Page 75 of A Lullaby for Witches

The tour moved around the corner and out of earshot, leaving Augusta in the dining room with only the ticking of the clock. No ghostly footsteps padded along the floor, no books were open on her desk when she returned to her office. Her hair didn’t stand on end, and there were no unexplainable tugs in her chest. Wherever Margaret was, it wasn’t with Augusta.

Augusta made her way to the carriage house where Reggie was busy stenciling object descriptions on the walls. When he saw her, he lifted his goggles and gave her a grin. “Hey, just the person I was hoping to see. I want to get your opinion on the color for the title text.”

Augusta studied the paint chips he fanned out before her. “The pale blue is really pretty,” she said. “It will be a nice contrast against the dark background.” It was also the color of Jack’s eyes, she realized with a pang. It was hard to shake free not just of Margaret’s memories and thoughts, but also of the way she viewed the world. Maybe Augusta would always carry that with her.

“You got it,” Reggie said, slipping the chips back into his jeans pocket and surveying the space. “It’s coming together.”

It really was. The carriage house was rapidly transforming into a state-of-the-art exhibit space, the rustic rafters soaring over the clean white walls and glass cases. It was magic to watch the exhibit come together, from nothing more than the spark of an idea, to the hours of research and coordination with different museums in the area, to helping Reggie install the cases. Sharon and Jill had lent their support and experience every step of the way, for which she was grateful, but the vision and inspiration were all Augusta’s. Here was something she could call her own, something she had seen through from start to finish. Yet, at what cost had it come about? She’d like to think that she would have put together a thoughtful, cohesive exhibit regardless of her experience with Margaret. If she could go back and do it all again, would she?

Pride welled in her chest as she walked through the carriage house. They had made graphics that incorporated Margaret’s portrait and excerpts of Ida’s letters, and other documents from the archives were blown up and superimposed on the walls. The oral histories she’d collected from the women of Tynemouth would play when visitors stood in certain spots.

The tortoiseshell comb was mounted simply in a case in a corner of the open space. It was the one object that Augusta knew without any shadow of a doubt had belonged to Margaret, and it had felt important to include it in the exhibition. Explaining to Jill and Sharon where it had come from and how she’d known its provenience hadn’t been easy, and she’d had to bend the truth a little, claiming that she had found it in storage, not in a box under her bed.

But it was Phebe Hall’s beautiful shuttle, which Claudia had generously agreed to lend Harlowe House for the exhibit, that sat in pride of place. The information the shuttle provided was invaluable; not only did it illuminate the extraordinary life of one woman, but also the rich maritime history of the area and women’s participation in the industry. And then there had been an extensive entry on Phebe in Margaret’s book, an entry that spoke of Phebe’s vast knowledge of herbs and traditional healing, of her grace and beauty. It had ended on a note of regret, though if Margaret had indeed possessed a conscience, little good it did the people who were left in the wake of her destruction.

Along with the shuttle, Claudia had lent some of her own work, her imposing driftwood sculptures gracing the entrance to the exhibit space. In fact, the idea for an entire program had been borne from Claudia’s contribution: the Phebe Hall Fellowship would pay community members to help curate rotating exhibits based on their experiences living in Tynemouth, as well as engaging local organizations working for social justice. It didn’t erase what Margaret had done, but Augusta hoped it would have made Phebe proud.

She was admiring Claudia’s sculpture of a ship with wings, when someone came up behind her, placing a warm hand on the small of her back.

“It’s looking great,” Leo said, following her gaze. “You should be really proud.”

Lacing her arm around his waist, she leaned into him, marveling at the way their bodies fit together so perfectly, as if they had been made for each other. “I wonder what Margaret would think of this,” she said, more to herself than him. It wasn’t the second chance at life that Margaret had so desperately wanted, but she would be remembered, and that was more than many were granted in this world. It would have to be enough.

Leo’s jaw tightened the way it always did when Margaret’s name came up. It had been almost two months, but in the same way that Augusta would never be free of her memories, she likewise doubted that Leo would ever be free of the anger he harbored toward Margaret. “I honestly don’t care what Margaret would think,” he said, a hard edge to his voice. Then he softened, his arm tightening around her waist. “All I care about is right here.”

He was right. Margaret would always be part of her, but Augusta didn’t have to let Margaret define her, or Augusta’s future. “Come on, let’s go to the beach. I want to watch the waves.” There was one gift Margaret had given her, whether it had been her intention or not: the gift of appreciating the present moment. She wanted to feel the cold winter sand beneath her feet, and the sun on her skin, and she wanted to do it all with Leo beside her. Fingers laced together, they left the carriage house and the relics of another time, the tortoiseshell comb winking in the late afternoon light.

EPILOGUE

George was glad to be back in Tynemouth. Boston moved too fast, and the office work was dull and draining. And while he would always have preferred to be out on the water, in Tynemouth there was at least a respect for the sea, an ever-present reminder of the world that stretched beyond the horizon.

After having patched things up with Ida, he was eager to see Margaret and tell her that she had been right, that he’d had to fight for Ida, but that it had been worth it.

But when George came downstairs the next morning, Margaret was nowhere to be found. Henry was staying at the house, as he always seemed to be these days. Why didn’t Father insist on him doing something useful in the office, or at the docks? God knew there was plenty of work, but then, Henry had never been one to lend a hand.

George made himself a plate of cod cakes and eggs, then sat down with the newspaper at the dining room table. The house was quiet with both his parents away on business in Boston, and Molly gone for her day off after her morning duties. He’d only been eating for a few minutes when Henry came staggering in, pale and red-eyed.

“Late night?” George asked, barely glancing up from his paper.

Henry started. “Didn’t see you there,” he mumbled as he poured himself a cup of coffee with shaking hands.

Something in his tone caused George to set aside the paper and look up properly. Henry didn’t just look worse for the drink, he looked like he’d survived a shipwreck. George knew, because he’d seen shipwrecked men. They were in shock, their eyes glassy, their bodies unable to move past the trauma they had endured. Henry had that same haunted look, but unlike men who had battled the sea, he had dirt under his broken fingernails, as if he had scratched and fought against the earth.

George had never been close with his younger brother. It was not for lack of trying on his part—he’d made overtures many times—but there seemed to be an impenetrable wall around Henry. He was dark and sarcastic, restless and short-tempered. It was only Margaret whom Henry had ever confided in and let close. Truth be told, George had never been comfortable with Henry’s interest in their younger sister. There was something too intense about it, and he was protective of her to the point of obsessiveness. It didn’t matter that they were technically cousins; they’d all been raised as siblings, and it was understood that Margaret was one of them.

WherewasMargaret? She was usually the first one down to breakfast, getting up before the rest of the family to work with her plants and herbs. “Have you seen Margaret this morning?” he asked Henry, who was turning his coffee cup around in his hands over and over without drinking. “She’s supposed to go to town with Ida today to shop.”

At George’s question, Henry’s head snapped up. There were dark smudges under his eyes, his face drawn and pinched. “Why would I have seen her? I just got up,” Henry said, defensive. “She’s probably still out in the woods. You know how she is.”

Henry was probably right, but there was something in his tone that didn’t exactly put George at ease. Breakfast finished, George folded up the paper and stood up. “I think I’ll go for a walk. Maybe I’ll cross paths with her.” Henry didn’t say anything, just watched George leave the room.

Outside, Shadow greeted George with a whine. George frowned. He never knew Margaret to go anywhere without her dog. A cold wind swept in off the harbor, the mournful cry of a foghorn carried with it. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones.

Shadow was dancing nervously, taking a few steps toward the woods, and then doubling back to George, as if inviting him to follow. With one last uneasy glance around the yard, George fell into step behind the dog. “Go on, then, boy,” he said, and Shadow took off like a bullet into the woods.

Barren tree branches groaned and creaked in the breeze, a damp chill settling over the woods. Ahead of him, Shadow stopped and turned to make certain George was following before bounding off again. With every heavy step he took through the wet, dead underbrush, George’s heart sank further, his unease growing.

Snow was beginning to fall in small, sharp flakes when Shadow stopped in a clearing that abutted the rocky slope to the sea, nosing the ground and whining. The earth had been recently disturbed, and a clumsy attempt had been made to strew branches and leaves over it. Without a moment’s hesitation, George fell onto his knees and began digging. With an eager bark, Shadow joined him, frantically, pawing up the earth beside him.

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