First
1
October 28, 10:33 a.m. GMT
Exeter, County of Devon, England
Sharyn Karr was no witch—despite what local townsfolk might believe of her and her classmates. Even her mother back in Tulsa, who was devoutly Catholic, all but disowned her after learning Sharyn had fled across the Atlantic to pursue a postgraduate degree in witchcraft at the University of Exeter.
She’ll eventually get over it, Sharyn repeated to herself for the umpteenth time.
Her mother certainly would not approve of this morning’s sojourn across the city. Even Sharyn saw little reason for this pilgrimage. She had a paper to start and had just completed a two-mile run when her two roommates had insisted she accompany them on this journey. The day was sunny, a rarity this past month, and clearly her roommates wanted to escape the three-bedroom flat they shared. They cajoled and browbeat and pressed upon her the morning trip’s academic interest, while also stressing the respect that was owed the past.
Ultimately, Sharyn was persuaded by a promise of the city’s best coffee and doughnuts—the latter being a particular weakness of hers.
And what the hell, I did finish a two-mile run.
After a bus ride and short walk through the crisp autumn air, their goal appeared ahead: the crumbling gatehouse of Rougemont Castle. Its archway, constructed of rough-hewn red stones quarried from local hills, was all that remained of the old Norman stronghold built by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century. She gaped at its towering height, which looked ready to crumble upon her. Down lower, modern black iron gates stood open, allowing traffic into the courtyard beyond, where a music festival was being set up.
She and her friends had not come to participate in such festivities. Though, one of the pair looked enviously upon the trio of stages being set up by bustling crews of roadies.
“I attended a Coldplay concert here several years ago,” Naomi said. “Back in my wild youth. I snuck out of the house with a group of friends. On the eve of my A-level exams. Supposed to be studying, but I had a crush on the group’s bass player. So, I could not be dissuaded.”
“Seemed to have done you no harm,” Tag noted, leaning heavily on his cane as he kept up with them. “You still did crackin’ well on those tests, didn’t ya? Got accepted to Oxford with a full ride. Graduated with a dual masters. Archaeology and anthropology.”
Naomi shrugged. “Took me until I was twenty-one. If I had reined in that rebellious streak, I could’ve completed the coursework a year or two earlier.”
Sharyn detected no conceit behind the woman’s words, only a matter-of-fact resignation. Naomi Wren, who had grown up in Wales, was not only the youngest in their study group at Exeter, but also the youngest accepted into the university program. Only months into their first semester, Naomi had already proven to have a nearly eidetic memory and an uncanny ability to wend together disparate disciplines. Her mind was as slippery as it was sharp.
Though, from the bright crimson dye of her hair and buxom shape, few suspected the brilliance shining behind Naomi’s forest-green eyes. Even more daunting, the woman’s legs seemed to stretch forever, presently accentuated by skin-tight jeans, which were topped by a vintage denim jacket embroidered with the Welsh battle standard: an emerald-and-white flag emblazoned with a crimson dragon balanced on one foot.
Sharyn could not help but feel inadequate in Naomi’s shadow, not that her roommate ever sought to diminish her. Still, Sharyn’s bachelor’s degree from the University of Oklahoma in library sciences, with a minor in art history, seemed a paltry accomplishment in comparison. Like Naomi, Sharyn had earned herself an undergraduate scholarship—though in her case, it was not for academics, but for track-and-field. Still, her Sooners’ team had become national champions, for which she took great pride.
Despite continuing to keep fit, Sharyn looked the part of a librarian. She kept her blonde hair in a trim ponytail, wore dark-rimmed glasses when her contacts bothered her after too much eyestrain (which was often), and her figure, while slim and athletic, had none of Naomi’s dangerous curves.
“There it is!” Tag announced, pointing his cane down the street while hobbling a step.
Sharyn steadied the young man with a hand on his elbow, but he brusquely shrugged her off.
“I can manage,” he groused, clearly not wishing to be coddled. He swiped aside a drape of fiery red hair, which matched his trimmed beard. His pale cheeks reddened as he lowered his cane and stepped away.
Sharyn mumbled an apology. Her actions had been instinctual, reflexive, a part of her nature to help, something ingrained in her from her years under the unpredictable bearing of an alcoholic father—or so she had come to understand from Al-Anon meetings, where she had learned codependency came in many forms.
In Tag McKnight’s case, she recognized her coping mechanism could be misconstrued as condescension. Her roommate, who was gay, had grown up on the outskirts of Edinburgh and had been diagnosed with cerebral palsy at the age of four, but he had set out to show the world that he would not be constrained by his body’s limits. He had already earned a master’s in biochemistry and had joined the Exeter program to study medieval pharmacology, specifically with an interest in ancient herbal medicines and psychedelics.
Tag continued forward, aiming for a wall to the left of the gatehouse. He pointed ahead, wheezing a bit from the exertion. “We made it.”
Sharyn followed him into the shadow of the gatehouse’s arch, where a plaque had been secured to the rough red stone. The title at the top readThe Devon Witches.
Naomi stepped closer. “Let me get ready.”
They gave her room as she extended her phone’s selfie stick. Beyond paying homage to the persecuted women, Naomi had come to immortalize this visit on TikTok, specifically on a sub-section of the site known as WitchTok, a niche community with billions of views that centered on all aspects of witchcraft and magic: from herbal recipes to tarot reading, and the daily lives of Wiccans and their practices. Naomi had gained a large following as she shared her interest in the subject matter, though from a more erudite and educational standard, sharing her experiences and reasons for coming to Exeter along with documenting her ongoing coursework and campus life.
Once ready, Naomi flipped her hair and turned to Tag, trusting his judgment more than Sharyn’s—and for good reason. “How do I look?”
“Posh Spice has nothing on you.”
She touched his arm, thanking him. “Such a dated reference, but I’ll take it.”
