Chapter 3
SARAH
My wards tingle before the doorbell goes. I check the doorcam Pierre has talked me into installing. Because not even witches can see through walls, right? he’d said, laughing. I thought of Naomi Yamakawa’s little poppet and bit my tongue. But it’s only the mail carrier.
‘Tracked letter for Sarah Fenn?’ she says, holding out an official-looking manila envelope.
She’s already snapped a picture of me reaching for it, to log the delivery.
Probably caught my nose wrinkling with dismay at what I suspect is a summons regarding Luka Ortiz’s trial.
Ever since Pierre and I discovered his hideous ritual in the Bittershore woods and found Bea Garcia hanging from a tree, her blood dripping into a silver bowl, I’ve been fielding endless correspondence about my availability to testify.
I’m dreading the exposure of the witness stand.
I’ve no faith that witches will get a fair hearing in any court of law, after what Harper and I experienced in Sanctuary.
But I have to do my bit, and hope people see that magical folk don’t tolerate magical crime.
This letter isn’t from any lawyer or court, though. Important – Department of Homeland Security is blocked on the envelope. NOT A CIRCULAR. OPEN IMMEDIATELY. I scan its contents, then pull out a chair to sit at the kitchen table and read it a second time.
The third time, the letter falls from my fingers. It’s gotten worse with each reading. Each detail.
I must register as a witch when summoned, at the time and place appointed, within the next seven days.
Non-appearance and/or resisting a summons will result in felony charges.
This is Sandra Ortiz’s work. The Witchcraft Registration Act she’s sponsored through Congress.
It’s been expedited since her party won the midterms and the president figures cracking down on witchcrime is a good look.
My nerveless fingers turn the second page and the paper quivers beneath my horrified touch. All known PMPs are required to bring children under the age of 21 for registration, whether or not they have received a Determination.
Harper. They want to test my daughter – whose magic remains a secret.
I flinch as every glass jar and bottle along my sunny windowsill explodes. The ones I fill with flowers and use to sprout bulbs. Petals are still floating through the air as I check the damage caused by the overspilling of my power.
We should have been done with all this, after everything Harper and I went through.
The final report from the Capitol hearings on witchcraft didn’t make things better for witches, but they didn’t make things worse.
In hindsight, we were lucky even to get that.
But it’s clear Sandra Ortiz won’t stop – and that the Moot won’t take a stand against her.
I heard their statement yesterday. We look forward to co-operating.
My fingers itch to tear the summons into tiny pieces.
To whisper a hex and incinerate those pieces.
Instead, I press my palms together and try and calm my racing heart.
I’m still circulating my breath when the doorbell rings again. The screen tells me its Bridget – and behind her, surely that’s not …?
‘Hello Sarah,’ Bridge says, a little strained.
She holds up a pink-ribboned box from the bakery on Main Street near her pet parlour.
The one we all used to meet in, me and Bridget and Julia and Abigail, back when we were friends.
When we were a coven. Before Daniel died, and Abi accused Harper of causing his death, and everything fell apart.
I don’t think I could eat anything from that bakery without choking, but it’s a sweet gesture.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Bridge says. ‘They’re from Julia. And something else, as well. Bea will explain.’
Julia’s daughter steps out from behind Bridge’s shoulder, though I’d recognised Bea’s mass of curls on the camera monitor.
I still don’t know how to feel about this girl, who accused my daughter of attacking her at school.
Who violated Harper by projecting an intimate tape of her and Dan at their pre-graduation party.
Who is only alive today thanks to the quick action of Bridge’s daughter Izzy, and my Harper, figuring out she might be in trouble.
Whose life I saved.
‘May we come in, Ms Fenn?’ Bea asks, all politeness.
I see the pair notice the tinkling sound of a sweeping charm tidying the broken glass, but they sit silently while I fuss around making tea and fetching plates. Only once I’m sat down and Bridge is sucking sugar off her fingers does Bea speak.
‘My mom and dad have moved back West. They’re giving their marriage another go. This is for you.’
Bea reaches into her bag and for a moment I dread what she might pull out.
A photo of us all in happier times. A letter spitting resentment for what Julia convinced herself I did to destroy her and Alberto’s relationship, never mind that he was the one who had the affair and she was the one who asked me to magically fix it.
But it’s not. Wrapped with Julia’s characteristic elegance, it’s a pale-blue porcelain vase I’d often admired in her studio.
Forever grateful you found Bea that night, reads the attached tag, penned in her calligraphic hand. Keeping hold of the good memories and hoping for better times ahead for us all. Your friend, Julia. x
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes.
I won’t cry. Your friend. But she couldn’t come and tell me she was leaving?
Oh Julia. Julia. Our foursome became three.
Has become two. At least I still have Bridget.
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it, and I let die on my lips the traitorous question of whether Bridge got to say goodbye to Julia in person.
‘I understand,’ I say to Bea, hearing the quiver in my voice. No magic can disguise it. ‘When you join your parents, do tell them I wish them all the best.’
I want to say more. Tell your mom my door is always open. Something like that. But I must accept that by taking her leave in this way, Julia has closed the door.
‘Oh, I’m not joining them,’ Bea says. ‘My future’s here on the East Coast. When I’m not at Cawden, I’ll be lodging with Bridget. I want to develop my political work.’
‘I promised Julia I’d keep an eye on her,’ Bridget says quickly, forestalling any question I might ask about this arrangement. Such as what Izzy thinks of having Bea under her roof.
Bridget reaches for another pastry. I pick almond flakes off the one I chose but haven’t touched.
‘I’m going to testify against Luka Ortiz,’ Bea says into the silence.
Guilt washes hotly through me for my thoughts about Bea, because that decision takes guts.
That ‘political work’ which is evidently more important to her than being with her family?
That’s been in Sandra Ortiz’s office. How can Bea take to the witness stand against Ortiz’s son, and continue that work?
And in the cutthroat world of the Capitol, I can’t see how testifying against a sitting representative’s child will do her resumé any good.
This is a big, brave step, and I lean out of my seat to embrace her.
‘No, Sarah,’ she says, a hand keeping me at bay. ‘You don’t get it. Luka Ortiz is magical, and the way I see it, all magic is evil. Some witches it corrupts, and others become corrupters. I guess we’ll find out which applies to Luka at his trial. Bridget, I’m going to go now.’
Bridget rises with her. ‘She doesn’t have her own key yet,’ Bridge says, apologetically. Then to Bea, ‘Let’s go get one cut right now.’
I follow them to the door, but Bea has already let herself out and my friend gives a vague wave before hurrying after.
I watch them drive away, sunshine on my face and shadow in my heart.
Four became three, became two – or is it only one, now?
Julia has left me without a word, and even Bridget can’t meet my eye.
I go back inside long after her sports car has turned the corner.
The tea is cold. I dump the box of pastries in the bin, tipping my almondine in after.
Julia didn’t send those – Bridget bought them as a consoling treat.
I wash and wipe the cups and plates, putting everything back in its place.
The shattered glass I fold in copies of the Sanctuary Sentinel until no sharp edges cut through the newsprint.
Only then do I pour myself a tall glass of cold water and stand at the countertop to drink.
There, next to my fingers, is the letter from Homeland Security. My eyes fall again on that second page. The requirement that witches bring their kids under the age of 21 for registration, even if a Determination has shown they don’t have magic.
They expect me to bring Harper.
And my heart takes off like a hare as I become suddenly, furiously, certain that this is Bea’s doing.
Bea’s suggestion while she worked in Sandra Ortiz’s office.
Does she still want to expose Harper? My throat tightens thinking about it, and even water is difficult to swallow around the rising lump of panic.
If Harper is taken for testing, will it open Dan Whitman’s death right up again?