With impressive speed for a woman her age, Ellen was off her seat, her finger jabbing into Margaret’s chest. “Listen to me, Margaret. I know what you’ve done. I know dark magic when I see it, and what’s more, I may have only met Augusta once, but you most certainly are not fooling me with this charade.”
Margaret blinked, then tipped back her head and laughed. “Oh, Ellen. I might have known that I was speaking to another witch. How good it is to shed this pretense and speak frankly. You will understand my plight and the trials that I have suffered. You will understand how our kind is forced to live in the shadows at the risk of being ostracized or even killed. And what of your daughter—would you have turned the other cheek if her life was taken at the hands of your son? Would you rest if she died in obscurity?”
“I would fight until my dying day for justice,” Ellen hissed. “But I would never entangle an innocent in some dark plot or steal their life away.”
The match seemed to have reached a stalemate, and the two women stood in tense silence, studying each other. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, Augusta felt a flicker of hope. Ellen knew the truth, and if she was a witch as Margaret claimed, maybe she could actually do something to help Augusta. There was light at the end of the tunnel, and it was possible that Augusta could be back in her own body before the evening was over. Would Ellen tell Leo, explain everything to him? For all the unbelievable problems Augusta was facing, it was Leo not knowing the truth that was the hardest to bear. Every time Margaret so much as looked in his direction, a smile on her lips, a little of Augusta’s soul dimmed, her hope dwindling.
37
Margaret
So, the woman standing before me fancies herself a witch. She might be harmless, but she might also be more powerful than her homely demeanor would suggest. How can I be certain that she is not a threat? My spellwork is proven and my magic old, so I cannot imagine that this soft-spoken woman with the silver hair and keen blue eyes would be able to undo that which I have wrought. But appearances can be deceiving, and there is so much at risk if I fail.
I can see Leo hovering just beyond the doorframe, practically tripping over himself to try to hear what we are saying. I wait to speak until I hear Lisa call for him, and he reluctantly disappears back into the kitchen.
Ellen and I circle each other like two dogs before a fight. “Well?” I ask her. “What do you intend to do?”
Judging by her expression, she was not expecting so frank a question. “I will do everything in my power to banish you and bring Augusta back.”
“Mmm. But what exactlyisyour power?”
“My power?” Her gaze flicks around the room, as if seeing what I see—the framed family photographs on the mantel, the potted geraniums, the mundane comfort of it all. I raise my brows, waiting for her to answer. “My power is love,” she says, straightening her back a little and jutting her chin.
“Love,” I repeat, certain that I’m not understanding.
“That’s right,” she says, the waver in her voice evening out. “Love is the strongest magic of all. It can conquer anything.”
Laughter bubbles up in my chest and I whisk a mirthful tear from my eye. She really believes that! “Oh, if only love were enough to solve my problems and send me on my way.”
She scowls. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand. You don’t appreciate what being a mother does to you, the fierce love for your children that will drive you to do anything—anything—to protect them.”
Heat climbs up my core, red seeping in around the edges of my vision. She thinks that I do not know what it is to be a mother, that I cannot understand love without a living child of my own. Well, she is wrong. I know very well what it is to be a mother, perhaps more so because I lost my unborn child. I know what it is like to carry the heaviest burdens, to have to make impossible decisions for a little life that you would gladly sacrifice your own. How easy it would be to teach her a lesson about power, real power. I could send her crashing through the air like the man in the woods or put something in her tea that would stiffen the blood running through her veins. But I cannot risk upsetting Leo, not when I am so close to everything I have been working for. As much as I burn to see her convulsing and begging for mercy on the floor, a small show of skill will have to be enough.
I let my anger build and build and build, not just for her, but for the child I lost, the love that betrayed me, the world that forgot me. When I can no longer contain the energy jumping in my hands, I send it hurtling right past Ellen’s ear and across the room. The lamp in the corner pops, and the air goes still.
Ellen stands rooted to the ground, her face colorless, her eyes wide with fear.
“Can love do that?” I ask her, delighting in my triumph.
I doubt she has an answer, but we are interrupted before she can say anything. The air is still crackling with tension when Leo comes in.
“Everything all right?” he asks, eyeing us warily. “I thought I heard something.”
“Just—just having a little chat,” Ellen says with a tight smile.
Her poor playacting is amusing. “Your mother is very perceptive,” I tell him. “I always enjoy our conversations.”
Ellen ignores me, instead turning toward Leo. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Lisa has emerged from the kitchen and is watching us with crossed arms. She and Leo share a look before he nods and joins Ellen in the hallway.
Making myself comfortable on the sofa again, I watch as Lisa tries to take my measure. She lacks Ellen’s softness, and judging from the way she is piercing me with daggers, she does not like me very much. I don’t care a fig if she likes me. These women are beneath me with their questions and suspicions. I give a yawn for her benefit.
“My brother seems to think that you have a split personality or some kind of disorder,” Lisa says without preamble.
“Oh? And what do you think?”
“I think you’ve done a number on him, but I told him I would at least talk with you, see if there was anything I could tell him in my professional opinion.”