The Near Witch (24 page)

M
Y FATHER USED TO SAY THAT
change is like a garden.

It doesn’t come up overnight, unless you are a witch. Things have to be planted and tended, and most of all, the ground has to be right. He said the people of Near had the wrong dirt, and that’s why they resisted change so much, the way roots resist hard earth. He said if you could just break through, there was good soil there, down deep.

There is a celebration in the town square the following night. The children are dancing and singing and playing their games. Edgar takes one of Wren’s hands, and Cecilia the other, and they join the circle with the rest. Even the sisters have come, and are trying to teach the children new songs and some very old ones, too. I watch Wren’s blond hair twirl as she flits from place to place, never landing for more than a moment.

My mother told her she wandered off to join her friends and fell asleep in the forest.

I told her the Near Witch stole her away in the dead of night, and her brave sister came to save her.

I don’t think she believes either one of us entirely.

Helena is sitting on a piece of the wall that tapers off into the square, watching her little brother as if he might vanish at any moment, her eyes still nervous but her skin finally regaining color. I watch as Tyler slides onto the wall beside her, staring out at the children and trying to seem interested. Helena’s face lights up, and I can see her blush, from where I sit across the square. Tyler seems content to be wanted so much by someone, even if it’s not the someone he wanted, because when she shivers he slides closer and offers her a space beneath his arm. Helena beams and curls against his broad chest, and the two of them watch the children spin and sing. Now and then he throws a glance my way, and I pretend not to notice.

Near is still Near. It won’t change by morning. It won’t change in a day, or a week.

But there is something new—in the air and in the ground. Even as fall takes hold, I can feel it.

The Council still stands atop their steps, their bells ready in case they think of something to say. But Matthew is leaning forward, watching the sisters teach the children a song. His blue eyes dance from Magda to Edgar. Eli stands with his back to the village, talking privately with Tomas. Some people will never change.

The houses nearest the square have opened their doors to the village.

Emily’s mother, Mrs. Harp, stands beside my mother, serving up bread and sweets. Another house is offering mugs of hot strong drinks, and Otto leans against a wall, surrounded by several other men. They talk and drink, but my uncle mostly looks out over the square with a mixture of relief and fatigue. And when none of his group is looking, I see him raise his glass to no one in particular, and his lips move quietly, as if in prayer. I wonder if he’s praying for the moor, or the children, or my father, but it is short and silent, and then he is swallowed by the group of men as they huddle together and make a loud toast. Only Bo is missing.

I sit on another piece of wall, the last straight section before the sloping tail of it dives back into the ground. My fingertips play with Cole’s dark hair as he stretches out on the stone surface, his head in my lap. I begin to tap out the beat to the children’s songs on his skin, and he looks up at me and smiles and takes my hand, moving my fingers across his lips. Around us, the wind wanders through the celebration, swaying lamps and dresses.

I hear the three bells and look up, but it’s not the Council preparing to speak. It’s my uncle.

“Seven days ago, a stranger came to Near. And yes, that stranger is a witch.”

A hush falls over the festival, his deep voice carrying over the crowd. Otto looks down, arms crossed across his broad chest.

“My brother told me that the moor and witches are like everything else, that they can be good or bad, weak or strong. That they come in as many shapes and sizes as we do.

“The last week alone has proven this. Your children are here tonight because of the Thorne sisters, and because of this witch’s help.” Otto’s gaze settles on Cole, who’s sitting up, propped on one elbow.

“Our village is open to you, if you wish to stay.”

With that, Otto steps back, and slowly, all around the square, the celebration bubbles up again.

“Well,” I ask, leaning over him, “do you wish to stay?”

“I do.”

“And why is that, Cole?” I say, tipping toward him so that our noses nearly brush.

“Well,” he says with a smile, “the weather’s quite nice.”

I pull back and scoff, but his fingers find their way to the back of my neck, wandering up through my hair, and he pulls me to him until our foreheads touch. His hand slips down my neck, between my shoulders, tracing the curve of my spine before it falls away. This time I don’t pull back.

He plants a kiss on my nose.

“Lexi,” he says.

He kisses my jaw.

“I want to be here.”

He kisses my throat.

“Because you are here.”

I can feel him smile against my skin.

The celebration fades away, and the village fades away, and everything fades away except for his hands finding mine. And his lips against mine. I pull back, studying his large gray eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, with a soft laugh.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not real, or not really here. Like I’m going to blow away.”

“Are you?” I ask.

He frowns, sitting up and turning so that he can look at me.

“I hope not. This is the only place I want to be.”

Later that night, Wren fidgets beside me in the bed, and the feeling has never been so welcome. I let her steal the blankets, let her build her nest, give her a soft, playful shove. I look forward to the morning, to her bread dolls and her hallway games. I look forward to watching her grow before my eyes, day by day.

Beyond the house, the wind blows.

I smile in the dark. There is no moonlight, no dancing images on the walls. Sleep will come soon. When I close my eyes, I keep seeing the witch’s face, the crushed skull, the clumsy flowers spilling out. The way the anger melted into something else when she saw her home. Her garden. I hope she has found peace. I wonder if that is the thing I feel now, settling over me like a sheet, cool and comfortable. In this quiet place, I imagine I can hear my father whispering stories I’ve heard a thousand times. Stories that keep him close.

The wind on the moors will always be a tricky thing. It bends its voice and casts it into any shape, long and thin enough to slide beneath the door, stout enough to seem a thing of weight and breath and bone.

I will hold fast to this new story, too, tuck it away beside my father’s bedtime tales, beside Magda’s tea talk. I will remember everything.

My own voice slips in as the world falls away.

Sometimes the wind whispers names, perfectly clear, the way you might, on the verge of sleep, imagine you hear your own. And you never know if that sound beneath your door is only the howling of the wind, or the Near Witch, in her small stone house or in her garden, singing the hills to sleep.

Belief is a contagious thing.

To my family, for their simple, unwavering belief that I was meant to write.

To my editor, Abby, for believing in my little ember of a book and helping me build a proper fire. (And to her assistant, Laura, for sprinkling nice comments in with the edits.)

To my agent, Amy, for somehow believing in me and my stories, no matter how off the beaten path I veer. (I’ll still write that menopausal art school coven book one day, I swear.)

To the publishing gods, godsends, agents, and friends who believed I belonged, and helped my book on its way.

To my critique partners and readers, for believing in me enough to push me, and for carrying pins in case my head ever got too big.

To the online community of bloggers, reviewers, and friends, for believing in me from the start, and for making me feel like a rock star when all I did was string words together.

The fact is, I’m doing what I love, what I feel in my bones I’m meant to be doing, and somehow, impossibly, I’m being allowed to do it. Thank you.