Deborah Harkness - Shadow of Night

“Thank you for coming to see us, Widow Beaton.” Matthew’s tone suggested that she should be glad he’d let her into his house.

“Master Roydon.” The witch’s words rasped like the fallen leaves that swirled on the gravel outside. She turned her one good eye on me.

“Help Widow Beaton to her seat, George.”

Chapman leaped forward at Matthew’s command, while the rest of us remained at a careful distance. The witch groaned as her rheumatic limbs settled into the chair. Matthew politely waited as she did so, then continued.

“Let us get straight to the heart of the matter. This woman”—he indicated me—“is under my protection and has been having difficulties of late.” Matthew made no mention of our marriage.

“You are surrounded by influential friends and loyal servants, Master Roydon. A poor woman can be of little use to a gentleman such as you.” Widow Beaton tried to hide the reproach in her words with a false note of courtesy, but my husband had excellent hearing. His eyes narrowed.

“Do not play games with me,” he said shortly. “You do not want me as an enemy, Widow Beaton. The woman shows signs of being a witch and needs your help.”

“A witch?” Widow Beaton looked politely doubtful. “Was her mother a witch? Or her father a wizard?”

“Both died when she was still a child. We are not certain what powers they possessed,” Matthew admitted, telling one of his typically vampiric half-truths. He tossed a small bag of coins into her lap. “I would be grateful if you could examine her.”

“Very well.” Widow Beaton’s gnarled fingers reached for my face. When our flesh touched, an unmistakable surge of energy passed between us. The old woman jumped.

“So?” Matthew demanded.

Widow Beaton’s hands dropped to her lap. She clutched at the pouch of money, and for a moment it seemed as though she might hurl it back at him. Then she regained her composure.

“It is as I suspected. This woman is no witch, Master Roydon.” Her voice was even, though a bit higher than it had been. A wave of contempt rose from my stomach and filled my mouth with bitterness.

“If you think that, you don’t have as much power as the people of Woodstock imagine,” I retorted.

Widow Beaton drew herself up indignantly. “I am a respected healer, with a knowledge of herbs to protect men and women from illness. Master Roydon knows my abilities.”

“That is the craft of a witch. But our people have other talents as well,” I said carefully. Matthew’s fingers were painfully tight on my hand, urging me to be silent.

“I know of no such talents,” was her quick reply. The old woman was as obstinate as my Aunt Sarah and shared her disdain for witches like me who could draw on the elements without any careful study of the witch’s craft tradition. Sarah knew the uses of every herb and plant and could remember hundreds of spells perfectly, but there was more to being a witch. Widow Beaton knew that, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

“Surely there is some way to determine the extent of this woman’s powers beyond a simple touch. Someone with your abilities must know what they are,” Matthew said, his lightly mocking tone a clear challenge. Widow Beaton looked uncertain, weighing the pouch in her hand. In the end its heaviness convinced her to rise to the contest. She slipped the payment into a pocket concealed under her skirts.

“There are tests to determine whether someone is a witch. Some rely on the recitation of a prayer. If a creature stumbles over the words, hesitates even for a moment, then it is a sign that the devil is near,” she pronounced, adopting a mysterious tone.

“The devil is not abroad in Woodstock, Widow Beaton,” Tom said. He sounded like a parent trying to convince a child there wasn’t a monster under the bed.

“The devil is everywhere, sir. Those who believe otherwise fall prey to his wiles.”

“These are human fables meant to frighten the superstitious and the weak-minded,” said Tom dismissively.

“Not now, Tom,” Walter muttered.

“There are other signs, too,” George said, eager as ever to share his knowledge. “The devil marks a witch as his own with scars and blemishes.”

“Indeed, sir,” Widow Beaton, “and wise men know to look for them.”

My blood drained from my head in a rush, leaving me dizzy. If anyone were to do so, such marks would be found on me.

“There must be other methods,” Henry said uneasily.

“Yes there are, my lord.” Widow Beaton’s milky eye swept the room. She pointed at the table with its scientific instruments and piles of books. “Join me there.”

Widow Beaton’s hand slid through the same gap in her skirts that had provided a hiding place for her coins and drew out a battered brass bell. She set it on the table. “Bring a candle, if you please.”

Henry quickly obliged, and the men drew around, intrigued.

“Some say a witch’s true power comes from being a creature between life and death, light and darkness. At the crossroads of the world, she can undo the work of nature and unravel the ties that bind the order of things.” Widow Beaton pulled one of the books into alignment between the candle in its heavy silver holder and the brass bell. Her voice dropped. “When her neighbors discovered a witch in times past, they cast her out of the church by the ringing of a bell to indicate that she was dead.” Widow Beaton lifted the bell and set it tolling with a twist of her wrist. She released it, and the bell remained suspended over the table, still chiming. Tom and Kit edged forward, George gasped, and Henry crossed himself. Widow Beaton looked pleased with their reaction and turned her attention to the English translation of a Greek classic, Euclid’s Elements of Geometrie , which rested on the table with several mathematical instruments from Matthew’s extensive collection.

“Then the priest took up a holy book—a Bible—and closed it to show that the witch was denied access to God.” The Elements of Geometrie snapped shut. George and Tom jumped. The members of the School of Night were surprisingly susceptible for men who considered themselves immune to superstition.

“Finally the priest snuffed out a candle, to signify that the witch had no soul.” Widow Beaton’s fingers reached into the flame and pinched the wick. The light went out, and a thin plume of gray smoke rose into the air.

The men were mesmerized. Even Matthew looked unsettled. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the constant, tinny ringing of the bell.

“A true witch can relight the fire, open the pages of the book, and stop the bell from ringing. She is a wonderful creature in the eyes of God.” Widow Beaton paused for dramatic effect, and her milky eye rolled in my direction. “Can you perform these acts, girl?”

When modern witches reached the age of thirteen, they were presented to the local coven in a ceremony eerily reminiscent of Widow Beaton’s tests. Witches’ altar bells rang to welcome the young witch into the community, though they were typically fashioned from heavy silver, polished and passed down from one generation to the next. Instead of a Bible or a book of mathematics, the young witch’s family spell book was brought in to lend the weight of history to the occasion. The only time Sarah had allowed the Bishop grimoire out of the house was on my thirteenth birthday. As for the candle, its placement and purpose were the same. It was why young witches practiced igniting and extinguishing candles from an early age.

My official presentation to the Madison coven had been a disaster, one witnessed by all my relatives. Two decades later I still had the odd nightmare about the candle that would not light, the book that refused to open, the bell that rang for every other witch but not for me. “I’m not sure,” I confessed hesitantly.