go on,” I tell him, holding out the peach so that he might try.

He could not look more wary yet desirous if he were Adam and I Eve, offering him the forbidden fruit. The peach sits in my hand between us, the artificial kitchen light glinting off the soft flesh. “I—I’m glad to see you eating,” he finally says, his gaze moving from the fruit to my mouth, where it lingers. “I never wanted to say anything because...well, I worry and—” He breaks off as I set aside the peach and close the small distance between us, placing my hands flush on his chest. Through the thin material of his shirt, I can feel his heart beat faster under my fingers. I don’t know of everything that has transpired between them, but I do know that Augusta was a fool for not seeing the way he looked at her, the way he hung on every word she said, like she was a goddess to be worshipped. I trail my fingers down his chest, reveling in the muscles that tighten beneath them.

“What—what are you doing?” he asks, though he does not step away.

“What would you like me to do?” I reach up, dusting his jawline with kisses. His skin is warm, soft. Alive.

“Augusta,” he says, his breaths coming hotter and deeper. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Not when you’ve been—”

I stop his words with a kiss, deep and probing. His body softens just a little into mine and oh, what heaven. This is what it is to be truly alive. A body on its own is just a vessel, but a body infused with love is to taste all the universe has to offer. And I have hungered for so long.

Augusta watched in horror as her body moved of its own accord.

Leo was kissing her, but nother. He was wrapping his arms around her, but nother. All of the sensations—heat, happiness, arousal—she had felt kissing him on the hill were gone. It was like eating food but not being able to taste it. Claustrophobia pressed in around her, but she had no body to fight it, no voice to scream. She was like a fishing bob, tethered to her body, but floating above, separate. Trapped.

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