Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(22)

It was true. I had eventually been able to illuminate the jack-o’-lanterns that lined the driveway of the Bishop house on Halloween. There had been no audience to watch my initial bungled attempts, however. Today Kit’s and Tom’s eyes nudged me expectantly. I could barely feel the brush of Widow Beaton’s glance but was all too aware of Matthew’s familiar, cool attention. The blood in my veins turned to ice in response, as if refusing to generate the fire that would be required for this bit of witchcraft. Hoping for the best, I concentrated on the candle’s wick and muttered the spell.

Nothing happened.

“Relax,” Matthew murmured. “What about the book? Should you start there?”

Putting aside the fact that the proper order of things was important in witchcraft, I didn’t know where to begin with Euclid’s Elements. Was I supposed to focus on the air trapped in the fibers of the paper or summon a breeze to lift the cover? It was impossible to think clearly with the incessant ringing.

“Can you please stop the bell?” I implored as my anxiety rose.

Widow Beaton snapped her fingers, and the brass bell dropped to the table. It gave a final clang that set its misshapen edges vibrating, then fell silent.

“It is as I told you, Master Roydon,” Widow Beaton said with a note of triumph. “Whatever magic you think you have witnessed, it was nothing but illusions. This woman has no power. The village has nothing to fear from her.”

“Perhaps she is trying to trap you, Matthew,” Kit chimed in. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Women are duplicitous creatures.”

Other witches had made the same proclamation as Widow Beaton, and with similar satisfaction. I had a sudden, intense need to prove her wrong and wipe the knowing look from Kit’s face.

“I can’t light a candle. And no one has been able to teach me how to open a book or stop a bell from ringing. But if I am powerless, how do you explain this?” A bowl of fruit sat nearby. More quinces, freshly picked from the garden, glowed golden in the bleak light. I selected one and balanced it on my palm where everyone could see it.

The skin on my palm tingled as I focused on the fruit nestled there. Its pulpy flesh was clear to me through the quince’s tough skin as though the fruit were made of glass. My eyes drifted closed, while my witch’s eye opened and began its search for information. Awareness crept from the center of my forehead, down my arm, and through my fingertips. It extended like the roots of a tree, its fibers snaking into the quince.

One by one I took hold of the fruit’s secrets. There was a worm at its core, munching its way through the soft flesh. My attention was caught by the power trapped there, and warmth tingled across my tongue in a taste of sunshine. The skin between my brows fluttered with pleasure as I drank in the light of the invisible sun. So much power, I thought. Life. Death. My audience faded into insignificance. The only thing that mattered now was the limitless possibility for knowledge resting in my hand.

The sun responded to some silent invitation and left the quince, traveling into my fingers. Instinctively I tried to resist the approaching sunlight and keep it where it belonged—in the fruit—but the quince turned brown, shriveling and sinking into itself.

Widow Beaton gasped, breaking my concentration. Startled, I dropped the misshapen fruit to the floor. where it splattered against the polished wood. When I looked up, Henry was crossing himself again, shock evident in the force of his stare and the slow, automatic movements of his hand. Tom and Walter were focused on my fingers instead, where minuscule strands of sunlight were making a futile attempt to mend the broken connection with the quince. Matthew enfolded my sputtering hands in his, obscuring the signs of my undisciplined power. My hands were still sparking, and I tried to pull away so as not to scorch him. He shook his head, hands steady, and met my eyes as though to say he was strong enough to absorb whatever magic might come his way. After a moment of hesitation, my body relaxed into his.

“It’s over. No more,” he said emphatically.

“I can taste sunlight, Matthew.” My voice was sharp with panic. “I can see time, waiting in the corners.”

“That woman has bewitched a wearh. This is the devil’s work,” Widow Beaton hissed. She was backing carefully away, her fingers forked to ward off danger.

“There is no devil in Woodstock,” Tom repeated firmly.

“You have books full of strange sigils and magical incantations,” Widow Beaton said, gesturing at Euclid’s Elements. It was, I thought, a very good thing that she hadn’t overheard Kit reading aloud from Doctor Faustus.

“That is mathematics, not magic,” protested Tom.

“Call it what you will, but I have seen the truth. You are just like them, and called me here to draw me into your dark plans.”

“Just like whom?” Matthew asked sharply.

“The scholars from the university. They drove two witches from Duns Tew with their questions. They wanted our knowledge but condemned the women who shared it. And a coven was just beginning to form in Faringdon, but the witches scattered when they caught the attention of men like you.” A coven meant safety, protection, community. Without a coven a witch was far more vulnerable to the jealousy and fear of her neighbors.

“No one is trying to force you from Woodstock.” I only meant to soothe her, but a single step in her direction sent her retreating further.