Page 31 of Witchlore
“Right,” I say faintly. I have several horrible images in my mind. One is of Elizabeth’s hand, thrust through freshly ground earth, zombie-style. Another is of a person standing in front of me, made of magic, looking nothing like Elizabeth but with her eyes, not recognizing me, all love between us lost beyond the grave. Is that what I want? I wonder. To have Elizabeth back, even if she doesn’t love me? But even if she stopped, at least no one could blame me for her death anymore. I don’t know right now if that’s enough, and I feel the painful weight of guilt shift nauseously in my belly.
“It was weird, your shift,” Bastian says, jerking me out of my reverie. “I’ve always heard that shifters change fluidly, but yours was all in one burst and then you just… stayed unconscious. Do you remember anything about it?”
“No,” I lie, thinking about what I did see, the strange dream of the past that I don’t understand. My head is a bit dizzy and I’m horribly thirsty, like I always am after a shift. But Bastian is looking at me with an interrogatory glance and I feel I have to say something, so I lie. “I had a weird moment when I came back round. I thought you were a suffragette.”
“A suffragette?” He laughs. “That’s odd, although… I guess sort of fitting for the setting.”
“Why?” I look around at the dark trees and green slopes.
“Because there was a suffragette gathering here, ages ago. Emmeline Pankhurst’s daughter was here and she was chased away by antisuffragette protesters. I read about it when I was doing my boggart research.” Bastian gives me a sharp look. “But you knew that.”
“Yeah. Of course I did.”
I did not. My mind starts running. I try not to breathe too heavily or suspiciously with the racing of my pulse. Panic is swirling inside me, because nothing makes sense. How can I possibly explain that when I shifted I had a vision or dream of the past? That it felt so real, like I had lived it? As we walk along the path, I recall those rowdy voices and the sweaty press of women’s bodies all around me. For a split second, when I look up and catch the moon peeking brightly out from behind a cloud, I can imagine it is the burning sun, roaring down on me in the middle of July. I do not know what is wrong with me.
“It makes sense your mind would imagine something associative,” Bastian says. “Brains are strange that way.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t be comforted by this. Brains might be strange but mine is clearly competing in the Mystifying Olympics. It’s not just that I’m possibly having weird hallucinations of the past, it’s the whole thing. Hanging out with this kind of witch, trusting him with my life, and putting myself in harm’s way to protect him, too. Is this what Counselor Cooper would call reckless endangerment?
“Hey.” Bastian puts a hand on my shoulder and I jump, so tangled in my thoughts I’ve forgotten he’s here. He withdraws hishand slowly, like I’m a dog that might bite. “I just… wanted to encourage you. We’re one step closer to the spell.”
I nod mechanically and try to push all my fears and worries down. This is all that matters, after all, not the hallucinations or Bastian’s magic or shapeshifting for the first time since Elizabeth’s death. This is all that matters: I am one step closer to getting her back.
CHAPTERELEVEN
It’s a long walk back to the tram stop. We stumble along, my legs feeling like they’re turning to lead, me leaning on Bastian.
“Oi oi!” someone yells as we stagger past the chip shop. There are two white blokes standing in the doorway smoking. One of them is holding an empty pint glass from the pub next door. “Had one too many, has she?”
“Yeah, mate!” Bastian calls back in a jovial, laddish voice that sounds nothing like him, but his hand tightens across my shoulders. “Getting her to the station now!”
He hurries me on faster. I’m not surprised, and I’m not mad at him for playing straight. It definitely seems safer. We walk past them, my legs still wobbling and unpredictable, my steps sloppy. I trip over a curb and Bastian has to steady me. “Shit.”
“So it all feels completely different?” Bastian asks, holding my elbow tightly as I straighten up. I hate these questions, I’ve always hated them, because this is supposed to be as easy for me as growing, as breathing. Instead it’s violent and broken and produces frowns rather than smiles.
“How would you feel if you suddenly grew tits?” I demand.
“Weird, I reckon.” He says it so calmly that it takes all the indignation out of me.
“Yeah.” I’m too tired to brush him off with sarcasm. “I don’t usually…”
“Don’t usually what?” He slows his steps down until I’ve got back into a heavy, limping rhythm, definitely looking like a drunk.
“I don’t usually shift so often,” I admit. “Before this summer, my last shift was the summer of first year.”
That had been the shift after Carl Lord’s consistent attempts to jump me in annoying places. At least my hair becoming long and curly, my waist narrowing, my boobs suddenly appearing had been enough to deter him.
“How many times have you shifted?” he asks.
“Um… it’s hard to say but… maybe twelve? Since I started college this will be my third.”
“That isn’t usual for shifters, is it?”
“No,” I say flatly. “For most shifters, it’s like changing a coat or putting on pajamas. They have a resting form they return to. It’s natural.”
Which makes me unnatural. Or at least, that’s how it’s always been told to me. I try not to think about it as I continue to stagger toward the luminescent glow of the tram stop. Bastian walks quietly beside me.
