Ceridwen held out a hand and allowed a few drops of rain to splash on her palm, as if drawing strength from them.
“The legend says when the Puritans started their trials, she was the only one who possessed the power. The one true witch in Salem. And the one person who never once mentioned her gift or even used it. She had held it inside her for years, lived among thepeople, saw them suffering, saw them get sick, perish, and never used the craft to help.”
Ceridwen’s face was inscrutable as she went on.
“When they locked her up, tortured her, and sentenced her to death by hanging, despite her steadfast refusal to confess to practicing witchcraft even under extreme duress, that’s when the power took over. To protect her. And bar that, to avenge her.”
In the quiet of the garden, the raindrops beat a steady tattoo, both calming and anchoring them to reality. Pru wanted to smile, thinking it was Rhiannon’s way of keeping them grounded in today, in reason. Then she shook her head and thought herself a fool for attributing something that very much could’ve been Ceridwen’s power to the one who didn’t want anything to do with it.
“She was pregnant when her gift blew up the jail and transported her to this island, where the Dragons kept her safe, kept her hidden for a few good years before she ventured to the mainland and her secret dwelling on the island was discovered. That child was Elizabeth Crowhart, my mother’s namesake. The one who delved deeper into the power, learned it, harnessed it, despite her mother’s distaste and fear of it. Where Gwendolyn rejected the craft, tried to keep it hidden, Elizabeth embraced it. And when the men came for the both of them, it was ultimately Elizabeth who lived after both she and Gwendolyn were caught. While her mother was tried and executed for witchcraft, Elizabeth escaped. She survived, she and later her children. She was also the one who recorded the family history. Some of those books have been passed down, but they are in such bad shape that not even old Jerome Maginot managed to decipher all of them more than twenty years ago. Rhiannon has the rest of them now. I hope her skill surpasses his and one day we get to read more of Elizabeth’s writings.”
Pru pondered Ceridwen’s words.
“What men, Ceri?”
A sigh was her only answer for a long moment before her companion spoke again.
“There are always men, Pru. Always men with torches, ropes, guns. And men hate the craft. They use their books, their teachings, their so-called love that is nothing but hate when you pull the seams of it apart to expose the rotten core. And all that hate needs an outlet. Just like love, like power, like fear and anger, every strong emotion needs to be embraced, to be brought to light, or it will destroy you from within.”
Pru’s heart clenched, and she knew Ceridwen wasn’t talking just about the people who haunted the erstwhile Crowharts. She bit her lip, both wanting to ask and afraid of what she might hear.
Ceridwen watched her closely.
“We can only fight the battle in front of us, Pru. If we also fight what’s inside of us, we lose the entire war.”
“Are those wars in the past?”
Ceridwen’s smile was wistful, sadness tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Some are never over. And neither is this one. When Gwendolyn escaped her execution, it was partially due to being goaded into showing her gift. And that was done by a woman. One who recognized what Gwendolyn was and one who cursed her to always be haunted by the men who would ruin her life.”
“And they did…” Pru’s voice was a tiny whisper. The stillness around her was absolute; the rain stopped, the leaves and the grass didn’t move.
“They found her, and later, Elizabeth. And then they kept finding every Crowhart generation since.”
Pru held her breath. Ceridwen’s gentle viridescent eyes seemed to look into the past, sorrow peeking from their depth.
“Gwendolyn’s life was snapped the year she turned forty-five. So did Elizabeth’s decades later, after her mother. So did her eldest daughter’s. And many of the other eldest daughters. So did my great-grandmother’s. Some of it happened on the mainland, as Crowharts moved to try and escape the confines of Dragons, and some of the horrors happened right here, in town. The buildings still hold the memories, the bricks still resonate with their screams.”
Pru felt her jaw drop. Ceridwen stared into the distance for the longest moment before speaking again.
“I have no idea why Rhiannon came back. Is it to reclaim her life? To repay a debt? But the irony of where she is doing it is not lost on me.”
Pru tried to grasp the meaning behind the words.
“This is the second time I hear a Crowhart speak in riddles about the Atelier.”
Ceridwen shrugged.
“It’s not a riddle, Pru. That place has never brought anything good to my family. It has a horrid history. It used to be a courthouse and a prison. Then it burned and was rebuilt. But the pain and horrors suffered there kept it barren, kept it empty. Nothing succeeded there. Warehouse, store, another and then another. Then Jerome’s Atelier and everything that came with it…” Ceridwen shook her head, snapping her own train of thought. “For Rhiannon to embrace it, restore it, own it? It’s a slap in the face to all the ones who came before us.”
Pru felt her knuckles crack as she held on to the bench too tight and forced herself to relax the grip. Ceridwen seemed oblivious to Pru’s reaction. She shook her head, and her smile was tremulous as she went on.
“Anyway, Rhiannon’s choices aside, not all Crowharts are touched by the curse. Victoria is alive and well and she’s…ofa decidedly undetermined age, as you know.” The smile that followed the mention of her aunt was sweet albeit small.
“But your mother?”
Ceridwen sighed. The hand on Pru’s turned ice cold.
