Page 64 of A Lullaby for Witches

Leo, she screamed fruitlessly.It’s Margaret, not me! It’s not me! Help!But no words came out of her mouth.Margaret, she thought desperately.Please, let me out. I’ll tell your story. I’ll do anything you want—just please, let me out!

There was no answer. This was just a bad dream, it had to be. She would wake up with a lingering sense of nostalgia, just like all the other dreams. Even during the height of her episodes she’d never felt so helpless. Now there was no more hiding from the truth: she’d fallen victim to something much darker, something far beyond her control.

Leo pushed away. He leaned against the wall and drew his hands over his face, looking as anguished as if he’d just hit a dog with his car. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not when you...when you haven’t been feeling well.”

Margaret gave a fluttery laugh. “Oh, very well. Later, perhaps.”

Augusta watched as Leo shot her a lingering look of misgiving before beating a hasty retreat from the kitchen. What did Margaret want? What would she do? She didn’t know where Augusta lived or any of the details of her life outside of Harlowe House—did she? Did Margaret simply want to live in her old house again? If she did, then someone would surely have to realize that she wasn’t Augusta. But how could they help? She felt as if she were in a speeding car with the brakes cut, her hands tied behind her back.

Margaret ate her fill from the fridge, then returned to her office upstairs. Her only hope was that Margaret had as little control as Augusta had had during her episodes and would soon slip away. But she had a horrible, sinking feeling that told her Margaret was here to stay. Augusta had, after all, invited her in. How could she have known Margaret’s dark purpose? How could she have known that Margaret would betray the bond, the alliance they had come to form at Harlowe House?

35

Margaret

My books, both of them, are where I left them. I wait until the tourists and staff are gone before I take a little file up to the attic and shimmy it under the floorboard. There, among a blanket of dust and dead insects, I find the bundle that I hid over one hundred and fifty years ago. The only other person who has laid eyes on them has been Augusta. The thought makes me smile. Her eyes. My eyes.

I rock back on my heels, savoring the weight of them in my hands. They are softer, more fragile than when I left them here, but memories rush through me as I hold them. All my knowledge, all my power, preserved for such a moment as this. I pause, my fingers dancing to turn the pages, but I stay them. What I read,shereads. I may be in control for now, but my position is tenuous. Any knowledge in these books that I seek to use, she will also be privy to. The only part of Augusta’s life I know of, is that which has played out within this house. And though she can see through my eyes since our fusing, I must remember, she is of my blood, and latent though they may be for now, she still possesses powers. Who do you think caused the painting to fly, whether she knew that she was doing it or not?

Standing, I let the blood rush back into my legs. I don’t know where Augusta went when she was not at Harlowe House, and I do not care. Her old life is not my life. All the same, considerations must be made. I cannot very well sleep here and attract undue attention, nor wear the same clothes continually. Eventually I will have to find somewhere to live, have to attend to all those little details that fill her life.

Downstairs, the clock reads eleven. I have hours yet before I must give over my house to the tourists. I have seen Augusta disarm the security system hundreds of times, and I easily enter the code and let myself out.

My next stop is the carriage house. Jack never gave me lover’s tokens. He was not rich enough to buy me precious things, nor yet clever enough to fashion me anything with his hands. I had no need of such trinkets, though, for I had his heart. Or so I had thought.

The only thing that remains of him in this house is a little tin box that once held sewing pins and that he used to bring me a pressed flower once. You would not know that it was anything special, that it once represented all my hopes and dreams, mottled with rust as it is. It is a miracle that it has survived so long unnoticed. Tracing my fingers over the faded rose design, I give it one last look before slipping it into my pocket.

It is a fine November evening, a hint of sweet-smelling dried grass mingling with the ocean brine. The pavement under my shoes is hard, but the path is familiar. By the time I reach the old cemetery, I am perspiring from the humidity. I always loved the cemetery, even in my own lifetime. Perched on a hill overlooking the harbor, its marble stones glow like lost souls in the night. It has fallen into disrepair, though, and the gate is rusted, the overgrown grass threatening to swallow up the stones. I pick my way through them to the older section in the back where crooked crosses and crumbling cenotaphs jut drunkenly out of the ground.

There is the Harlowe plot. The wrought iron fence that once gleamed black is now peeling and flaking, the marble stones weather-beaten and faded. I have heard enough tours over the years to have memorized the death date of each and every one of my family members, yet seeing the engraved numbers that cap the end of each life still tugs unexpectedly at my heart. Where is my body? I wonder. Under what anonymous tree do I lie, and what is left of me? I remember Jack above me, a cascade of cold dirt and mud, but where? Did they leave me in the clearing, or take me somewhere else? Even if I knew, could I bear to see my own bones, jumbled and rotten? I shiver in the cool night.

When I have paid my respects at George’s grave, I stand, brushing the dead grass from my knees. I am just leaving when a name on a simple grave nearby catches my eye.

JACK PRYCE

REST IN PEACE

A hundred emotions run through me, emotions I haven’t felt in years, never even felt during my own lifetime. No dates, no carved cherub or weeping willow. Just a name nearly eaten away by lichen. When did he die? How? For all that the history of my family has been immortalized in the museum, Jack is as lost to time as I was.

Kneeling, I place my palm against the mossy stone. “Jack,” I breathe into the night air. “We shall be together again. And soon. I have not forgotten my pledge.”

Let no man steal your thyme.The old lullaby runs through my head as I leave the cemetery. I smile to myself. No man shall steal my time, not again.

I wait for Leo the next day, having spent the night sleeping under the stars in my old woods. It was invigorating to breathe in the fresh air and bathe myself in the light of the moon, but I cannot sleep in the woods every night. I crave the comforts of hot baths and soft pillows that I have so long gone without.

“Hey,” I tell him, coming into the ballroom. He gives me a wary look before quickly dropping his gaze back to his work.

“Hey.” Pink is creeping up from his collar, a remnant of shame or desire from our encounter the previous day.

“I hope that I didn’t upset you yesterday. I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately and I suppose I acted strangely.” The words slip out easily; I have been watching Augusta for months and can mimic her as well as any parrot.

He had been kneeling on the floor with his papers spread around him, but he gets up and crosses the room, stopping an arm’s length from me. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, yeah? I think we both could have handled that better.” He gestures to his computer, which is sitting on the folding chair. “My laptop is acting up again and I have a presentation tonight at the community college.” Pausing, he gives me a shy look through his dark lashes. “I hate to ask, but do you think you could take a look at it again and see if it’s something obvious that could be fixed?”

I glance at the machine on the floor. Augusta may have known what to do, but I don’t. I give him a helpless shrug. “I wish I could help. I need to get some work done upstairs.” I give his arm a friendly squeeze so he knows that there are no hard feelings, then leave him.

Augusta

MARGARET!If she could hear Augusta or understand, she gave no indication. Hurt and confusion flashed across Leo’s face when she left him standing there, humming a song under her breath.

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