The First Midnight Spell (4 page)

The lamb from three springs ago, the one she'd become so attached to and called Snowy, which had been ailing already, and then the early frost came and left her dead in the field, dark eyes frozen wide open so that Elizabeth had screamed to see them.

Her mother lying in bed that first terrible winter in the Rhode Island Colony, skin gone waxen, grief-stricken from the death of Elizabeth's father just five days before, and her eyes growing dim as she stopped fighting the fever and just gave up, leaving Elizabeth behind.

Elizabeth opened her eyes, looked down at the cap in her hands and—struck by a sudden inspiration—deliberately pricked her finger with the needle. Her blood beaded up; quickly she pressed it against her black skirt, where the stain wouldn't show. But she threaded the needle back through the cap; though it was not bloody enough to stain, it had pierced her flesh, then the fabric, and that would strengthen her spell.

It had worked. Elizabeth sensed that immediately. Impossible to say precisely how she knew, but she knew it as certainly as she'd ever known anything in her life.

And in her heart she felt something new, an emotion that was not her own. The feeling didn't come to her in words; she didn't hear whispers, imagine a voice, nothing like that. Yet Elizabeth knew that something else,
someone
else, was feeling this, and that if the emotion could be put into a sentence, it would be this:
I've been waiting for you.

She trembled, but she refused to think of what might have waiting. Instead she kept stitching the cap.

 

The next day she gave the cap to a grateful Nat, and so far as anyone else could tell, life went on as usual. Spring continued to warm into summer. Elizabeth kept doing her chores, looking after her younger cousins, and practicing magic with the coven.

(Not once in all those nights did one of the other witches realize Elizabeth had performed black magic. Not once. None of her other spells were affected in the slightest, Pru even mentioned how much stronger she was becoming, and Widow Porter smiled approvingly every time Elizabeth joined in their work.)

Elizabeth behaved as though she had not a care in the world, and even pretended not to notice Nat Porter when he was near. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she would see Pru looking at her almost pityingly; Pru knew her too well to think she had so quickly become indifferent to Nat and given up her dreams of loving him. But Pru only thought Elizabeth was being brave. Nobody suspected the truth, not even when the first rumors began that Rebecca Hornby had taken ill.

“Word was they were to marry this summer,” said someone walking by as Elizabeth slopped the pigs. “Nat would've brought her back here well before the fall. Now her parents say she's too fragile to think of marrying for a while yet. Not until she gets better.”

Hearing that sent a shiver along Elizabeth's spine. Yes, she'd cast the spell. Yes, she'd wanted Rebecca gone, out of Nat's life, and out of Elizabeth's way forever. But it was one thing to do that, another to hear the stories of a girl around her age wasting away from fever.

She's not dead,
Elizabeth reasoned.
I didn't cast a spell to kill her. She's just weaker, that's all. What happens after this is out of my hands.

Besides, maybe this would be enough. Nat left town less often now, as he couldn't expect to see Rebecca. Maybe he would forget about the girl from so far away. Elizabeth cast her spell to steal beauty often, now—not so much that the other witches might notice, but enough to be sure that Nat did. His eyes sometimes sought her now even when she hadn't cast the spell. Wasn't that proof that he was beginning to put Rebecca Hornby out of his thoughts?

Sometimes Elizabeth even felt generous. Once Nat had fallen in love with her, once they were set to be married and all the world knew it, Elizabeth could undo the spell on Rebecca. She'd set her free, let her get well again and marry some other boy who would no doubt make her happier in the end. Nobody would ever be the wiser, and no lasting harm would have been done.

Everything was going perfectly—except that it was taking Nat so long to fall in love with her. Looking at her from time to time was one thing (and very pleasant to see), but it would take more than the occasional glance to make Nat her husband.

So she tried a few more things, not all of which had anything to do with witchcraft. Elizabeth made sure that her family sat near the Porters in church. She laughed at anything Nat said that might be considered a joke. She played with her young cousins more than usual, and on the common green, so that Nat might see how much she loved having fun, or realize that she would make a good mother.

Then she went to Widow Porter and asked for extra instruction. “Aunt Ruth is a fine witch, of course.” Elizabeth kept her eyes modestly cast down the entire time. “But she has daughters of her own to care for, and besides, I wish to learn more than she has time to teach.”

“I believe you have a greater appetite for your learning than your aunt has ever possessed,” Widow Porter replied. “As you say, she's a fine witch, but you are something else altogether, child. There is such power within you.”

See?
Elizabeth thought.
I'm worth making an exception for.
Make sure I marry your son, and your granddaughters will be the most powerful witches in generations.

After that, she was invited to spend many afternoons at the Porter home. For hours, she and Widow Porter would go over more complicated spells, working together to cast them with ever-greater skill.

“You always seek the most powerful memory,” Widow Porter murmured one afternoon as they practiced. “That's natural, but it's not always the best thing.”

“Why wouldn't I seek the most powerful memory? Doesn't that make the spell more powerful, too?”

Widow Porter nodded. “Of course. But sometimes finesse and subtlety matter more than power. A hammer's more powerful than a needle, but sometimes you don't need to pound in a nail. Sometimes you need to stitch a delicate thread.”

Elizabeth nodded, considering this. Had she been trying too hard, with Nat? Was something gentler and trickier the better choice?

“Spend some time reviewing your memories,” Widow Porter continued. “The painful and the glad. Keep all of them near you—learn from what you've done, from where you've been. When you can call the precise memory for a spell, one with exactly the right strength and flavor, that's when your magic will sharpen.”

That evening, as she went home for dinner, she contrived to walk out of the Porter home just as Nat was walking in. She managed this most nights they worked together; this was the whole reason she came to practice with Widow Porter. (The added lessons in witchcraft were just a bonus.) “Why, Elizabeth,” he said, smiling down at her. “Here again? You're good to help Ma around the house so much.”

“I don't mind a bit,” Elizabeth promised.
See how good I am? How thoughtful I am? See how easily I could live here with you?

She'd borrowed beauty again today—she did it most days, now. It was worth the trouble to see the way Nat's gaze warmed to the sight of her. Something about his smile changed. Elizabeth couldn't name it, but she knew that this was the first time Nat had ever looked at her the way she really wanted him to. Though the spark only lasted a moment, that moment felt as though it could be a beginning.

“I've meant to speak with your aunt,” Widow Porter said. “I'll walk home with you and drop in, if you think she'd welcome the company.”

“Aunt Ruth is always glad to see you.” This was stretching the truth a bit; her aunt sometimes complained that Widow Porter was too bossy. But she wouldn't object to a brief visit.

“Well. Good night, Elizabeth,” Nat said.

“Good night,” she repeated softly.

As they walked away from the house, Widow Porter said, “There's something I see I need to talk to you about.”

“Yes, ma'am?” Elizabeth's heart pounded.

“My boy has grown into a handsome young man.” The widow's voice was softer than Elizabeth had ever heard it. “He'd turn nearly any girl's head. I know because he's the spitting image of his father, who turned my head fast enough when I was your age.” She chuckled softly.

“He is, ma'am.” Surely it was safe to agree with her, especially about something so obviously true.

“You're a fine witch, as dedicated to the Craft as any other I've ever known. That's why I don't want to see you lose your way.”

She knew. She knew about the black magic. How? There were spells of detection, but Elizabeth had thought she'd know if the Widow Porter were suspicious enough to cast one. Had she been wrong?

But Widow Porter wasn't looking at Elizabeth with the cold anger she'd directed at Catherine Crews. In her eyes was something a thousand times worse: pity.

“When you're a girl, it's easy to let your heart run away with you,” Widow Porter said gently. “That's why I wanted to speak now, before you found yourself hurting.”

She thinks it's passing affection. She has no idea I've been in love with him all my life and I have no intention of giving up on him—

“The First Laws are not ours to question, Elizabeth,” Widow Porter said. “They can never be disobeyed, ever. You saw that when you saw what became of Goodwife Crews. Of course you're too sensible a girl to ever get yourself in such trouble, but I wanted to say a word of warning. To spare you the pain.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said. They were the only words she could get out of her mouth. It would sound as though she were agreeing with Widow Porter, when really she meant nothing at all. She only knew she had to fill the silence, lest Widow Porter realize how Elizabeth actually felt.

“From now on, I'll see that you leave a little earlier on our afternoons,” Widow Porter said. “Keep you out of the way of temptation. Nat, too. You know he was courting the sweetest girl, over in New Barton, but now she looks likely to become an invalid.”

“What a shame,” Elizabeth said, wishing Rebecca Hornby dead, dead and buried, only a pile of bones moldering in the ground.

“We'll find some young man worthy of you soon.” Now Widow Porter was beaming at her as though her matchmaking was the greatest gift she could bestow. Here she was, declaring that Elizabeth should stay away from her son forever, and she wanted Elizabeth to be grateful.

Elizabeth simply smiled, nodded, and repeated, “Soon.”

Widow Porter went back to her own home then, leaving Elizabeth to walk the final few steps to her house alone. She did so almost in a trance. Anger and desperation clouded her thoughts, made it impossible for her to focus on anything around her—only the calculations in her mind.

Still, the Widow Porter hadn't given any real reason for Elizabeth not to marry Nat, other than the First Laws forbidding it.

But it would take more than smiles and chance meetings and stolen beauty to get him. Nat was close to his mother, and if she discouraged him from courting Elizabeth, then he would never do it, no matter how fond he might become of her. And if Widow Porter would make no exception for Elizabeth, then there was no hope of them ever marrying in Fortune's Sound, not without earning her condemnation.

Elizabeth tried to imagine Widow Porter shouting her down at a coven meeting the same way she had Catherine Crews—declaring her a witch no more, taking away her charms. If that was the price Elizabeth had to pay to be with Nat, could she bear it?

Elizabeth refused to contemplate that ever taking place. She'd have Nat and the Craft, and nobody would stop her. Once they were married, and she was carrying Nat's child, everyone would have to accept it.

How?

They would have to . . . elope.

Yes. She and Nat would have to run off together to be married. They could go someplace far away, like Providence, and live as man and wife there. Elizabeth was willing to go even farther if need be, to Boston or New York or even all the way back to England.

That would work. But Nat would have to be deeply in love with her. More than in love. He would need to be wild with the need to have Elizabeth, so much so that he would be willing to abandon his mother and the only life he'd ever known, for good.

Elizabeth didn't know what spells could possibly affect a man so deeply, but she could find out.

3

P
RUDENCE
G
ODWIN MIGHT HAVE BEEN SILLY AT TIMES
, always laughing and easily distracted, but she wasn't stupid.

“You've been awfully quiet lately,” Pru said one afternoon as summer drew on. “Keeping to yourself a lot.”

“I've been studying with Widow Porter.” Elizabeth hardly paid attention to her friend; her mind was filled with thoughts about the creation of a new spell. “Takes up a lot of my time.”

Pru crossed her arms. “You mean you've been spending as much time as possible running into Nat Porter.”

Embarrassment flushed Elizabeth's cheeks—not at loving Nat, but at being so easily seen through. “We hardly see each other at all now,” she said. “Widow Porter makes certain of that.”

“And she's not wrong to do it. You understand that much, don't you, Elizabeth?” With a sigh, Pru propped herself on the fence, near where Elizabeth was contending with the milk cow. “Honestly, I can't imagine what you're thinking.”

Elizabeth's little cousins had woken her three different times during the night. She hated milking the cow, which was stubborn and cross, and smelled bad. It had been days since she'd gotten more than a distant glimpse at Nat, which meant that it felt like years since she'd had any reason to be happy. Her temper got the better of her self-control, and she snapped, “I think the First Laws are stupid and ridiculous, if all they do is keep people who love each other apart!”

Pru's eyes went wide. To deny the justice of the First Laws—it wasn't done. But Elizabeth knew that wasn't the part that had shocked her friend.

“Is Nat Porter in love with you?” Pru said, sounding incredulous. “Really and truly?”

No. Elizabeth knew he wasn't. “Maybe my words were too strong. But he's—he's taken with me, Pru. It's not like it was a few months ago. He sees me now.”

“What does that matter?” Now Pru hopped off the fence to come closer. “First of all, it wasn't that long ago that Nat was thinking of marrying another girl. It's not as though she spurned his affections. She's sick, is all.”

“If he forgot her so quickly, then it wasn't really love, was it?” Elizabeth demanded. She tried very hard not to remember that Nat's only distractions from that other girl were the ones Elizabeth herself had caused. Soon she'd have the spells she needed; soon the love Nat would feel for her would eclipse anything he'd ever felt for Rebecca Hornby.

Pru hesitated at that. “Well. Maybe not. I wouldn't know. But that's beside the point. You can't marry Nat. It's impossible.”

“Impossible! Impossible! I
hate
that word.” Elizabeth had so rarely spoken her mind before. It turned out to feel glorious, like flying. “We're witches! We melt ice in January and make it in July. We pull crops from barren fields. We bring the sick back from the brink of death. We take fire, wind, water, and spirit and turn them into our tools. Our playthings. So why do we spend so much time talking about what's impossible? Nothing's impossible, Pru, except that our rules make it so. I'm tired of those rules. Why aren't you?”

For a few long moments Pru didn't speak, and when she did, her voice was low and controlled, the way someone might talk to a horse that had been spooked. “You're upset. You're not thinking clearly.”

“I'm upset,” Elizabeth agreed, “but I'm thinking very clearly. I've never seen things so clearly in my life.”

“You can't break one of the First Laws, Elizabeth. You can't. You know that.”

“Or what? Widow Porter will scold me as though I were a bad little girl, take away my charms? Near as I can see, she can only do that if I let her, and I wouldn't.”

Pru stumbled backward until she collided with the fence; her hands gripped it, and it seemed as if she were bracing herself against Elizabeth's words.
How shocking it must be to hear the truth,
Elizabeth thought.
But if Pru thinks about it, really thinks, she'll see that I'm right.

“Elizabeth—please, please think about what you're saying.” Pru's lower lip trembled. “If you go against Widow Porter, you go against the coven. You'd be cast out. Friendless.”

“Why? Would you turn your back on me, too?”

Instead of answering that question, Pru went on. “Are you thinking that Nat would run away with you? He'd never leave his mother alone with no one to look out for her. He'd never want to leave his friends. His plan was always to bring Rebecca Hornby back here, remember?”

With a shrug, Elizabeth began tucking her escaped curls back into her cap. “Well, now he's not thinking of her any longer. He's thinking of me. So everything can change.”

“Not the First Laws.”

“They're just made-up rules. Like the laws of the colony—no, not even that. Like the rules of a childhood game. I won't live by them—not when they'd cost me the man I love, and not when there's no good reason.”

“But there is good reason.” Pru was pleading. “We obey the First Laws to limit our powers. To understand that there should be limits. If we claimed ultimate power for ourselves—can you not see how wrong that would be?”

That made Elizabeth hesitate, but only briefly. Her anger was tempered, now that she better understood Pru's fear. “I don't want to claim ‘ultimate power.' I only want to marry a man I actually love. That's what we all want, isn't it?”

Pru shrugged; her eyes welled with tears. “I'm scared for you. That's all.”

“Don't be.”

“Promise me you'll think about what you're doing. There are other men in the world, Elizabeth, but you'll never have another family or another home.”

I can create my own family. I can make a new home.

Elizabeth only smiled. “I'll think,” she said. She didn't say about what.

 

In the afternoon, some of the men got into the whisky—which wasn't unusual. Instead of shouting or getting into fights or making nuisances of themselves, though, one of them went and got his pipe, and before long they were all singing and clapping in the town square. This meant the same people who would once have scolded instead drew near, laughed, and even began to dance.

By the time Elizabeth reached the gathering, her hands chapped from work and her apron muddy, the revelry was in full swing. She saw little children hopping up and down, and Aunt Ruth dancing with one of the old men (who used a cane but was managing fairly well, considering). At the edge of the crowd, Pru danced with Jonathan Hale, both of them smiling into each other's eyes as though nobody else existed in the world.

Nearby stood Nat Porter.

His face lit up when he caught a glimpse of her. “Elizabeth! There you are. You've been hiding from me lately, haven't you?”

“Never,” she swore. “I never would.”
Your wretch of a mother has been keeping us apart.

“Will you favor me?” Nat said, holding out his hand. Elizabeth's heart sang as she took it, and they joined the dance.

The next few minutes were the closest thing to real happiness Elizabeth had ever known, or would ever know. Sunlight dappled the square and turned Nat's hair to gold; his hands were warm on hers, and his smile was for her alone. Her feet seemed to dance the steps without her having to think about it, or about anything else besides Nat being next to her. The beat of the music sped her pulse, and before Elizabeth knew it she was singing out loud, not caring if anyone else heard her terrible voice. What did it matter? The important thing was to sing.

When that song ended, people clapped, and Nat said, “You're a lovely dancer.”

“As are you.” Should she not have called a boy lovely? He didn't seem to mind. Elizabeth beamed up at him.

The men struck up another song, and Elizabeth knew Nat would again reach for her hand—but just then, the Widow Porter stepped out of the crowd. Her smile might have disguised her emotions well enough for anyone else, but Elizabeth could sense her fear.

“Nat, my dear boy,” Widow Porter said. “I know you'd rather be dancing with pretty girls, but even we old ladies sometimes like a lively tune.”

“Of course I'll dance with you, Ma.” Nat gave Elizabeth a sunny smile before sweeping his mother into his arms and making her laugh as he twirled them both in a circle.

It wasn't as though Elizabeth hadn't made up her mind even before Widow Porter interrupted their dance. She had. But seeing how the world kept trying to pry her apart from Nat only strengthened her determination, and her impatience.

Let Pru quote her rules. Let Widow Porter try her distractions. Elizabeth meant to work her magic now, and all their efforts would never be able to stop her.

 

That night, when Aunt Ruth and the others had fallen asleep, Elizabeth pulled out her Book of Shadows.

Every witch created her own Book of Shadows, if she was lucky enough to have access to paper, and to have been educated enough to write down her spells. Elizabeth's “book” was still mostly a collection of paper fragments she'd bound together with twine, but someday she intended to have it properly bound. She would turn it into a volume as real as any sermon book or Bible.

This was not merely a desire to keep her spells together and safe, though surely having a bound Book of Shadows would do that. Nor was it sentimentality, even though some of the scraps of paper were from Elizabeth's childhood, and she could remember her mother's hand on hers, helping her to form the letters. No, Elizabeth wanted a real Book of Shadows because—over the course of a witch's life—her spell book could change. It could become more than a mere repository for magic spells; after decades of holding magic within its pages, the Book of Shadows could possess magic of its own. There were legends of witches old and powerful enough that their Books of Shadows even had a sort of consciousness. Those spell books weren't merely reference sources; they were partners in a witch's spellcasting.

Elizabeth was tired of people arguing with her and setting limits on her magic. She liked the idea of a partner, even if it were only a book.

Paper had been in short supply for a while. By now she was “crossing” spells—writing one atop the other, at an angle so that both sets of instructions remained legible. Elizabeth went over each and every page, from her oldest spells to her newest, searching for guidance.

I want to create a spell to inspire the deepest love,
she thought—then hesitated. No. Even very deep love for a woman might not be enough to make a man leave the rest of his family and life behind, not if he felt he were needed at home.

Elizabeth focused anew.
I want to create a spell to inspire . . . overwhelming passion. Uncontrollable desire. I want Nat to be unable to think of anything in the world but me.
Love alone could not make him abandon Fortune's Sound; only obsession could do that.

So she would create a spell of obsession.

What would be the right ingredients? Love, surely. That had to be a part of it; Elizabeth wanted that for herself, and besides, obsession without love could easily turn to hate.

Single-mindedness, too: Nat shouldn't be able to worry about trivial details such as his work or his chores. He shouldn't ask himself what the preacher would say, or what his mother might think. He shouldn't so much as remember that a girl named Rebecca Hornby even existed.

Passion. She longed to know what Nat would be like, when he was overcome by passion. Would he be tentative, longing, almost shy but unable to keep himself from acting? Or would he be eager, even desperate to be with her? Just the daydreams made Elizabeth's cheeks go hot.

Those were the three key elements—but Elizabeth felt as though something might still be lacking. He could love her, even love nothing in the world but her, and yet still fail to do what she needed him to do. If they didn't elope from Fortune's Sound almost immediately, Widow Porter would find a way to stop them.

Worse, Widow Porter would realize her son had been spelled, and it wouldn't take long for her to realize who was responsible. Although Elizabeth no longer feared the so-called First Laws for their own sake, she feared Widow Porter's magic. She wouldn't hesitate to hurt Elizabeth if she thought Elizabeth had hurt her son.

But I'm not hurting him. I'm helping him,
Elizabeth told herself.
Nobody else in the world could ever love Nat as much as I do. Nothing else could ever make him as happy as I'll make him. I just have to . . . show him the way.

So she would need a fourth element, one that would ensure Nat went along with her plan to elope.

It was impossible to weave such a specific suggestion into a spell. Elizabeth had often listened longingly to fairy tales in which wicked sorceresses were able to bewitch people into doing precisely what they wanted; real magic didn't work that way. Spells would let you push someone in the right direction, but it was up to the witch to know precisely which way to push.

After some consideration, Elizabeth decided that the easiest way to be sure of Nat would be to make him highly suggestible. Ideally he would only be controlled by her suggestions, but probably he'd be slightly vulnerable to the words of others as well. She decided it didn't matter. Nobody else would be likely to argue against their plan, especially not after Elizabeth told Nat to keep it secret.

Reenergized, Elizabeth began considering which ingredient would exactly fit each element of her spell. She wouldn't be able to try this one out on Prudence Godwin ahead of time. She'd have to cast it for the first time on Nat himself. That meant nothing could go wrong.

She sat by the fire late into the night, creating what she already knew would be the most important spell of her entire life.

 

Some spells were more powerful under certain conditions—by the light of a full moon, for instance, or when performed by a witch who was great with child. Elizabeth's instincts told her that this spell would respond best when the winds were fierce. So she waited, days and then weeks, for the stillness of early summer to give way to a breezy day.