Ingrid snickered. “Poor Mr. Sweeney, it’s a good thing she’s not allowed to or Mom would’ve hexed him!” she said, enjoying the sisterly solidarity. One of the greatest pleasures of their lives was talking about their formidable mother. That subject could never be exhausted.
“What Mom needs is a date,” Freya said, feeding Siegfried from her plate. “She’s got to get over Dad at some point.” They hadn’t seen their father since the restriction had been handed down, which was one of those subjects they never talked about. Bringing up their father only made their mother angry all over again. It was a shame what had happened between their parents, but there was nothing they could do about it. Dad was gone, Mom didn’t want to talk about it, end of story. Freya tried not to hold it against her mother, or her father, since he dropped out of their lives and never even tried to contact them afterward.
It was easier that way, just like it was easier to pretend there had only always been two children in the family. It was too difficult and sad to think about her missing twin brother, and aside from lighting a candle every year on his Feast Day in February, they never mentioned him. As for Dad, there was no candle and no remembrance, only a void, an empty seat at the table. “So what do you think? Mom and Sal? I could make it happen.” Freya smiled naughtily. “He’s got a crush.”
“No. Don’t do that to Sal. Mom would eat him for breakfast. You’ve got to stop thinking everyone’s problems can be solved by falling in love,” Ingrid said, looking uncomfortable and pushing away her plate.
“Huh,” Freya sighed, getting up from the table and beginning to stack dishes.
“You should be careful. You might have gotten away with making a potion this once, but who knows what will happen next time?” Ingrid warned. “You’re going to get in trouble if you keep doing it.”
“Maybe.” Freya nodded. “But I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. And until they actually come down here to tell me to stop, I’m going to keep on doing it,” she announced. “I’m sick of living with my hands tied behind my back!” She paused, letting the hot water run over the dirty dishes. Somehow the pristine kitchen and the presence of the Alvarezes inspired her to clean, something she had never done before. “But whatever you do, don’t tell Mother.”
“Don’t tell Mother what?” Joanna asked cheerfully, breezing into the kitchen and smiling at her beautiful daughters, Gilly flying by her shoulder.
“Nothing,” the two of them mumbled. For a moment they were kids again and had just finished burying Freya’s wretched zombie gerbil in the backyard. The ground had kept shaking for an endless amount of time, it seemed. Ingrid had found one of Joanna’s old books, the ones they weren’t supposed to touch, which their mother had hidden away when the restriction was passed, and had finally hit upon the right incantation to stop Freya’s wayward spell.
“Hmmm . . .” Joanna said, looking from one to the other with skepticism. “Why do I have a feeling no one ever tells me anything around here?”
chapter six
A Knot in Her Belly
Ingrid was thinking of her sister’s newfound zeal when she arrived at work that morning. She realized that she had never seen Freya so happy, not in a long time. Not just happy, there was something else. Freya looked more vibrant somehow, she was more present. Living without magic had caused them to fade a little; without even noticing, they had become as drab and gray as the mundane world around them. Ingrid latched her bicycle by the front gate and let herself into the dark library. Passing by Tabitha’s empty desk, she felt another prick of frustration. For years Ingrid had kept silent, had let science and medicine do their work, but now she felt a reckless courage stirring in her soul. She couldn’t stand to see her friend in so much pain anymore. So much unnecessary pain.
Ingrid looked around fearfully. What was she thinking? She wasn’t her sister, daring and courageous. Ingrid remembered all too well how she had been left to starve in that cell, the jeers from the mob, how terribly frightened she had been, alone and hated. If she did this, she would be breaking the agreement that allowed her to remain in this world.
But what did Freya say that morning? I’m sick of living with my hands tied behind my back. Well, so was Ingrid. She had had it with being useless and insignificant.
When Tabitha arrived for work Ingrid took her aside. “Tab? Can I have a sec?” She led Tabitha to the back office, where they stored the archival material. “You have to trust me, okay?” she said, as she switched off the lights. The room was bathed in a greenish darkness that came from the window film.
“What’s going on?” Tabitha asked a bit nervously. “What’s gotten into you, Ingrid? You’re like . . . possessed.”
“Just stand there,” Ingrid instructed. She knelt on the floor and began to draw a pentagram around the perimeter of Tabitha’s feet. The white chalk outline glowed in the dark room.
“Is that a—?”
“Shush!” Ingrid ordered, removing a white candle from her pocket and placing it in the center of the five-pointed shape she had made. She lit the candle and mumbled a few words. Turning to Tabitha, she said, “You trust me, don’t you? I’m trying to help you.” They were colleagues but friends as well, and Ingrid hoped Tabitha would trust their friendship enough to allow her to do this. She continued to work in a serene and thoughtful manner, but her heart was leaping in her chest. She was doing it—she was practicing witchcraft again. Magic. Freya was right, it was as if something that had been deeply buried in her soul was coming alive again, as if she just discovered she could breathe underwater all along. Ingrid felt dizzy and giddy. She hadn’t done anything like this in . . . longer than she could remember. She waited for a thunderbolt to strike. But there was nothing.
With the witch sight from the pentagram she took a good long look at her friend, until the junior librarian squirmed under the penetrating gaze. The pentagram revealed what Ingrid had always suspected. There was something blocking Tabitha’s energy, a darkness in the core, a silver-colored mass, tight and constricted, knotted, like a fist or a tumor. No wonder she couldn’t get pregnant. Ingrid had seen them before, but nothing quite this deadly. She placed a hand on Tabitha’s belly and yanked it out, almost falling backward in her attempt. But she got it out, all right. The malignancy dissipated as soon as it had been removed from a physical host.
Tabitha just stared at her as if Ingrid had gone insane. She hadn’t felt a thing; it looked as if Ingrid was just waving her hands about and babbling. “Are we done now?”
“Not quite,” Ingrid said. Removing it was only the first step. She flicked the lights back on and blew out the candle. “You also need to do something about your hair,” she said.
“My hair! What do you mean?” Tabitha looked skeptical.
Ingrid realized, in all the time she’d known her, she’d never seen Tabitha wear her hair down. Tabitha’s hair was brushed back from her forehead so tightly it looked painful, and then it was knotted and woven so that it was almost as thick as rope. Ingrid noticed other things, too: Tabitha’s clunky oxfords were tightly laced. Her sweater (it was chilly indoors with the air-conditioning) was tied with ribbons instead of buttons. The woman had more knots on her person than a sailing ship. If she kept it up, there was a possibility that the silver evil could form again. The darkness fed on constriction; it was attracted to it, like moths to flame.
She whispered fiercely, “Try it for once. Wear your hair down. And get rid of those shoes. And that sweater. Wear slip-on shoes. One of those cardigans that open in the front. No zippers. No buttons. Nothing but free-floating fabric. Free. And no knots.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”