The door opened on silent hinges and in came Ashley, wordless but patently furious, to replace Catherine’s lukewarm white teapot with a piping hot blue one and set out two clean teacups.
‘If she doesn’t have any magic, she must be psychic,’ I whispered as she left the room, stony-faced as ever.
‘Just well trained,’ Catherine said, leaning forward to pour. ‘You’re not exactly stealth personified when you come and go.’
I chewed on my bottom lip, thinking of all the times I’d proved her wrong on that front, but said nothing. The tea tasted as good as it smelled, easing my sore throat and calming my ragged nerves. The steel cage that had replaced my ribs began to loosen and I forced myself to breathe in, full and deep. Catherine sat back, hot cup of tea in her hand, a cool expression on her face.
‘The binding rituals I know of are very unpredictable. Yes, it is possible to limit a witch’s abilities but there’s no guarantee she would ever get them back again. That can’t happen with you, Emily.’
‘Because I’m the prophecy girl,’ I said with more attitude than I expected to get away with.
‘Because you are the future of the Bell line. If I lost you, our whole legacy would be gone forever.’
‘What about Ashley?’ I said, glancing over towards the door. ‘If she had a daughter, the line would continue.’
‘Ashley isn’t able to have children. A common problem with second children in our family.’
Catherine raised her teacup to her lips and the door I hadn’t realized was still open clicked shut.
‘I didn’t know,’ I said, struck by a pang of sympathy I wasn’t prepared for. ‘That must be difficult for her.’
‘It’s difficult for all of us,’ Catherine agreed. ‘And it means there will be no binding. The magic is too unpredictable. Losing your abilities would be the best-case scenario.’
My ears pricked up at her choice of words.
‘If there’s a best case, that means there’s a worst. There’s more you’re not telling me.’
She did not respond.
‘Catherine, please,’ I begged, a crack in my voice as the memory of her bloody and broken body flashed in front of my eyes. ‘I’m going to find out eventually, right? It’s all part of my heritage, the good and the bad. If something happened to one of our ancestors during a binding ritual, I need to know.’
The painted birds on the parlour walls began to flit from branch to branch as she pinched the bridge of her nose, aware that she was defeated. Pale blue paint against soft white silk, the birds chirped daintily as the moss began to sway.
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, her silken voice blending in with the stories on the walls. ‘Things were very different then. Her magic manifested late and fast and she was unable to control it.’
‘Like me,’ I murmured, watching a young woman walk out from behind the trees.
‘Nothing like you,’ Catherine replied. ‘It was 1820, we’d been in the New World less than a hundred years. Because she came from a wealthy family, not ours, I might add, her name was Elizabeth Howell, she was labelled eccentric rather than insane. But the girl was unwell and no one knew how to help her.’
‘1820?’ The date rang a miserable bell. ‘The year of the second great fire?’
She nodded. ‘They say it began in the stables of a house on Franklin Square. But why would someone have a lantern burning in the stables at one o’clock in the morning? No visitors were expected. And doesn’t it seem peculiar for the city to see no rain all winter? Not a drop for weeks, months, prior to the fire?’
My teacup rattled against its saucer as the birds in the trees made way for more images forming on the wall. An older woman, silver yarn, a familiar dagger.
‘If there hadn’t been quite so much gunpowder stored illegally in the market square, we might not have lost quite so many lives. Savannah burned for exactly twelve hours, from Bay to Broughton, Montgomery to Abercorn. Four hundred and sixty-three buildings destroyed. I won’t tell you how many lives lost.’
I didn’t know I was biting my lip until I tasted blood. Two hundred years ago, that kind of fire in downtown Savannah was a tragedy. If the same thing happened today, it would be a massacre.
‘It was the day of her Becoming ceremony,’ Catherine’s voice narrated as the scene unfolded around us. ‘But Elizabeth wasn’t ready to accept the blessing. She was too unstable and angry at the world, but the elders weren’t prepared to cut off the line by refusing her initiation, so they left the decision to the ancestors. The Wilcuma went off without a hitch, she was acknowledged and accepted. After that the elders were sure everything would be fine once she had full control of her abilities.’
‘But it wasn’t,’ I said, watching the women assemble on the opposite wall. ‘She started the fire and they had to bind her.’
‘No. She lost control during her Becoming ceremony and accidentally killed her grandmother. Thankfully we had moresisters back then, there were more families still in touch with their magic, and she was contained before she could destroy every witch in Savannah. Not that she didn’t try. She wasn’t bound because she started the fire. She started the firebecausethey tried to bind her.’
On the wall, I saw the two women struggling over the same dagger Catherine had stabbed through her own hand at my Wilcuma. They jostled back and forth until the older one seized up and collapsed to the ground, silhouettes of flames surrounding them and rolling around the room, obliterating everything in their path.
‘So, I can see why you might have some resistance to the general binding concept,’ I said, swallowing hard as the flames faded away, the original pattern of trees and branches covering the ugly scene. ‘But you’re not forcing this on me, I’m asking you to do it. I’m not going to hurt you.’
