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By Root 1151 0

ago had been killed by the local women. But the story had scared her because she was a twin. It was like when a plane crashed: She felt a connection. And so she had asked her mom whether she thought there might be witches living here in Bethel. Her mom, in turn, had said that the women were merely eccentrics, and then she had explained what this new word meant. She had said there were lots of rumors about what the women did, but there were no such things as witches—just as there were no such things as ghosts or vampires or werewolves. The truth, her mom insisted, was that these women were just very, very interested in plants—flowers and herbs, especially. And, maybe because they took themselves so seriously, they had made some enemies. Or, at least, gotten a reputation for being self-important and strange. But that’s all there was to it: Women like Clary and Sage and Anise and Reseda might be eccentric, but they most assuredly were not witches.

Hallie had moved a third doll in front of the kettle and was surveying her work, wondering what to add next, when she saw the house go dark. One moment she had been aware of the glow from the lights that were on in rooms on every single floor of the place, even the third floor, where she and Garnet slept, and the next the house had vanished completely into the moonless night. The greenhouse was still lit by her lantern, but the rest of the world had gone black. She understood that this was a blackout: They had had them once in a great while in the winter back in West Chester, and they had already had a couple of them here in Bethel. Nevertheless, this was scary. Blackouts always were scary. But this was worse because she was all alone out here in the greenhouse and her mind had been wandering among visions of witches. Her first thought was to race for the main house, maybe calling for Garnet and Molly and searching out their lantern as she ran. But she took a breath and reminded herself that either the lights would pop back on any second or—if they didn’t—Mom or Dad would be out here to get her and her sister and their friend. And the last thing she wanted was to be caught running like some terrified toddler back to the house just because there was a blackout. So, working very hard to remain calm, she started rummaging through the miniature trunk in which she stored the dolls’ clothes, looking for appropriate attire and props for the scene they were constructing.

This is fall-of-man blackness, a despairing, debilitating sort of blindness. You hadn’t anticipated the cloak of misery that would descend upon you when you flipped the breaker—a light switch, but a click that is louder, sharper, and considerably more satisfying—and cut the power to the house. But the fuse box is in the basement, on the wall by the concrete pad that holds the appliances, so perhaps you should have known that you would not merely be blind, you would be dealt a body blow of gloom.

She deserves friends.

Usually, everything throbs more here in the basement. The top of your head, your lower back, and abdomen—sometimes the pain there is so pronounced that you see white spots of light and fear you will vomit. Back in Pennsylvania, you told a doctor it felt like you had been gored. But it’s not so bad at the moment. You can feel it, but it is more of an ambient twinge.

You are a pilot—you were a pilot—and so you tend always to be thinking ahead. Prior to flipping the breaker, you had counted exactly how many steps it was to the wheelbarrow ramp and unlatched the dead bolt and the chain, and removed the horizontal beam that Parnell Dunmore had used to keep out intruders. Prior to darkening the house—prior to even starting to clean the dinner dishes with Emily—you had brought down from the attic the carving knife that the Dunmores had left behind for you. Yes, for you. Every tool has a purpose. You cut the power with the fingers on your left hand because in your right you are holding the knife. Now you move across the basement, counting the steps in your mind, and in a moment you feel the start of the incline