Twenty minutes later, Barnett was as expressionless as ever when Catherine ordered him to pull over and let us out of the car.
‘Thank you, Barnett,’ she said, when he did exactly what she asked without a word. Lifting the hem of her long but simple shift off the ground, she climbed out, barefoot. ‘Please wait here until we return.’
My outfit was almost identical to Catherine’s, long and loose, only my dress was sleeveless where hers had long, bell-shaped sleeves. Both were made from some scratchy ivory fabric that skimmed over my body. I wouldn’t have said either were particularly her style. Even though it was still warm outside, I felt exposed. Something wasn’t right.
‘Emily, leave your shoes behind, you won’t need them,’ Catherine instructed. ‘This will go better if you have full contact with the earth.’
‘Go better?’ I repeated, stressing the words in different places. ‘What will go better?’
‘I’ll tell you once we’re on our way,’ she replied, looking up to the sky. ‘We need to move now.’
‘But I’d be faster in my sneakers.’
She replied without words and I immediately shucked off my shoes. Barnett stared straight ahead through the windscreen, his face completely impassive.
‘Is Barnett OK?’ I asked when I realized he wasn’t even blinking.
‘He’s exceptionally well,’ my grandmother said with a chuckle. ‘His family is under, what shall we call it? An NDA.Nothing harmful, a little herbal mix that helps him forget the more stressful parts of his job. I reckon he’s the best-paid driver in the entire state of Georgia. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Does he know?’
She raised one eyebrow. ‘He knows enough.’
The night was pitch black, no stars, and the moon had been reduced to its smallest sliver, curving in the sky like the stain left behind by a coffee cup.
‘The Wilcuma ritual takes place under the new moon before a witch’s Weorden,’ Catherine explained as we set off down the road, away from the car. I moved cautiously, expecting to step on something sharp any second, but the ground was strangely spongy, even though we were walking on what looked like concrete. ‘Weorden means “becoming”, Wilcuma means “welcome guest”. From tonight, your connection to our magic will grow with the waxing moon until your birthday, when the moon is full. Then you will be welcomed fully into the sisterhood.’
I followed her blindly through the trees, the fabric of my dress catching on their branches. ‘You could’ve mentioned this before now,’ I said. ‘I might have taken a nap this afternoon.’
‘None of us knows about the Wilcuma until the night of the ritual, it must be a surprise. It only feels like yesterday that I was in your shoes.’ She looked down at my bare feet and smiled. ‘So to speak.’
Finally we emerged from the woods at the side of a tiny cottage with a covered porch and two white wooden rocking chairs outside. The whole area in total darkness, the only thing I could make out aside from the cottage itself was an American flag, rippling in the night air.
‘This is where we’re performing a ritual?’ I was almost disappointed. As far as locations went, it was kind of a let-down. If nothing else, I’d expected at least a dozen or so candles in a circle, maybe some kind of altar.
‘Not here.’ Catherine took my hand and pointed off to the left. ‘Down there.’
Beyond the cottage I saw what looked like an endless driveway, lined with live oaks, all of them bending towards each other and their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. Each and every bough was weighed down with Spanish moss and it hung like sepia-toned tinsel, but unlike the flag, not a single leaf on the tree or frond of moss moved. Everything was frozen, everything was silent. This was more than dramatic enough.
‘Wormsloe State Historic Site,’ Catherine said in a voice that implied something about the name was faintly ridiculous. ‘It’s been in the same family since it was founded by a group of British settlers. They also came over on theAnne. Our families have known each other for centuries.’
‘So they won’t mind us borrowing their back garden,’ I said, staring up at the moss. The way it hung, frozen in mid-air, was unnerving. ‘If they’re old friends.’
Something like a snort only much more ladylike huffed out the back of Catherine’s throat.
‘I didn’t say that. But don’t worry, the trees won’t tell them we’re here.’
I held back as she started down the driveway, more uncomfortable than ever. There wasn’t a single sound, not a crack of a twig or rustle of leaves, but I was so certain someone was watching us. Catherine marched on, her long red hair loose and streaming out behind her.
‘What is a state historic site?’ I asked, chasing after her when I realized she wasn’t going to wait.
‘Wormsloe was a plantation,’ she replied, still striding onwards. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘Dad made sure I knew my history,’ I answered. ‘Why do we have to do this here?’
She turned to face me, her pale skin almost fully translucent in the black night.
‘Because magic is not good or bad, it’s the truth. Our connection to the blessing is strongest in places with history, where lives have been lived, happy and sad. Aside from Bonaventure, Wormsloe is one of the strongest magical sites in all of Savannah.’
