Page 65 of A Lullaby for Witches

Augusta had watched as Margaret had taken the books out from the floorboards in the attic the night before, then gone traipsing through the cemetery. There was something in those books that Margaret didn’t want her to see, because she’d quickly closed them up and put them back. But Margaret must have forgotten that Augusta had already seen the books, already knew what was inside of them. Not that she had been able to make much sense of the spells and notes that filled the second one.

Margaret sat at Augusta’s desk, flipping through papers and occasionally examining the computer. If only there was some way to get a message out, to send the alarm that something wasn’t right. But how? Augusta had no control over her body, and everyone thought she was right there, sitting at her desk like she was supposed to be. Her only hope was that Margaret would grow tired of her new body and leave on her own.

Just then there was a knock at the door and she—Margaret—looked up to see Leo.

“Hey, sorry to bother you.” Augusta’s heart clenched at the sight of him, looking vulnerable and unsure.

“You’re never a bother,” Margaret said, sitting up and giving him a bright smile.

Leo hesitated for a second before continuing. “I was wondering if you were around this weekend? I’m driving up to Maine to visit my parents, and I would love the company.”

How could he not see that she wasn’t herself? But then, how well did he really know her to begin with? They’d only known each other for a couple of months. There’d been the promise for something more, but just when they’d been about to explore it, Margaret had stolen everything from her.

Setting aside the papers, Margaret gave him an apologetic smile. “Oh, I wish I could, but unfortunately I have plans this weekend.”

Plans? What plans could a one-hundred-fifty-year-old ghost-witch possibly have?

Leo didn’t seem put off. “Oh, yeah?” he asked casually. “What are you up to?”

“Oh, family obligations. You know how it is,” she said. “My parents need me at home.”

Augusta watched Leo’s reaction carefully. Would he catch Margaret’s mistake? Did he realize that it pointed to something sinister? But more important, did this mean that Margaret didn’t know everything about Augusta’s life outside of Harlowe House?

But he showed no sign of it. “Sure, totally understand,” he said. He was about to turn away when he paused, turning back. “I’d really like it if you could come. We can talk more about Margaret and your exhibit. And look, I know that it’s not really my place or anything, but I have to say, I’m worried about you. My sister is going to be in Pale Harbor this weekend, and she’s a psychiatrist. I thought maybe you could...that is...” He trailed off, looking almost embarrassed. “Well, if you’re not feeling well, maybe she can refer you to someone who could help.”

He thought Augusta had a split personality or something and wanted his sister to check her out. First, he had thought she had a substance abuse problem, and now he thought it was mental illness. Why couldn’t he see that it was something that went beyond all logical explanations?

Margaret tapped her pen against the desk, and Augusta could sense her irritation. But then she brightened. “You know what, maybe I will. Why not? It could be fun. Though I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with me.”

Lingering a moment longer, Leo nodded. “Great, it’s a date, then.”

Whatever little hope Augusta had evaporated with Leo’s words. Even if he had realized there was something wrong, what could he have done to help her? What could anyone do?

Margaret

Jill’s office was once my brother Clarence’s bedroom. The lovely damask wallpaper is now painted a bland creamy white, and the window is shut tight against the fresh summer air. Tamping down my irritation, I paste a bright smile on my face and knock.

“Come in!”

Jill is seated behind her desk. She looks up and smiles. “What’s up, Augusta?”

Perching on the edge of a chair, I let my fingers run over the smooth wooden arms. “Oh, nothing much. Just doing some research.” I pause, as if thinking. “How would I go about finding someone who lived in the 1870s in Tynemouth?”

Jill’s perfect eyebrows lift in surprise. “Is this about Margaret again? I thought you said you turned up some good information in the archives?”

My name coming from her mouth causes me to tighten. But of course, she doesn’t know anything. “Did I? That’s right. This is about someone else, though, someone who would have been tangentially related to the Harlowes.”

“The best thing to do would be to ask Sharon or Lori, though they might just point you to the Office of Vital Records.”

I had been hoping not to have to rely on someone who works here, but I nod, as if this perfectly answers my question. “Of course. Thank you.”

I rise to leave, but Jill stops me. I can hear the hesitation in her voice. “Augusta, how are you doing? I want to make sure that you’re comfortable and feeling safe here after everything that happened.”

Surprised, I sit back down. I know that I am not Augusta, that I cannot grasp every nuance of this modern life. But Chris, that miserable excuse for a man, has at least given me an excuse. “Truthfully,” I say, “it has been hard. I feel as if I’m not myself sometimes.”

Jill nods sympathetically. “Please take care of yourself. And if I can do anything, reach out whenever. I’m here for you. You deserve to feel safe.”

A bubble of emotion rises in my throat, and for a moment, I think I might cry. Aside from Phebe, I never had the confidence of a close female friend, never mind one my age. Swallowing back the unwelcome emotion, I remind myself that she is notmyfriend, but Augusta’s. None of them are my friends, especially not Leo.

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