Chapter Text
She could feel the magic tingling beneath her skin. It was hers.
Sometimes, it would spark up her arm when she brushed too close to someone, or it would tickle her shin on the soft spring breeze. It was almost as if it were reaching out for Earth’s renewal, sprouting from what had died the season before, as a fiddlehead stretched toward the sun. At twelve years old, it was the one thing Hecate Hardbroom loved about herself.
Hecate was sensitive to her magic. She would listen to it when it acted without her will. Her talent was adapting to the ever-growing power, learning to control it. Sometimes, when she was very still, she would lie on top of her sheets, close her eyes and envision what she felt beneath her skin – spirals of glittering gold magic weaving through blood and veins under the surface of her small frame. She would lie awake for hours in the dark just to connect with that feeling, the thing that made her so unique.
There was something about it that made her feel mighty. It was her only friend. It kept her company and surprised her, fueling her imagination with endless possibilities.
Hecate’s family home was a tall, thin Tudor on a property near a cliff side. There was a lush garden in front of the house. It wasn’t properly manicured, but it was curated. Some of the foliage had been planted specifically for use as ingredients in spells, but most of it was wild, local to the area, maintained solely by the land itself.
There was a large wooden box painted black out in the garden that contained a selection of herbs. The rosemary outgrew its container over time and was replanted in the ground beside it. Every summer a strong gust would carry the earthy fragrance through the open windows. Hecate waited for that scent all year. It brought with it the promise that winter had come and gone, and she would now be able to roam freely beneath the sweltering sun.
One day, when Hecate was out foraging for supplies to stock the little potions lab she had set up in her room, she noticed wild scorpion grasses growing near some boulders that were dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Eager to add them to the empty vile in her bag, Hecate wound her long black hair into a low knot at the base of her neck with the flick of her wrist. It was the first spell she had mastered.
Climbing along the cold, dark stones, smooth from years of wind and the elements dulling their sharp edges, Hecate was careful with each step she took. She’d been warned time and again not to climb on the boulders, but this was the first time she’d seen scorpion grasses growing between the massive stones, and the temptation was far too great not to harvest them.
Hecate went to the cliff’s edge weekly. She would go there to think, to be alone and try new spells out of the watchful eye of her aunt with whom she lived. The cliff fed into a basin below that filled with fog in the mornings and most evenings, which she loved. Few things captivated Hecate more than watching the space between the hills and jagged edges fill with a dense, misty fog that looked like someone pouring a cloud into a bowl.
One of the texts she had been studying, entitled “The Language of Flowers and the Powerful Potions of Ancient Witches,” mentioned that there were two types of ingredients in potions and spell casting: durable and expendable. Nothing was more expendable than wild, rare flowers. They weren’t cared for or planted by anyone. They existed by chance and would survive entirely on their own.
As she got closer to the brilliant blue cluster, Hecate thought about how she herself related to the spirit of a wildflower. She would one day create the life she wanted outside the walls of her modest home. Her upbringing would not inform her future. That was for her to create. She would have all the power she needed at her fingertips and the knowledge in her mind to make things go her way. That was what a witch did after all.
At last, Hecate was close enough to reach the flowers. She perched between two large rocks and held the glass vial she’d been carrying, taking the cork off with her teeth and placing it back in the bag. Reaching out with her right hand, the young witch closed her eyes and chanted, “By all that I see and all that we are, our connection remains no matter how far.” A golden wisp of light sprang from Hecate’s fingers as she placed an enchantment on the flowers. It was the first time she had tried this particular enchantment, but she’d read it was a proven way to replenish an expendable ingredient by binding a part of yourself to the earth, like a promise to take care of one another.
The more she chanted, the more powerful she felt. Bowing her head reverently, Hecate finally reached forward, picking the first of her harvest and placing it lovingly in its new glass home. She took a second and a third, not knowing exactly what she would use them for, but knowing she needed them.
The fifth and final flower was on the far side of the greenery. She held her breath and leaned in as far as she could, snatching it up when her foot slipped. She fell from between the boulders, smashing her hand against the soil at the edge of the cliff, trying to grab onto something, anything that would stop her downward trajectory. She clutched the vial to her chest, refusing to release the blue flowers, sputtering out a few desperate words in Latin to protect them from harm as she bled from her knees and elbow. With one hand caught firmly between a rock and some old roots, she tried not to let the memory of her aunt’s warnings distract her while she reached back in her mind to find the spell that would save her from descending into the creeping mist below.
Nothing came. Hecate’s small face scrunched with frustration, and before she could cry out for help, the root became unearthed, echoing with a gravely rip above. A terrified scream escaped her, louder than any sound she had ever made. As she fell from the cliff’s side, her right arm scraped against a protruding rock, leaving a gash where there was once black fabric. Every second that passed felt like an hour as the boulders got farther and farther away, her legs kicking upward as she plummeted into the abyss.
Before she could disappear completely, Hecate saw a shadow of a face appear over the edge of the cliff above, and she squeezed her eyes shut, teeth clenched as she awaited impact. The wind that streamed past during her descent suddenly became cool, lingering still across the skin of her open wound as she hovered weightlessly. She inhaled sharply, grabbing hold of her bloody arm, all breath and adrenaline making her head spin until she realized she was, in fact, alive.
With the snap of experienced fingers, Hecate’s aunt transferred her back to the top of the cliff, until she was standing beside the boulders that had betrayed her.
“Hecate Hardbroom,” her aunt scolded. “You know what you’ve done!”
The old crone stood tall, even with a pronounced hunch to her upper back and shoulders. Her face, though it was painted with disapproval, held the strong, admirable features of a powerful witch. Her chin pointed elegantly beneath thin red lips and eyebrows that were high, dark and bushy. Razor sharp cheekbones carved their way towards her jaw, making her eyes seem almost hollow. She wasn’t traditionally beautiful by any means, but there was something about her that was striking, the thick salt and pepper mane knotted in a messy bun high atop her head giving her the look of an eccentric artist.
Hecate felt like she was about to faint, holding the charmed vial near her wounded arm as she refused to meet her aunt’s eyes.
“And what do you have in there?” she pointed to the flowers.
“Scorpion grasses, mistress,” young Hecate confessed.
Even after suffering a near-death experience, the young witch never failed to respect her elders, especially while being reprimanded.
“Don’t be daft, girl. Scorpion grasses don’t grow here. They never have in the century our family has been on this land.”
“But they’re right here, mistress!” Hecate shouted, holding her precious vial in the air.
“Nothing like that should be able to grow here, Hecate, and don’t you dare raise your voice to me ever again,” her aunt growled with a whisper.
Hecate brought the vial back to her arm, fearing at any moment it would be snatched from her possession. She sulked silently, listening to the rest of her aunt’s chastisements, until the older woman fell silent, both of them realizing the bottle had begun to glow blue and gold. Both witches watched, wide-eyed. The flowers began spinning in the vial, glittering magic flowing from the glass to Hecate’s bleeding arm, mending the cut.
When the scorpion grasses stopped their dance, and the magic fully dissolved into Hecate’s skin, she and her aunt stood perfectly still, struck by what had occurred. Suddenly, her aunt lunged towards her, attempting to seize the bottle, but before the gnarled hand could reach her, Hecate heard a loud crash.
She inhaled sharply, jolting from the bed, fists clutched to her chest.
A single drop of sweat tickled the skin beneath Hecate’s brow, and she wiped it clean as the sheets fell from her body.
Slowly, she unfurled her black, lacquered talons from her palm, closing her eyes as she whispered to Morgana, who was sitting beside her, concern troubling her furry little face.
“It was just a dream,” Hecate sighed, though she felt only somewhat relieved.
Taking a few more steadying breaths, she looked down at her right arm, brushing long, delicate fingertips over the once-injured skin. The strap of her nightdress fell from her shoulder, mingling with unruly black locks that refused to be tamed in the night. Morgana padded over her lap and hopped from bed to nightstand, where a single book, a half-full glass of water, and a small figurine of a sleek black cat with olive eyes perched. The porcelain feline was a yuletide gift from Ada. The older witch knew Hecate didn't care for frivolous décor. She preferred a more utilitarian, if not spartan design for her rooms, but Ada could not resist, and her deputy couldn’t help but smile at it each morning.
Hecate pointed her hand in the direction of her nightstand, fluttering her index and middle fingers, unlocking the top drawer. She reverently removed a glass vial that had been stored and forgotten there for nearly thirty years, inspecting its contents. The brilliant blue scorpion grasses she had picked as a child sat unchanged by time in their protected chamber. She loosened the cork, placing it on her lap as she inhaled the timeless, floral scent. When she closed her eyes, she could almost see herself once more sitting by the edge of the cliff, looking down into the pool of fog below. It was not an unpleasant memory, and yet she knew better than to allow herself to dawdle in the past. Before long, she replaced the cork and gently returned the flowers to their place by her bedside.
“Something is wrong, Morgana,” she confessed to her familiar, biting her lower lip nervously. “I haven’t had a dream like that since I was in school.”
Within the first few months of witching academy, the first time she had to spend any time away from home overnight, Hecate woke with a similar terror only to be nuzzled reassuringly by her new kitten. The two would fall asleep together, Morgana curled around the top of the young witch’s head.
Now, the cat brought her paw to her mouth similarly, licking lazily as she ran it over her own face and ear.
“Right,” Hecate mumbled, narrowing her eyes at her disinterested companion. “At least one of us is concerned.”
She rose from the bed and crossed to the bathroom, leaning over the sink to wash her face when a sharp ache painfully pricked her arm. It caused her to jolt, water splashing over her nightgown as she lurched. Hecate stood completely still, eyes wide, not unlike the day Mildred Hubble had extinguished her during the fire drill. She stared into the mirror at her ghostly complexion, heart racing.
Hecate Hardbroom. Settle. This instant.
After rushing through the rest of her normal routine, dressed in black and blue with her signature bun perched high and tight atop her head, she left her rooms for the noise and comfort of her colleagues in the dining room. Hecate stood outside her bedroom door, perking the ends of her collar as a few groggy first years passed her by.
“Morning, Miss Hardbroom,” they mumbled.
“Make your way to the hall, girls,” she straightened as she replied, leaning close to the young witches’ faces as she drawled. “Before Miss Tapioca’s porridge gets any colder.”
Raising a hand to her face, she twisted her fingers one at a time from pinky to ring, middle to index, and finally thumb, dramatically disappearing with the help of a transference spell. The girls looked at each other and giggled, shuffling off to join their fellow classmates for breakfast.
Hecate reappeared in the hall already in mid-stride, catching up with her peers. She didn’t particularly care for sharing mealtime with a large group of people, but over the years it had become easier. When she reached her chair, she wrapped her talons around the carved wooden owl, sliding the chair out as she took her seat next to Ada.
“Good morning, Hecate,” the silver-haired headmistress greeted with a wide grin and a spoonful of fruit in hand.
There she is. Like clockwork, Hecate swallowed, allowing herself the slightest smirk.
“And to you, Ada,” she nodded mildly, lowering her eyes to the table as she draped her napkin across her lap.
Hecate glanced down the line, watching as Miss Drill poked at her porridge and Miss Bat and Mister Rowan-Webb made eyes at each other while sipping their tea. All is as it should be, she thought, trying to reassure herself. With the swift motion of her fingers, a plate of toast and fruit along with a saucer of tea appeared before her.
“Really, Hecate,” Dimity bellowed. “Is it so difficult to walk across the room and make yourself a plate?”
“Of course it isn’t, Miss Drill, but it is also beyond me why I should want to do so when this way is far more expedient,” Hecate replied dryly, directing her attention back to an amused Ada, who sat snickering while she tucked in to a piece of toast with wild blueberry jam.
The sporty witch mumbled something undoubtedly rude beneath her breath before going back to poking at her ever-hardening breakfast.
Hecate loved using magic for nearly everything she did. It enhanced the mundanity of life, elevating the every day ever so slightly. Why hold a book while reading when one could levitate it instead, flipping the pages without ever having to touch a thing? Why walk when one could transfer directly to the place one wished to be?
Other things, she insisted, were better without adding magic to the mix, like bathing in a large clawfoot tub or making a rare coffee. Hecate would make a coffee occasionally on the weekends when her days weren’t riddled with classes and the antics of children. It was something she’d chosen to do when she wanted to honor the simplicity of the process and the tradition of making something with her hands.
As a student, she’d studied abroad for a year in France and learned a few things about herself during the reprieve. For one, she liked the hot bitterness that came with a fresh cup of coffee. She enjoyed the way the first sip stung her lips, how the heat traveled indulgently down her esophagus, warming her inch by inch. She preferred tea generally, but every now and then she traded a smooth Darjeeling for something stronger.
It was around the same time that she also learned she wasn’t interested in men in the slightest, their attempts at courtship always far too dull or boorish to alight her finer senses. She preferred nuance, sincerity, and strength, but also a sweetness that all the men she encountered seemed to lack. Then again, it was often difficult to find anyone, of any gender, with enough substance to hold her attention.
“I’ll need to step away before my fourth-year potions class to mirror my aunt,” she whispered in Ada’s ear.
Ada looked up from her toast and met Hecate’s eyes, seeing for the first time that something was off.
“Whatever you need,” Ada spoke low, wiping her lips with a napkin as she blinked. “I can cover your class this morning if you wish.”
“It should only take a moment,” Hecate shook her head, looking down with a light, diffusive smile. The fragrance of cinnamon and bergamot swam to her nose, instantly calming her nerves. The fuchsia sweater Ada loved to wear had a unique smell to it that was perfectly, distinctly her. “It’s just - well I need to check in on her is all. It’s been too long.”
She straightened her back, sitting up as she took a sip of tea.
“Of course,” Ada knitted her brows.
Hecate could read her disapproval out of the corner of her eye, knowing Ada would eventually want to talk about whatever was going on. She always knew when there was something amiss. Hecate cringed at the thought of anyone worrying about her, least of all Ada. She had enough to keep her busy with the second years constantly blowing something up or crashing into the woods, their magic far too negligent to be left to their own devices.
The bell rang as the first years rose to head to their classes. Hecate snapped her fingers, clearing the dishes from the faculty table entirely.
“Oyi!” Dimity shouted. “I wasn’t through with that!”
“Perhaps, then, you should attempt to finish your meals in a more timely manner, Miss Drill,” Hecate’s lips thinned, her hand raised to transfer before a reply died on the lips of her colleague.
“Drama queen,” Dimity drolled.
Everyone went about their day then, with the exception of one very curious headmistress, who made her way to the potions lab to wait for her deputy.
It felt like there was a rod stuck in Hecate’s back as she sat in front of the mirror, willing her aunt to answer. All she could see in the room beyond the glass was the back of an empty armchair, a side table with her aunt’s favorite saucer, and a stack of dusty books and papers beyond that.
Her chair isn’t typically turned in that direction, Hecate mused. She hasn’t changed the arrangement of furniture in her rooms for nearly a century.
She waited a few more moments and tried to ring her again.
“Min-er-va,” she sang, calling out to her aunt’s familiar. Where are you, you silly thing?
She’d known the cat just as long as she’d known her aunt. They’d taken to each other over time and kept the other amused. Sometimes, before Hecate had a familiar of her own and understood the particular bond of such a relationship, she would get jealous of how her aunt treated Minerva. Hecate remembered chasing the skinny, black cat down the hall into the room she was staring at now. Her aunt had scolded her for running, scooping the cat in her arms and stalking away whispering consolatory nothings into her dark fur.
Shaking off the memory, Hecate leaned forward, attempting to take a closer look. The room seemed darker than usual. The windows were drawn shut while bright beams of dust-laden sun poured through the gaps in the curtains. Her aunt always kept them open in the mornings, letting the houseplants drink in the light of a new day.
There appeared to be a strange pile of dust or dirt near the center of the room that was notably sizeable. Hecate squinted slightly, wishing she could bring the image into focus, but the oddity was partially out of view.
What on Earth… she started. Her breath hitched, stomach turning in on itself. Something really isn’t right. She just knew it.
Hecate stood then, in the small, mirrored room in the east wing, wishing she had made the call from her own rooms instead. Pacing, she reached for the pocket-watch around her neck, strumming sharp fingernails nervously until she made a decision.
Bringing her hand to her chest, she added a twist of the wrist, transferring to her potions lab where Ada sat quietly with the year fours. They were focused on their cauldrons, dithering with ingredients, stirring and sniffing to ensure they were on the right track. She approached her friend, head lowered, both hands clamped around her precious necklace. She took a deep breath then, only to release it as a whisper.
“I need to fly out tonight to see about my aunt. She failed to answer her mirror.”
“Are you sure she isn’t just out at the moment?” Ada offered. “Who's to say she didn’t pop into the kitchen for a biscuit?”
“I know something’s wrong,” Hecate admitted. “I felt…” she stopped herself, which only seemed to intrigue Ada more. Hecate tried to school her features, looking at the headmistress with tired, knitted brows.
“Come by my office before you leave,” Ada requested, reaching for the deputy’s forearm. “Everything will be alright.”
Hecate absorbed the smile Ada gave her, letting it warm the parts of her that were chilled. She watched the headmistress cross the classroom, regarding her once more before Ada left her to teach. Hecate turned her back to the students, regaining control, perusing the shelves of ingredients, touching each bottle, but not doing anything of importance as she absentmindedly slid her fingertips over the shelves.
Noticing the silence emanating from her usually chatty pupils, it was time to do what she did best. Perhaps they overheard something, she thought, which simply would not do.
“Stop what you’re doing,” she announced with her back to them.
All eyes turned towards the elegant woman in black, the girls waiting for their next order.
“Swap. Cauldrons,” she demanded, slowly twirling to see their expressions.
They, of course, hated when she did this. Their success depended on their fellow classmate’s grasp of the task at hand. It was a fine lesson in sisterhood, as well as the inevitable importance of collective victory or failure.
Light guffaws and whines erupted when Hecate suddenly lifted her arms, fingers turned up and separated as if she were holding two heavy watermelons on the tips of her talons. Golden light radiated from her digits as she raised all the cauldrons in the room and then slammed them down again, the liquid sloshing up the sides of the iron, but not spilling over.
“What was that?” she growled, eyes wide.
“Yes, Miss Hardbroom,” the year fours replied. The girls began flitting about the room, trying to get to a new cauldron to finish the potions their classmates had started.
Hecate crossed her arms in front of her chest and went back to thinking about her aunt, hoping she really was well. The older woman had suffered from dementia for the last few years. She was constantly setting traps for people she thought were coming to take her away. Once, when Hecate arrived for a visit over the summer holiday, she walked up the front path through the overgrown garden that led to the tall, thin house she knew so well. She took another step closer, only to find the front door covered in poisonous, camouflaged vines that whipped towards anyone who approached them. Luckily, she dodged an angry one before it could make contact with her face, but it was terrifying to think of a stranger coming to the house only to leave with a deadly gash and no way to heal it.
There has to be an explanation for this, Hecate breathed in sharply, stalking along the front row of desks again as she attempted to bring herself back to the present.
The day always flew by when she was plagued with such anxiety. Hecate’s thoughts consumed the time usually spent experimenting or tutoring. She arrived at Miss Cackle’s door later that evening, the large, wooden entrance opening before she could even knock.
“I knew it was you by the sound of your shoes,” the older witch confessed, her tone light. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Hecate forced a smile. “I’m glad I’ve become so… predictable?”
The words sounded harsher aloud than they did in her head.
“On the contrary, dear. You’re anything but predictable,” Ada reassured. “Now, why don’t you sit down and tell me more about what’s going on?”
Ada was clearly ready to listen, even as she swept to the other side of the room to put the kettle on.
“The thing is I… I’m not sure I could…” Hecate started and stopped. What if she thinks I’m ridiculous? This kind of fear always started as a whisper she could silence with focus, but there were times it was louder than her will. “It’s… a family matter.”
Ada stopped fussing with the tea, looking up at the deputy head as she peered over her glasses, holding her joined hands beneath her waist.
“Sit down, Hecate,” she directed.
“I… Ada I have to go,” the taller witch started, shifting her eyes, unable to explain what happened earlier that day or why she had such a strong feeling about her aunt, but her biggest fear at the moment was that Ada might lose faith in her or think she was overreacting.
“I’m not going to force you down and make you talk. You know that.”
The thought of Ada taking any level of force with her made Hecate’s mind shift, if only for a second, in dangerous, irrelevant ways that were far from appropriate.
“Let me check on her, please,” Hecate calmed herself. “I promise to mirror when I arrive. Everything else I’ll tell you upon my return. Of course, it does mean I’ll miss my classes…”
“I know you care about your classes,” Ada interrupted. “But at a time like this, I feel it’s only secondary to you and your family’s well being.”
Hecate pressed her burgundy lips together as Ada continued.
“Go to the house. Mirror to let me know you’re safe. Do what you must, and then, please come back."
Ada lowered herself into her chair and turned her gaze to the fire, ending the conversation.
“Yes, headmistress,” Hecate nodded, returning to the door, taking another peek at Ada before exiting.
The formality of their interaction felt like a hand being extended to create distance. It was sometimes like that, both of them using the metaphorical gesture as a buffer when they had an audience, or in times like these when there was so much left unsaid, the absence of information filling the room with unnecessary anxiety. Hecate hated leaving Ada in the dark, but there was no time to waste going over details that may not mean anything. Not until she was able to investigate further, put a damper on her own anxieties before she dragged Ada into something she did not yet fully understand.
Hecate stood outside the office door, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, stopping at her hips before transferring outside to where her broomstick waited for her departure.