“Well?” Sarah demanded.
“It’s dated 1705,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but its genealogy goes back beyond that. Em never could find out who Maude Bishop was—a relative of Bridget’s from England, perhaps?” This unfinished genealogical research project provided Sarah her first opportunity to mention Em’s name without sorrow. Vivian was right. Sarah needed me in her stillroom just as much as I needed to be there.
“Perhaps,” I said again, trying not to raise unrealistic hopes.
“Do that thing you did with the jars. Read with your fingers,” Sarah said, pushing the pulpit toward me. I ran my fingertips lightly over the words of the spell. My skin tingled in recognition as they encountered the ingredients woven into it: the air blowing around my ring finger, the sensation of liquid coursing under the nail of my middle finger, and the explosion of scents that clung to my little finger.
“Hyssop, marjoram, and lots of salt,” I said thoughtfully. These were common ingredients found in every witch’s house and garden.
“So why won’t it work?” Sarah was staring at my upraised right hand as though it were an oracle.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “And you know I could repeat it a thousand times and it will never work for me.” Sarah and her friends in the coven were going to have to figure out what was wrong with Maude Bishop’s spell themselves. That, or buy a can of air freshener.
“Maybe you can stitch it back together, or weave a patch, or whatever it is that witches like you do.”
Witches like you. Sarah didn’t mean to do it, but her words left me feeling uneasy and isolated.
Staring down at the page from the grimoire, I wondered if an inability to perform magic on command was one reason that weavers had been targeted by their communities.
“It doesn’t work that way.” I folded my hands atop the open book and pressed my lips together, withdrawing like a crab into its shell.
“You said weaving started with a question. Ask the spell what’s wrong,” Sarah suggested.
I wished I’d never seen Maude Bishop’s cleansing spell. Even more, I wished Sarah had never seen it.
“What are you doing?” Sarah pointed to the Bishop grimoire in horror.
Underneath my hands the writing was unspooling from its neat curlicues. Leftover splatters of ink marred the otherwise blank page. Within moments there was no trace of Maude Bishop’s spell except for a small, tight blue-and-yellow knot. I stared at it in fascination and had the sudden urge to— “Don’t touch it!” Sarah cried, waking Corra from her slumber. I jumped away from the book, and Sarah swooped down on it, trapping the knot under a mason jar. We both peered at the UMO—unfamiliar magical object.
“Now what do we do?” I always thought of spells as living, breathing creations. It seemed unkind to keep it contained.
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do.” Sarah took my left hand and flipped it over, revealing a black-stained thumb.
“I got ink on it,” I said.
Sarah shook her head. “That’s not ink. That’s the color of death. You killed the spell.”
“What do you mean, killed it?” I snatched my hand away, holding it behind me like a child caught raiding the cookie jar.
“Don’t panic,” Sarah said. “Rebecca learned to control it. You can, too.”
“My mother?” I thought of the long look that Sarah and Vivian had exchanged last night. “You knew something like this might happen.”
“Only after I saw your left hand. It bears all the colors of the higher magics, like exorcism and auguries, just as your right hand shows the colors of the craft.” Sarah paused. “It bears the colors of the darker magics, too.”