The gardener standing by,
He bid me take great care;
For that under the blossom and under the leaves
Is a thorn that will wound and tear.
—“The Seeds of Love,” Traditional Folk Song
My mother received the cream of tartar with a humph, but did not ask me what had taken so long. “Clarence and Lizzie will be here soon,” she said.
It was a rare thing for all three of my brothers to be in Tynemouth on dry land at the same time, but whenever it happened my mother was rapturous, insisting on throwing elaborate dinners for them. Her sons were her pride and joy. They did not embarrass her, did not give her cause for worry.
Nearly ten years older than I, Clarence was little more than a stranger who appeared at the house with his wife on occasion and talked business with Father. Clarence worked at the shipping office and did not actually go to sea himself. He had a head for numbers and the reserved demeanor of a scholar. Next oldest was George, and then Henry. George had salt water in his blood and was at sea more often than on land, and though I seldom saw him anymore, he had always been my favorite. The house was a duller place without him.
I often wondered why I was such an anomaly in my family. Mother did not show the slightest inclination toward the world outside the gossip pages, let alone the art of magic. And Father, while he was always kind and generous, had not an ounce of imagination. Aside from George, my brothers were dull and would rather sit inside an office hunched over a dusty ledger than look out the window at the world around them. Sometimes it felt as if I had been born from the morning dew, simply materializing from the air fully formed.
I wanted to divest myself of the wretched corset, but Mother had the eyes of an eagle, and I knew that she would insist upon my looking “presentable” for my brothers. There was always something wrong with me, always something worthy of her criticism. Sighing, I changed out of my lawn linen dress and into a stiff visiting gown of plum taffeta and made my way to the kitchen. I wanted rosemary and borage for a sachet to put under my pillow. Even though there was no mistaking the way Jack Pryce looked at me, there could be no harm in making a love spell to encourage his affections.
Molly greeted me warily from where she was mixing a bowl of eggs, watching as I passed through the kitchen. She tolerated my presence in her domain because her position demanded it, but her dislike didn’t escape me. There was an unused pantry—once a kitchen from the early days of the house—which I used as my stillroom. It was my sanctuary, the one place where I might breathe freely. As soon as I opened the door, the warm, familiar scent of sage and lavender embraced me. The old kitchen had not been used for decades, but one window remained uncovered, and it let in a slice of soft, buttery sunlight.
When I was not able to go out into the woods or to the ocean, I would retreat into my stillroom. It was here with my herbs and dried flowers that I could bring time to a halt. Later I would look back at those days with fondness, longing. Dust motes hung suspended in the shaft of sunlight, and the sounds of the house were far away and muffled. I plucked and ground and mixed my little potions and tinctures, tipping them into bottles and labeling them.
When I had made my love charm, I wiped my sage-dusted fingers on my skirt, and emerged back into the hall just as my brothers began to arrive. Clarence and his wife, Lizzie, were first, Lizzie’s stomach bulging with child. Her keen eyes seemed to calculate the price of every stick of furniture as she swept through the hall, the exaggerated bustle of her dress nearly knocking the credenza over as she passed.
“Margaret,” Clarence said, giving me a formal kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, Clarence. Hello, Lizzie. You look well.” But Clarence had already turned to Father, and Lizzie was complaining to Mother about the ache in her back and how she couldn’t get the sugared almonds she’d been craving lately.
Henry and George arrived together. George, his usual good-natured self, gave Mother a big, loud kiss before turning to me and swinging me in his arms. “Maggie, but you’ve grown since I saw you last.”
I hadn’t, but it was a tradition of ours that he would comment on my height every time he returned from sea. He was also the only person who was allowed to call me Maggie. “That’s what happens when you disappear for months at a time.”
George had dark hair which he wore neatly parted and greased, and he’d recently grown a mustache. I had always thought him terribly dashing, and though George was seemingly oblivious to it, many other girls in town had shared the same opinion as me. “The sea is a fickle mistress,” he said, tossing me a wink. “And look what your favorite brother has brought you.” He dropped a strand of smooth, pinkish-red beads onto my palm. “Coral,” he said. “From the Indies.”
“George,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.” I fastened it around my neck, the blushing beads bright and lustrous against the dark taffeta of my dress.
George brushed my cheek with a kiss. “Your beauty puts them to shame, but I’m glad you like them.” Then, as if just noticing that Clarence and Lizzie were there, he said, “Hullo there, Clare. Liz.”
Clarence pressed his lips tight, and Lizzie gave him a lukewarm greeting, their rigid sense of convention no doubt ruffled by George’s flamboyance.
Behind him, Henry stepped out and glanced at me from behind his dark fringe of hair. “Hello, Margaret,” he said, his tone almost as formal as Clarence’s. Though Henry worked as a clerk for a lawyer in Boston, he was restless and not suited to the life of an office man. Neither was he suited to the sea, though. “I suppose I should have brought you a gift, but I am not so courteous as George. Did you enjoy the book of poems I sent you last month?”
In truth, I had forgotten about the book, and had yet to open it. But before I could tell him as much, Mother was ushering us into the good sitting room, ordering me to let Molly know to bring us lemonade.
When I returned, everyone had made themselves comfortable. “Well, I have some news,” George said, leaning forward in his seat. “I’ve asked Ida Foster to marry me.”
Mother clapped her hands, and there was a murmur of surprise and approval from everyone.
“Oh, but, George, that’s wonderful!” I exclaimed, and he gave me a shy smile. Though I was not acquainted with the young lady, I had heard George speak fondly of her for months in his letters, and I’d had my suspicions that he’d set his cap at her.
Father nodded thoughtfully. “Well done, George,” he said, as if George had made a particularly savvy investment.
“She won’t mind that you’re away so often?” Clarence asked.
“Ida is a fine girl and understands the life. Besides, I daresay she’ll relish a little quiet time without me around.”
“Well, I think it’s marvelous,” Mother said. “You must pass on our regards to her parents, and of course we will host a celebratory luncheon for you both.”
“What about you, Henry?” my father asked. “When will we see you settled?”
Henry mumbled something and took a slow sip from his lemonade.
“Aren’t there any pretty girls in Boston that catch your eye?” Clarence asked with a mocking raise of his brow. Henry had never expressed any interest in girls, and it was a great source of ribbing for my other brothers.
Henry glowered at him, but did not say anything.
“Come now, that’s enough,” Mother said, reaching out to pat Henry’s hand. For reasons beyond my comprehension, Henry had always been Mother’s favorite, her pet.
There were more well-wishes, and Father led a toast. Molly brought in a tray of little sandwiches, and everyone seemed to overlook the dark cloud that was hanging over Henry.
After Father took out the cigars, and Mother and Lizzie were busy discussing colors for the nursery, I went outside to bring Shadow some scraps. My parents didn’t tolerate him inside, but sometimes I would sneak him into my bedroom at night so that he might sleep in my bed with me.
The warm air felt heavenly on my face, and I wished that I was not so encased in taffeta and stiff lace so that I might feel more of it on my skin. Birds sang from the flowering apple trees, and clusters of blue irises swayed in the breeze. It was too nice a day for stuffy conversation and to be sitting inside sipping from crystal cups.
Shadow rose from where he had been lounging under the apple tree and greeted me with a wagging tail, eagerly snapping up the ham. When he was done, he flopped over and I obliged him by rubbing his belly. “Good boy, sweet boy,” I murmured. “Don’t let the rabbits get too fat,” I told him. “They’ve already eaten all my parsley.” Shadow gave me a withering look; he was the best of companions and loyal to a fault, but guard dog he was not.
Rising, I found Henry leaned up against the wall, sulking and smoking a cheroot. I joined him. “Why aren’t you inside with everyone else?” I asked. “Aren’t you happy for George?”
Henry scoffed. “Oh, yes,” he said, throwing his cheroot down and angrily stubbing it out with his heel. “How can I not be happy for George? The golden child.”
“Don’t be sour,” I said. “It’s not becoming on you.”
Henry’s dark eyes flashed. “Don’t pretend you are happy, Margaret.”
“Of course I’m happy. Just as I would be happy if you were to announce an engagement.”
For all that Henry was my brother, sometimes I wondered that we were related at all. He had always been a broody child; he had a watchfulness about him, as if he was above the rest of us mere mortals. I thought of the boys in the woods, their hungry eyes. There had always been a gleam of something dark in Henry, something dangerous and slumbering. Was he like them?
“Don’t lie,” he told me. “You’ve always been a free spirit, with your nocturnal jaunts to the woods and the beach. You aren’t like the others, and neither am I.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do. You and I are different from the rest of them. We could never bind ourselves to someone who doesn’t understand us. The Ida Fosters of the world are all well and good for George and Clarence, but not for the likes of us.”
I rolled my eyes. The only thing different about Henry was that he fancied himself a poet, a tortured soul. “You’re wrong,” I told him, before I could stop myself. “I’ve found a man who knows what I am and loves me for it.”
I don’t know what perversion compelled me to say it. Did Jack love me? We’d only had a handful of exchanges, but the memory of his hand on my arm that morning, the urgency in his voice when he’d told me he needed to see me again, was still vivid in my mind.
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “What? What man?”
The sun slid behind a cloud and in an instant the warm spring air had gone chilly. I knew that I had misstepped, that Henry was the last person I should confide in. “No one,” I said quickly.
He reached for me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Maggie,” he said, his voice going soft. “You can tell me anything. I’m your brother, aren’t I?”
I shrugged out of his grasp. “Don’t call me Maggie.”
“Of course,” he said bitterly. “Only your precious George is allowed such a familiarity. Are you worried you won’t hold pride of place in his heart now that he will have a wife?”
“I’m going back inside,” I said. “Perhaps it is time for you to go home, as well.”
He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes on my back, burning into me as I whistled to Shadow and walked back to the house.
The sound of footsteps in the yard roused me from my light sleep that night. Creeping to the window, I could see a woman, her lantern light slicing through the rainy night below, and I knew at once that I had a customer. I let out a curse under my breath. What was she doing here, at the house? I met all my patients in the old cabin in the woods, and even the uninitiated knew enough not to come to my door in town.
I was not quick enough to dress and intercept her before Molly knocked on my door. “You have a visitor,” she said coldly.
Ignoring her disapproving glare, I picked up a lamp and made my way downstairs to the kitchen, where the woman was standing in the doorway, looking like a drowned rabbit. She carried in her arms a bundle of blankets, and despite her wet hair and frenzied look, I recognized her as Jenny Hough, a good, respectable woman who wouldn’t have so much as glanced in my direction in the day. “Come along inside,” I told her. “I won’t bite you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Hough came the rest of the way in the kitchen, and I closed the door, shutting Molly out. Molly must have had her suspicions, but I knew that she would not tattle on me, for fear of what I might do to her in retribution. Good Catholic girl that she was, she knew to keep her distance from me. Did my parents know, too? Well, yes and no. Certainly they knew that I spent a good deal of time out of doors, and that I occasionally entertained women from town during odd hours, though they probably thought I fancied myself an herbalist or something innocent enough. They did not—could not—know of the dark powers I possessed.
My patient sat on a stool, arms crossed and shivering. Placing a cup of steaming tea before her, I did what I always did first: I asked her what ailed her, and then I listened.
It was always my hope that whatever ailments came through my doorway might be treated with herbs, or perhaps a little charm—something designed more to give the person peace of mind than to actually work magic. But sometimes they required something more, something darker and more powerful.
Mrs. Jenny Hough cupped the mug of tea, the steam wreathing her face as she recounted her troubles. Her little girl, it seemed, was insensible with fever, and the physicians had told her that it was hopeless.
When she was finished, she looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes. “Can you help me?” she whispered.
Of course I could help her, but she was not going to like what my help would entail. They never did. “Where is the child now?” I asked her, warily eyeing the bundle in her arms.
Her gaze dropped to the bundle, and I bit back a curse as my suspicions were confirmed. But there was nothing for it, so I bade her remove the blankets.
“Lay the child down on the table,” I instructed her. She only hesitated for a moment, and then was arranging the limp body of the little girl on our kitchen table. Running my hands over the cold flesh, I assessed her condition. She was achingly fragile, her eyes moving feverishly under her paper-thin lids, her small hands curled into fists at her sides. What an exquisite burden it must be to love something so small, so delicate.
My fingers found a pulse, though it was faint and erratic. Mrs. Hough watched me, her knuckles white as she clutched the edge of the table. Gently laying the girl’s arm down and tucking the blanket around her, I stood back. “She is very far gone,” I told her mother. “Though you are not without recourse.”
“Anything,” she said, “I will do anything.” Reaching into her cloak, she produced a thick roll of banknotes.
But I shook my head. “It is not a question of money. If you want your daughter to live you must find a new body for her. Her spirit lives, but her body is dying.”
Mrs. Hough stared at me. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am quite serious. You will need a body that yet lives, preferably of the same age and sex. Otherwise, do not waste your time dragging your poor daughter to witch’s houses in the middle of the night. Make her comfortable and prepare your goodbyes.”
“You propose that I kill another girl so that mine might live? I—I could never! They warned me about you, but I couldn’t have imagined that you would be so craven...so—so unnatural!” Gathering up her daughter, she fumbled for the door as if she could not get away from me fast enough.
“You came to me asking the impossible, and I told you what would be required to achieve it,” I hissed at her, aware that Molly was probably still listening on the other side of the door. “Did you think that it would be easy? Did you think that I would only have to snap my fingers and restore her to you?”
Mrs. Hough gave me one last fearful look over her shoulder before plunging back out into the rain.
After she had left, I returned to my bed, tired and restless. It gave me no pleasure to deliver such a grim verdict to a desperate mother. It gave me no pleasure to know that the girl would most certainly die. But there are prices to be paid for such magic, and balances to be kept.