The Hawkweed Prophecy Page 12

  “Help me,” she said.

  Leo moved to Poppy’s side, and that’s when he saw the cat’s body. He had seen the corpses of animals before, mostly roadkill, but this was something different, something vicious. Leo’s eyes went to the hole in the earth and immediately he understood what Poppy was digging.

  “It’ll need to be much deeper or the foxes will get to it,” he told her.

  Poppy looked at her filthy hands and started to cry once more.

  “Wait here. Don’t move,” Leo instructed.

  When he returned he brought with him an old spade. Poppy shuffled out of the way and watched him dig. It was harder work than he expected. The ground was full of stones, and the metal blade of the shovel made painful sounds as it clashed and clanged upon them. Leo’s back and arms started to ache, but he made himself dig further and further, just to be sure. When finally he was satisfied with his work, Poppy placed the cat into the hole.

  “What about some flowers? Leaves, even?” he suggested.

  Poppy shook her head. She knelt beside the grave and murmured words that Leo couldn’t make out. It wasn’t a prayer, but Poppy seemed in some kind of trance and the soft words took on a rhythm that felt somehow spiritual. Leo stepped away to give her some privacy. Then Poppy took the earth and started filling the grave. He bent down to help her but she shook her head.

  “I have to do this.”

  So Leo waited until all was complete and she was ready. Poppy stood and faced him.

  “You don’t mind, do you? That I brought her here?” she asked.

  “It’s where I’d want to be.”

  “Me too.”

  Leo took her home. They stopped on the way so he could put the spade back in the shed from where he’d taken it. He jumped back over the fence and landed softly next to her.

  “Like a cat,” she said.

  When they reached Poppy’s house, there were bloodstains on the step and Leo asked if she wanted him to call her dad. She looked at him like he was crazy. Then he asked about school. She sighed and shook her head wearily. He knew what it was like to feel too tired and sad to speak. He ran her a bath and told her to get in it. Downstairs he looked through the kitchen cabinets, his stomach rumbling at the sight of all the tins of food. Rifling through the bottles there, he picked one and poured a little in a mug for her. Then he called the school—the number was pinned to the board by the phone—and pretended to be her dad, informing them Poppy wasn’t feeling well today.

  He put the mug by Poppy’s bedside and looked around her room. It held no obvious clues for him—just lots of books, many of which he’d read himself in the library, and one photograph: a blonde woman, holding onto a black-haired baby. Poppy’s mother. A smile was on her lips but it didn’t reach her melancholy eyes. Poppy walked in, a towel wrapped around her, and Leo froze when he saw her. Then he said gruffly, “You should get some sleep.”

  “It’s still morning,” she quibbled, but he pulled back the duvet and she obediently got into bed.

  Covering her up, Leo held her head as she sipped at the drink. She made a face but then sipped some more. Then he rested her head back down and Poppy dropped the towel from under the covers onto the floor and Leo had to force himself not to think of her bare skin on the sheets. He shut the curtains and quickly moved to the door.

  “Don’t go,” she asked in a voice so small, like that of a child’s.

  Leo sat on the floor, his back to the window, a safe distance away.

  Poppy looked at him, then closed her eyes. “It stopped again, didn’t it? The clock,” she murmured drowsily.

  “Yeah, actually. It did.”

  When Poppy didn’t say anymore, Leo presumed she was asleep. He was getting to his feet when she mumbled, “I’m glad the spell broke.” Then she shifted on her side and Leo knew she was sleeping.

  As he walked down the path toward the street, cats started to appear. Leo stopped to look at them. There must be thirty at least, but more were gathering. Maybe even fifty. Later he’d tell himself he must have exaggerated the number. Each cat found a place in the front garden and sat up proudly. Staggered by the sight, Leo had to make his legs start walking again. As he passed the cats, he couldn’t help feeling they were acknowledging him. He knew they made a freakish sight and wondered why he didn’t feel more frightened. But there was nothing creepy about them. Quite the opposite. They were full of dignity, and he sensed they had come in reverence to pay tribute to one of their own.

  When Leo reached the road he looked up at Poppy’s window and thought how strange his existence had become since he had met her. His life had never taken an ordinary course, but Poppy had added another dimension to the journey. With her, they seemed to stumble into the truly extraordinary, the realm that his mother, Jocelyn, had so longed to explore. He wondered when Poppy would feel able to talk to him about these sidesteps into unknown territory. Everyone he knew on the streets had a story, all of them bleak and troubled like his. But Poppy’s story felt like a mystery that even she had little comprehension of.

  The pristine house with bloodstains on the doorstep. The mad mother with the mournful eyes. The otherworldly friend from the woods. The congregation of cats.

  And Poppy, standing all alone at the center of it, the axis to the circle.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Raven stretched her wings as she nibbled on the last of the mouse liver. She knew she should be getting back to the camp to check on Sorrel, but she enjoyed these rare interludes she spent as a bird and wanted to savor every last moment before the spell wore off. A simple spell to follow the trail left by the girl from dell to city, and she had quickly found the girl’s house, then faced the little ginger cat’s pathetic attempt to defend her mistress.

  Following her attack on the cat, Raven had soared high above the houses for hours, spying on the lives of the city dwellers below, gathering information on their habits and peculiarities. She observed how they rushed from place to place and task to task without taking the time to notice the details of the world that they themselves belonged to. She listened as they talked without saying much of any worth at all. Little lie after little lie. Only the children seemed aware of the life they held within them, caught in the moment, saying what they meant, and doing what they felt.

  When at last she tired of the chaffs and their limited ways, Raven flew away from the town. She still had the taste of blood on her tongue and wanted more. She went hunting for mice in the hills and caught a squirrel, but nothing could compare with the thrill of having that cat squirming in her claws, watching its eyes as she cut into its middle. It had taken great control not to go for the kill, instead to inflict injuries that were deadly but not instant.

  Realizing her time as a bird was dwindling, Raven now headed out to sea. As a human, she feared the sea and never ventured to its shores, but as a bird she reveled in it. The air was fresh and tangy with salt, the wind gusty, carrying her feathered limbs faster and higher. She felt freer with the ocean beneath her than any place overland.

  Raven was not far from the camp now. Reluctantly she flapped down from her branch and let her talons sink into the wet earth. She shut her eyes and bowed her head, waiting for the excruciating agony to begin. Not many witches had the skill to shape-shift, and those who could avoided it, the pain being so hard to bear. Raven felt the narrow, small bird bones in her body begin to stretch and crunch. It was like being placed on a rack but a hundred times worse. Joints dislocated, skin tore, eyes bulged, organs ballooned until it felt like they would pop. Hunched and naked on the ground, Raven gritted her teeth so she wouldn’t scream. Around her feet were black feathers with red blood tips. Raven took each one and jabbed it hard into her white scalp. In moments the feathers turned to hair. Then she hurried to the hawthorn bush and collected her clothes, quickly putting them on before anyone might stumble close to her location. Straightening up, she brushed down her skirts, and on hobbling legs, she walked toward home.

  Though Raven’s body a
ched, her mind was at ease. Ember’s friend, the girl, posed no threat. Anyone possessed of true magic would have been alerted to the danger Raven had threatened. Raven had flown over the child’s house three times to see if she would awake. The girl’s cat had called and cried to her, but still she hadn’t stirred. And then, when Raven made her attack and had the cat dangling in midair, even then the girl failed to make an appearance. She must be devoid of the sixth sense that would have warned her.

  Raven’s worries were appeased. Perhaps her daughter had been right to insist that the secret Ember had been treasuring was the boy. Raven had always believed that would be Ember’s fate—to leave the coven for a man. She might talk to Charlock about it, persuade her to let the girl have her romance and slip away without objection. It would be a relief not to have to watch Ember’s inept attempts at witchcraft any longer. Her mess and incompetence had grated and ground on Raven all these years. Charlock loved the girl, but perhaps she might feel reassured that there would be no search parties or recriminations if Ember were to go.

  As Raven entered the camp, she saw Ember sitting busily stitching on her caravan steps, Sorrel beside her, folding the washing. At the sight of her daughter—their future queen—wasting her time with that moon-faced, starry-eyed creature, Raven felt a sudden fury. She knew it was unfounded, that Sorrel was merely following her instructions, but every inch of Raven, outside and in, was aching in unspeakable agony, and she was in no mood to be rational. Ember gave a giggle, Raven’s eyebrows rose in irritation, and Ember cried out softly as she pricked her finger on the needle.

  It was the first time Raven had ever hurt her niece, and already she regretted it. A bead of blood rose upon the tip and Ember looked at it in clueless surprise, like she never knew such a substance flowed within her veins.

  Sorrel watched Ember’s face crumple. “Suck it,” she instructed, and Ember obediently lifted her finger to her mouth. “Better?” she asked, and Ember nodded.

  When I become queen, Sorrel thought, I will banish you. Aunt Charlock may weep and rail, but I cannot have you as a cousin. You can go anywhere, but not to the boy. The thought of Ember being a wife to him, sharing a home with brick walls and a roof, lying down each night in the same bed, touching him whenever she pleased, her cousin having everything that she could never have—the idea of this twisted in Sorrel’s gut. Ember was powerless, and yet now she had picked herself a fruit beyond Sorrel’s reach. How was that possible—for Ember to succeed where Sorrel would surely fail?

  Before Sorrel ever set eyes on the boy, watching Ember had been a chore, a duty she wished she could neglect. But today she spied on her cousin with a bittersweet relish. For it brought back the image of the boy as though she could see his face reflected in Ember’s blue daydreaming eyes.

  All day long she had found herself eking out opportunities to be close to Ember. Until recently she had always kept her distance from her cousin, unless to tease and taunt her. Over the years it had become a habit to choose the other end of the table at clan meal times, to make sure she worked in a different group during chores and schooling, and even to turn away if she saw Ember walking in her direction. This morning, however, Sorrel had sat next to her cousin at breakfast and struck up a meaningless conversation about the weather. Sorrel could see Kyra and the others trying to catch her eye, wondering what she was doing, but she ignored them and kept her attention fixed solely on Ember. Later Sorrel offered to help with Ember’s errands. Her friends were puzzled, but thankfully they knew better than to remark on it, for Sorrel had no logical answer to give them. For being that near to Ember hurt Sorrel. It was a jarring, jagged reminder of everything she now realized she lacked.

  Close up, Sorrel could see the details of Ember’s beauty, the beauty she had always scoffed at, that held no worth or meaning within the coven. She observed how Ember’s skin was as soft and luminous as the white rose petals that flourished along the wall of Sister Martha’s caravan. She noticed the color in Ember’s cheeks was just the same shade of the peaches that grew in the orchard, that her lashes were long and thick like a deer’s, and that her eyes weren’t just pastel pale but had flecks of the bluest summer sky. And when Sorrel inhaled, she wondered how it was that, even in the depths of winter, Ember smelled of blossom and springtime. With a pang, Sorrel knew what she now saw in Ember was what the boy must see too. And with a wrench, she knew any hopes she had for herself with him were utterly in vain. She, with her beaky nose and narrow eyes, her sallow skin and brittle hair, she could never compare with Ember’s loveliness.

  Sorrel’s newfound interest in her made Ember’s hands tremble and her voice crack with nerves. When Sorrel had swung her legs over the bench at breakfast and clunked her bowl of oatmeal down next to hers, Ember immediately suspected a trick. She could see the other girls watching curiously and feared what they might have planned for her. But breakfast passed without incident. Her usually caustic cousin was suddenly sweetness and light, offering her milk and honey, pouring her tea. Later Sorrel folded the laundry with her and asked about her lessons, saying she could help Ember with her studies if she’d like. There were no pranks or spells, no mean laughter or taunting from Sorrel’s crowd, and as the hours passed, Ember’s suspicions began to fade. Her best guess was that Aunt Raven must have forced Sorrel to help her as some kind of punishment. It was impossible to believe that her cousin would seek out her company of her own accord. But whatever the motivation behind Sorrel’s sudden affection for her, Ember became grateful for it. It took her mind off Leo. Alone, she had replayed their meeting over and over again until it felt like a fantasy that she doubted could be true.

  Lunch came and went, and as the afternoon dwindled into evening, Ember began to worry how she was going to escape her cousin and get to the dell to see Poppy. She had to wait for Sorrel to be called away by Aunt Raven to take her chance, and then she ran for it, making sure she was clear of the camp before she slowed to a fast walk.

  “Have you seen him?” she asked Poppy breathlessly.

  Poppy was chewing on the side of her thumbnail so the skin had become red and raw.

  “Who?” Poppy questioned belligerently without raising her head from her hand.

  “You know who. Him! Leo!” Ember wanted to shake Poppy. She’d encountered her moods plenty of times before, but this afternoon she wanted chatter and laughter, not long, weighty silences and monosyllabic answers.

  Poppy lowered her hand. “Yes, I saw him.”

  Ember’s heart beat a little bit faster. “How was he?” she said softly.

  “He was . . . he was a good friend.”

  Ember smiled, then spoke. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If he said anything about me?”

  Ember’s eyes shone with pleading, but Poppy looked away, across the dell. She didn’t reply, and Ember wanted so badly to ask again but didn’t dare.

  “I need more books,” Poppy said at last. “About the coven’s magic and their spells. And the ingredients for the spells—can you get me those?”

  Ember felt panic climbing up the ladder of her spine. To smuggle such books out of the camp felt a risk too far.

  “I’ll mention you next time I see Leo,” Poppy added.

  Ember understood the suggested trade and it hurt her. “You don’t have to,” she muttered in response.

  Poppy glanced at her and her expression changed. “No, I will. I couldn’t yesterday, but I will.”

  Ember looked down at her feet and nudged at a stone with her boot. “I’ll do my best,” she conceded.

  Poppy suddenly took Ember’s hand. “Thank you. Just get me what you can.”

  “Why do you want them? You mustn’t give any of the books I show you to anyone. You know that, don’t you?” Ember felt the panic mounting again, higher and higher. What if Poppy showed other chaffs? And what if she showed Leo?

  “They’re for me. No one knows. I swear it.”

  “Not even Leo.”

  “I promise, Ember. I thought you trusted me?
”

  Ember could hear the hurt in Poppy’s voice and see it in her eyes. “I do. I do trust you. You just seem . . . different today.”

  Poppy hung her head and picked on the skin around her nail. “I’m sorry.”

  “You trust me too, don’t you?” Ember whispered.

  Poppy looked up, then finally spoke. “I think I’m a witch.”

  “A witch?” The word caught in Ember’s throat and she had to force it out.

  Poppy’s face had become more animated. There was a light in her eyes. “I think that’s why I met you. I think you and I were destined to meet. So you could show me. Teach me.” Ember almost choked at that one. There was a sharp taste in her mouth and she wanted to spit it out. Poppy grabbed both Ember’s hands. “Don’t you see, Ember? My mother knew. She knew I was different and it made her crazy. Look at my eyes.”

  Ember stared into them. It was like looking into two separate souls. “I know they’re different colors, but that means nothing,” she argued. “Plenty of witches have the same color eyes.” Poppy’s mouth opened with a retort, but Ember saw her think twice about it. Ember stared with wide eyes back at her friend, and in a small voice, she added, “Not just me. My cousin Sorrel, my mother, my aunt, plenty of us.”

  Poppy dropped Ember’s hands and looked away. Then she spoke again, just as vehemently. “And the cats? So many of them keep following me every time we move to a new house. And the insects that gather around me. You don’t understand, Ember. So much weird stuff keeps happening to me. It always has.”