“Elizabeth is a gifted seer. She will teach you the art of scrying.”
“My mother was known for her second sight,” I said hesitantly. “I would like to follow in her footsteps.”
“But she had no fire,” Elizabeth said decidedly, beginning her truthtelling immediately. “You may not be able to follow your mother in everything, Diana. Fire and water are a potent mix, provided they don’t extinguish each other.”
“We will see to it that doesn’t happen,” the last witch promised, turning her eyes to me. Until then she’d been studiously avoiding my gaze. Now I could see why: There were golden sparks in her brown eyes, and my third eye shot open in alarm. With that extra sight, I could see the nimbus of light that surrounded her. This must be Catherine Streeter.
“You’re even . . . even more powerful than the firewitches in the Rede,” I stammered.
“Catherine is a special witch,” Goody Alsop admitted, “a firewitch born of two firewitches. It happens rarely, as though nature herself knows that such a light cannot be hidden.”
When my third eye closed, dazzled by the sight of the thrice-blessed firewitch, Catherine seemed to fade. Her brown hair dulled, her eyes dimmed, and her face was handsome but unmemorable. Her magic sprang to life again, however, as soon as she spoke.
“You have more fire than I expected,” she said thoughtfully.
“’Tis a pity she was not here when the Armada came,” Elizabeth said.
“So it’s true? The famous ‘English wind’ that blew the Spanish ships away from England’s shores was raised by witches?” I asked. It was part of witches’ lore, but I’d always dismissed it as a myth.
“Goody Alsop was most useful to Her Majesty,” Elizabeth said proudly. “Had you been here, I think we might have been able to make burning water—or fiery rain at the very least.”
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Goody Alsop said, holding up one hand. “Diana has not yet made her weaver’s forspell.”
“Forspell?” I asked. Like gatherings and the Rede, this was not a term I knew.
“A forspell reveals the shape of a weaver’s talents. Together we will form a blessed circle. There we will temporarily turn your powers loose to find their own way, unencumbered by words or desires,” Goody Alsop replied. “It will tell us much about your talents and what we must do to train them, as well as reveal your familiar.”
“Witches don’t have familiars.” This was another human conceit, like worshipping the devil.
“Weavers do,” Goody Alsop said serenely, motioning toward her fetch. “This is mine. Like all familiars, she is an extension of my talents.”
“I’m not sure having a familiar is such a good idea in my case,” I said, thinking about the blackened quinces, Mary’s shoes, and the chick. “I have enough to worry about.”
“That is the reason you cast a forspell—to face your deepest fears so that you can work your magic freely. Still, it can be a harrowing experience. There have been weavers who entered the circle with hair the color of a raven’s wing and left it with tresses as white as snow,” Goody Alsop admitted.
“But it will not be as heartbreaking as the night the wearh left Diana and the waters rose in her,” Elizabeth said softly.
“Or as lonely as the night she was closed in the earth,” Susanna said with a shiver. Marjorie nodded sympathetically.
“Or as frightening as the time the firewitch tried to open you,” Catherine assured me, her fingers turning orange with fury.
“The moon will be full dark on Friday. Candlemas is but a few weeks away. And we are entering a period that is propitious for spells inclining children toward study,” Marjorie remarked, her face creased with concentration as she recalled the relevant information from her astonishing memory.
“I thought this was the week for snakebite charms?” Susanna said, drawing a small almanac out of her pocket.
While Marjorie and Susanna discussed the magical intricacies of the schedule, Goody Alsop, Elizabeth, and Catherine stared at me intently.
“I wonder . . .” Goody Alsop looked at me with open speculation and tapped a finger against her lips.
“Surely not,” Elizabeth said, voice hushed.
“We are not getting ahead of ourselves, remember?” Catherine said. “The goddess has blessed us enough.” As she said it, her brown eyes sparked green, gold, red, and black in rapid succession. “But perhaps . . .”
“Susanna’s almanac is all wrong. But we have decided it will be more auspicious if Diana weaves her forspell next Thursday, under the waxing crescent moon,” Marjorie said, clapping her hands with delight.
“Oof,” Goody Alsop said, poking her finger in her ear to shield it from the disturbance in the air. “Gently, Marjorie, gently.”
With my new obligations to the St. James Garlickhythe gathering and my ongoing interest in Mary’s alchemical experiments, I found myself spending more time outside the house while the Hart and Crown continued to serve as a center for the School of Night and the hub for Matthew’s work. Messengers came and went with reports and mail, George often stopped by for a free meal and to tell us about his latest futile efforts to find Ashmole 782, and Hancock and Gallowglass dropped off their laundry downstairs and whiled away the hours by my fire, scantily clad, until it was returned to them. Kit and Matthew had reached an uneasy truce after the business with Hubbard and John Chandler, which meant that I often found the playwright in the front parlor, staring moodily into the distance and then writing furiously. The fact that he helped himself to my supply of paper was an additional source of annoyance.
Then there were Annie and Jack. Integrating two children into the household was a full-time business. Jack, whom I supposed to be about seven or eight (he had no idea of his actual age), delighted in deviling the teenage girl. He followed her around and mimicked her speech. Annie would burst into tears and pelt upstairs to fling herself on her bed. When I chastised Jack for his behavior, he sulked. Desperate for a few quiet hours, I found a schoolmaster willing to teach them reading, writing, and reckoning, but the two of them quickly drove the recent Cambridge graduate away with their blank stares and studied innocence. Both preferred shopping with Françoise and running around London with Pierre to sitting quietly and doing their sums.
“If our child behaves like this, I’ll drown him,” I told Matthew, seeking a moment of respite in his study.
“She will behave like this, you can be certain of it. And you won’t drown her,” Matthew said, putting down his pen. We still disagreed about the baby’s sex.
“I’ve tried everything. I’ve reasoned, cajoled, pleaded—hell, I even bribed them.” Master Prior’s buns had only ratcheted up Jack’s energy level.
“Every parent makes those mistakes,” he said with a laugh. “You’re trying to be their friend. Treat Jack and Annie like pups. The occasional sharp nip on the nose will establish your authority better than a mince pie will.”
“Are you giving me parenting tips from the animal kingdom?” I was thinking of his early research into wolves.
“As a matter of fact, I am. If this racket continues, they’ll have me to contend with, and I don’t nip. I bite.” Matthew glowered at the door as a particularly loud crash echoed through our rooms, followed by an abject “Sorry, mistress.”
“Thanks, but I’m not desperate enough to resort to obedience training. Yet,” I said, backing out of the room.
Two days of using my teacher voice and administering time-outs instilled some degree of order, but the children required a great deal of activity to keep their exuberance in check. I abandoned my books and papers and took them on long walks down Cheapside and into the suburbs to the west. We went to the markets with Françoise and watched the boats unloading their cargo at the docks in the Vintry. There we imagined where the goods came from and speculated about the origins of the crews.