Bella and Cleo have spent many nights in the tower—when Cleo provokes some particular outrage, or when Eve goes through one of her long phases of refusing to sleep except when held in someone’s arms, and that someone is walking beneath the trees, humming Greensleeves. Bella likes it there. Although sometimes after a visit to Avalon she finds corrections and additions to her notes, written in a querulous hand and signed with three circles intertwined.
This evening Bella is not working on spells or stories; she’s typing out the final pages of her first and most precious book. All winter she’s been transcribing and editing her little black notebook, making additions and subtractions, badgering Agnes and Cleo where her own memory fails her, sometimes despairing of ever weaving the thing into anything believably book-shaped.
It will never find a publisher—what publisher would risk moral and legal condemnation from the Church, most major political parties, the government, and every law enforcement organization?—and even if it did, most readers wouldn’t believe half of it. But it will be the first book she gives to the Library of Avalon: part story and part grimoire, part history and part myth. A new witch-tale, for a new world.
It’s the title that’s taken her longest. Cleo suggested gently that Our Own Stories was a little vague, and Bella spent the next month moaning and dithering. “A Vindication of the Rights of Witches? The Everywoman’s Guide to Modern Witchcraft? A Memoir of the First Three—”
“You are certainly not the First Three Witches of the West, no matter what they’re calling you.”
“No, of course, I just—”
“Nor were the Last Three truly the last anything, as it turns out,” Cleo added, musingly. “History is a circle, and you people are always looking for the beginnings and ends of it.”
She swept out and left Bella to think about endings and beginnings and circles. She thought of the Sign of the Three burned into the door of Avalon and the phrase inscribed above it, and found that—if she took certain liberties with the Latin—it made a perfectly serviceable title.
The light is fading as Bella tears the final page from the typewriter and lays it neatly on the stack. There’s still one last chapter to be added, but her part is done.
The moon rises like a silver dollar in the window and the church bells ring in the equinox-eve service. Cleo will be out late, attending a gathering of the Orleans chapter of her organization, the Daughters of Laveau. Bella will be spending the equinox elsewhere.
She tidies her papers and clears a small space on her desk. She lays a single rose on the bare wood, and beside it a smooth golden ring.
The ring isn’t much to look at—without diamonds or engravings—but the metal is warm to the touch even days after the casting. Bella found a goldsmith in the Garden Quarter who permitted her to inspect the gold before casting. Bella smiled and thanked him, and then bound spells to every gram of metal. The ring ought to offer some protection from unfriendly eyes and ill wishes, from cold iron and hot coals, bad dreams and mean dogs and broken bones.
She tucks a scrap of paper beneath the ring: Yours, if you will have it. As am I.
Bella dons a half-cloak and a historically inaccurate hat, black and pointed, and draws a charcoal circle on the floorboards. She whispers the words and steps into elsewhere.
Epilogue
I figure since I’m the one who started the story, I should be the one to finish it.
It’s the spring equinox of 1894 and I’m sitting with my back against the sun-warmed wood of the tower door, rose-vines pricking the soft meat of my arms and meadow-grass shushing against the bare soles of my feet. A crow perches on my knee, watching me write with a cocked head and a candleflame eye.
The farm hasn’t changed much in the year I was away: the mountains still stand like green gods on all sides and the Big Sandy River still coils like a king snake through the heart of it. Owls still call three times at moonrise and dogwoods still bloom in the deep blue shadows. Mama Mags’s house has sunk a little farther into the earth, like an old woman settling deeper into a rocking chair, and her herb-garden has run wild and weedy, but otherwise I can almost believe no time has passed at all. That I’m still seventeen and all alone, living for the day my daddy would finally die.
Except I’m not alone, now. Neither am I living: I died on the fall equinox in St. George’s Square, and death doesn’t brook any back-talk or take-backs.
But witching is nothing if not a way to bend the rules, to make a way when there is none. My soul lingers, bound alongside the Last Three to the Lost Way of Avalon, to the rose-covered stones and the burned books and to witching itself. It isn’t the same as being alive—I don’t eat or drink except to remind myself that I can, and I don’t sleep now so much as come undone. As soon as my attention wavers I unravel like a dropped bobbin, losing myself among the roots and stone. But it’s a damn sight better than being dead, I figure.
On bad days I have Corvus. My familiar is a creature of the margins and in-betweens, being half-magic and half-bird and three-quarters mischief, and he laughs his crow-laugh at me when I fret about whether I’m dead or alive, sundered or saved. Just looking at him reminds
