Ainsworth, your great-grandmother. And this is your Aunt Agnes.”
The younger woman stepped forward, offering her hand. “Your mother Agatha was my twin sister,” she said.
She smiled at me with bright green eyes that were gentle and loving and beautiful. Not a monster’s eyes, but an angel’s. My mother’s eyes. My own.
“We’ve come to tell you about your family,” she said.
C HAPTER
•
E LEVEN
FAMILIA
Agnes and Elizabeth Ainsworth, my aunt and great-grandmother, lived together in a rambling old house in Old Town, not far from the school.
The doors were open, and workmen were going in and out carrying lumber for wainscoting.
“Watch your step, dear,” Mrs. Ainsworth cautioned.
The men all tipped their caps in unison. As soon as they saw me, though, all their tools and wood clattered to the ground.
“Carry on, Jonathan,” she ordered, unperturbed. “She’s one of us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to me, but his eyes slid immediately toward Agnes as we approached.
She blushed. “Jonathan,” she whispered, lowering her eyes.
“Miss Agnes,” he whispered in return.
Inside, the rooms seemed to spread out in all directions from a central hallway. Our destination was a parlor withwooden shutters over the windows and a stone fireplace above which hung a large glass-framed piece of needlepoint.
“That was fashioned by a distant ancestor,” Mrs. Ainsworth said. “She was very clever with knots. Shortbread?” She held out a plate of cookies while Agnes made tea in the kitchen.
I accepted one, but I couldn’t take my eyes from the needlepoint. It was obviously very old, with
S
s that looked like
F
s, but in perfect condition. There were three lines of text, nonsensical to me, interwoven with flowers and vines:
In the alban field, the circling mists twist low
Kith and kin draw the Botte on crafted bow.
Arise, great Arrow—swift as sparrow, sprung from below.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
The old woman glanced over her shoulder at it. “It’s a spell,” she said. “A community spell. Nine families of the twenty-seven have been given these three lines to memorize through eternity. Nine others remember another three, and so on. There are nine lines in all. When all the lines are spoken, the spell is cast.”
I swallowed. “Spell?” I croaked.
So she was one of them too. A “special” person.
We stared at one another blankly for a moment. Then Mrs. Ainsworth coughed and fluttered a handkerchief in her hands. “Good gracious, you’re not cowen, are you?”
“Of course she isn’t,” Agnes said, hurrying in with a tray of tea things. “Hattie was quite certain. Nevertheless, Katy is new here. There are many things she doesn’t understand.”She poured a cup of tea and handed it to me. “Please don’t be alarmed if we seem . . . odd to you. We are an ancient family. Some of our ways may seem quaint.”
I nodded. “I’m happy to see you,” I said, relying on form so that I wouldn’t have to try explaining the jumble of thoughts swirling inside my head. “Until today, I never knew I had any relatives. Any family at all, except for my dad.”
Mrs. Ainsworth sniffed. “Your father did not understand our ways,” she said. “It is always a mistake for our kind to marry cowen.”
“Our kind?” I asked.
“Witches,” she said.
“Oh.” I looked to Agnes. She’d said it. Actually used the word. “Grandmother, please,” Agnes hushed. “That is not a term we should use.”
“Not with cowen,” Mrs. Ainsworth clarified. “But Serenity surely—”
“She goes by Katy,” Agnes said crisply. “And that in itself should tell us that she is not ready to hear—”
Mrs. Ainsworth looked pained. “You were so dear to us.” Her teacup rattled in its saucer. “And we’ve missed you . . . so much . . .” She had to set the cup down and cover her face. This was my great-grandmother, I realized. Batty or not, she was my legacy, my blood. I moved to sit
The younger woman stepped forward, offering her hand. “Your mother Agatha was my twin sister,” she said.
She smiled at me with bright green eyes that were gentle and loving and beautiful. Not a monster’s eyes, but an angel’s. My mother’s eyes. My own.
“We’ve come to tell you about your family,” she said.
C HAPTER
•
E LEVEN
FAMILIA
Agnes and Elizabeth Ainsworth, my aunt and great-grandmother, lived together in a rambling old house in Old Town, not far from the school.
The doors were open, and workmen were going in and out carrying lumber for wainscoting.
“Watch your step, dear,” Mrs. Ainsworth cautioned.
The men all tipped their caps in unison. As soon as they saw me, though, all their tools and wood clattered to the ground.
“Carry on, Jonathan,” she ordered, unperturbed. “She’s one of us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to me, but his eyes slid immediately toward Agnes as we approached.
She blushed. “Jonathan,” she whispered, lowering her eyes.
“Miss Agnes,” he whispered in return.
Inside, the rooms seemed to spread out in all directions from a central hallway. Our destination was a parlor withwooden shutters over the windows and a stone fireplace above which hung a large glass-framed piece of needlepoint.
“That was fashioned by a distant ancestor,” Mrs. Ainsworth said. “She was very clever with knots. Shortbread?” She held out a plate of cookies while Agnes made tea in the kitchen.
I accepted one, but I couldn’t take my eyes from the needlepoint. It was obviously very old, with
S
s that looked like
F
s, but in perfect condition. There were three lines of text, nonsensical to me, interwoven with flowers and vines:
In the alban field, the circling mists twist low
Kith and kin draw the Botte on crafted bow.
Arise, great Arrow—swift as sparrow, sprung from below.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
The old woman glanced over her shoulder at it. “It’s a spell,” she said. “A community spell. Nine families of the twenty-seven have been given these three lines to memorize through eternity. Nine others remember another three, and so on. There are nine lines in all. When all the lines are spoken, the spell is cast.”
I swallowed. “Spell?” I croaked.
So she was one of them too. A “special” person.
We stared at one another blankly for a moment. Then Mrs. Ainsworth coughed and fluttered a handkerchief in her hands. “Good gracious, you’re not cowen, are you?”
“Of course she isn’t,” Agnes said, hurrying in with a tray of tea things. “Hattie was quite certain. Nevertheless, Katy is new here. There are many things she doesn’t understand.”She poured a cup of tea and handed it to me. “Please don’t be alarmed if we seem . . . odd to you. We are an ancient family. Some of our ways may seem quaint.”
I nodded. “I’m happy to see you,” I said, relying on form so that I wouldn’t have to try explaining the jumble of thoughts swirling inside my head. “Until today, I never knew I had any relatives. Any family at all, except for my dad.”
Mrs. Ainsworth sniffed. “Your father did not understand our ways,” she said. “It is always a mistake for our kind to marry cowen.”
“Our kind?” I asked.
“Witches,” she said.
“Oh.” I looked to Agnes. She’d said it. Actually used the word. “Grandmother, please,” Agnes hushed. “That is not a term we should use.”
“Not with cowen,” Mrs. Ainsworth clarified. “But Serenity surely—”
“She goes by Katy,” Agnes said crisply. “And that in itself should tell us that she is not ready to hear—”
Mrs. Ainsworth looked pained. “You were so dear to us.” Her teacup rattled in its saucer. “And we’ve missed you . . . so much . . .” She had to set the cup down and cover her face. This was my great-grandmother, I realized. Batty or not, she was my legacy, my blood. I moved to sit
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