As her magic worked she watched me, fingers probing her healing scalp. When it was done she sat all the way up, a naked witch with a crown of blood.
“I’m sorry,” I said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Her face was keen as an unsheathed blade. “Do you remember now?”
There was so much to remember. But I knew she was asking if I remembered her. The scrying glass and the dark room and the tales she told. “I remember.”
“And you understand how strong you are.”
I nodded, but I didn’t. Not really. I couldn’t take in everything I now knew about myself. All the fragile restored pieces of knowledge and thought and experience moved in and out of focus. I had the sense my head would be blooming with things lost and recalled for a very long time. Maybe the rest of my life.
Marion misread my silence as awe. “You can do anything,” she said softly. “It’s okay that you can’t control it yet. I can help you. We can … Oh, Ivy.” Her eyes shone. “Just think. Think of what we could do.”
“We,” I repeated.
“If you want.” Her chin came up. “If you want, you could come with me.”
“Where?”
She looked, I thought, uncertain. “Where do you want to go?”
“I—I don’t … I need…” I stammered, shook my head.
I needed time alone. To let the sharp edges soften, the new information settle. She wanted me to think about what came next, but all I could see was my mother’s face sizzling above me, underlit by the glow of the box. And what about everything that came before that night? All the tenderness, everything we were to each other before she took it all away. Those memories were still too radiant to look at, too hot to touch.
And Billy. All those years with him, all those wasted years without. I was twelve when I forgot him. Can you really fall in love when you’re twelve years old? Even thinking the word turned my stomach to melted ice cream.
And magic. Magic? Fucking magic!
The bitter, the sweet, the shining. I tried to breathe but the newness hammered at my head and suddenly I was gasping.
“Shit.” Marion moved closer, but didn’t try to touch me again. “Get back in the pool. Or, wait. Cast something.”
“Like what?” I rubbed frantically at my head. It spun like a carousel, I couldn’t focus on any one spell.
“Just, anything.” She looked around, spied her clothes on the ground. “Here, I’ve got matches. We’ll do an energy spell.”
She grabbed her jeans and when she did a phone dropped from their pocket with a smack. It fell glass-down, so I saw its case. Klimt’s Judith, wear-faded to white across her belly, so familiar to me my eyes were tearing before I recognized what it meant. It was my Aunt Fee’s phone.
I looked at the case, then at a suddenly silent Marion. She was waiting to see what I would figure out, and what I’d do.
Again I recalled standing in front of my aunt’s house after visiting the shop, that sense of eyes crawling over my skin. Now I knew it was Marion who’d been watching me. Clear as a movie playing out I saw her standing in an upper window, blunt fingers tapping out a reply on my aunt’s phone. A text that made me believe—made me want to believe, allow myself to believe—that my mother and aunt were together and fine and just being selfish.
“Where are they?” I said. “Where’s my mother?”
“Do you care?” She said it so swiftly. “Now that you know what you know, do you honestly care where she is?”
My voice was shaking. “Did you hurt them?”
“They’re not dead.” Her mouth showed a slip of humorless smile. “I’m not that merciful.”
“My god, Marion, what did you do to them?”
“Your mother crushed you,” Marion hissed. “Forget what she did to me. Since you were a child she’s been trying to kill the witch in you—the powerful fucking witch in you, whose abilities make her look like a birthday magician. But I was watching you, too. And I was proud. And I dug my way out of Hell to return what she stole, to turn you back into that Ivy, a witch who was questing and hungry and true. And here you are, wasting your breath on the woman who gutted your magic like it was a mackerel.”
My hands went up like I could keep the words from reaching me. But I must’ve thrown something at her, too: the pain in my head, the resentment of knowing what she said was at least halfway true. She rocked back, a queasy expression rolling over her face.