Page 117 of Mortdale

She covered her face with her hands as she shook her head. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me, Logan?”

“I was going to,” I admitted. “I tried, several times. But your friend’s life was at stake, and—”

“And you couldn’t trust me with it.”

“Burden—I couldn’t burden you with the choice you’d have to make.”

Her eyes widened, the dark reflection glistening as she took me in for long moments. “You’re trying to protect them. That’s why you were hiding their deaths.”

“My father had been obsessively researching these unusual deaths for years since even before my mother’s passing. There was a pattern connecting them all. And he believed the suppressants witches were taking were causing the suicidal ideations. He became a heavy advocate against them, even introducing a bill to the parliament making their suicides a national issue. Alerting apothecaries to not dispense them anymore and trying to create learning spaces for our young to unload some of the mental pressure of suppressing chaos. Which made him a target of the Basilica. The clergy called him a heretic for even suggesting they let witches practice and learn about their craft. They tried to arrest everyone in my family for witchery, until they realised they could use it to their advantage. The clergy declared this an opportunity to introduce a procedure—a leucotomy which severed a nerve that connected a witch’s body with magic. The Cleansing would spiritually disconnect the body from magic, and the leucotomy would cut the physical connection out of it entirely.”

She trembled against me. “That’s just ridiculous. There’s no such nerve.”

“I know, honey. But they were ready to line up witches—every girl, boy, woman, man, from Meridian or Mortdale, with a witch’s mark, with or without suicidal ideations—and perform it on them.”

“Did they—” She shook her head. “They didn’t try, right?”

Thunder rolled over us, and lightning struck close by, grotesquely filling the quiet that fell between us.

She put a hand to her mouth, trapping a gasp.

I let out a heavy exhale. “They were left with only shells of themselves, empty and vacant. But it was a satisfactory result as long as it didn’t kill anyone. We couldn’t let it happen. If humans had caught even a whiff of the procedure, this would have grown into a wide-spread disaster. The only way to stop it was to hide the fact that witches were dying. My father and then Heath tried to keep it as far away from the public eye as possible. I know…I know you had to save Ethel…I’m sorry, honey, I am so sorry.” I ran a hand over my eyes. “I couldn’t let you unearth anything about their deaths again. Piper—I promised Cassandra I would keep her safe. And then you came…I’m so sorry.”

She put her hands to her head. “How long has this been happening for—the suicides?” She shook her head. “How long, Logan?”

“A while.” When you took a rose out of the sun, you had to prepare yourself for it to die in the shade.

“You think they all committed suicides because of these mental suppressants?”

“There’s no other answer anyone could find, Willow.”

Her voice was small as she muttered to herself, “But that isn’t true.” Her eyes swung around the gravestones. I shook my head at Art when she moved slowly around the cemetery.

Stopping before another headstone, she dropped to her knees, brushing her fingers over the inscriptions.

Always loved. Forever missed.

“Who was she married to?”

“Peter Cardiff. The son of a statesman.”

“And where is he now?”

“Dead.”

“Why wasn’t he buried beside her?”

“His corpse was burned. He’d caught the Madness.”

Her shoulders started rising faster and faster. “Did…did they die around the same time?”

It was Art who answered, “She died first.”

“How long before her husband?”

“Willow—”

“Hell, Logan, how long?”