5
The house is cluttered, from room to room, and that’s not even taking into account the other refugees that are staying here.
People come and go, some stay for days, some for weeks, some have been here longer than us.
Sometimes the only way I can get a moment to myself, to breathe, is to sneak out into the vegetable garden at the back of the house, past the animal pen, where the chicken coop and barn are nestled, and down the hill.
Sofía’s private garden is off-limits to guests, but that doesn’t stop me from stealing a reprieve in it every other day.
The vegetables in this imported, enchanted soil are delicate. So I never step off the narrow trails as I hide from the madness of Hell House.
Today—with the arrival of three made witches—I sit between the rhubarb and lettuce patches.
The apple trees loom above me, shading me from the harsh, endless sun.
I tug my mint-green baseball cap down, then hug my knees to my chest.
I won’t be found out in the garden for hours. Not between the made ones pulling up in an old, dusty car, and Mirriam—a long-time rogue and friend of Sofía’s—cooking up a storm in the kitchen for the dozens of guests.
Those other witches are constantly in my way. Whether it’s hogging the bathrooms, clogging the corridors and staircases, or in the main gardens working off their debts with labour.
But Serena and I paid off our debt with a chunk of cash. So we don’t have to do the hard labour.
Really, we do nothing at all.
I spend my days wandering, or sleeping in bed, rolling around under the blankets—and without wealth and luxury, it got boring, fast.
I pick at the stem of the apple I plucked from the tree. We’re not allowed to take any, but I think the fifty thousand euros we handed over to Sofía say otherwise.
I scrape my fingernails along the stem until it’s fleshy—then the shade darkens.
It stretches, growing over the path.
I touch my chin to my shoulder and look back at the silhouette advancing on me, a stick with a bulbous belly.
Serena waddles down the trail.
As slender as she was back at the academy, her belly is a round mass just stuck to her body.
Heavy and awkward, she somehow maintains an elegance about her, like she’s a model that has a fake belly strapped to her.
It reminds me of Dinara’s older sister.
Dinara Korolyov is one of those aristos women I see at the major collective events, where most of the covens come together, like the debutante ball.
Russia is linked with Iceland, Greenland, and all those icy little islands—making the Coven of the North—but it used to be a part of the Coven of Europe centuries ago.
The families grew too much, and covens should not be made up of more than five families, one for each point of the pentacle, one for each of the gods.
Serena is a mirror of Dinara’s sister, the pained smile on her sweaty, exhausted face, the thinness of her shape with a giant swell in her belly—and Elvira was carrying twins.
Dinara was only sixteen. I remember because we’re the same age. and I remember Elvira crying out in the ballroom of the Winter Palace, right in the middle of the debutante ball.
She went into labour right there.
It was horrifying.
Her family rushed her out of the crowd, and I just remember how she walked.
How she waddled.
Serena makes an awful grunting noise before she slowly, clumsily, drops to the earth at my side.
Her legs stretch out before she leans her weight back onto one straight arm, hand pressing into the soil. Her other hand rests on the underside of her belly.
She faces the opposite direction, watching Hell House stand against the horizon, and I stare out at the barren landscape.
“Back to sulking?” Her voice is too breathy. “You know Sofía doesn’t want you out here. She will start giving us fines if you’re not careful.”
I don’t respond.
There’s no point.
We’ve had this conversation too many times.
Sofía hasn’t given out any fines yet.
And I still haven’t stopped sneaking off into the only glimpse of privacy on the property.
Sweat dampens the back of my baseball cap. I rub at it, and the crunching sound of my hair would send Mother into a frazzled frenzy if she were here.
I sometimes wish she was—but I don’t say that.
Instead, I ask, “Is the bathroom free yet?”
I’ve been waiting all morning for a shower.
Though, of course I did give up on that and come out here after a few hours of going in and out of our bedroom, checking on the bathrooms, and failing each time.
My patience is withering.
At home, I have my own bathroom.
A full ensuite, the shower, the tub, the toilet, the basin, the towel closet… and Abigail.
At the academy, there are plenty of showers to go around. So even if there is a queue, the wait isn’t very long at all.
My mind snags on the academy—and the truth that it all continues without us. The senior year doesn’t stop just because we vanished into the night.
My brother, Dray, Asta, Landon, even Eric, they all continue on. It’s a strange realisation.
My voice is a murmur, “Everyone will be graduating this week.”
But of course, Serena already knows. She just doesn’t care.
Not like I do.
There’s no part of her, however small, that wishes she was there with the rest of the seniors, finally graduating after all that time and turmoil and torture.
After a long moment, she asks, “Is that why you come out here? To think about home? We’re not supposed to do that.”
One of Sofía’s rules. I don’t understand the rule entirely, or why she feels the need to control our thoughts here.
‘Thoughts of home will be your enemy.’
I don’t explain myself.
Silence stretches over us.
I stare at the landscape.
She stares at the house.
I dig my fingernail into the apple’s skin. “Do you think they are still looking for us?”
Her answer comes too quickly, too easily, and so I think she must’ve been ruminating about home, too.
“Definitely.”
“What if they’re not?” I ask.
She turns a blank, patient look on me.
“What if they told everyone we died or something, and they just… go on pretending we don’t exist?”
For the first time in a long time, Serena smiles. A true, genuine smile.
“Then we would be truly free,” she says, soft, and loosens a sigh. Her dark hair spills freely down her back, a river of ink. “And we wouldn’t need to stay here, and we could get in the car now and drive off into the sunset.”
I scoff. “Into the sunset, then to the hospital—because you’re about to burst.”
Her fingers drum on her belly, and she hums. “It would help if I knew how far along I am.”
She looks as pregnant as one can get. That is a big baby belly—and she looks on the verge of going into labour, like Elvira who just spilled her water all over the polished floors.
But what do I know?
Serena could be seven months, eight, nine.
She could be early or late.
I only wish the little seed would hurry up already. It’s been a lifetime here at Hell House, and I’m ready to get out of here.
“What about after the hospital and the sunset?”
Serena hums, “Hmm?”
I turn to face her. “What would you do? Where would you go? If they weren’t looking for us.”
“I would…” Drumming her fingers on that belly, over and over, she lets her mind wisp away to places of fantasy. “I would work. I would build a career in fashion.”
I make a face. “Doing what?”
“Run a magazine,” she muses with a faint shrug, “or create my own version of fashion week outside of New York, Milan, and Paris… or simply open my own shop. A boutique near the beach.”
Flames of an old love flicker in her eyes.
I consider her now, in basically a sack that was mislabelled a dress, and the awful, dated floral print.
Serena never would’ve worn anything like this before we ran away.
Now, it’s the only thing of Sofía’s that fits her, so she wears it every day.
It stinks. Reeks of sweat and mildew, because she rinses it in the shower with her sometimes, then wears it outside until it dries, but it never really dries all the way, not even in this heat.
It needs to be washed and hung out properly with the worker rogues.
“You?”
“What?” My mind takes a moment to return. “Oh. I would… play piano—professionally.”
It’s the first thing that comes to mind.
But truthfully, I don’t want to work any job, ever.
Finally, I bite into the abused apple.
Even with the magic, the enchantments, imported soil, the apple is still too soft. Not crisp enough, not sour enough.
It’s mediocre at best.
Still, I finish it, bite after bite.
Serena falls onto her back, crossing her arms over her face.
For a long while, we stay here. Hidden away.
In the vegetable garden, time feels private. In the house, time feels suspended.
It’s a slight difference, but one that matters.
Then, Serena goes and ruins it. “Sofía needs me to go into town for her.”
And that means she needs me to come along.
For company, for safety, and for my lessons.
Each time we illusion-up and go into the large town two hours away, Serena uses the chance to teach me about the krum world.
At first, it was a disaster.
I stared at the shelves of toothpaste—stunned by the sheer selection on offer. Dozens of them, some with fluoride, and I have no idea what that is, some for sensitive teeth, then some for cavities, some for whitening, some for babies, kids, and in all sorts of flavours.
It’s too much.
And that’s just the toothpaste.
Not the toilet cleaner, the bleach, the different kinds of cooking oil and breads.
I don’t look forward to it.
But Serena decides our time in the garden is up and, hand pressing into my shoulder, she starts to get up. Takes her a moment.
My face twists under the pressure of her weight sinking into my shoulder—and I bite down on the hiss brewing in my throat.
The moment she’s standing on her own, I roll and rub my shoulder, perhaps a little sulky.
She just glances down at me, a dullness in her consideration, an ‘I’m so over you’ look I have no trouble reading.
It’s amazing we haven’t strangled each other yet.
It’s even more impressive we haven’t exchanged cross words.
We want to.
But we have crafted new masks just for each other, and those masks are patient and unbothered most of the time.
I shift onto my knees—then still.
Because a splash of water strikes the dirt and wets my hands.
I blink at it, then my mouth turns down at the corners, because I know, I know what that is.
And it got all over me.
Slowly, I lift my gaze to Serena.
She is a struck statue.
The pallor of her complexion, the wideness of her eyes, it’s pure fear. And so is the tremble of her voice, “Get Sofía. Now.”
I don’t waste another second.
I scramble to my feet, then barrel into a run up the garden path.