I took the box over to my bed, unlatched it, and dumped everything out on my comforter. My fingers brushed through the fake jewelry, the goofy pins I collected, the charm bracelet my dad had been adding to since I was six. There were a few pieces of my mom’s jewelry, too: her engagement ring, with its tiny sapphire. Some pearl earrings. Even an anklet with little bells on it.
I looked at the empty box as if it would reassure me somehow. None of this could be real. There had to be some sort of explanation. A nonwitch explanation. My mom hadn’t even had a brother.
Open me.
I hadn’t heard the words—I had felt them. I stared down at the box as if it had turned into a snake. This was too creepy. But, compelled, I turned it upside down. I shook it, but nothing more came out. I opened and closed it a couple of times, looking for another latch somewhere, a hidden hinge. Nothing. Inside I ran my fingers around the lid and down the sides. Nothing. There was a small tray insert that I had dumped out onto my bed. The bottom of the box was lined with cushioned pink satin. I pressed it with my fingers, but there were no lumps or catches anywhere. I was imagining things.
Then I saw the pale pink loop of thread sticking out from one side of the cushion. I hooked my finger into it and pulled gently, and the whole cushion came up in my hand. Beneath the cushion was the wooden bottom of the box. There was a tiny catch on one side, tarnished and almost impossible to see. I poked it with one fingernail, and nothing happened. I turned the box another way and held it in my lap and pushed at the latch again.
With a tiny snick the bottom of the box swung upward. And I was staring at a yellowed pile of old letters, tied with a faded green ribbon.
The ribbon was tattered and practically untied itself in my hands. The letters were written on a bunch of different kinds of paper—loose-leaf, stationery, printer paper. I picked one up and unfolded it, feeling like I was watching someone else do this. From downstairs I heard the thud of the front door closing, but I ignored it and began to read.
Dear Sarah
I’m so glad you finally contacted me. I can’t believe you have been gone six whole months. It feels like years. I miss you so much. After you left, there was nothing but bad scenes, and now no one even speaks your name. It’s like you died, and it makes me sad, all the time. I’m glad to hear you are ok. I have set up a PO box over in North Heights, and you can write me there. I know Mom and Dad would flip right now if they saw a letter from you.
I better go—I’ll write again soon. Take care,
Your brother Sam
Tap, tap. The knock on my bedroom door made me jerk.
“Allie?” Oh, God. Not Hilary. Not now. How many times had I told her I hated to be called Allie? A thousand? More?
“Yeah?”
“I’m home.”
I had a feeling, I thought, since you’re speaking to me. “Okay,” I called.
“Do you want a snack? I have some dried fruit. Or maybe some yogurt?”
“Oh, no thanks, Hilary. I’m not really hungry.”
Pause. “You shouldn’t go too long without eating,” she said. “Your blood sugar will crash.”
I felt like screaming. Why was I having this conversation? My past was unraveling before my eyes, and she was going on about my freaking blood sugar!
“It’s okay,” I said, aware that some irritation had entered my voice. “I’ll deal with my blood sugar.”
Silence. Then her footsteps retreating down the hall. I sighed. No doubt I would hear about that later. For some reason, neither Hilary nor Dad could understand why I might have some trouble getting used to having his pregnant, twenty-five-year-old girlfriend living with us.
I shuffled the letters randomly and picked up another one.
Dear Sarah
I’m sorry I couldn’t make the wedding. You know October is one of our busiest time. I have to tell you: You’re my sister, and I love you, but I can’t help feeling disappointed you married an outsider. I know you turned your back on your magick, but can you turn your back on your entire heritage? What if you, by some miracle, have a child with this outsider? Can you stand to not raise this child Rowanwand? I don’t get it.
A few paragraphs down it was signed Sam.
I felt hot and a little dizzy. The truth kept trying to break into my consciousness, but I held it back. Just one more letter.
Dear Sarah
Blessing on your good news. Since you moved to Texas, I have been worried about you. It seems so far away. I hope you and my new niece, Alisa, will be happy there. Dad has been sick again this spring—his heart—but no one thinks it’s as series as it was two years ago. I’ll keep you posted.
The letter fluttered from my fingers like an ungainly butterfly. Oh, God. Oh, God. I swallowed convulsively, pressing my hand to my mouth. I had been born in Texas. My name was Alisa. Reality crashed down on me like a breaker at the shore, and like a shell, I felt tumbled about, rolled, torn away from land.
I, Alisa Soto, was the daughter of a witch and a nonwitch. I was half witch. Half witch. Everything I had always thought about my mom my whole life had been a lie. A rough cry escaped my throat, and I quickly smothered it in a pillow. Everything I had known about me my whole life was a lie, too. It was all lies, and none of it made sense. Suddenly furious, I picked up the damn witch’s box and threw it across my room as hard as I could. It smashed against one wall and shattered into dozens of sharp pieces. Just like my heart.
“Honey, are you all right?” My dad’s voice sounded tentative, worried.
I’m fine, Dad. Except for the fact that you married a witch and now I have witch blood in me, just like all the people who freak me out.
“Can I come in?” Of course the door was locked, but it was one of those useless dinky locks where a little metal key pops it open in about a second. Dad, assuming his parental right, unlocked the door and came in.
I was curled up on my bed, under all my covers, with my grandmother’s afghan bunched around my neck. I felt cold and miserable and hadn’t gone down to dinner, which had been a chickpea casserole. As if I didn’t feel bad enough.
My brain had been in chaos all afternoon. Dad must not have known Mom was a witch. I think she had hidden it from him—and who wouldn’t—and he had never figured it out. He’d never been thrilled about my going to Kithic circles, but he hadn’t acted paranoid. Surely he would have said something if he’d known my mom had been a witch.
“I brought you some soup,” he said, looking for a place to put down the tray.
“Don’t tell me. Tofu soup with organic vegetables who willingly gave their lives for the greater good.” Spread the misery around.
He gave me a Look and set the tray at the bottom of the bed. “Campbell’s chicken noodle,” he said dryly. “I found some in the pantry. It’s not even Healthy Request.”
I sniffed warily. Real soup. Suddenly I was a little hungry. I sat up and dipped a saltine (okay, it was whole wheat) into the soup and ate it.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Dad asked. “Do you feel like you’re getting sick again? Like last month?”
I wish. This was so much worse. Then tears were rolling down my face and into my bowl.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said convincingly. Sniff, sniff.
“Hilary says you seemed upset when she came home.” Translation: you’ve been being a jerk again, haven’t you?
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to blurt out everything, show Dad the letters, confide in him. Another part of me didn’t want to ruin whatever memories he had of my mom. And another part didn’t want him to look at me, for the rest of my life, and think, “Witch,” which he definitely would once he read the letters and understood about blood witches. My shoulders shook silently as I dipped another cracker and tried to eat it.