Page 85 of A Resistance of Witches

They drove on, the headlights cutting a path through the darkness, the trees forming arches as they reached for each other with naked branches. Silence fell back over the car. Rebecca stared out the window as a question unfurled inside her chest. She looked at Henry as he gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead into the darkness, and thought he might have been pondering the same question.

“Do you think Lydia is alive?”

Twenty-Three

Lydia stared at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom, listening to the familiar sound of Evelyn puttering in the kitchen just outside her door. The bedroom was exactly as she had left it when she was eleven years old, before departing for the academy. Books sat atop the peeling white chest of drawers in haphazard stacks—Swallows and Amazons,The Secret Garden, a beautiful, secondhand copy ofPride and Prejudicethat Lydia had begged for, only to get bored within the first few pages and never pick it up again. On the wall next to the bed, secured with tape, was a letter of acceptance addressed to Lydia from the academy, printed on creamy white stationery, now gone yellow around the edges. Beside the door, a 1935 wall calendar counted down the days to Lydia’s departure, with the magical date circled in pen and decorated with hearts and stars.

Lydia sat up and immediately felt lightheaded. She breathed deeply, waiting for the feeling to pass, and planted both feet firmly on the ground. She chose a spot on the wall and allowed her eyes to relax. She pictured herself standing in the kitchen. She could conjure up the roomin her mind’s eye with no effort at all; every copper pot and faded teacup, the earthy, musty smell of Evelyn’s jars of assorted herbs and potions.Just on the other side of this wall, she told herself. She waited for the familiar sensation, the feeling of sinking into the floor that always came just before she left her body. But the feeling never came.

She’d been back in London for three weeks. The first week she barely remembered, just a jumble of visions and voices—Fiona McGann’s pretty face hovering over her:Bloody hell, girl. What have you got yourself into?Lying half-conscious in the infirmary while Helena worked her magic, fighting to keep her alive. Sybil, asleep by her bedside, a book open in her lap. Her mother, such an incongruous sight in the halls of the academy that Lydia was certain she must have dreamed it. And all the while, Lydia, half-dead and half-delirious, trying and failing to say the words:The book. I left the book.By the time she’d regained her senses, the terrible mistake had been realized, but it was too late. Fiona returned to the château to search for it, but the book was nowhere to be found. When she was able to speak, Lydia demanded to know if there had been any news of Rebecca or Henry. No sign of them at the château, Fiona reported. However, there had been quite a lot of blood.

After a week, Lydia was strong enough to leave the infirmary, albeit barely. Standing for even short periods of time left her dizzy. Her hands trembled, and she was terrifyingly thin. Worst of all, she found herself incapable of doing even the simplest magic.

“Worry about walking to the loo by yourself, then we can talk about spellwork,” Evelyn chided her.

But Lydia felt caged. Rebecca and Henry were in danger, maybe dead, and it was her fault. The book was gone, and the next full moon was only one week away. In seven days, the Witches of the Third Reich would have all they needed to find theGrimorium Bellum, if they hadn’t found it already. At full power Lydia could have tracked the bookherself, with no need for full moons or ceremony now that she’d held the thing in her hands. As it stood, she barely had the strength to walk into the next room, let alone project there.

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and Evelyn’s face appeared before Lydia had a chance to answer—a habit that had always driven her mad, even as a girl.

“Visitor for you, love. Sybil. Again.”

Lydia ran her fingers through her hair in a feeble attempt to make herself presentable. She felt naked without her glamour, sallow and homely. The room seemed to swim, and Evelyn reached out to steady her.

“I’m fine,” Lydia said, even as the room continued to sway.

Sybil looked altogether out of place in Evelyn’s shabby sitting room. Her dress was aubergine silk, with shoes and a bag in matching suede. A silver crescent moon pendant hung around her neck, and her gold and silver hair was pinned up and away from her face.

“Grand Mistress,” Lydia said as Evelyn helped her into her chair.

“Oh, darling, I told you before, none of that.” Sybil smiled up at Evelyn. “I do apologize for dropping in uninvited again, Mrs. Polk.”

“Tea, Grand Mistress?” Evelyn’s mouth twisted into a tight scowl.

Lydia sighed. Evelyn had been simmering for weeks. She suspected her mother blamed Sybil for her misadventures in France, even though Lydia had acted alone.

“That would be lovely.” Sybil looked at Lydia. “Coffee for you, darling?”

Evelyn frowned. “I’m afraid not. She’s finished the bag you brought last time.”

“Tea is fine,” Lydia said.

Evelyn made a small clicking sound, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Sybil smiled apologetically. “I don’t think she cares for me.”

“You’re in good company,” Lydia said. “She didn’t care for Isadora either.”

Sybil’s smile faltered, as if the mere mention of Isadora’s name was too painful for her, then soldiered on. “How are you feeling?”

“How do I look?”

“Honestly? Ghastly. Are you eating?”

“When I can.”

“And your powers?”

At that moment, Evelyn returned. They sat in silence as she laid out tea and biscuits, carefully avoiding Sybil’s gaze.

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