She thought about the house on Magnolia Street, and how Aunt Isabelle had called to her on the day before her death. She had chosen Franny, whom she’d seen as the strongest, to carry on as the caretaker of the book. “If it isn’t written down, it will likely be forgotten,” Isabelle had told her. That was why women had been illiterate for so long; reading and writing gave power, and power was what had been so often denied to women. Franny had always been conflicted about who to leave the book to when it was time to do so. Sally was the stronger of the sisters, but she had no interest in magic. And Gillian, would she even want the responsibility? Perhaps it would be best to leave the book to whoever lived in the house and was willing to take it on. That individual would likely leave the light on the porch turned on and open the door to any woman in need. The book was a burden and a blessing. Franny thought it was likely it would choose its own caretaker.
She unpacked, setting the Grimoire on an old walnut desk. Franny handled it with affection, and with respect. She hoped to find a reference to The Book of the Raven and perhaps a method for finding daughters who went astray. She knew that each hour that a woman was missing equaled a day in which all could go wrong, and every day was as good as a year. There was no time to waste, for daughters might disappear for one reason, and remain unaccounted for for completely different reasons. A misstep, an accident, an error, a man.
Franny went to the window to take in the measure of this land of her ancestors, where women were both drowned and saved. What had been inside those women was inside of her now, blood and bones, courage and fear. She wished Jet was beside her, for Franny had the distinct impression that she had come home and she would have loved to share this moment with her sister. There were glowworms in the trees and the world was a marvelous thing to behold. How must it have been to gaze out over this village three hundred years ago when the stars shone so much more brightly and a book was worth a woman’s life? There was the pink moon and a familiar scent that was puzzling to Franny. For some reason she felt a surge of hope. They were not going to lose another woman here in Essex. She opened the window and breathed more of the fragrance, then realized what it was. The lilacs in the garden down below were in their last bloom, a pale purple gleaming in the dark. Franny was reminded of something Jet had told her every year as they worked in the garden together.
Where there were lilacs there would be luck.
* * *
Margaret Wright had grown up in Essex, and like many here, it was the only home she’d ever known. She might have left for a bigger town after having her son, one where everyone didn’t know her story, but she had no desire to be anywhere else in the world. She was born into the Nameless Art, with her mother and grandmother raising her in the tradition of green magic in the very house in which she still lived. By the time she was thirteen she was well versed in all that grew in the woods, able to discern which could harm or heal. It was her obligation to follow her path, and it was clear from the start that she would be a healer. She was a cunning woman, not a bloodline witch, although she’d known one such individual in her time, a very old woman named Cora Wilkie, who said that in an earlier time local people had nailed the feet of women suspected of witchery to the ground so they couldn’t run away. Cora had lived out on the fens. It was a muddy trek to see her, and few people bothered, but those who did were grateful to her, for her cures were a revelation. A book she had handwritten, My Life as a Witch, was in the local library, carefully stored in plastic. For hundreds of years women who were suspect had their houses burned down, their animals were killed, their children taken away, and yet they were still here. If you knew where to look, it was possible to find witches in villages and towns throughout this county. They’d outlasted their enemies.
Margaret Wright’s sixth great-grandmother had passed down a story about a fire in the woods nearby that had burned alive a woman who practiced the Nameless Art. It was a cautionary tale recounted throughout the generations. A woman with knowledge, one who could read and write, and who spoke her own mind had always been considered dangerous. Hannah Owens hadn’t been forgotten, though she had become as nameless as the art she had practiced. All the same, on Midsummer’s Eve, when light triumphs over darkness, women came together in Devotion Field and danced until midnight. They no longer recalled the meaning of the dance, called the Witch’s Reel, but they remembered the steps and taught them to their daughters and granddaughters, all of whom were happy to come together to celebrate. It was the longest day of the year, after all, and people in neighboring towns could hear the gathering from a great distance for there was joyous music and a bonfire was set with sparks filling the inky sky.