The history of witches had piqued Addison’s interest from a young age. She’d even written papers about them in high school. The most famous Joan Waterhouse was the daughter of Agnes Waterhouse, a woman who had once gone by the name “Mother Waterhouse.” Agnes had marked her place in history as the most famous witch to have ever lived, and she was the first to be hung in England in 1566 at the ripened age of sixty-three. She hadn’t been burned, but death by hanging wasn’t much better.
At Agnes’ trial, she stood accused of killing her husband as well as one of the villagers by way of witchcraft, and though she feigned innocence until the day of her death, she admitted she owned a white-spotted black cat named Satan, and claimed he was her familiar. Satan, the cat, did her bidding in the unfortunate circumstance someone ruffled her alleged witchy feathers. Her daughter, Joan, was eighteen years old at the time of her mother’s death. She stood accused of many of the same crimes, but Joan succeeded where her mother had failed and was found not guilty.
The name could have been a coincidence, but given Briggs’ account of the psychic woman’s house existing one day and vanishing the next, Addison wanted to believe there was a sliver of hope a witch existed who was alive and well. Since learning of her supernatural abilities, she had never met anyone like herself before, apart from her grandmother. It excited and worried her at the same time. Not having anyone who fully understood who she was had caused her to feel alone and isolated at times. Sure, she had Luke, Lia, and Amara Jane, but there was still a void that needed to be filled and no support group to fill it.
Sympathy was easy.
So was understanding.
Empathy?
Not so much.
Addison left Briggs and walked to the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, she stared down at the napkin in contemplation.
Briggs had made it clear Joan Waterhouse’s home no longer existed.
But what if it did?