Chapter 7

Mayweather

Margaret and I enter the house as we traveled: In silence. 

Even though the quiet is heavy, loaded, I’m grateful for the reprieve—I’ve had enough difficult conversations in the past two days to last me another lifetime. Interrogations, painful admissions. All wrapped in layers of the life I lost, and all demanding their pound of flesh. After those verbal battles, after seeing the brutal death on the rocks and confronting the darkness trying to claim the doctor, I’m exhausted. Worn through to the point where I think sleep could finally claim me. 

Unfortunately, I suspect my reprieve is about to end.

My steps are slow as I make my way into the shaded hallway. 

Wood and stone swallow me. I don’t want to go further into this building, this looming structure perched where my simple log cabin once stood, but I can’t stop myself. And if I could? I still wouldn’t. 

The first rule of my craft is to do no harm. In my efforts to help others, I accidentally harmed my kin. I have to face that—have to own it—and besides, what else can I do? I’ve nowhere else to go, no one else in this strange time to turn to. 

The house itself is both comfort and trial.

I can’t understand it, but this structure, which was built long after I died, somehow feels familiar. Its worn stone floor, with its perfectly uneven shapes, seems to hold the dips and eddies of a century. The hall is narrow, its walls full of pictures I still can’t bring myself to study—generations of my own family that I know nothing about. Even with my eyes fixed forward, I catch glimpses of the ochre-hued photographs of my time transitioning to faded colors and ending with bright bold images. So many stories. So many lives that I know nothing about.

And now, I fear, I’m about to learn some of these tales the hard way. 

Stomach tight, I follow Margaret into the kitchen. 

The room is as surprising now as it was yesterday. It’s as large as my entire cabin and full of strange new devices called appliances. Yet the wooden table in the center shows the marks of time. My kin call it an island, but to me it more resembles a raft, with wide planks scored from implements and the grain darkened from years of heat and oils. 

Along the north and west walls are dark cabinets the color of rich plum wine, with weathered wooden counters the same hue as the table. A sink of gleaming, beaten copper sits in pride of place beneath a wide window that faces the hills, and the walls reflect the color of the forest at dusk, a smokey green. On the south wall is a massive stone hearth, and the tumbled stones still resonate with the hills they came from. 

The space is all dark colors, heavy stone and wood. 

Perhaps the combination should feel ominous, but there’s something impossibly warm about the mix of deep earthen tones. The moody dark is offset with bursts of color, with bright pottery on open shelves, lights beneath the cabinets and glass jars full of pickled vegetables that glow along the windowsill.

I never lived in this building, yet impossibly, it feels like home.

If I think about the colors I’d have chosen, the materials, I’d have picked this. Goddess, I’d have chosen this exact space. And that realization has me stopping in the doorway, gripping the opening for support.

Margaret goes to a red kettle and sets it on the stove. Flames flicker beneath and steam slowly rises. Ignoring me, at least for the moment, she turns and arranges a pair of teacups. Leaving me to marvel at how my kin created the house I’d wanted. A rambling fixture perched on the hillside, sitting  as one with the landscape while reflecting the witch within. The kind I’d dreamed of sharing with John, of raising a family in. 

But there’d been no children.

And now there never would.

“Mayweather.” My attention snaps to Margaret as she turns and leans against the counter. “We have to talk.”

“Ah. Yes.” I brace myself. “I cost you.”

“You did,” she says. “I know you have been yanked from your time and from the earth, but we have rules.”

“Of course,” I murmur. I have been expecting this, so why do I suddenly feel like a child being chastised for letting the cauldron boil over? I can almost smell the cedar logs on the fire, and hear Mercy playing happily in the corner. The sensation is so striking, I have to cross to the kitchen table and prop a hip on it to steady myself.

Gods, it’s been so long since I’ve remembered those early years. Since I’ve felt them. 

For a moment, I can recall how it was before I lost my sisters, when Mehitable, Mercy and I were young and inseparable. 

The oldest of us, Mehitable would have been at the fireplace, checking the caldron and adding a pinch of herbs to whatever brewed. I would be at the table, grinding ingredients with the mortar and pestle—and complaining about how much faster it would go if I used my powers. The youngest of our trio, Mercy would be sitting on the floor, half-preparing herbs for drying—and mostly playing with her puppy.

If I let myself, I can still hear her laughter. Musical and full of joy. Mehitable would try to chastise her, but her lips would be twitching into a smile. And I wouldn’t bother hiding my amusement, adding my chuckle to the mix…

Goddess, I miss them. I miss us. 

I press a fist to my heart. 

The ache spreads from my chest into my bones. I struggle to breathe out. It’s been too long since I had that, since family was something I had to stop and consider. Was that the way it had to be? Or did I allow my battle to—

“Are you even listening, Mayweather?” 

I blink and try to yank myself from the past. “Sorry?”

Margaret sighs. “I expected better from the storm witch.”

My shoulders stiffen and I raise my chin. It is one thing to criticize my lack of understanding of this time—and another to deride my lack of magic.  “As did I. I expected to be the storm witch, not whatever this is.”

I glare down at my hands. 

My powerless, weak hands. 

“That’s my point,” Margaret says. “You don’t have your powers. You can’t get involved with anything dangerous.”

“Dangerous.” I laugh, a bitter chuckle that’s cold as it leaves my lips. 

Her mouth forms a flat, disapproving line. “This is no joke.”

“You think I’m not aware of that?” Bitterness adds bite to my words. “Ugh. I am sorry. I just…” I cross the room to study the fireplace. I wish a fire burned within the stone mouth, anything to chase away the chill in my bones. “I spent all night trying to restore my abilities, lying in the moonlight and waiting for power to seep back into me. When that failed, I tried to deny the call. I begged the earth to find another champion.”

I turn and hold Margaret’s gaze for a moment. “The earth refused.” 

“Then you tell the earth you can’t,” she snaps. “Tell it no.”

“Tell the earth no?” I give another laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I am entirely serious.” Margaret’s resemblance to Mercy abruptly fades. In its place is an unexpected likeness of Mehitable. “The earth hasn’t taken care of this family. The earth isn’t responsible for Myra’s care.” She steps toward me, and her brown hair glows golden in the afternoon light coming through the window above the sink. Her chin forms a hard point, and her eyes speak of hard choices—just as Mehitable’s had when we’d argued. Which we’d done—a lot. Especially when I insisted on doing what I saw as right, and she demanded I keep out of the town’s problems. 

An argument, it seems, I’m doomed to repeat.

“I’m sorry.” A soft, sad breath escapes me. “I cannot deny the earth’s call.”

“Be reasonable,” she says. “This is a different time. There’s no protection for witches here.”

“Protection?” I give a bitter huff. “When has there been protection for us? You know the story of our family. You know we’ve been hunted from Ireland to the shores of the new world, and from those shores across the plains in the hope of finding safety in the west. There will always be people—men—who fear our power.”

“Yes, there will,” Margaret says. “Those men will never stop hunting us. And now they have the internet at their fingertips. A few clicks and they have you branded a witch and fired from your job at the local bank.” She rubs the bridge of her nose, and tiredness radiates from her face. “This family… We’ve already suffered too many rumors, too much hate. No locals will give us work. I’ve managed to secure a remote position, but we’re barely holding onto the homestead. We don’t have any room to pay for your learning, Mayweather. That’s unfair, I know. But it’s the truth.”

I return to the table and lean against it, facing her. “I believe you.”

She holds my gaze. “That’s not going to stop you, is it?”

“I wish it could,” I say. “Truly.” 

We stare at each other.

The kettle shrills and I jump. 

“Right. Tea.” Margaret takes the kettle off the heat and pours steaming water into two cups. The scent of peppermint and lavender fills the air. She places the cups on saucers and then steps neatly around me to arrange them on the table. Two sandwiches follow, cheese and butter on bread. “Sit. Eat.”

Huh. When did she make those?

I frown at the fare, studying the thick slices that fill blue pottery plates, and the smell of warm, fresh bread hits me. My mouth waters.

Well, food can’t hurt. 

I sit, and after the first bite I realize I’m ravenous. When was the last time I enjoyed fresh bread and cheese? From one lens, only a few days ago. From another… it’s been well over a century. And, wow, I’m feeling it. 

“This is wonderful,” I say around a mouthful. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Margaret places her own sandwich back on her plate, half-eaten. “Mayweather. We don’t only have a few hours before Myrna gets home from school. You have no idea how hard things have been for her—and how much harder it will become as word of your behavior spreads.”

I hold my tongue. 

“This time is different. In some ways more brutal. There’s no group of Marshalls ready to defend their chosen witch from angry townsfolk.” She sighs and takes another bite of her sandwich, followed by a slow sip of tea. “Myra has no protection. She struggles, Mayweather. She’s stopped telling me how much, but I know the other teens pick on her, call her names, beat her up. She had so few friends, and when that boy went missing she was desperate. She didn’t mean to do this to either of us—she didn’t mean to call you from the grave.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I do not blame her.”

“Nor do I,” Margaret replies. 

I start to take another bite, and hesitate. This sounds like agreement, but the tension in the room speaks of conflict. There is more yet to be said, and I doubt very much that I will like any of it. 

“Just say it, Margaret.” I give her a look. “These things are better in the open.”

“Very well.” She inclines her head and holds my gaze. “It’s not fair—it’s not right—but I will blame you if you cause my granddaughter more pain. I refuse to allow her to lose the only home she’s ever known. I won’t let what happened to my daughter happen to her—I won’t let this godsforsaken town kill her.”

I watch her fingers curl tight, digging deep into the bread.

Anger.

“I understand,” I say quietly.

“Then why not let it go?” she snaps. “Choose your family.”

The request is a blow that strikes true. I press a palm to my heart and struggle to breathe through the sharp pain of it. Did I fail my family before? Am I doomed to repeat that same failure in this time? 

Perhaps.

But I can’t stop. No matter how much it hurts.

I draw in a shaky breath. “Margaret, I would lay down my sword if I could—please, believe that. But I can’t. If I don’t do as the earth asks, if I don’t face this, the darkness will swallow everything. And no amount of funds will save us. There won’t be any safety on the homestead. There will only be suffering.”

Margaret’s lips pinch together. “You assume the curse is anything but a story.”

A bitter chuckle escapes me. “You know it is, as surely as you know I’m sitting in this kitchen with you.”

Silence claims us both. 

As well it should. 

My words might be simple, but everything that follows? That feels impossible. If I don’t fight this evil, we all perish. But I am without my power—in a time I don’t understand. And every time I enter the battle, my kin might pay the price. If we lose the homestead, we’ll have nowhere to go—and I’ll lose one of the few weapons I have left.

“What now?” I whisper.

Margaret shrugs. “We eat.”

“Right. Eat.” The simplicity of the directive soothes. My lips quirk into a shaky smile. “Food first, everything else follows.”

Margaret returns the smile. “It will, whether we like it or not.”

I try to hold that directive as Margaret returns to her job in front of the glowing screen, leaving me on my own in the house. I linger in the kitchen for a time, washing the dishes and acquainting myself with the contents—or at least the pantry and the collection of dried herbs. Which is lacking. I will have to see the collection returns to what a functioning witch requires for her craft. 

Eventually, I leave the comfort of the kitchen and return to the hall. 

To where pictures of family I’ll never know line the walls.

Steeling myself, I glance warily at the section nearest the kitchen: Images of a child that has to be Myra smiling up at a woman who’s the splitting image of Mercy. Next that same woman is holding a small baby wrapped in a pink cloth, she glows with happiness.  Below those, the same woman, her belly round with a baby, stands beside a younger Margaret before the kitchen fireplace. Even though the picture is dark and slightly blurred, there’s no hiding the love and pride shaping Margaret’s features. 

“Oh.” I let out a breath. 

This is what she lost. 

My eyes burn and turn away. The framed images on the walls blur, but I already know enough to understand. This land offers welcome familiarity to my time, but this house, this home, is more than that for Margaret. It’s a living, breathing bond with the daughter she lost. In every space, she can go to where their bond was strongest and feel vestiges of that energy still humming in the air. Just as Myra can step into the memories of her mother when she needs to feel that love. 

They can’t lose this place.

I swallow back a lump in my throat. 

I don’t know how I can fight the darkness and help my kin keep their home. But I have to try—more, I have to find a way. Trying to blink my eyes clear, I scan the hallway, as if the answer lies in the wooden planks or brick… 

Though, perhaps it does? 

I pause, considering. 

This house has seen all the years I missed. There could be answers here. Truths I can uncover about what happened to John and my team—about why they left me in the ground. If I can find those answers, maybe I can find the secret to regaining my powers. If I do that? Then I can enter this fight with more than a sprig of sage and a prayer.

Gods, it’s a relief to have something resembling a plan. 

I’ll start immediately. 

Or, soon. 

This house is not my home, I must seek permission. 

I make my way up the stairs to the room Margaret calls her office, and hover outside the door while she speaks to someone through the glowing box. This whole internet thing baffles me, but that conversation will have to wait. I’m not sure I owe Margaret an apology, but I certainly owe her acknowledgement. 

And a promise to do what I can. 

I hear her end the call and I tap gently on the door. 

“Come in, Mayweather.” Her voice doesn’t exactly sing with welcome.

Ah, well. I enter and slide onto a chair near her. “Margaret, I have been…considering what you said. I don’t know this time and I don’t understand why the sheriff insists on charging you money for my assistance, but I am coming to understand what this place means. I need your permission to explore it further. And…” I draw in a breath. “And I need your help. Your guidance. What can I do to gain funds?”

She blinks, and slowly wariness fades to something that might be grudging approval. “About time.”

“The irony of that statement does not escape me,” I say dryly. 

She chuckles. “Good. It shouldn’t.”

“So.” I motion at the glowing box. “I cannot use one of those things. But there must be something I can do. I am not without skills or knowledge. Just this morning, as I… ah, spoke with Doctor Keller, he said my hasty sage tincture was a great help.”

“Hasty sage…” Her brows lift in open shock. “Did you cast on the doctor assessing your mental status?”

I lift a shoulder. “Only a little.”

“Mayweather…” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “That was reckless."

“I assure you, the alternative was much, much worse.” I lift my hands, spreading my fingers wide. “Action was necessary. And, for all he was supposed to be determining my level of lunacy, he did not seem upset by my talk of tinctures and potions. He gave no sign he considers those markers of an unfit state. Are…are such brews accepted? Is there a way for me to help support you with such things?”

“Maybe.” Her sigh is half grumble, half agreement. “Maybe. But we’d have to be careful.”

“Of course,” I agree quickly. “I will follow your lead and—”

The earth thuds against my feet.

A warning. 

Danger. 

“Myra.” I jolt out of the chair and bolt for the stairs. I can’t stop to answer Margaret’s questions, to explain. Any thoughts of boots or grabbing my hat are forgotten when another beat hits the balls of my feet.

I’m nearly off the porch when the scream sounds.