Rawlins
I need to see you now. It’s important.
After days of radio silence, this was the message Ellsbeth had sent, offering no context whatsoever. He had replied quickly—I’m home, come over and we can talk—aiming to sound casual, even aloof. In truth, he was nervous to see her, uncertain what to expect.
Enough time had passed without contact between them that it plainly needed to be addressed.
Something, undeniably, had changed. He knew exactly what it was on his end, and the past week of cold silence had only hardened his conviction that she had used obscuration on him.
His suspicion now needed to be discussed explicitly, even if he wasn’t sure if he could trust her reply—much less his own mind.
He had been reading about obscuration throughout the last week, trying to figure out if there was precedent for the sort of manipulation he suspected.
But the literature was remarkably unhelpful.
There were stories of “love rituals” going back hundreds of years, but with little reliable evidence, since the modern scientific approach to arcane mechanicals was roughly coincident with the banning of obscuration.
It was nearly impossible to find anything reliable about the duration of effects, or what to expect.
He needed to understand what Ellsbeth had done. And why. Was it only to get him to help her with her illicit studies, so that their romance had merely been in service of that goal? Or had romantically claiming him been what she really wanted all along?
It was clear now that the only way to get the answers he wanted was from her. And it was possible that if he confronted her directly and appealed to her rationally, she might confess the truth to him.
Perhaps, but not likely. As he waited for her to arrive, he went up to his study and retrieved from the bottom drawer an object he had been keeping there in case of emergency: a ball of compounding clay, still charged with the power of obscuration.
He wasn’t sure if he would really use it on her, but if she continued to deny that she had manipulated him, it might be the only way to get the truth.
He tucked it into his pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief, like a loaded weapon, and felt a wave of shame at considering using it—but what alternative did he have?
He checked his texts again; his reply had been sent at 8:14 a.m., and it was now past 9, but Ellsbeth still had not answered.
He understood what was happening. She had reached out to him with a sense of urgency, and when he replied casually, she had retreated.
It was a reassertion of power; the only thing more aloof than a casual response was none at all.
So he sent her another message: Must not have been that important.
He hoped that might jar her to her senses and speed her over, or at least get her to say something—but after five more minutes waiting for his phone to buzz, he felt disgusted with himself and decided on principle to leave the house; he would not sit around when she couldn’t even be bothered to text him back.
He drove down the hill to the farmers market, trying to distract himself.
The local co-op stubbornly continued operating it year-round, weather permitting, though at only half the size in winter.
Customers with steaming coffees filtered through two blocks of booths, filling their baskets with root vegetables and baked goods.
Rawlins parked a few blocks away and tried to lose himself in the usually pleasant activity, but his mind was elsewhere, keenly attuned to the phone in his pocket, and he kept having the phantom sensation of a vibration.
He pulled it out again and again, checking the screen to find no new message—and his annoyance gave way to genuine concern.
He sent another text to Ellsbeth, dropping any pretense of indifference. Just want to make sure, you all right? After that he kept the phone in his hand, and by the time he finished his round of the booths at the market, he still had not received a reply.
A sense of creeping dread grew in his belly.
If Ellsbeth was deliberately ignoring his messages, she was more callous than he had suspected.
Perhaps he hadn’t known her as well as he thought, and now, feeling scorned, she was revealing her true character.
He tried to convince himself that this was the case, even though it stung to consider how foolish it would make him; but if she had used obscuration on him, he couldn’t really blame himself.
His mind turned on itself, an ouroboros, self-devouring, as he oscillated between mistrust and escalating fear that something consequential was happening.
As he headed back to his car, he passed a police officer, directing traffic at a shut-down intersection; he nodded to her, and his blood ran cold as he was struck by a thought, the only possibility that made sense…
Ellsbeth had been arrested.
She must have texted him when she realized she was in trouble, the target of suspicion and investigation—but soon thereafter was taken into custody, unable to answer her phone.
Her use of illegal rituals had been discovered.
Whether it was writ magic or obscuration hardly mattered; either was a crime that could land her in jail.
It could land him in jail as well, as the teacher who provided her with the means and collaborated with her on writing the rituals.
But the danger to himself hardly even registered; despite the fact that he had recently become convinced she was manipulating him, he was only concerned for her.
His mind flashed to images of Ellsbeth in handcuffs, in a holding cell, in a courtroom—being publicly humiliated and shipped off to prison.
Just like Max. Her sentence would not be as severe, but it would wreck any possibility of an academic career for her.
It would ruin her life. And it would be his fault.
He tried calling her; the phone rang through and went to voicemail. There was no sense leaving a message. Texting her again wouldn’t do any good, and only risked incriminating them both further.
He hurried back to the car, tossed his impulsive farmers market purchases in the passenger seat haphazardly, and started driving straight to her apartment, his car sliding through the ice of the turns as he hurried to get there.
He prayed that he would find her at home reading, or perhaps asleep—having inconsiderately silenced her phone after texting him. But he knew it was unlikely.
He parked a few houses down the street from her building, staying in his front seat to look for police cars out front.
He didn’t see any; he was no expert, but he tried to guess if any of the nondescript sedans might be unmarked detectives’ vehicles.
Impossible to say. He got out and proceeded up to the entrance, attempting to look as casual as he could.
He knew her building code from when she had invited him over, and proceeded up to her hallway on the second floor.
He felt his heart beat rapidly, not sure what he might be walking into.
He paused and listened outside her door but heard nothing, so he knocked.
No response. He considered texting her one more time, but it seemed stupid.
If she was there, she would have heard him.
He needed to get inside—so he went down to the end of the hall, where she kept a spare key hidden beneath a potted plant, and retrieved it. She might be angry with him later, but he didn’t care; his anxiety was mounting and he could not imagine walking away now.
If she had been arrested, as he feared, then this was the best opportunity to help by removing any incriminating evidence from her apartment.
Rawlins moved quickly, conscious that police officers could swarm in to search the premises at any moment.
As soon as he came through the door, he was struck by the sprawling mess of notes, books, and printouts that covered every horizontal surface.
Ellsbeth’s place had been tidy when he visited before, and while he was sure she had cleaned up to impress him, he knew that she was not prone to living in this level of disarray.
He went to the kitchen table, looking for evidence of any rituals she had been working on.
But he paused when he recognized the smiling face of a young woman at the top of a printed article, about the tragic death last year of freshman student Roberta Storer.
Ellsbeth’s sister Bertie. Rawlins’s heart sank as he imagined her, caught in the whirlpool of grief, poring over the dry, lifeless words of the newspaper.
Beside the article, pages slightly overlapping, was a similar news story from a few years back, about the tragic death of another young woman: Catherine Teale—a freshman as well.
Why was Ellsbeth interested in that particular tragedy?
Was she hoping it would help her understand what had motivated Bertie to take her own life?
Those two were only the tip of the iceberg.
Over a dozen similar stories were laid out on the table—some news articles, some merely obituaries.
Many were suicides, along with several accidents: alcohol poisoning, drug overdose, a drowning, a car crash, at least one girl who had gone missing and never been found.
Ellsbeth had placed them chronologically into a timeline, with dates circled, charting a grisly pattern: the death of a young woman at Newlyn, usually a student, every four years, in the spring semester, with nearly mathematical precision. Going back decades…almost a century.
Rawlins’s blood curdled. The coincidence was impossible to ignore. He gathered up the papers, keeping them in order, and put them in a shopping bag, then turned his attention to Ellsbeth’s desk.
At the center: a building permit with blueprints for a massive house.
He googled the address on the top left of the form, which brought up a street-view image of the building’s facade, and he instantly recognized the massive wooden door with a wolf’s head knocker.
It was down the street from where Ellsbeth lived.
What was she doing with drawings of the Banestooth house? He studied the blueprints and saw, in the margin, underlined and circled in Ellsbeth’s starkly neat handwriting: No basement.
Rawlins puzzled over what possible significance that might have as he scrutinized the plans further, noting thick ink lines where Ellsbeth had made measurements on top of the architectural drawings, calculating distances using a key in the corner.
She had found the farthest point from a corner of the house to its geographic center.
It was a radius, and he knew instantly what it was for: a ritual circle.
One that circumscribed the entirety of the house.
One that could be used to enact a large-scale magical effect upon the inhabitants therein.
To what end, he could not guess, but he was certain it was connected to the string of deaths she had uncovered.
She was planning something big. Something dangerous. But he had no idea if she had already completed her plan…or, it seemed more likely, if she had gone there, and tried, and never gotten the chance.
Rawlins’s throat constricted, as he was consumed by fear so acute that he felt like the blood was draining from his entire body.
He was not one to pray for anything, yet he found himself suddenly, desperately pleading with the universe. That the woman he still loved was still alive. He would do anything to keep her safe—even if it meant walking down into the underworld and bringing her back himself.