She shot Fiona a panicked look. “Maybe someone else can go? It’s too difficult for me to think about.”
An image flashed in Fiona’s mind—one of the students she’d seen bleeding to death on the grass outside the school. She couldn’t remember his name, but he’d done magic tricks at a school talent show. Arrows protruded from his ribs like a statue of St. Sebastian. Even though Dr. Mellior had asked them to speak, there were some things people didn’t want to hear about, and that meant the words were blazing in her mind now. What would happen if she spoke her thoughts out loud?
“I didn’t know someone could have that many arrows in you and not die immediately,” she said. “There was a boy. The arrows must have missed his heart, and he was lying there bleeding. And someone’s clothes were on fire, and she was shrieking, but the flames were too high to see who it was. It smelled like—”
“Thank you, Fiona,” said Mrs. Ranulf.
Forks clinked against plates in the golden-walled dining room. It had a bitter smell of burning sage.
Connor broke the silence, his voice cracking. He named each one of his classmates who’d been slaughtered by a burning arrow—Jason, Eric, Emily, Dave, Oliver, Ava, Stuart, Paul, Scarlett… She’d never paid much attention to Connor, but he’d remembered everyone’s name. He was probably a much better person than she was.
Fiona’s chest ached. It had all been Jack’s doing. She should have known, somehow. She had spent more time with him than anyone else at Mather. She could have stopped it if she hadn’t been so obsessed with his beauty. Suddenly without an appetite, she pushed her plate away. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Beneath the table, Munroe’s brother pinched her leg.
“And what about you, Alan?” Dr. Mellior asked. “You were friends with Celia. What did you think about her?”
“I mean, she was the prettiest girl in our—” He held up his hands. “I shouldn’t say the prettiest girl. I mean equally pretty as the girls at the table here. Not that girls—women—should be judged—” He took a sip of water. “Can someone else go?”
“Pretty.” Dr. Mellior’s greatest skill seemed to be repetition. “Yes.” The psychiatrist steepled his fingers. “But you never suspected Celia of being a witch?”
Was this supposed to be therapy? It seemed more like an interrogation.
Alan shook his head. “She certainly surprised us.”
“I’ll go next,” Munroe trilled. She wore a pale green sundress, with her nails painted to match. “I remember that the witch army was outside, and I thought Tobias was working with them. But then I held my chalice to his cheek, and it didn’t burn his skin when I asked him questions. So he was telling the truth.” She turned to Tobias. “Sorry about that. Then Celia turned into a cougar. And that’s how I knew she was evil.” Her chest flushed. “I’d like to rip her stupid face off.”
“Honestly, Munroe,” Mrs. Ranulf chuckled. “Control yourself in front of company.” She turned to her guests. “Munroe has always been highly emotional. Harrison is a much more intellectual child.”
Munroe glared. “Mom. This is supposed to be our therapy session.”
“Everyone has a valid opinion here,” said Dr. Mellior approvingly.
“Harrison’s teachers all agree that he’s very advanced,” added Mrs. Ranulf.
“Bang bang bang bang!” Harrison shouted from under the table, thumping on Fiona’s foot.
Fiona jerked her foot up, slamming her knee into the wood.
“Well, that seems like enough for today.” Dr. Mellior smiled. “In the next few weeks, I think you’ll find that we’ll grow even stronger as our own sort of family.”
Mrs. Ranulf crushed her napkin in her fist. “I hope everyone feels that they’re on the pathway to healing.”
“I almost feel like my chakras are clear from the witch curse,” Sadie piped up. “And it’s kind of nice not having to choose things for myself. Sometimes I’m not sure if I want—”
“Thank you, Sadie,” Mrs. Ranulf interrupted. “Physical wholesomeness can protect us. But before we dismiss you all, I just want to remind you of a little unpleasant fact.” A bit of steel entered her voice. “We are at war with people who are trying to destroy our way of life—our family. Some might call them terrorists, and some might call them witches.” Her pale eyes raked across the room. The students were silent.
Fiona felt her muscles tense. Had Mrs. Ranulf known it was her flying over her head last night?
“I hope you all know to inform the authorities of anything suspicious,” she continued. She turned her icy gaze to Mariana, clad in black as usual. “Anyone who takes an unusual interest in the dark arts should be suspect. And anyone who does not report such acts could be considered co-conspirators of the terrorists. Silence on these matters is against the law.”