. . gone.
I never asked if they found her body,
Jane realized. It would have seemed insensitive. Malcolm had said his sister had been swept away by the waves, but never mentioned a word about what had become of her then.
Jane shivered a little, although the spring day was mild. The sky was mostly blue, pregnant-looking clouds drifting slowly across it. Even in full sunlight, her mind kept returning to the dark coldness of being sucked underwater. Jane herself had nearly drowned once, although that had been in a murky pond rather than in a chaotic green ocean. Gran had saved her then, although it was only recently that Jane had realized that magic had probably played a part in her rescue. Having a witch for a guardian had been the difference between life and death . . . for her, at least. Might it not have been for Annette?
If she had survived, how could Lynne not know it?
Could Annette’s fake death have been some elaborate plot of Lynne’s? But there was no way. Malcolm’s entire life from the age of twelve on had been overshadowed by the loss of his sister, and it was Lynne who had made sure that that shadow stayed firmly in place. When he had balked at her nastier demands and more vicious plots, she had reminded him of how he owed her; how he must do whatever it took to make up for letting her precious little girl die.
And the girl
was
precious: since men could only carry magic passively in their genes, losing her only daughter had meant the end of Lynne Doran’s remarkable family legacy. That legacy stretched back in an unbroken line to Ambika, the very first witch, who had bequeathed her magic on her deathbed to be shared among her seven daughters. Hasina, one of the seven, had gone on to begin a centuries’-long chain of mothers passing their magic to daughters, sisters concentrating their power under the same roof, working together to create one of the most notoriously powerful families – magically or otherwise – in the world. And now it would all end with Lynne, who was so fiercely proud of her position and name; Lynne, who had to face the family tree carved on the marble wall of her parlour every day.
Jane spun the straw in her smoothie, wondering whether her name had been added to that tree yet. She had, after all, married Malcolm. And Lynne had intended to make sure that everything about their union was legal and binding, because it was their eventual daughter who would infuse Malcolm’s bloodline with Jane’s magic, revitalizing the House of Hasina all over again. It was a desperate plan, and Jane knew Lynne never would have resorted to something so complicated and Gothic if she had thought there was any chance that her own daughter might be alive and well somewhere.
A super-thin woman in the fluid, knee-length pants that Jane identified as ‘over two years ago’ surreptitiously tossed about half a pretzel to a pigeon before striding away out of the park. Within moments, the pigeon had been joined by about a hundred of its friends, flapping and jostling their fat grey bodies against one another for the best shot at food.
How could Lynne
not
know?
Jane had found Annette by accident, after all. But the glass unicorn that Malcolm had saved as a memento couldn’t be the only sentimental object of Annette’s that had been lying around after her ‘death’. In the absence of a body, surely Lynne would have exhausted every option, both mundane and magical, to find out for sure what had happened to her daughter. Even if she didn’t know Dee’s exact spell – which seemed unlikely, given how long Lynne had been practising magic and how many generations of witches she had learned her craft from – she must have had ways of verifying that Annette was really gone before giving up on her.
Jane slurped at the remains of her drink, thinking hard. Whatever Lynne had done to find Annette obviously hadn’t worked, because Annette was still alive and Lynne still didn’t know it. Whatever had stopped Lynne
I never asked if they found her body,
Jane realized. It would have seemed insensitive. Malcolm had said his sister had been swept away by the waves, but never mentioned a word about what had become of her then.
Jane shivered a little, although the spring day was mild. The sky was mostly blue, pregnant-looking clouds drifting slowly across it. Even in full sunlight, her mind kept returning to the dark coldness of being sucked underwater. Jane herself had nearly drowned once, although that had been in a murky pond rather than in a chaotic green ocean. Gran had saved her then, although it was only recently that Jane had realized that magic had probably played a part in her rescue. Having a witch for a guardian had been the difference between life and death . . . for her, at least. Might it not have been for Annette?
If she had survived, how could Lynne not know it?
Could Annette’s fake death have been some elaborate plot of Lynne’s? But there was no way. Malcolm’s entire life from the age of twelve on had been overshadowed by the loss of his sister, and it was Lynne who had made sure that that shadow stayed firmly in place. When he had balked at her nastier demands and more vicious plots, she had reminded him of how he owed her; how he must do whatever it took to make up for letting her precious little girl die.
And the girl
was
precious: since men could only carry magic passively in their genes, losing her only daughter had meant the end of Lynne Doran’s remarkable family legacy. That legacy stretched back in an unbroken line to Ambika, the very first witch, who had bequeathed her magic on her deathbed to be shared among her seven daughters. Hasina, one of the seven, had gone on to begin a centuries’-long chain of mothers passing their magic to daughters, sisters concentrating their power under the same roof, working together to create one of the most notoriously powerful families – magically or otherwise – in the world. And now it would all end with Lynne, who was so fiercely proud of her position and name; Lynne, who had to face the family tree carved on the marble wall of her parlour every day.
Jane spun the straw in her smoothie, wondering whether her name had been added to that tree yet. She had, after all, married Malcolm. And Lynne had intended to make sure that everything about their union was legal and binding, because it was their eventual daughter who would infuse Malcolm’s bloodline with Jane’s magic, revitalizing the House of Hasina all over again. It was a desperate plan, and Jane knew Lynne never would have resorted to something so complicated and Gothic if she had thought there was any chance that her own daughter might be alive and well somewhere.
A super-thin woman in the fluid, knee-length pants that Jane identified as ‘over two years ago’ surreptitiously tossed about half a pretzel to a pigeon before striding away out of the park. Within moments, the pigeon had been joined by about a hundred of its friends, flapping and jostling their fat grey bodies against one another for the best shot at food.
How could Lynne
not
know?
Jane had found Annette by accident, after all. But the glass unicorn that Malcolm had saved as a memento couldn’t be the only sentimental object of Annette’s that had been lying around after her ‘death’. In the absence of a body, surely Lynne would have exhausted every option, both mundane and magical, to find out for sure what had happened to her daughter. Even if she didn’t know Dee’s exact spell – which seemed unlikely, given how long Lynne had been practising magic and how many generations of witches she had learned her craft from – she must have had ways of verifying that Annette was really gone before giving up on her.
Jane slurped at the remains of her drink, thinking hard. Whatever Lynne had done to find Annette obviously hadn’t worked, because Annette was still alive and Lynne still didn’t know it. Whatever had stopped Lynne
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