CHAPTER 13
Her office was on the first floor, off the sitting room with the spindly chairs. I noticed as we walked through this time that the spindly chairs had been replaced with prettier, much sturdier-looking wingback chairs, and the vaguely moldy-looking couches had been reupholstered in a cheery white-and-yellow-stripe fabric.
“When did you get new furniture?” I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. “We didn’t. It’s a perception spell.”
“Excuse me?”
“One of Jessica Prentiss’s ideas. The furnishings of the house reflect the beholder’s mind. That way we can gauge your comfort level with the school by what you see.”
“So I imagined the gross furniture?”
“In a way, yes.”
“What about the outside of the house? No offense, or anything, but it still looks pretty rank.”
Mrs. Casnoff gave a low laugh. “No, the spell is only used in the public rooms of the house: the lounge areas, the classrooms, and so forth. Hecate must maintain some of its brooding air, don’t you think?”
I turned in the doorway of Mrs. Casnoff’s office and looked again at the sitting room. Now I could see the way the couches, chairs, even the curtains shimmered and wavered slightly, like heat rising off a road.
Weird.
I’d thought Mrs. Casnoff would have the biggest, grandest room in the house. You know, something filled with ancient books, with heavy oak furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Instead she led me into a small windowless room. It smelled strongly of her lavender perfume, and another stronger, bitter smell. After a moment I realized it was tea. A small electric kettle was bubbling away on the edge of the desk, which wasn’t the wooden monstrosity I’d imagined, but simply a small table.
There were books, but they were stacked in vertical rows around three of the four walls. I tried to make out the titles on the spines, but those that weren’t too faded to read were in languages I didn’t know.
The only thing in Mrs. Casnoff’s office that was even remotely like I’d expected was her chair. It was less of a chair, really, and more like a throne: a tall, heavy chair covered in purple velvet.
The chair on the other side of the desk was lower by a good five inches, and as I sat in it, I immediately felt about six years old.
Which, I guessed, was the point.
“Tea?” she asked after primly arranging herself on her purple throne.
“Sure.”
A few more moments passed in silence as she poured me a cup of thick red tea. Without asking, she added milk and sugar.
I took a sip. It tasted exactly like the tea my mom made for me on rainy winter days: days we’d spent curled up on the couch, reading or talking. The familiar taste was comforting, and I felt myself relax slightly.
Which, again, had probably been the point.
I looked up at her. “How did you—”
Mrs. Casnoff just waved her hand. “I’m a witch, Sophia.”
I scowled. Being manipulated has always been one of my least favorite things. Right up there with snakes. And Britney Spears.
“So you know a spell that makes tea taste like . . . tea?”
Mrs. Casnoff took a sip from her cup, and I got the impression she was trying to hold back a laugh. “Actually, it’s a little more than that.” She gestured to the kettle. “Open it.”
I leaned forward and did just that.
It was empty.
“Your favorite drink is your mother’s Irish breakfast tea. Had it been lemonade, you would have found that in your cup. Had it been hot chocolate, you would have had that. It’s a basic comfort spell that’s very useful for putting people at ease. As you were before your naturally suspicious nature kicked in.”
Wow. She was good. I had never even attempted an all-purpose spell before.
But not like I was going to let her know I was impressed.
“What if my favorite drink had been beer? Would you have given me a frosty mug of that?”
She lifted her shoulders in something that was far too elegant to be called a shrug. “There, I may have been somewhat stymied.”
Pulling a leather portfolio out of a stack of folders on her desk, she settled back into her throne.
“Tell me, Sophia,” Mrs. Casnoff said, “what exactly do you know about your family?”
She was leaning back in her chair, one ankle crossed over the other, looking as casual as was possible for her.
“Not much,” I said warily. “My mom’s from Tennessee, and both her parents died in a car accident when she was twenty—”
“That is not the side of your family I was referring to,” Mrs. Casnoff said. “What do you know of your father’s people?”
Now she wasn’t even trying to disguise her eagerness. I suddenly felt like something very important depended on my next answer.
“All I know is that my father is a warlock named James Atherton. Mom met him in England, and he said he grew up there, but she wasn’t sure if that was true.”
With a sigh, Mrs. Casnoff put down her cup and began rummaging through the leather portfolio. She slid her glasses down from their usual spot on top of her head as she muttered, “Let’s see, I just saw . . . Ah yes, here it is.”
She reached into the portfolio, then suddenly stopped and looked up at me.
“Sophia, it is imperative that what we discuss in this room remains in this room. Your father asked me to share this with you when I thought the time was appropriate, and I feel that time has come.”
I just nodded. I mean, what can you say to a speech like that?
Apparently that worked for her, and she handed me a black-and-white picture. A young woman stared back at me. She looked maybe a few years older than me, and from the style of her clothes, I could guess that the picture had been taken some time in the 1960s. Her dress was dark, and it fluttered around her calves as though a gentle breeze had just caught it. Her hair was light, probably blond or red.
Just behind her, I could make out the front porch of Hecate Hall. The shutters had been white back then.
She was smiling, but the smile looked tight, forced.
Her eyes. Large, widely spaced, and very light.
And very familiar.
The only other eyes I’d even seen like that had been my father’s, in the only picture I had of him.
“Who—” My voice broke a little. “Who is this?”
I looked up at Mrs. Casnoff to find her watching me closely. “That,” she said, pouring herself another cup of tea, “is your grandmother, Lucy Barrow Atherton.”
My grandmother. For the longest moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I just stared at the face, trying desperately to find myself in it.
I couldn’t find anything. Her cheekbones were sharp and high, and my face is slightly rounded. Her nose was too long to resemble mine, and her lips too thin.
I looked into her face, which despite the smile, looked so sad.
“She was here?” I asked.
Mrs. Casnoff placed her glasses on top of her head and nodded. “Lucy actually grew up here at Hecate, back before it was Hecate, of course. I believe that picture was taken shortly after your father was born.”
“Did you . . . did you know her?”
Mrs. Casnoff shook her head. “I’m afraid that was before my time. But most Prodigium know of her, of course. Her story was a very unique one.”
For sixteen years I had wondered who I really was, where I came from. And here was the answer right in front of me. “Why?”
“I told you the story of the origins of Prodigium your first day here. Do you remember?”
It was like two weeks ago, I thought. Of course I remember. But I decided to store the sarcasm, and said, “Right. Angels. War with God.”
“Yes. However, in your case, your family did not gain its powers until 1939, when your great-grandmother Alice was sixteen.”
“I thought you had to be born a witch. Mom said that only vampires start out as human.”
Mrs. Casnoff nodded. “Usually that is the case. However, there is always the odd human who attempts to change their fate. They find a spell book or a special incantation, some way to imbue themselves with the divine, the mystical. Very few survive the process. Your great-grandmother was one of the few.”
Not knowing what to say, I took a long drink of my tea. It was cold, and the sugar had settled at the bottom, making it syrupy.
“How?” I finally asked.
Mrs. Casnoff sighed. “There, I am sadly at a loss. If Alice ever spoke in depth to anyone about her experiences, it was never recorded. I only know what I’ve picked up here and there. Apparently, she had gotten mixed up with a particularly nasty witch who was attempting to enhance her own powers through the aid of black magic, magic that has been outlawed by the Council since the seventeenth century. No one is exactly sure how Alice was involved with this woman—a Mrs. Thorne, I believe her name was—or even if she knew what the woman was. Somehow the spell that was meant for Mrs. Thorne transformed Alice instead.”
“Wait, but you said Mrs. Thorne was using black magic for this spell, right?”
Mrs. Casnoff nodded. “Yes. Truly terrible stuff, too. Alice was very lucky she wasn’t killed during the transformation. Mrs. Thorne was not as fortunate.”
I suddenly felt like I’d swallowed a tray of ice cubes, but even as my stomach froze, beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.
“So my . . . my great-grandmother was made into a witch by black magic? As in, the worst, most dangerous kind of magic ever?”
Again, Mrs. Casnoff nodded. She was still looking at me very closely.
“Your great-grandmother was an aberration, Sophia. I’m sorry. I know that’s a very ugly word, but there’s no way around it.”
“How”—my voice came out as a croak, and I cleared my throat—“what happened to her?”
Mrs. Casnoff sighed. “She was eventually found by a member of the Council in London. She’d been committed to an asylum, ranting and raving about witches and demons. The Council member brought her and your grandmother Lucy to Hecate.”
“My grandmother?” I looked down at the photo in my hands.
“Yes. Alice was pregnant when she was found. They waited until your grandmother was born to bring them both here.”
She poured herself another cup of tea. I got the feeling that she didn’t really want to say anything else, but I had to ask. “So what happened then?”
Mrs. Casnoff stirred her tea with the sort of concentration usually reserved for brain surgery. “Alice did not adjust well to her transformation,” she answered without looking at me. “After three months here at Hecate, she somehow contrived to escape. Again, no one is sure how, but Alice had some very powerful magic at her disposal. And then . . .” Mrs. Casnoff paused to take a sip of tea.
“And then?” I repeated.
Finally she lifted her eyes to mine. “She was murdered. L’Occhio di Dio.”
“How did we know it was—”
“They’re very distinctive in their disposal of us,” she replied briskly. “In any case, Lucy, who had been left behind, stayed here at Hecate so the Council could observe her.”
“What, like a science experiment?” I didn’t mean to sound so angry, but I was beyond freaked out.
“Alice’s power had been off the charts. She was literally the strongest Prodigium that had ever been recorded. It was vital that the Council know if that level of magic had been passed down to her daughter, who was, after all, half human.”
“Had it?”
“Yes. And that power was also passed to your father.” Her eyes met mine. “And to you.”