Page 31 of The Book of Magic

“Not good.”

Antonia was still puzzling out her drowning dream. There had been crows in the trees and the water in the pond was tinged green. She had taken note of a glass jar deposited on the ground; inside was a thin slip of paper, twisted around like a snake, printed with pale red ink. The weeds were tall and she didn’t realize they were stinging nettle until it was too late; she’d already reached for the jar. As she read the note, the palms of her hands were on fire. She fumbled with the note and let it fall; in a wild attempt to escape the ill effects of the nettle, she ran into the water in the hopes of soothing the flame she now felt. After she woke she couldn’t remember the message she’d read in her dream.

“You’ll love this place,” Ariel told her as they went inside a restaurant called Incanto. “I used to come here with my grandfather every Friday.” There was no sign on the door, but the courthouse was nearby and Incanto was a great favorite with attorneys and judges.

As she followed Ariel inside the tiny restaurant, the idea of being cursed in matters of love struck Antonia as something she should take seriously. They were immediately seated at a table by the window and it was clear that Ariel was a regular, as the maître d’ knew her by name. By now, Antonia’s head was pounding. As the bread was served, a plate of salted butter that was left for them began to melt. Antonia pushed it away. That old wives’ tale about butter melting when someone was in love was utter nonsense. It simply couldn’t be. Exhausted, Antonia closed her eyes while Ariel ordered white wine. “Just water for my date,” she heard Ariel say.

Antonia was remembering more of the dream she’d had the night before. There had been dragonflies darting through the air and the day was so brutally hot steam was rising from the surface of the water. Her hands had stopped smarting from the nettle as she went deeper, even though she knew it was dangerous. She thought she heard a voice calling her back to shore. She thought the sky was filling with clouds as a shadow was cast, but the shadow was formed by the crows winging above her, gathering in masses, as they did when trying to protect one of their own. She didn’t look back, she didn’t care anymore, she went deeper, and cursed or not, warned or not, she reached for Ariel right there in a restaurant on Charles Street and kissed her as if she had never kissed anyone before, because the truth was, she was already drowning.

III.

There was a train from the station on Liverpool Street that ran from London to Witham in Essex in under an hour. The view out the window was a blur, first urban and gray, and then the deep flickering green of the lush countryside splotched with sunlight that faded as the hour grew later. Once off the train, Kylie was directed down the street by a ticket taker, and there she found a local bus that made so many stops in a string of little towns that it took nearly another hour to reach Thornfield. It was a small village, with most houses dating to the seventeenth century, many with mossy slate or tiled roofs and gardens set behind stonewalls. The area was famous for its roses, many of which had already begun to bud in bursts of salmon and crimson along with a pitch-black variety that was known as the Thornfield Rose.

The village was considered picturesque and had been featured in many guidebooks about the region, most of them showcasing the forest on the edge of town, where some of the most ancient trees in the county could be found, huge oaks, hundreds of years old, which were said to sing on gusty days. Children in the village stood out on the street or in their gardens to listen for the trees when the wind came up. Magic had been here longer than the school or the library or the firehouse and had become part of everyday life. Elderly women were respected, and a little feared, for many had retained the old knowledge and held on to that bit of power; they could protect themselves, leaving salt outside their doors and planting lavender for luck. On All Soul’s night most everyone stayed home. People held house parties and insisted it was too chilly to venture out, but the truth was people frequently became lost in the fens on the occasion of that night. Now, on the verge of summer, with the unfolding roses incandescent in the fading light, people still kept the windows in their children’s bedrooms closed at night. Doing so protected against the damp, the children were told, but the mist doesn’t need double locks and drawn curtains. It was magic lurking out there, rising from the fens and shadowing the lanes. People walked with torches in the fluttering twilight, and usually avoided trekking alone in remote places. But when they needed a cure, when their children couldn’t sleep, when their lovers left them for another, they knew where to go.

Kylie stopped at a shop called Marian and Jason’s Teahouse. There was a Thornfield Rose bush outside the door of the shop, with one black flower already blooming. Bees were gathering, droning in the falling dusk, drawn to the scent of the blooms. Kylie had lost her appetite; each time she thought of Gideon in his hospital bed, she felt sick to her stomach, but once inside the shop she ordered a scone to keep up her energy, along with a cup of tea, to which she added three sugar cubes. The scone arrived with a curious dollop of heavy cream on the plate and a small pot of shimmering black jam. Marian Dodd, the owner and cook, looked at Kylie, unblinking, when asked if she might know a resident called Thomas Lockland.

“What’s your interest in him?” Mrs. Dodd asked. She wasn’t a woman who was easily fazed, but she had a peculiar, chilly expression when Lockland’s name came up. Mrs. Dodd’s daughter, Mary, had dated Tom for a while. He was handsome and charming and they’d all felt sorry for his rough upbringing. They thought the notion that he was a self-centered rogue was mere gossip, then he’d gone ahead and broken Mary Dodd’s heart, dumping her for no apparent reason, which caused her to move to London and never return, not even for a weekend. Mrs. Dodd hoped to never set eyes on Tom again.

“I think our families knew each other long ago,” Kylie explained.

“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Dodd seemed to flinch as she nodded out the window, saying she believed he was currently at number 23 on the far end of the High Street, the main thoroughfare in town. “He comes and goes,” Mrs. Dodd told Kylie.

When Kylie thanked Mrs. Dodd for her help, the proprietor responded by saying, “Good luck to you.” Kylie couldn’t tell if her comment was sincere, for as she went out she noticed that Mrs. Dodd held up her index and pinkie fingers, making the sign of the fox, traditionally used as a counter-charm against hexes to send left-handed magic back to its originator.

The High Street wasn’t especially long, a mile at most, and it was easy enough to locate number 23, a small one-bedroom cottage in need of repair. Once she’d arrived, Kylie hesitated, thinking of Gideon. She made her way into a grove of linden trees across the road and took out her phone to call the hospital. When she was put through to his room the phone rang and rang, then suddenly was picked up.

“Gideon?” Kylie was standing in clover in a damp, muddy dip beside the road. There were cows in a nearby field, all black and white, resting in the shadows. Kylie had to blink back tears. “Talk to me,” she said.

“Kylie, it’s me.”

Antonia, her dear sister, to whom she didn’t wish to speak.

“Put him on,” Kylie demanded.

“Kylie.” Antonia sighed.

“I want to talk to him,” Kylie insisted.

“There’s no point. He can’t speak. We’re all so worried about you. Just tell me where you are.”

Kylie laughed, but the sharp burst of laugher turned into a sob. “I’m not crying,” she said, embarrassed by her raw emotions.

“You should be here with Gideon,” Antonia urged. “Wherever you are we’ll come get you. You know I’ll do anything to help you.”

“Then hold the phone to his ear.”

“Kylie, he’s in a coma.”

“Are you trying to help me or not!”

The phone was held up and Kylie could hear Gideon’s breathing, a shallow, watery sound, as though he were drowning. “Come back,” she said to him. She wiped her black tears away with the back of her hand. “I’m getting you out of there,” she promised. “You just have to wait for me. Wait right there.”

When she hung up, she collapsed in the clover and wept, then wiped her face with the tail end of her shirt. She felt different, as if nothing could stop her. She had no choice in the matter if she intended to bring him back. She made her way out of the grove of trees. The Book of the Raven advised that only a person who has been cursed will understand the meaning of carrying the burden of being exiled from her own life. You cannot do as you please, only as the curse commands you to do. That would end, no matter the price. Kylie took in the last few breaths of the life she’d led before arriving at number 23. Out here in the country the air was perfumed with the scent of ferns and juniper. Kylie had wrapped The Book of the Raven in newspaper, then again in a scarf, which was carefully tucked into her backpack. There was a tremor in her hands as they rested on the iron gate. She recalled the librarian’s last words. Don’t trust anyone.

When she lifted her gaze and looked through the window, Kylie spied a handsome man in his twenties at his desk, his attention riveted on the book he was reading. The vine at the window scraped against the glass as Kylie leaned upon the sill, a slight sound, but one that caused Tom Lockland to turn from his studies. He was the seventh generation in his family to have that name and he carried the weight of those who’d come before him. He closed his book and turned off the light before rising from the desk.

It was only natural for Tom to be wary as he opened the door to Kylie, for he was a man who’d been bred to be cautious. His shaven head only served to bring out his sharp, intelligent features. Although he had been studying the Dark Art since he was a boy, the magic he practiced was a thin, weak strain, and the best he could accomplish were parlor tricks, sleight of hand, small incantations that called up desire in the women he met, and impressed drunken patrons in pubs when he held fire in his hand. Any real witch would laugh at his attempts, but not at his expertise in poison. That was one art in which he excelled, bringing people to the brink of death, using the herbs in an old poison garden that grew wild in Devotion Field where he foraged for Amanita virosa, a local variety of mushroom known as the Destroying Angel.