‘Yeah. Your mom’s running it now. Moot President.’
‘Jeez. Was I out for a few hours, or a few years? How did that happen? No, don’t give me the whole story yet. There’s something I need, first.’
‘Clothes are right there. The only person in the building under the age of thirty bought them, so don’t shoot me if they’re not to your taste.’
‘Not clothes. Well, obviouslyyes, clothes. But I need Starcross.’
That damn grimoire. The first thing Sarah thought to save after her house burned down. Is there something aboutnear-death experiences that makes witches itch for their spellbooks?
Well yeah, Maggie Knight. It’s probably a little thing called security. Or revenge. Both understandable.
‘Where is it? Can I go fetch it while you take it easy? You were sedated pretty heavily and have been out cold for much of the night.’
But she’s already out of bed, wriggling into the clothes, grimacing at the kitsch, faux-1980s sweatshirt bought by someone who’s never met Harper Fenn. Out of her usual black she looks young. Vulnerable. And I realise her previous wardrobe choices were as much about armour as style.
‘It’s with my dad. His place is about four hours from here. I guess if I’ve still got sedative in my bloodstream, you’re driving.’
I don’t want to take Harper anywhere without telling Sarah, because she’d rightly go frantic, for all that Harper protests she isn’t a child and doesn’t need her Mom’s permission. But when I check in with Naomi she informs me Sarah left Salem an hour ago.
‘Do we know why?’ I ask. ‘She told me she hadsomething important to sort out, but didn’t elaborate.’
‘She said the same to me. That she’d come straight back when she was done, and for me and you to ensure Harper stays safe and is recovering.’
We both look out the window to where Harper is impatiently kicking my car tyres in the parking lot.
‘I’d say she’s recovered,’ I tell Naomi. ‘This trip is important to Harper. We can’t keep her here. If I don’t drive her, she’ll hex me unconscious and find some wheels herself.’
Naomi nods. ‘Fenns,’ she says with feeling, and we both laugh.
We’re heading to Maine, Harper issuing directions and filling the space in between with furious, disjointed sentences about everything that happened after Whitman and Theodorou hauled her away. I apologise for inadvertently leading them to her, in my search for Luka.
‘I had no idea you’d be with him. And I had no idea they were tailing me. I’m so sorry, Harper.’
‘I was going to turn Luka in,’ she says. ‘That was my plan. Get him away from Dad’s base at Redhaven, then incapacitate him and call the authorities. So I should be glad you all showed up, because otherwise I would have been the one responsible for handing him over so they could … dothat.’
Emotions are passing across her face as fast as clouds in a storm. She swipes a palm down her cheeks and stares out of the window.
‘He was so devastated, Maggie. Just broken. Okoye looked haunted when I was brought into the room, so I guess he was the one who performed the ritual. Bea Garcia watched it all, if you can believe that. Even she wasn’t smiling, and she’d have most reason to.
‘And I still can’t decide if what happened to him was better than what they tried to do to me. To have your magic ripped up at the roots, screaming, but done by another witch, someone who knew the cost and would grieve for it after, like Okoye? That’s horrific. But what they were doing in that clinic? Lab coats. White walls. A needle. All the humanity gone. Simply a process. Aprocedure. Clinical and industrial. I was terrified for myself and for every magical person in the world. And for the world, without us. How easily something infinitely precious could disappear forever, just because one day someone, somewhere, decides it’s safer that way.’
Harper’s right, made wise beyond her years by all she’s gone through. I’ve been focussing on the individuals involved.Luka. Harper. Ortiz, whose campaign I initially presumed was a cynical platform for political advancement, but which it’s now painfully apparent is as personal as causes come. But the stakes are so much bigger. They’revast. If you’d told me amid the chaos of Sanctuary’s messed-up witch-hunt that twelve months later the idea of a world without witchcraft would be considered scientifically achievable and politically desirable, I’d’ve laughed. And yet here we are.
Silence lapses between us and I let the car wheels do the talking. Harper watches the Montreal livestream over and over. When her curiosity is finally exhausted, she fiddles with the radio. I insist on a pit stop for breakfast, as my eyelids are still heavy from a night of broken sleep, and I’m damned if we rescued Harper yesterday only for me to risk her in a vehicle smash today. Hours have passed and we’re well over the state border into Maine by the time she starts jiggling in her seat.
‘It was right about here – yeah! This is where I met the moose.’
‘The moose?’ I ask faintly, though by now I should be prepared for anything where the Fenns are concerned.
‘Yeah,’ she says, suffused with warmth. ‘The guide my magic sent. Don’t worry, though. I’ll be your moose. I went in through the woods, but I came out this way with my Dad and then with Luka, so I know the route.’
It’s going well, as she directs me down increasingly smaller and more poorly surfaced roads. But I kill the engine when she indicates a woodland track.
‘That’s a no-access forestry trail, Harper. The Satnav reckons we’re heading toward Hundred Mile Wilderness.’
‘Oh, the satnav is working, is it?’ she smirks.
She’s right, the screen has died. But I don’t need it to show me the dead end, nor the wooden beam barrier up ahead.
