House of Ivy & Sorrow

TWENTY-ONE





When the door creaks open, we’re greeted by a surly boa constrictor. He coils around the nearest chair, eyeing us as if he’s famished. His tongue flickers in and out, and then his eyes glow hot purple. Kat grabs my sleeve, and I laugh.

“Don’t worry; it’s an illusion.” I pluck a few eyelashes and flick them at the image. It vanishes in a puff of pink smoke, leaving a pleasant scent like peaches. “Of course, it would have killed you if you didn’t know how to get rid of it.”

“Ours is a giant boar that will gore you to death if you don’t give it enchanted mushrooms,” Maggie says.

I groan. “I hate that thing. It’s creepy.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “It’s a pig.”

“I’m beginning to understand why you didn’t take me up here when you were mute.” Kat’s hands are glued to her body, like any sudden movement will send a scythe at her head.

“So,” Maggie says as she scans the rows of shelves, all filled with Hemlock tomes. They look intimidating even to me, hidden in the dim lighting. At least Great-Great-Grandmother Agatha took care to put them in order from oldest to newest. Having a time line should help us find things more easily. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Hmm, that’s a good question.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. I always forget how intense the magic is up here, history after history enchanted with its own spells. It’s like being surrounded by thousands of math problems your brain is begging to answer, except if you get one wrong you could grow a huge wart on your face. Or get covered in frog slime. Or lose an ear. It depends on whether the witch had a sense of humor or a dark side.

“What are those?” Kat nods at the three old desks, each with a heavy leather book on it.

“My history, my mother’s, and Nana’s,” I say as I point to each desk. “I should probably get mine up to speed at some point. I think the last time I wrote in it was a year ago.”

Maggie shakes her head. “Aunt Pru says it’s our duty to keep a detailed account of our lives, what we learn about magic, and the changing world. She’d have my head if I neglected mine so much.”

I walk to my mother’s desk and read her name, neatly carved into the front. “Maybe she’d understand if Tessa were dead.”

She bites her lip. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I’m too focused on my mom’s history to be mad. Hers is the one we need—all the answers are probably right here between the pages. I reach my hand out. If I could open the cover . . .

A shock of electricity shoots through my arm before I even touch it. I recoil, mad at myself for not being able to come to terms with her death like I should.

“Maggie can’t open it?” Kat asks. It’s only then that I realize she’s beside me.

I sigh. “No, only a Hemlock witch can—one who’s prepared to read what’s inside. After I open the books, anyone can touch them, though.”

Maggie puts her hands on her hips, surprisingly serious for her. “So if we can’t read Carmina’s, what do we read? Where do we even start?”

“Well, we’re looking for clues about these male magic users, how they came to be,” I say. “So that means we need to read about the times our family has been hunted and Cursed, or anything else that seems out of the ordinary for witches in general.”

Maggie nods. “Yeah, that narrows it down. A little.”

“We should split up,” Kat says. “Someone should start from the beginning, someone at the middle, and someone near the end.”

“That could work, but . . .” I tap my foot. There has to be an efficient way to do this. I snap my fingers. “Okay, Kitty Kat, you start at the beginning, since you have a lot to learn anyway. Mags, you find the Salem incident—that’s when things got pretty bad for all witches in America. Maybe something will stick out. And I’ll start with Agatha, who built this house. If someone wants it, maybe she’ll have clues about who.”

They both nod.

“This way.” I lead them down the narrow aisle between shelves. The histories take up the entire attic. The farther we go, the more tattered the books become. We try our best to care for them, but we can’t stop time. At least I don’t think so. If we could, I bet we’d have to do something terrible like sacrifice people. No thanks.

A few books hiss or wail as we walk by, which has Kat even more on edge. She squeaks when a ghost girl with no eyes comes oozing out of one. “What pretty eyes you have,” the girl sings to Kat. “Give them to me, and I will show you my secrets.”

“Jo . . .” Kat backs into Maggie, who shoves her right through the ghost to me.

“It’s okay. Witches can make ghosts. Way easy defense because they have always freaked people out.”

Maggie smiles wickedly. “Plus it’s fun.”

“That, too.” I reach into my satchel for the common items I grabbed. Eyes. It’s like every spell requires them.

The ghost reaches out to Kat, brushing Kat’s bangs away with a pale, translucent hand. “I’ve never had green ones before. Perhaps they have special powers. . . .”

“Here,” I say, holding out two pig eyes in a plastic baggy. “I think these suit you better.”

The ghost takes them happily, and then she’s sucked back into the journal she came from. I take it from the shelf, since I had to go to the trouble of unlocking it anyway. Mary Hemlock, 1634–1698. “Hey, lucky us—she was alive during Salem!”

“Really?” Maggie looks at it. “Shoulda guessed, trying to freak us out with such theatrics.”

“She was probably the head of the house at the time, since the trials were in 1692.” I look at the book spines nearest Mary’s. “Here’s Emily Hemlock, who is probably her daughter . . . and Charlotte comes next, oh, and Teresa. Looks like Mary had a few daughters.”

“So your family was fertile at one point.” Maggie already has Mary’s book open. She flips through the pages slowly, and I get the sense that she enjoys histories much more than I do.

“Shut up.” Most witches struggle with infertility, having one child or two. Three is extremely lucky. Nana says that’s how it is. She tried for a decade to have Mom, and apparently Mom was with Dad for a while before . . . Okay, stopping that image now. “Just because the Crafts are having a couple of fruitful generations doesn’t mean you’re immune. It happens to all families at one point or another.”

“Do you guys always talk this openly about fertility and passing on bloodlines and other reproductive topics?” Kat asks.

I laugh. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“It’s really important,” Maggie says. “My mom might make me wait until I’m old enough, but making babies is how we keep our magical lines going. How could we not talk about it or want it or look forward to it?”

Kat nods slowly, seeming to mull it over. “Fair enough.”

After I open the Salem histories for Maggie, I head for the oldest books, which Kat will have a fun time reading. They are from twelfth-century England, and pretty crazy. “I’ll dispel the first three for you. Call if you get through them all.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “They won’t kill me after they’re unlocked, right?”

“No.” I smile at her worried face. “Actually, I thought it’d be worse. Seems like most of them have touch spells; so as long as you don’t bump anything, you’re good. And I’m right here if you get clumsy.”

She nods. “You already saved my life once today.”

“True.” I look down at my hand, which has significantly improved thanks to Nana. I can still feel some pain, but it appears to be normal at least. “And I’ll save it as many times as I have to.”


“You’re like a superhero.”

“Yeah, if superheroes used the powers of darkness.”

I pull out the very first history—Golde Hemlock, 1153–1201. Hers I have read, and it’s fascinating how she was born with magic, though her mother didn’t have it. That happened occasionally—still happens sometimes—when a mother-to-be gives birth in a place brimming with magic. The dark power takes the child for its own. Golde slowly discovered her powers, and then one day she found another witching family, the Sages, who took her in and taught her their ways.

The Sages were also afflicted with the Curse, even then. Nana told me that their family died out from it right before many witches left for the Americas to escape it. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why it’s also followed the Hemlocks so often, because Golde learned from the Sages.

The lock is simple to break: just a heat enchantment dispelled by blowing magic onto it. I hand it to Kat, and she carefully opens the leather cover. Inside, the parchment is yellow and slightly brittle. Then she tilts her head. “Uh, is this English?”

“Middle English.” I pull out a piece of glass that’s round like a monocle, but without the chain. “This is a translator. Look through and it’ll make sense.”

She takes it from me. Now I can tell she’s excited, because she’s already reading. “That is amazing.”

“It only took about a hundred animal tongues to make, so don’t break it.”

She cringes. “Lovely.”

I open the next two books for her, and then head back to the newer histories. Agatha’s isn’t very far from the reading area in the round tower portion of the attic, which is well equipped with plush chairs and silky pillows. What little light we get under the freeway streaks through the windows. I take her history off the shelf, surprisingly nervous to read it firsthand. Nana has told me the story many times, so I never bothered to look up the source. Immediately the book sticks to my fingers, like the best superglue in existence. Funny. You’d definitely know who took it.

I rummage in the satchel for a vial of enchanted slug mucus. As I pour it on my hand, I realize I should have brought antibacterial wash, too. Oh, well. I settle into a deep red recliner and crack open the book.

Agatha’s journal is fairly boring early on. She lived in New York as a child, near the Crafts, which isn’t too surprising. The Hemlocks had a good piece of magical land up there that we stayed on for hundreds of years. It gets interesting when Agatha gets older—she’s restless and wants to travel, so she takes a long trip to Europe and visits some of the most magical sites in the world. That’s when it gets bad.


August 31, 1890

Nice, France

Fanny wrote me today with distressing news—Mama has been Cursed. They don’t know how, but she has been complaining of weakness, of not being able to hold magic like she used to. I feel as if it’s my fault somehow, for leaving the house. But then why am I not the one Cursed?

It makes no sense, but I must return home. I will miss my travels. Being penned into that house scares me almost as much as the Curse, but it seems I’ll be head of the house sooner than I ever wanted, now that Mama has been sentenced to such a harsh fate.


My heart breaks for Agatha because I know exactly how she feels. I’m in the same position, except I don’t have a sister. I always wished for one, someone to share the burden with when I got older.

I keep reading, and it gets worse. Agatha’s aunt also gets Cursed. That’s when Agatha and Fanny set out separately to find another magical place to live. They try to cover as much ground as possible, but most of the eastern American magic spots have been claimed.


July 13th, 1894

Iowan Plains

Today I found a miracle. I have soaked in the magic at Stonehenge, at the Giant’s Causeway, in the Transylvanian forests, at Mont-Saint-Michel, but it’s not until now that I have tasted magic that makes my whole being feel alive. And in Iowa!

The place is not much to look at, and it is hot as Hades. It is a wonder that such a plain speck of earth could hold so much power and promise, but I must have it. I will have it. This will be our new home, where Fanny and I can be safe from the Curse. I cannot stand leaving this place for one second, fearing that someone else may claim it before I return. So I have written to Fanny wherever she may be, and we will build anew.

The magic—it is deep and dark and strong, and I know the Hemlock family will be safe here for many generations.


I read on, enjoying the descriptions of this very house being built. It took many months, and apparently a lot of money for the period. Money isn’t really an issue for us if we need. Years of family treasures, plus the ability to conjure precious gems, helps.

My heart doesn’t speed up until I find another surprising entry:


May 3rd, 1895

Willow’s End, Iowa

Glorious news! Fanny has discovered another highly magical spot in this area, and we are working to secure it. Buying land here has become increasingly difficult in the last year, as there seems to be a town springing up from nowhere. They are calling it Willow’s End, due to all the willow trees that have been planted to combat the terrible summer heat. Let us hope they grow quickly, for the sunny months are upon us.


I’ve never heard of another magical place in the area, and I can’t help wondering why we don’t know about it. Surely Nana would have mentioned this to me if she knew. As I read through the next few years, Agatha mentions Fanny building another house in the area off and on. They have plans to have many daughters, to rebuild the Hemlock name to what it once was. Everything seems absolutely perfect until:


January 27th, 1900

Willow’s End

Fanny is dead, and I feel as though someone has stolen half my heart. I tried to secure her house, but it has become curiously bound to the people who moved in. I think perhaps the spell was supposed to bind to me if I’d gotten there soon enough, but it was the day of Fanny’s death that my daughter decided to enter this world.

It is lucky Geraldine came easily, for I had to do it on my own. Now we are the only Hemlocks in existence, and I’ve never felt so alone in my life.


My throat goes dry. I tear through the pages, searching for any more information about this mysterious “other house,” but Agatha says nothing, save she misses her sister. She never mentions if Fanny was also lost to the Curse, and it seems strange that she wouldn’t mention that. She specifically talked about everyone else being Cursed, and yet not Fanny?

How did she die, then?

Witches don’t usually die from sickness, since we can fix almost any bodily ailment. Same with accidents. There are only two things that could have happened to Fanny—old age or murder. She was younger than Agatha, so that leaves murder, either by the Curse she concealed from Agatha or something else.

Or someone else.

Could she have discovered what Nana and I have? Did she know about the men with magic?

I jump from my seat too quickly, the book hitting the floor with a loud smack. Fanny’s history—there has to be more information in hers. There is something weird about this. I can feel it.

But it’s not on the shelves. I check the histories nearest Agatha’s about forty times before I allow myself to believe it’s missing. How could it be missing? I deflate when I realize that it’s not missing; it’s just not here.

It’s at Fanny’s house, wherever that is.