Page 66 of A Lullaby for Witches

Augusta

The last time Augusta had been at the Office of Vital Records, she’d had Leo at her side and was filled with excitement. Now she watched as Margaret climbed the old stone steps up to city hall and she felt hopeless and helpless, but curious. Who was Margaret looking for, and what did she plan on finding?

With all the grace and dignity of a queen, Margaret employed the old woman working behind the window to find birth and death records from the late 1800s and seated herself at a table to wait for them to be brought to her.

Margaret flipped through the binders with amazing speed, her finger tracing over the typewritten names. She let out an exasperated huff when the first binder didn’t yield whatever result she was expecting.

It was nearly four binders later when Margaret caught her breath. Her finger rested reverently over a line, her lips silently mouthing the name.

Pryce, Jack. b. 185? d. 1877

Augusta should have known; Margaret wanted to know what had become of her lost lover, the man who had not killed her, but who had broken her heart and led her down the path of destruction. He had only lived a year longer than Margaret, and it was hard not to wonder if his death had somehow been related to losing her. It was a tragic story, a doomed romance, but Augusta couldn’t bring herself to feel truly sorry for either of them. The room had gone very still as Margaret sat there, staring at Jack’s name.

Then Margaret spoke, and again Augusta was reminded that, though both their souls inhabited one body, Margaret was still somehow able to keep at least a part of her thoughts veiled from Augusta. “Jack,” she said. “Soon.”

Her words came out in a whisper, almost as if she hadn’t meant to speak at all. Then she sat up straighter and called to the clerk. “Excuse me, but how would I find out the manner in which someone died?”

The old woman raised her brows behind her reading glasses. “You don’t,” she said shortly. “You would need to find the death certificate for that, and we don’t have those here.”

Margaret scowled, slamming the binder shut. Pushing back from the table, she stalked back outside, leaving the angry clerk yelling at her to come back and clean up all the binders she’d left everywhere.

On the steps, she paused, squaring her shoulders and looking up at the gray sky. “Yes, you begin to see my aim now,” she said, and Augusta realized that Margaret was addressing her, Augusta. “But know this—none of this will have been in vain if my plans come to fruition. You are part of something bigger than yourself now.”

A small smile played on her lips, and despite Margaret’s reassurance, all Augusta heard was a deep note of foreboding.

It was dark and Harlowe House had been long closed for the evening by the time Margaret returned from walking through town. Her step was determined as she made her way around the back of the house to the garden shed. Margaret rattled the chained handles. This was where Reggie kept most of his tools and landscaping supplies. What was Margaret looking for?

But Margaret wasn’t deterred. Picking up a rock, she smashed it against the chain until it was mangled and eventually splintered. She pulled the doors open and rifled through the tools until she found a shovel. As soon as her hand wrapped around the handle, Augusta knew. There were only two things that Margaret would be using a shovel for: either putting something in the ground or digging something up.

Shovel in hand, Margaret left the shed standing ajar and set out down the sidewalk. Humming a song under her breath, she drew sidelong looks from the few people she passed on the dark street.

It was only when the old cemetery came into view that a cold panic spread through Augusta. Margaret was going to dig somebody up, and Augusta had a sinking feeling she knew who.

Margaret made her way to the back of the cemetery, found the small grave and began to dig. This couldn’t be happening. It might have been Margaret’s dark desire that was guiding, but it was Augusta’s hands that were plunging the shovel into the gravelly soil. It was Augusta who would have to answer for the desecration of a grave, and who would be haunted for the rest of her life by these actions if she ever escaped from the prison of her body.

A car rumbled past the street beyond the gate with a brief flash of headlights and then the receding sound of an engine. Would anyone see Margaret? Would anyone stop her? Maybe if she was arrested there would be a trial, some sort of psychiatric evaluation, and a doctor would realize there was something wrong. But no one stopped, and Margaret was free to continue with her gruesome task.

It felt like days had passed by the time Margaret ceased her digging, the shovel having finally reached something solid. But it was still dark, the only light coming from the moon and a buzzing streetlamp. The ragged walls of the grave rose up around her like a clay prison. Tomorrow or the day after there would be headlines in the local paper: “Old Grave Desecrated in Historic Tynemouth Cemetery” or “Vandals Hit Cemetery in Belated Halloween Caper.” But tonight, it was just her, Margaret, and the dark magic that bound them together.

Crouching down, Margaret felt the edges of the old coffin and began clawing at the dirt, bringing up fragments of rotten wood and sending worms slithering.

It was the smallest of mercies, but the remains that came up were small, barely identifiable as bones. There was no gaping skull with hair, no rotted clothes clinging to bits of flesh. Just the crumbling remains of old bones. Was this what Margaret had been expecting to find? Or was she disappointed, hoping to have been able to gaze upon the countenance of her dead lover?

Margaret made no indication either way. She carefully collected the smallest bones and slipped them into a little drawstring pouch.

The first light of dawn was touching the sky when Margaret clambered out of the grave and hastily filled it half back in. The careless job wouldn’t fool anyone, but it would probably be at least a few days before someone found themselves in this section of the cemetery and realized that something was amiss.

With the bones of her lover in her pocket, Margaret returned to Harlowe House where she made use of the change of clothes Augusta kept in her desk, and Augusta was forced to wait and wonder what was to become of her.

36

Augusta

The horror of the night spent digging in the cemetery faded into the background over the next few days, and Augusta almost wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing. But of course, she didn’t dream anymore, didn’t even sleep; her entire life was a waking nightmare of being trapped in her own body.

The drive to Pale Harbor was quieter than any trip Augusta and Leo had ever taken before, but Margaret didn’t seem to notice. She was polite and good-natured whenever Leo spoke to her, but she didn’t offer anything, never attempted to keep the conversation going. She must have been trying not to say the wrong thing to alert Leo of who she was. Good, Augusta thought, at least she wouldn’t further tangle things with him.

It was odd that Leo was so eager for her to come to Pale Harbor again, and so soon. Augusta had gotten the impression that he hadn’t exactly approved of his mother’s theories and that he didn’t have the best relationship with his sister. He shot her a crooked smile as he opened the passenger door and helped her out. “Watch your step, it looks like my dad was watering the garden and forgot to turn off the hose again.”

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