Page 112 of A Winding Wave of Magic
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Considering how many tears you shed over Daddy, I should have expected you to throw a party for Gran.”
“Don’t talk to me about my tears!” Her voice whipped across the room. “You were just a child. You havenoidea how I mourned your father. How I loved him or how I loved any of you!”
I folded my arms, feeling more than ever like a petulant teenager. “Don’t I?”
“Howdareyou.”
“But you always knew,” I rattled on. “You always knew how she was going to die, just like you did Daddy. Me too, I wonder? Have you Seen all our deaths?”
“Of course, I Saw her death! I Saw it every day, every time we touched since I was a child. You have no idea, Cassie,no ideawhat it’s like to grow up knowing your own mother is going to die a terrible, painful death and to have to live that trauma over and over again.”
“And yet you didnothing!” I stood so quickly that my stool toppled to the floor while I pointed at her, my entire body shaking. “Just like Daddy. You See these things, and you do absolutely nothing to stop them! Why? Did you hate them so much? Do you hate all of us so much you couldn’t eventry?”
Sibyl’s mouth pressed into a thin, white line. I turned to the windows, seeing little but my reflection, bleary and bright against the darkness and the raindrops on the panes. Tears streaked my face. Fifteen years of pent-up rage poured down my cheeks.
Jonathan’s hand found my shoulder.I’m sorry.It will be over soon. But remember why we’re here. Please, Cass.
Calm and grounding filtered through my body. I fought the urge to turn into his arms and bury myself there. Surprise—and maybe a little bit of warmth—filtered through Jonathan’s touch at the idea.
I stepped out of it and turned back to my mother.
“All right,” I said. “Like you said. It’s done. But, Sybil, we need to know what you Saw. You owe me at least that much.”
Her blue eyes pierced. “You might call me Mama. You did when you were little.”
“That was before you abandoned me at a fucking airport,” I spat. “Just, let’s have it out, and then I’ll leave you alone again. What did you See?”
She bit her lip. At first, I thought she wasn’t going to answer, and I strode over to the table, whipped off my glove, and reached out. A threat to take the truth if I had to.
She flinched. “Fine. Sit down and take off your other glove.” She swallowed heavily. “I’m only going to do this once, and then I’mneverreliving it again. Do you understand? Forty-five years I’ve been living with this monster. I deserve some peace.”
I slid back onto my stool, and Jonathan sat beside me. I took off my other glove, extended one hand across the table, and then gave the other to Jonathan to hold. Sybil eyed our contact again but said nothing.
“All right,” she said. “Brace yourselves. It’s not pretty.”
33
THE KNOWING
And they dream of the weird of kings,
And tyrannies moulting, sick,
In the dreadful wind of change.
— JOHN TODHUNTER, “THE BANSHEE”
The bread is almost done rising. Puffy and bubbling around the crown, it nearly crests the edge of the proofing basket. A mild scent of fresh yeast and flour permeates the kitchen in Manzanita, layered over decades of settled sage, juniper, and cedar smoke.
Penelope O’Brien, a silver-haired witch in a billowing red skirt, turns to preheat the oven, then sniffs the dough and pokes its center with two fingers. It bounces back slightly, but not too much. Perhaps fifteen more minutes, no more. Enough time that she might call…
She frowns, then sets the bread atop the stove, where it will continue proofing over the warmth from the oven. Who was it she wanted to call? And about a…something? She can’t quite say.
There’s a girl in her mind, grown, but faceless. Blurred features, though she can still make out the red hair. And then black.
Penny smiles at a job well done. She hasn’t lived this long to ignore the signs of her own memory tampering. She’d been doing it here in the village since she had arrived many years earlier. Day in and day out, doing what was needed to keep them safe. Sure, and she misses them. Like she’s missing her own ribs, though she doesn’t know who exactly they are.
That name, O’Brien. There was another she used to use, but she can’t remember it anymore either, no more than she can recall who used to sleep in the bedrooms at the end of the hall, whose faces dance at the back of her dreams. Two women she knew well. Two women who belong in her heart, her soul, even if they no longer occupy conscious parts of her mind.
