The decor is also a little unusual. A strangely shaped, padded red sculpture in the corner might be an armchair. Light fixtures made from twistedmetal and bone hang from the ceiling. Paintings cover the walls, too abstract to discern what they are—but when I study the strange shapes and dark colors, a heavy feeling settles over me. It’s like they’re depicting something forbidden that the artist was trying to empty from their brain. The paint-splattered easel and brushes tell me they might be painted by Maya herself.
Julia is already rummaging through a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, where a cluster of dark red candles sits half melted, the hardened wax pooling on the countertop. I head for the laptop on the desk and bend over it.
“What is that?” Julia asks.
“A laptop. Gives you access to the internet and emails and stuff.”
“None of those words made sense.”
“I’ll explain later.”
It boots up to the desktop, no password required. I guess her paranoia doesn’t extend to cybersecurity. I breathe a sigh of relief and start opening files.
My spine prickles at the stillness of the apartment and the frantic sounds of us both working. The smell of old beer from my hoodie and the chilly dampness is getting unbearable, so I take it off and drop it onto the floor. It’s a little cold to be in a camisole, but I’d rather be in this than an alcohol-soaked sweater.
I feel Julia’s gaze on me like a flame against my bare shoulders, but I don’t turn. A secret and confusing part of me likes that she’s looking.
“Who else was in your coven?” I ask as I scour the laptop, needing a clue as to what names I should be looking for.
“The only one we’re concerned with is Rebecca.” Julia moves to the bookshelf, and the soft scrape of books tickles my ears.
I click through Maya’s emails, scanning subject lines for anything witchy. “Were you friends with everyone in your coven, other than Rebecca?”
Not a pertinent question, but I’m curious about the life of Julia Moreau.
“Some I liked more than others,” she says vaguely.
There’s nothing weird in her emails, so I try her browser history.Recipes… Art… Online shopping…“What about your family?”
A pause. “A coven is a witch’s family.”
I don’t want to anger her by prying, but I want to understand more about this woman who’s suddenly become central to my world. “Parents?” I ask hesitantly.
She continues checking each book. At last, she says flatly, “My mother’s identity was discovered by a group of weak, scared men. They burned her at the stake when I was a child. I had no father.”
The words punch me in the gut. I stop scrolling through Maya’s browser history.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have.
“Don’t be. The men who killed her got what they deserved.”
A chill rolls through me at the cold satisfaction in her voice. I don’t ask her to elaborate.
I force myself to keep scrolling for clues. We need to get out of here as fast as possible.
“Did she love you?” The question spills out without my permission. I’ve always been interested in the relationships other people have with their parents. I loved going to Riley’s house for brunch on weekends and seeing the way she and her mom interacted. Hugging, laughing, making references that only the two of them understood.
But my question is about more than that. I want to know who Julia was before the world turned her into this—or maybe she wasborn like this.
Julia stares at a novel in her hands, her fingers drumming its spine. A muscle in her jaw flexes.
“Yes. She did.” She slides the book back onto the shelf without looking at me. “My mother was a sanguine witch too. She understood me better than anyone else ever has.”
I swallow hard and return my attention to the laptop.
Maybe Julia wasn’t born a monster. Maybe the world made her this way by forcing her to witness a cruelty that no child should have to endure.
“Why do you ask?” Julia says.
