Page 87 of A Resistance of Witches

Evelyn waited until the sound of Sybil’s footsteps in the stairwell faded, then turned her attention back to her daughter.

“Come on, love. Back to bed with you.”

Lydia stood and braced herself against the wall, resisting her mother’s outstretched hand. “Is she at least more tolerable to you than Isadora?”

Evelyn frowned. “I had no quarrel with Isadora.”

“Oh, Mother, don’t lie.”

Evelyn made a face, and Lydia knew she was doing it again—biting her tongue. Minding her mouth.

“I won’t fight with you, Lydia. It’s not good for your heart.” She took Lydia by the arm and escorted her back to her bed. Even the short trip left Lydia gasping, her pulse skittering in her throat.

“Broth for supper, I think.” Evelyn tucked her into bed, wrapping the blankets around her tightly, just like she had when Lydia was a little girl. “Do you think you can stomach it?”

Lydia nodded, too winded to speak.

“Right, then. Can I bring you anything for now, love?”

Lydia shook her head. Evelyn got up to leave, but just as she reached the door, Lydia spoke.

“Mum.”

“Yes, pet?”

Lydia thought that Evelyn looked smaller than she’d remembered. Older.

“I liked that tea you fixed me yesterday. With the chamomile. Do you think I could have that again?”

Evelyn looked genuinely surprised. “Of course, pet. Won’t take but a moment.”

She closed the door, and Lydia felt her pulse slow. She listened to the sounds of Evelyn opening jars and putting on the kettle, and fixed her eyes on a single point on the ceiling. She focused all of her attention, this time not on a place, but a person. She reached out with her mind, searching, imagining green woods, and old books, and joyful, singing voices.

Henry, she thought.

Henry, Henry, Henry.

•••

Lydia woke with a start.It was dark in her bedroom, the furniture nothing more than spectral shapes in a deep gray void. A cup of chamomile tea sat on the bedside table, stone cold and untouched.

She couldn’t catch her breath. This had happened every so often since she’d returned. She would wake in the night gasping, with her heart racing in her chest. She would wait for her pulse to slow, but instead it would only quicken, faster and faster, until she was sure she would die. Now she sat up in bed with one hand on her chest, waiting and praying for the frantic rhythm to calm.

Her eyes began to adjust to the dark, flicking over the dim shapes: the chest of drawers, the writing desk, her coat tossed across a chair, conspiring to look just enough like a person in the darkness. And there, in the corner, something that didn’t belong. A hazy outline, tall and slim.

She stared at the shape in the shadows, her heart humming like a motor, no hope of slowing it down now. She blinked, willing her eyes to bring the thing into focus, but it remained maddeningly intangible, the edges blurring into the surrounding darkness.

She had played this trick on herself as a girl, inventing monsters and evil men from shadows and imagination. She knew how this would end. She would stare into the darkness for several minutes, an hour, maybe. Then the light would change, and she would realize that there had never been anything there at all, and she would go back to sleep feeling childish and stupid. She knew because she had done it a hundred times.

Still.

“I see you.” She expected to feel foolish as soon as the words left her mouth, but hearing herself speak into the darkness, she didn’t feelfoolish at all. She felt frightened. She strained her eyes, but the figure did not take form. The humming in her heart crept ever upward, threatening to explode.

“You won’t find it,” she said. “I won’t let you.”

There was a sound, she was sure of it, too faint to name. A low, soft whisper.

Laughter.

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