Page 42 of The Book of Magic

She turned to him then. She could see the left-handed path and she understood how lonely it was. What would you do for the one you loved? Would you place yourself in exile, see wrong as right, forsake all others, do what you must?

“Anything,” Kylie said.

In the morning she stared at herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. It had happened, she had changed. Her hair was black. The reddish chestnut color was gone and now seemed to have belonged to another girl entirely, a naive person who had walked another path. A bargain was a bargain, and you always paid a price. Impossible for her hair to turn pitch black, and yet it had happened in a single night, just as the vines had grown to cover the entire house while they slept in the grass. She woke up covered with ashes, her skin burned by sparks. When they left, Tom didn’t bother to lock the door. The landlord would eventually arrive to find the place deserted and in shambles. Tom had half a mind to start a fire in the parlor, for he’d learned Lockland Manor had been burned from the inside out, with flaming arrows flying through the windows to meet their mark, but he hadn’t the patience for such things when he was so close to getting what he wanted.

The vines were growing so fast the chimney could no longer be seen. There were thorns on all the trees and the grass was singed in a circle. They had done that. Solomon’s circle, Solomon’s Key, the oldest magic on earth, and the darkest. Kylie pulled on a clean black T-shirt and jeans borrowed from Tom, then threw on Gideon’s raincoat, which had also turned black, perhaps from the ashes rising from the bonfire.

Kylie had her backpack and Tom carried two sleeping bags strapped to his back along with his own rucksack filled with whatever dark materials he might need. It was early and the air was fresh. They had to hack through vines to get through the yard. A thorn pierced the palm of Tom’s hand and a vine tore his shirt. “Careful,” he told Kylie. As she ducked down Tom ran a hand over her newly dark hair, pleased by her appearance. This was the work of the left hand and his handiwork as well. He’d changed her. “Beautiful,” he said with a tinge of pride.

It wasn’t yet light, still the birds were singing.

“That’s the nightingale’s song,” Tom said.

Kylie stopped in the road to listen. The song was so beautiful she nearly cried, but what was done was done. They were headed to the forest. As they walked, the ferns Kylie passed turned black. She belonged to the darkness inside her. That is how curses began. A desire that cannot be held back. A wish that must be granted. Beneath Kylie’s feet, the grass turned to ash. The gash on her hand still bled and black drops fell onto the path. She could almost hear Gideon. He was in a room that had no key. He was calling her name.

The trees were so old in the forest they were protected by the government; they had stood by in times of magic, plagues, love, betrayal. It was an ancient woodland, untouched for centuries, still home to plants that could no longer be found anywhere else. Most of the old forests had been destroyed as roads were built and villages clustered in places where the trees were once as tall as the sky. There were wild bluebells beneath the hazel trees and hundred-year-old pollarded beeches. All around there was ash and oak, hornbeam and field maple, many so old they had been listed in the Domesday Book, written in 1086 as a survey of all that grew in England and Wales. The trees had been protected by brutal dictates. Anyone caught stealing from the royal forests during Richard the Lionheart’s reign would face a punishment that included the removal of the thief’s eyes and private parts. The forests were thought to be living creatures, with breath and fire and water and air, revered as the owners of the earth, while men were shadows that walked through the trees for the brief period of a lifetime. Wild mistletoe, clover, sorrel, bee orchids, St.-John’s-wort, all grew wild on the forest floor. Fields were covered with buttercups and yellow archangel flowers and the bark of trees was covered by gray-green lichens. There were several thousand-year-old oaks but perhaps the oldest tree was a two-thousand-year-old lime tree.

Beside the manor house was an orchard of apple trees, a variety the locals called Witchery, that Rebecca Lockland had planted from the seeds in an amulet given to her by Hannah Owens when she tried to break the love spell she’d set upon her husband. Soon the trees would bloom with pink and white flowers; only a few remained, for Tom had been chopping them down, using the fragrant logs as firewood that fueled the massive fireplace in the great room. It was here he stored his axe and some cookery items. It was his house, after all, abandoned or not; no one was taking it from him. Vines twisted through the windows that no longer held glass, and the once gray stone was black with smoke and ash from the time when the house was burned. Every now and then a visitor stumbled upon a forgotten treasure. Some hikers had come exploring and discovered an ancient pair of leather gloves, used for riding, and a velvet cape, riddled with moth holes.

Kylie made her way inside carefully. There were pools of rain left by passing storms, for little of the roof was left and it was possible to see most of the sky.

“Hello!” Tom called into the emptiness. His voice came echoing back and they both laughed. He took Kylie’s hand and spun her around. She could feel the power that she had inside. Skin and bones. Heart and soul. The black-haired girl who was not afraid of the left-hand, who would bring back the one she loved, who could do more than she had ever imagined.

It was nearly summer, and the heat of the day had been a delight, especially when traipsing through the green woods, but when they entered the house they found it to be chilly. Tom lifted boards from a pile of broken-down furniture into the huge fireplace, then set a fire. He had been sneaking off to the manor ever since he was a boy. In his dreams, this is where he resided, and there was no one to tell him what he could and could not do.

Kylie sat in front of the fire, her black hair falling down her back. She concentrated and closed her eyes and the flames leapt up and burned a hot red.

“See what you can do,” Tom said proudly.

He meant revenge and she meant salvation but either way they were in it together.

A group of hikers had reached the house and approached the threshold. They saw smoke billowing from the huge brick chimney and stood back. There were those who said only bad luck could be found here and the hikers had the shivers, all the same they laughed as they ran off, making sure to break off twigs from the apple trees that were said to be enchanted, which indeed later bloomed in their hands when at last they reached the road.

Kylie turned to watch the hikers flee. It was clear that there was darkness nesting here, and they wanted no part of it. There were three couples, all of them young, chattering as they dashed back into the woods. How innocent they seemed, how free to do as they pleased. They did not turn fires red, or cut their arms to drip blood onto the earth, or stare in the mirror, uncertain of who they’d become. Oh, how Kylie wished she could go back in time, before she’d come here, before she’d heard about left-handed magic, when she was sprawled out on the Cambridge Common, and the sky was blue, and Gideon was squinting through the bright sunlight in order to see her, when the world seemed brand-new.

III.

Antonia had assumed she wouldn’t dream, for there was hardly any room in her bed, not with two bodies stretched out, for she had always believed that dreams were propelled by solitary space, but in fact dreams were born of heart and soul and experience. Now, Ariel’s jasmine oil scented the sheets, and her clothes were scattered on the floor. Antonia knew it was a mistake to lead people on and allow them to believe she was emotionally available, when she wasn’t. That was the great thing about Scott; he understood her, which was why he was the perfect father for their child. But the last time they’d gotten together for a meal in Harvard Square, he’d studied her, then said, “You used to be less shut down.”

“I was always shut down. That’s one of the things you admire about me. Never overly emotional.”

Scott had shaken his head, disagreeing. He was her oldest friend, after all, and felt he knew her best. “It’s still inside of you, you’re just hiding it.”

“You’re saying I’m vulnerable and sensitive?” Antonia had laughed, but she had become uncomfortable with the conversation. “That will never be me. Should we share dessert?” Ever since she’d made the Chocolate Tipsy Cake she’d acquired a sweet tooth.

“I’m being serious,” Scott scolded.

“The tiramisu?” Antonia said evasively.

They had dated for some time, before they’d come out to each other, trusting one another more than anyone else. “You are who you are.”

“I know. I may be a terrible mother.”

“You’ll be great! But that’s not what I’m talking about.” Scott leaned forward. “Let yourself love someone. This isn’t high school, kiddo. You don’t have to hide who you are. You’re beautiful inside,” he said bluntly, for they both knew that although she was striking, she was not a great beauty like her sister. “Where it counts.”

Antonia averted her eyes. She was ridiculously emotional and hormonal. “But what if I am a terrible mother?”

Scott came around the table to sit beside her. “You won’t be. All you have to do is be you.”