Page 35 of The Book of Unwritten Stories

She felt the warmth flush her cheeks. ‘Shush, you must not talk that way in public.’

He jumped down off the horse, cupped a hand over his brow and made a show of looking around the area. Then turning back to her he grinned.

‘But we are not in public. I can confirm there is only you, I, Dapple, my trusty horse and May, who be so busy grazing over there that she did not even acknowledge me. A travesty given I was the one who rescued her from that boorish man who was starving her. Look at the life she is now living, it is a good life at the hands of thee and thy sisters, is it not?’

Lucine laughed. ‘You flatter yourself. You also forget this is Salem and the Puritans outnumber the rest of us.’

He shrugged. ‘No matter, there be no Puritans around at this very moment I am glad to tell thee.’

‘Good because there is much talk in the village about the number of times you have been calling.’

‘Let them talk, ’tis jealousy, is it not?’

Lucine shrugged.

‘Might you have time to come for a walk through the woods? I have something for you, but I dare not give it to you here in front of your sisters. I would prefer somewhere more private.’

She straightened up, brushed the dirt from her fingers and adjusted her cap. ‘If it is another animal, then pray do not give it to me. They have only just forgiven you for arriving with a cow. If thou were to turn up with a pig or a sheep it would be the end for thee, John Hadden. Lenora would put you out to pasture with it.’

He laughed, that warm, gentle belly laugh that gave Lucine goosebumps every time she heard it. His eyes that sometimes looked so sad were bright when he laughed and she liked that. Seraphina had told her and Lenny about John’s wife and child, which had explained her sisters’ change of heart. They may be stubborn and protective, but they were kind and forgiving, always ready to help those less fortunate no matter the price they may pay, and both Lenora and Seraphina had agreed that John Hadden needed their kindness and help.

Lucine smiled at him. ‘Let me tell them where I am going so they do not worry.’

She walked back towards the cabin, where Seraphina handed her a small package wrapped in linen and a flagon of ale.

‘Feed the man, he must be hungry. The food in Ingersoll’s leaves much to be desired. Please be careful out there, Lucine. If any of those foolish girls happen to chance upon the both of you who knows what trouble they could cause.’

Lucine knew her sister was referring to the Putnams. They were trouble with capital T, but she had no fear of them. She could handle whatever they may throw at her. Washing her hands in the sink from water out of a jug, she dried them and removed the cap from her head.

‘I fear you should keep that on, or your head will burn with the heat from the sun this evening when you return to us.’ Lenora was watching her from the corner of the room. ‘I know you are a grown woman but please be careful, Lucine, you are far too precious to us to lose you because you are too stubborn for your own good.’

Lucine puckered her lips and blew a kiss in Lenora’s direction. Then she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders in case it should be much cooler inside of the woods and went to join John, who hoisted her up onto the back of his horse with ease. Having no choice but to put her arms around his waist, she inhaled the smell of horse, leather and the soap he used to wash himself and thought that this was what happiness smelled of.

TWENTY-SEVEN

SALEM, PRESENT DAY

Clara had not forgiven Seraphina English nor her niece for dismissing her concerns as if they were not of the utmost importance. She stirred her morning English Breakfast Tea with a teaspoon that she wasn’t even touching. It began to whip itself into a frenzy sending hot liquid all over her clean tablecloth. ‘Damn it,’ she muttered, watching the spreading brown liquid stain the cloth that had been passed down from a long line of matriarchs in her family.

The problem was she was furious with the English women and always had been. They weren’t descendants like the rest of the witches who lived in Salem. They were the real deal and were born again and again, which she found most annoying. They weren’t scared of her and the rules either, she knew that, but she had to try and pretend that they needed to adhere to the council rules, otherwise they would run amok all over Salem. She tutted loudly. To be fair they already had. It was unforgivable that the girl, Dora, had the audacity to fight Corwin in a cemetery after dark.

She was, however, intrigued by this secret bookstore that Dora had found and the spell book it had contained. She had heard a rumour passed down from her great-great-grandmother of a mysterious bookstore and in it had been hidden two of the most powerful grimoires in the world. One of the spell books belonged to the English women, but it was rumoured that someone else had hidden another spell book in there, too, right at the height of the witch hunts; the spells in the other book were darker in intent, black magic, and it was supposedly more powerful than the one belonging to Lucine English. Clara decided she was going to pay a visit to this secret bookstore. She had a good mind to summon Dora English to guide her to it. She could hardly refuse when she admitted that she had not closed the bookshop again and it was sitting in the middle of the woods for anyone to discover. Clara urgently wanted that grimoire of black magic spells in her possession.

She walked over to the window of her apartment that looked out onto the Witch House and sighed at the crowd of tourists outside posing for photographs with pointy witch hats on. From here, if she strained her neck, she could see Sephy’s apothecary, which also irritated her; she hated the fact that it was in such close proximity to her home.

She turned and walked to the spare bedroom, which she had turned into her office, and flicked on the light. On the wall were tacked photos of every practising witch and magical being in Salem who was registered with the council. The witches outnumbered the magical beings, some of them were mere babies with nothing to cause her any concern. The magical beings were a little different; there was Arnie and Brandon who could shapeshift if they needed to, but the pair of them barely used their magic. They worked alongside her on the council out of duty rather than passion. There were a couple of other shapeshifters, but they seemed to be happier keeping to themselves and rarely caused problems. It was the older witches who were harder to rein in.

She looked at the pictures of Lucine, Lenora and Seraphina English. They were beautiful women. She knew she should take Lucine’s photo down out of respect. But then again, at some point the woman would be born again, as they always were. Clara didn’t know if she would be around to bear witness to the rebirth. Clara had yet to add a photo of Dora English, but had told Arnie that he needed to get her picture ASAP to add to the collection. Underneath each photo was a small notecard with the basic facts about each person written on it in her neat, cursive script. Their level of magic, address, age, and any potential problems they could cause.

Clara enjoyed being able to tap into this little font of all knowledge when she had to. In a bowl on the oak desk, next to the stacks of magical texts and spell books, was a selection of witch bullets, favoured greatly by her Appalachian great-grandmother. Each one made from different black animal hairs: cats, buffalo and horse all rolled into little balls with beeswax. There were different strengths and purpose. When one of her members was getting a little out of her control, she would choose the appropriate ball and throw it at their picture, then wait for the rest to happen. If someone needed reining in tightly, she would throw them directly at the person, but she had only done this twice, as using their photographs seemed to work sufficiently enough. She did not dare to throw them at the photographs of the English sisters for they were far too powerful and would know immediately if she was meddling and trying to control them from afar.

She wasn’t sure about Dora though; she seemed distant. From what she knew of the family, from notes that had been passed down from her own mother and grandmother, this distance was unusual. She seemed different to her aunts, her innocence too raw. Clara could not decide if this was a good or bad thing, but she knew she was going to have to monitor her closely in case she needed to do some kind of intervention.

She sighed. This responsibility could be a chore, but she was always looking for more power, so she would approach the girl when her aunts were nowhere near and ask her to show her the bookstore in the woods. If there were any more grimoires out there, she wanted them for her own collection. The English women already had Lucine’s powerful book of spells; they needed no more.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Several floorboards now stacked against her bed, Morana was dusty and covered in grime. The particular floorboard she needed to remove would not budge, and she wished she had a crowbar to just rip it up. Instead, she lay flat on her stomach and reached her hand into the dark space that was probably filled with hundreds of tiny spiders that would scurry up her bare arm at any moment. She held her breath as she felt around praying that the sight of her arm had terrified any spiders or roaches that might be living under her floor.