Page 68 of The Witches of Cambridge

“The problem is, I do.” Jamie seemed older now, and he seemed worn out. “You know I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

In time, Ava had realized why she felt so tired and out of sorts, why she was starving and crying for the simplest reason. Women know their own bodies, and witches do as well, and that was why she went to Mrs. Healy, the local expert in such matters. She knocked at the door, and there in the shade of a linden tree, she felt confused about the future in a way she never had before. One choice, and all the rest of your life changes. One choice that should always be yours alone.

The crows had followed her, and the white crow had come to perch on the porch railing, there to observe her with his bright eyes. There were thirteen crows now, a witch’s lucky number.

“Hello, you,” Ava said to the white crow. “Can you tell me what to do?”

The crow gave no answer, merely peered down at her, and Ava knew whatever she did next was up to her. The houses on this street were kept up, with children playing in the yards. Several were watching her, for they were always interested in the women who arrived at the Healys’ house.

Mrs. Healy opened the door, not in the least surprised to see that a stranger had come to call. Women often came by unexpectedly, those who didn’t have access to a phone or who were too frightened to speak while their husbands were in the house or too young to claim any privacy for themselves. Sometimes the best they could manage was a note slipped under the door. Sometimes they merely stood on the porch, anxious and in need, as this beautiful red-haired woman was doing right now.

I’m in trouble. I need to make a decision. There’s no one else to turn to.

“I’m a friend of Maureen’s and I know Billy,” Ava explained as she introduced herself.

“Ava! Of course! I’ve heard all about you,” Grace Healy said warmly as she welcomed her into the house. Mrs. Healy was always gracious to someone in need, even though she was currently exhausted, having just come from a home birth in Somerville. All through the labor, death had been knocking at the windows, but she had finally managed to turn the baby, who had been presenting feetfirst. She had spilled salt in the corners of the room, and she’d given the mother a tea made of black cohosh and raspberry leaf, and at last the child was born, healthy and screaming, welcomed into the light of the world.

The Healy house had been in the family for over a hundred years and couldn’t have been more comfortable. A lumbering Irish wolfhound raised himself from the rug to greet Ava when she entered the room.

“Don’t mind Dillon,” Grace Healy told her as the dog rubbed his enormous head against Ava. “He’s a big baby.”

“I don’t mind in the least. I love dogs.” Ava was still grief-stricken over the loss of Jack, and she always would be. It was a comfort to have this enormous dog lie down at her feet as if he knew of her sorrows.

Mrs. Healy fixed a pot of confession tea, made of ginger and yarrow. She served it to anyone who came for a cure simply to ensure she didn’t dispense the wrong remedy if someone failed to admit the whole truth when telling their story.

“It’s probably an inconvenience to have me here,” Ava said, embarrassed by her situation.

Mrs. Healy waited for her to say more. It was best to be quiet. Listen, and they’d pour their hearts out. Sooner or later, you’d get to the truth.

“I didn’t tell Maureen I was coming to see you.”

The issue was that Ava’s period was late. It hadn’t seemed unusual, until she’d realized just how late she was. Once she had admitted why she was there, they went into the parlor, where Ava was asked to make herself comfortable on the couch. Mrs. Healy removed the chain she wore around her neck. Attached to it was a brass locket filled with apple seeds. When she held the amulet over Ava’s belly, it began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, back and forth and then in a circle.

“Definitely a girl,” Grace Healy predicted.

Ava burst into tears, then sat up in order to accept a handkerchief. It was so quiet in the Healys’ home you’d never guess that you were in the middle of a city. “There won’t be a father,” Ava said. She didn’t have to ask the white crow in order to know that in her story she would have to wait for her beloved to return.

Grace shrugged. “There’s a mother. That’s more than enough.”

“I never had a mother. She gave me up.”

“Are you certain?” Grace Healy had seen scores of women who were forced to make choices they didn’t wish to make when circumstances were beyond their control. “For all you know, she’s been waiting for you all this time.”

Jamie wore his black coat even though the day was fine. He had promised his father he would disappear and stay in a motel near the airport, but he wanted these few last days, which were mostly spent in bed with Ava. By now he’d realized that he couldn’t get rid of his magic even if he wanted to. He’d had it his whole life and had used his skills to cheat at school from the time he was a boy, never studying yet knowing all the answers for his exams just by looking inside his teachers. As a teen, he’d considered his skills to be nothing more than techniques that allowed him to perform party tricks. He could read a girl’s mind and likely embarrass her, open liquor cabinets, and start cars even when he didn’t have the keys, all petty parlor tricks. Perhaps he’d always known there was more to it. His father always questioned him about his wrongdoings as if there were some evil magic behind the choices he made. Did you try, or did it just happen? Did you even try to control yourself?

Ava was waiting for him at the café, in a dark corner. She’d planned to tell him the truth about her condition, but when he leaned over to embrace her, she recalled that Rose Bridewell had let her true love go so that their parting would not be as painful for him. It would never do any good to force someone to stay.

Jamie’s plane didn’t leave for hours, but already he’d begun to think of himself as Luke Burroughs, and perhaps that was the reason he felt set free from his family history at last. After the incident at the museum, he’d gotten a tattoo, something no one in his family would have approved of. The studio in Central Square had seemed abandoned when Jamie first arrived, but there was a light on and, luckily for him, the owner, who had recently moved away, had returned to collect some of his belongings. The tattoo artist recognized Jamie when he opened the door, and before he could stop himself, he punched his unexpected visitor, who stood there stunned, blood pouring out of his nose.

“What did I ever do to you?” Jamie asked the glowering man, who had immediately backed off, shaking his bruised knuckles, muttering to himself. Jamie hated to think how many people he’d hurt and offended, and he certainly couldn’t account for much of his bad behavior in the past. The truth was, he was angry and he acted like some wretched dog who believed that fighting was his only way out.

The tattoo artist explained that Jamie been the cause of his jail sentence, that he’d been incarcerated for selling Jamie some marijuana. That seemed a lifetime ago to them both, and there in the near-empty apartment, they decided to let bygones be bygones.

A tattoo could be a love letter or an apology, and the one Carrick had inked was both. When Jamie revealed the black hyacinth on his arm, Ava knew the truth. He was finally admitting who he was, to her and to himself. She thought it might be a beginning, and she almost told him the truth about her situation. Then he showed her his passport with his new name, and she knew it was over. He was the man in her dreams she could never keep up with, even though she ran so fast her feet were bleeding.

“Mr. Burroughs,” Ava said. “This is not a proper goodbye.”

Jamie took her hand under the table. The café was crowded with customers, and the waitress was hovering, but Ava knew a place where they could be alone.