The Bell Witches, page 17
‘And that’s bad?’ I guessed. ‘I thought progress was usually a good thing.’
‘Not when the people in charge can’t see past the end of their own noses,’ Catherine said. ‘They destroyed an important historical site because they needed more parking. Now there are too many cars and the traffic is damaging the city. When the original plans were proposed, my own grandmother spoke against them for that very reason, but did they listen to her?’
‘I’m going to say no.’
She confirmed it with a sigh. ‘I’ve seen it too many times. Build it up, knock it down, build it again, knock it back down. Men simply cannot help themselves; they light the world on fire just to watch it burn. Protecting this city, its past and future, is part of your heritage as a Bell witch.’
‘Speaking of witches,’ I replied, still stumbling over the word. ‘I was thinking. Surely there are more of us. There have to be other families with the same abilities we have, right?’
Catherine didn’t respond right away. Instead she pushed back her chair, stood up and walked across the garden to a wooden tray full of plants and herbs in small clay pots, examining their leaves and flower buds before bringing it back to the table.
‘Yes and no,’ she answered. ‘Once upon a time there were a great number of witches here in Savannah and the Bell name was well known to our sisters all across the world but that was before my time. Today, it’s just us.’
It wasn’t the answer I’d been hoping for.
‘So there’s no secret society of witches?’ I pressed. ‘No meetings under a full moon? Not even a secret handshake?’
My grandmother laughed as she rearranged the plants on the tray.
‘You seem to be confusing witches with Freemasons. And I could tell you some stories about them that would make your hair curl. But we do use the full moon and, if it helps, you and I could create our own secret handshake.’
I poked a despondent finger in the soil of the plant pot closest to me, damp and dark and dank. I’d been more into the idea of a secret coven than I wanted to admit.
‘The Powells were like us once. Lydia and Virginia’s ancestors were witches.’
‘They were?’ I looked up in surprise. ‘But not anymore?’
‘As I explained last night, magic must be cultivated and tended to,’ she replied. ‘Virginia’s ancestors lost track of the line and the blessing fell dormant.’
‘Does Lydia know?’ I asked.
Catherine shook her head as she moved the plants around, lining them up in what seemed to be a specific order.
‘No and I don’t think it would be helpful to tell her.’ Focusing on the plant closest to her, a woody-looking shrub, she picked up a pair of clippers and delicately trimmed away some of the tired leaves. ‘Losing the connection to the blessing is almost too easy. All it takes is one generation that doesn’t follow the rituals and …’
She sliced through the stem with a decisive snip. The top half of the plant fell sideways onto the table.
‘Life is very fragile. We might be witches but we’re still human.’
I thought back to the beach, to the thunderstorm, to the wolf and silently agreed.
‘I think it’s time we learned more about your magic, don’t you?’ Catherine said, shifting effortlessly back to her happier sunshine self. ‘Our magic expresses itself in different ways, the blessing acts like an antenna. Each of us picks up a different signal and that signal comes through with varying degrees of strength.’
‘So my magic might be different to yours,’ I replied. ‘We could have different abilities?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. There will be some talents that we share but a witch’s strongest connection to the blessing is almost always hers and hers alone.’
I shuffled my chair closer to the table as Catherine pushed the first pot in her line-up towards me. ‘Tell me, what do you know about this herb?’
‘Nothing.’ Without a store receipt or a plastic name tab in the dirt, I was completely at a loss. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever had much of a green thumb. I even killed my Chia Pet.’
‘You’re doing it again,’ she chastised. ‘Stop doubting yourself. Listen to the plant and tell me what it says.’
Even after everything that had happened, I still felt faintly ridiculous as I wrapped my hands around the mystery herb, running my fingers lightly over the feathery leaves and clusters of tiny white flowers, waiting patiently for it to politely introduce itself. It was all pointless, there was no way—
‘Yarrow,’ I exclaimed with alarming certainty. I picked off one of the flowerheads and rolled it in between my fingers, breathing in its gentle scent. ‘It enhances courage and self-belief and removes fear.’
‘Anything else?’
‘You can use it to dress wounds,’ I said slowly, as though turning a page in my head. ‘To improve focus and enhance restful sleep. It’s also used in love potions but you’d need to combine it with other ingredients for that to work.’
The fragrance of the yarrow flower fired up my neural pathways, my anxieties fading away and leaving nothing but a razor-sharp sense of clarity. When I looked over at my grandmother she was smiling.
‘That’s correct.’
‘As soon as it touched my skin, I just knew,’ I told her, my words bubbling over with excitement as I explained, as much to myself as to Catherine. ‘Like, sure, it’s yarrow, how could I not know?’
‘Because you were born knowing,’ she said, her face so full of love. ‘My wonderful girl.’
Catherine didn’t look as much like my dad as Ashley did, I figured they both took after their father, but when she looked at me with pride in her eyes, I could see him smiling back at me. Pushing the heavier emotions away, I reached for the next plant. It was similar to the yarrow, leafy and small, only its flowers were yellow instead of white.
‘This one is rue,’ I said, stroking a leaf as it told me its story. ‘Used for protection, to ward off harm that might come to us, but also to attract good people, people who are meant to be in our lives.’
‘And one of the herbs the first Emma Catherine Bell held dearest.’ Catherine plucked a single petal from the plant and pressed it firmly between her thumb and forefinger, a delicate fragrance filling the air. ‘Prepared correctly, it can help with a number of digestive problems. It can also be of assistance with many women’s health issues.’
‘What happens if it’s prepared incorrectly?’
Her eyes flashed, sharp and bright.
‘A knife can be a tool or a weapon. Never forget that.’
It was exhilarating, unlocking all this information, and I felt renewed, like someone had changed my batteries when I didn’t know they were running out. I ran my hands lightly over the leaves and flowers of the other plants, all of their names and properties dancing around inside my head. Bay leaves for prophetic dreams, sage for healing, rosemary …
‘… for remembrance,’ I finished out loud, hovering over the unassuming herb. ‘Rosemary helps you remember forgotten things.’
‘It can,’ Catherine agreed absently, her attention focused on collecting more plants to add to the tray. ‘If prepared correctly and ingested.’
Or when used as decoration in an Arnold Palmer or added to a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. The visions of my parents flashed in front of me; visiting in the Powells’ parlour, talking together in the library.
‘What can you tell me about the others?’ Catherine asked. ‘Which herbs are you drawn to?’
‘Um, let me look,’ I muttered, reluctantly pushing the past out of my mind to concentrate on the present. Belladonna, basil, verbena, henbane, lady’s mantle …
‘Aconite,’ I sputtered, yanking my hand back from a beautiful blue flower. ‘This is poisonous.’
‘Not to you or me.’
My grandmother lovingly caressed the petals, her fingers flushing red then fading back to a calm, unblemished pink.
‘You’re a natural apothecary,’ she said. ‘Just like the first Emma Catherine Bell. I have studied for years just to attain a fraction of the knowledge that is instinctive to you. Ashley and I follow the recipes handed down through the generations but a natural herbalist like you will be able to work miracles with what we have here. Emily, it’s such a wonderful gift.’
Recipes handed down through generations … I scoured my new knowledge, pairing the ingredients to everything I’d consumed at Bell House. At least half the herbs in the garden had found their way into my food and drink, yarrow to help me sleep, chamomile to calm me down, valerian to soothe my nerves and ease my grief. I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole, nibbling on mushrooms and drinking from unknown bottles. Only Alice knew what she was doing. Alice made her own choices.
‘All the tea, all the food, everything Ashley makes,’ I spoke slowly, not wanting it to be true. ‘It’s all drugged.’
‘Drugged?’ Catherine echoed with a derisive chuckle. ‘Emily, all your meals have been carefully prepared to help you rest
and recover. Ashley only uses natural and organic ingredients and what we grow here is a darn sight cheaper than it would be from that fancy health food place off the parkway.’
It wasn’t exactly a denial but I didn’t believe she was trying to hurt me. Ashley on the other hand …
‘If I’m an apothecary,’ I said, fingering the rosemary bush and breathing in its powerful scent, ‘what kind of witch are you?’
‘It’s probably easier if I show you.’
Rolling up the sleeves of her silk shirt, she reached down to retrieve the discarded branch of the woody shrub she’d chopped in half. Catherine snapped her fingers and the branch burst into flames.
‘My abilities express themselves through the elements,’ she said as I reared back in my chair. The fire burned fast and fierce, white at the centre, black around the edges until there was nothing left but a pile of ash. Suddenly my ability to name random plants didn’t seem quite so cool.
‘Water, air, earth, and fire. That’s my specialty.’
‘But I can see ghosts as well as understand plants,’ I said, watching the ashes of the shrub slip through the decorative ironwork of the table and disappear back into the earth. ‘And then there are the other things, the visions, the Spanish moss. How do those things connect to me being an apothecary?’
‘The blessing adapts to our needs,’ Catherine replied, her demeanour still calm but perhaps not quite as certain as before. ‘My grandmother came into her magic during World War Two. She was a conduit, her abilities allowed her to move through people’s dreams and communicate with those who had passed which was a great help to the war effort and a comfort to those searching for closure. Her grandmother was a healer who saved hundreds of lives during the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic.’
‘Did either of them have more than one ability?’ I asked, lightly tracing a finger along my itchy, sunburned skin.
‘Not that I know of,’ she answered. ‘But perhaps you are in need of greater strength for what lies ahead.’
I froze, my finger pressed against the tip of my nose.
‘Well, that doesn’t sound terrifying.’
Catherine pulled my hand away from my face and stroked another dot of aloe into my skin.
‘Our family’s story may begin with Emma Catherine Bell but the history of the blessing goes back much further. The origins of it all, why each of us has different abilities, it’s lost to the ages. All we know is that our blessing is protective, it expresses itself differently in every witch, serving whatever need is most dire at that time. Also, we know it is bound by the natural order of things, but you’d be surprised at what nature and the human body can do when necessary, at what a person is capable of when they have no choice.’
‘I don’t want to find out what I can do when I have no choice,’ I replied, extremely alarmed. ‘Having a choice is my favourite thing in the entire world.’
Dusting a sprinkle of ash from her lap, Catherine stood and picked up the tray, carrying it over to a bright little sunspot by the fishpond.
‘Don’t worry so much,’ she said with sweetness. ‘Everything will be clearer after your Becoming.’
‘My what?’
I stared at her from my seat, barely even noticing as all the flowers and leaves I’d picked from the herbs regrew right in front of me.
‘There’s no need for that reaction, it’s just a name. Our ancestors had a tendency towards the dramatic.’ She picked up the watering can to drench the herbs as they bloomed. ‘The Becoming is simply a brief ceremony, a sort of initiation ritual, performed on the full moon closest to a witch’s seventeenth birthday as she comes into the fullest expression of her magic.’
‘Sounds completely chill,’ I replied. ‘Totally normal and not weird at all.’
‘How lucky I am to be raising the first Bell witch in existence to call the Becoming “chill”,’ Catherine said drily. ‘My Becoming was one of the best days of my life and yours will be even more beautiful. Did you know you were born under a full moon?’
I shook my head, I did not.
‘And it just so happens, the full moon falls on June twenty-first again this year. Your Becoming ceremony will take place on your birthday.’
‘Is that good?’ I asked, gulping down a nervous breath.
‘It’s very good.’
Catherine had left one plant on the table. The aconite. Its blue flowers trembled in the sun then exploded, a storm of indigo carpeting the whole garden. One of the petals landed on my arm, leaving a bell-shaped mark.
‘Such a fascinating plant,’ Catherine said, watching the red welt fade away. ‘What do you know about it?’
I blew out a steady breath and carefully picked a single leaf from the plant.
‘It first grew from the saliva of Cerberus, the three-headed hound of Hades,’ I recited. ‘It’s one of the most toxic plants on the whole planet, if ingested incorrectly, it can make the heart stop.’
‘And what is its most common name? What do we witches call it and why?’
‘Wolfsbane,’ I said, quiet, disbelieving.
‘And why do we call it that?’
My answer came out in a whisper.
‘Because it’s poisonous to werewolves.’
‘A knife can be a tool or a weapon,’ Catherine said again, her green eyes burning into mine. ‘And so can you.’
Chapter Twenty
As the clock chimed a soft midnight, an untouched cup of tea sat cooling on my nightstand. Chamomile, valerian, yarrow and lavender. Grown in the garden at Bell House, dried in the pantry, blended by Catherine, prepared by Ashley, and drank by me every night to induce a deep and dreamless sleep.
But not tonight.
Tossing and turning, I kicked off the single sheet that was draped over my body, too hot and sweaty for even the feel of cotton on my skin. Even the air conditioning couldn’t compete with the dense, sultry warmth that filled my room, smothering my limbs and dampening my hair but now I knew what was in the tea, I couldn’t bring myself to drink it. Rolling over, I pressed my face into my pillow and searched for my happy place, imagining myself back in Wyn’s truck, driving with the window open and the smell of salt in the air. I pictured the strong lines of his profile, the way his brow furrowed every time we approached a light or a stop sign, how hard he concentrated on reversing into the parking space, one arm thrown over the back of his seat so he could see better through the small cabin window.
My imagination and my memories melted together, transforming the suffocating heat of my room into the bold sunshine of the beach. I was no longer alone in bed, instead I found myself walking behind Wyn on the narrow boardwalk that led down to the sand, the striped umbrella over one of his shoulders, backpack over the other, and hands outstretched to touch the feathery grass that grew tall on either side. Then we were on the beach blanket, an easy, honest smile on his face and my heart stuttering in my chest when our hands met. Floating on the current of our connection, I rolled back over and touched my fingers to my lips, wishing he was here with me now.
Bell House played a sympathetic soundtrack, sighing and groaning like it understood, as though it was too hot for her as well. Everything was too much effort, the fan whirring above my head, water running through the copper pipes, floorboards and furniture creaking as they expanded against their will.
Then something else.
My ears prickled at the sound of something striking the window.
‘Lydia?’ I muttered, checking the clock again. Five minutes past midnight. Too late to be throwing stones from magnolia trees.
I heaved my heavy limbs out of bed, praying I reached her before she woke Catherine or Ashley. I didn’t know what kind of security system we had here but I was extremely worried it might be a little more excessive than regular cameras and silent alarms. I carefully opened one wooden slat of my shutters, just to make sure it was definitely Lydia visiting and not a good old-fashioned break-in.
But it wasn’t Lydia or a burglar.
Standing on my balcony, was Wyn.
The night air whooshed into my room as I opened the window. The loud chirp of the cicadas kept time with my pulse and the moon, sliced in half overhead, etched his features in silver.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ I said in disbelief, reaching out to touch him and make sure he was real. ‘How are you here?’
‘Because I was just thinking about you,’ he replied with shining eyes. ‘It’s too hot to sleep in my place, so I took a walk. Turns out it’s pretty easy to climb the magnolia tree out front up to your balcony.’
‘Weirdly, you’re not the first person to tell me that. But you are the first person to try it after midnight.’
