The Witches of Cambridge (25 page)

“Hey, Sylvie,” Eliot says gently, “don’t be rude to your—”

“My what? What is she to me? She’s nothing to me.”

“She’s my wife,” Eliot says. “And I’d like for you to be nice to her, please.”

Sylvia rolls her eyes.

“Shall we come in and say hello to your mother?” Eliot asks.

Sylvia shakes her head. “Don’t bother, she hates her”—she nods at Amandine—“anyway.”

“It’s okay.” Amandine shifts forward again. “Let us in, sweetie, we just want to check everything’s okay.”

“No, go away.” Sylvia clutches the door frame, her knuckles white. “I don’t want you here. Go away, go away!”

Eliot frowns. “Why are you being like this, Sylvia? What made you so angry? It’s not—”

Amandine shakes her head, looking straight at Sylvia. “She’s not angry. She’s scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yes. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

Sylvia scowls. “I’m not scared, you’re stupid.”

“What is it?” Amandine steps closer and Sylvia shrinks back into the gap between the door and the wall. “Is it your mum? Is she okay?”

“Go away,” Sylvia shouts. “You’re not part of my family. You’re nothing to me.”

“Sylvia!” Eliot snaps.

Sylvia narrows her eyes and screams, “Fuck off!” then slams the door.

Amandine and Eliot stand on the doorstep, staring at each other in shock. For a moment everything is silent. Then they hear Sylvia suddenly burst into sobs behind the door.

“Sylvia, darling, let us in.” Eliot pounds his fist against the door.

“Sylvia, please, we can help you,” Amandine says softly, wishing Kat was with them and could cast a spell to loosen the lock.

And then, slowly, the door opens. Eliot quickly steps inside and pulls his daughter into him, holding her close to his chest while she sobs. Amandine slides through the gap and into the house. She hurries down the corridor, glancing into the open rooms as she goes. Pushing through the kitchen door, Amandine backtracks into the living room, having caught sight of something. When she steps inside Amandine sees Tina lying across the sofa, her arms flopped to the floor, a bottle of vodka standing upright on the coffee table.

“Eliot!” Amandine calls out as she strides across the plush cream carpet to the sofa. “Eliot. Come here!” She hears him behind her as she’s checking Tina’s pulse. Sylvia’s sobbing gets louder.

“Has she taken anything?” Eliot asks his daughter. “Any pills?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvia gulps, “she’s always taking pills.”

“She’s unconscious,” Amandine says. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No!” Sylvia cries. “Don’t! I did it once, she nearly killed me. I just let her sleep it off. She’ll be okay. She’s always okay.”

“We can’t take that risk.” Amandine pulls her phone out of her pocket and presses 999. “We can’t be sure she’ll be okay.”

“No!” Sylvia screams, hurling herself toward Amandine and hitting her. “Stop! Stop!”

Eliot jumps into the room and grabs his daughter, holding her tight while Amandine talks into the phone.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Eliot whispers. “I’ve got you now, I won’t let you go, I promise, I won’t let you go.”

—

For the last few weeks Noa has felt awful. Her head is heavy as lead, her vision blurred by dust motes that float in and out, her fingers trembling so she’s constantly dropping things. Today, given the task of setting up a viewing gallery for the Rothko auction, Noa is having trouble seeing the colors.

She steps back from a large red and blue canvas and squints her eyes, but the colors are muted and fading and sliding into each other.

“What’s going on?”
Noa whispers, her hands sticky with panic, her heart racing in her chest. The pounding of her heart spreads to her head and Noa wonders if she’s about to have a brain aneurysm or some sort of mild stroke.

Stumbling toward a marble bench in the gallery, Noa collapses, shoulders hunched, head down on her knees. A swell of nausea overcomes her. Shaking, Noa starts to sob, mumbling prayers that no one will walk in and see her.
What’s happening? What the hell is happening to me?

When Noa takes a deep breath and looks up, she’s staring straight at herself: naked and smiling a little self-consciously, a huge canvas framed on the wall. Noa stares. There’s something strange about the painting and she can’t initially put her finger on it. Then, gazing up at her own eyes, she realizes. It’s as if Noa is staring into her own soul, as if her spirit has been captured so completely on canvas that it’s stronger, brighter, more alive than when she looks into the mirror, at least lately. Ever since Santiago painted her damn portrait.

Noa squeezes her eyes shut, desperately hoping it will be gone and back to normal when she looks again. But, when Noa opens her eyes the painting hasn’t changed and now every Rothko has disappeared, replaced by more of Santiago’s naked women, their eyes all as bright as hers, as if he’s somehow snatched up their spirits and trapped them in oils.

And then there is Santiago standing in front of her.

Noa stumbles back.

“
Olá
, beautiful,” he says, stepping toward her. “Are you feeling a little under the weather? Shall I give you a kiss, make you feel all better?”

Noa stares at him, her heart nearly stopped by shock.

“Go away,” she mutters. “Leave me alone.”

“Aw, now, why would you say that?” Santiago gives her a dejected look, placing a thin hand to his chest. “You’d wound my feelings, you’d hurt my heart…” He grins. “If I had a heart, of course.”

“What have you done to me?” Noa cries. “What have you done?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Santiago says. “I’ve only caught a piece of your soul, that’s all.” He holds his thumb and forefinger apart an inch. “Just a tiny little piece. I’m surprised you’ve noticed it at all.”

Noa screams, pressing her hands hard over her eyes, her heart pounding, her skin wet with sweat. And when she looks again Santiago and his paintings have disappeared.

—

When Kat sees her sister walking toward her along King’s Parade, she almost turns and runs the other way. But, just as she’s about to, Cosima spots her and waves.

“Sis!” She hurries along the pavement until, a little breathless, she reaches Kat. “Sis, it’s been forever. Where’ve you been? You haven’t been into the café in ages. Are you avoiding me?”

Kat scowls at her sister. “Are you still going to pretend you’re not doing any baking spells?”

Cosima glances down at her feet. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

“You say that like I’m some sort of stick-in-the-mud,” Kat hisses, “like you’re getting stoned and I’m calling the police, but it’s not—”

Cosima smiles. “You actually did that once, remember?”

“Cosi! That was nothing compared with this. You’re messing around with something extremely dangerous. This isn’t simply breakup brownies, this is really serious. Forget about everything else, about poor duped George, and stupid ex-Tommy, and all that. If you get pregnant, you’re risking your life.”

A guilty look flits over Cosima’s face. “I’m not hurting George, he’s happy, he wants—”

“He’s not in love with you, Cosi, you’ve cast a spell on him. That isn’t love and I…”

“Shut up!” Cosima shouts suddenly. “Just shut up!”

Kat looks at her sister, shocked.

Cosima’s face falls. “Look, it’s too late, okay? It’s too late. I’ve already done it.”

“Done what?”

But Cosima doesn’t have a chance to say anything before Kat understands. “Oh, God. It’s done, isn’t it? You’re—you’re already pregnant.”

Cosima nods. Slowly.

“Hell, Cosi, what were you thinking?” Kat snaps. “I don’t believe, I can’t believe…You can’t keep it, you can’t risk your life for something like that, you can’t—”

“
Something like that?
That’s my baby you’re talking about, not some sort of…meaningless mathematical equation.”

“That’s, that’s not what I meant.”

Cosima shakes her head. “Yes, it was. You don’t get it, you’ve got no idea how I feel. You don’t know what it’s like to want something so desperately and be denied it. You’re so smart and amazing and you’ve always gotten everything you’ve ever wanted, just like that, well—”

“I haven’t.” Kat’s eyes fill with tears. “I haven’t.”

Cosima reaches out to her sister, their fight instantly forgotten. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kat mumbles, “it’s not important, not right now”—she nods at Cosima’s belly—“not compared to this.”

“I’m sorry, sis, I know…I just…”

“No, Cosi, you don’t know. You’re risking your life, it’s insane—have you told Tommy?”

Cosima nods. “I called him. He said he was still sad about what he’d done, and sorry, but he was happy for me and his…she gave birth a month ago. So he’s already a father—Lily Rose, that’s his daughter’s name.” Cosima laughs, though her eyes fill with tears. “Hey, maybe our girls can play together, maybe they’ll be best friends, how crazy would that be?”

Kat rests her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cosi, I really am. It’s horrible, what you’ve been through. But what about George? Don’t you care what he feels, what he wants—you didn’t think, Cosi, you just didn’t think it through at all.”

“Hey,” Cosima protests, “I did think about him, of course I did—and it was an accident. I didn’t mean to enchant him, I only meant to…anyway, it’s not the end of the world, he wants kids and I’ll sort out the spell thing. I’m still working on it, but I’ll figure it out. Then I’ll be able to explain everything to him. He’s a wonderful man and he’ll be a wonderful father. It’ll be…” Tears fill Cosima’s eyes. “Please let me do this, please. Don’t take her away, I couldn’t live if you…I can’t live without her now, not anymore.”

“Her?”

Cosima nods, then smiles, wiping her eyes. “Yes.” She places her hand on the small swell of her stomach. “I’m sure.”

Kat sighs, knowing she’d already lost the battle before she even began. “But what about you, about the risks, what are you going to do? No doctor will support you in going through with…”

“It’s okay,” Cosima says, “don’t worry, I’m managing it. Herbs, spells, all that…you don’t have to worry about me.”

Kat looks at her sister and her eyes fill with tears again. “But I do, I do worry about you, I always have. And, your daughter, you’ll always worry about her too, that’s what being a mother means.”

“Oh, sis,” Cosima says, and starts to cry.

—

When Cosima returns to the café that evening she bakes a spell to heal her sister’s heart, to help her find love. If Cosima doesn’t make it through this pregnancy after all, if Kat’s fears are founded, then Cosima wants to be sure her sister is taken care of. She wants to be certain that Kat will find true love one day—sooner rather than later. And there is only one cake that will take care of that: a special one of her own creation.

Cosima lines up all her little jars of dried herbs and flowers, then carefully picks the ones she needs.

“Acacia, for secret love. Celandine, for joys to come. Bluebell,” she whispers, “for constancy. Bougainvillea, for passion. And chrysanthemum, for truth.”

She finds her special ceramic baking bowl and begins to add the usual ingredients: flour, sugar, butter, and eggs.

“And the only flavor strong enough to mask the flowers.” Cosima opens the cupboard above her head and takes down two bars of the finest dark chocolate she’s ever tasted. “Ninety-nine percent. Perfect.”

After she’s grated in a beetroot, for moisture, and added vanilla pods, for extra flavor, Cosima pours the dark, thick mixture into a small baking tin and slips it into the oven. An hour later, she cools the cake, then glazes its black (with a tint of purple) surface with a chocolate icing seasoned with a little dust of daffodil, passionflower, and cosmos: new beginnings, faith, joy in love and life. Then she places it gently in a bright red tin and walks with it to Kat’s house. Just as she’s about to ring the bell, Kat opens the door.

“Hey,” Cosima says. She holds out the tin to her sister.

Kat eyes her suspiciously. “You expect me to eat that?”

Cosima nods. “Please. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

“I won’t?”

Cosima smiles. “I promise.”

—

“A little lower, lower, lower—that’s it. Stop.”

Noa stands on a ladder holding aloft a very valuable painting. It’s to appear in an exhibition by a modestly famous artist who creates vivid reproductions of bloody carcasses being devoured by vultures and lions. Noa has an inkling, deep in the recesses of her memory, that she didn’t used to like this artist’s work, but now she finds herself admiring the paintings. When her boss comments on the brilliant originality and searing realism of the art, Noa agrees wholeheartedly.

“Next.”

With great relief, Noa steps down off the ladder. She’s been feeling dizzy lately and not simply when she’s standing up high. She selects the next painting and takes a few deep breaths before slowly ascending the ladder again.

“This is going to be a major auction,” her boss says. “We’re anticipating seven figures for that one.”

Facing the wall, Noa frowns. “That’s…incredible,” she ventures, “though I’m not surprised.”

“Yes, indeed, exactly,” he says. “It’s what we should expect. Lower on the left, a little more, that’s it. Stop.”

With a small sigh, Noa climbs down again. As they walk together to the next piece, Noa carrying the ladder in both arms, she glances over at him: highly polished shoes striding, bespoke-suited arms swinging by his sides. She wants to ask him something, something important, but she can’t think what. Noa focuses intently, squeezing one eye shut, trying to catch hold of the feeling and envision the words, her own words, deep down in her murky soul. And then, like the carcass of a dead dolphin washing up on a beach of black sand, something pops to the surface.

“All right then,” he says, “let’s get on with it.”

As Noa nods and sets down the ladder again, the tide sweeps in and pulls the body back into the depths of the ocean again. She picks up the painting and steps onto the first rung of the ladder. As she places her foot on the next step, she tastes the tang of cachaça at the back of her throat.