Chapter Text
It is the time of year at Cackle’s when many things may or may not be alive, and there is a sense in the air that they are still deciding. A thin layer of fog hangs low to the ground, slicking the mossy paths with its moisture. Chestnut husks cling to every surface, dressed in silk like tiny residents of the local graveyard.
Hecate dawdles along, her face buried in a potions textbook, trying to sidestep the clumps of leaves and stones that have bunched together in the rain. Her shoes are worn enough already and she’s not sure if they will withstand another battering. There’s only so many times you can repair leather before the holes refuse to mend. Another pair is out of the question.
She makes it almost to the turning for the left wing when she collides heavily with a brute force, her belongings scattering across the floor. A sharp sound of surprise spills from her throat. Too stunned initially to react, Hecate’s arms hang limp at her sides and her fingers flex, vaguely registering what they’ve dropped.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, Dracula,” someone hisses, and it takes Hecate a moment to realise that they are talking to her. She looks up from surveying her books to see Yarrow Cornish in front of her, stony faced and bitter. It’s the first time that Hecate remembers any of her classmates addressing her directly and she balks, stooping as she scrambles to collect her possessions.
Her books are impossibly caked in mud. The pages flap in the wind as she bundles them into her arms, worrying over whether she will be able to undo the damage. Library fines are steep and she hasn’t got many coins left to last the term.
As Hecate stands, she notices more girls shrouding them. The two flanking Yarrow, Ebony and Juniper, are sniggering, a loud, almost deafening sound that makes Hecate want to run. Yarrow squares up to her, uncomfortably close. Her red hair twists into fiery corkscrews, gorgon-like and wild, against her scalp. She seems to tower over her, though Hecate’s the tallest in their year.
Hecate feels her chest beginning to burn. She’s well aware that Yarrow is the most popular witch in her class, the top of a hierarchy that Hecate has never paid much mind to until now. Her parents had paid generously to secure her a place at the school, donating substantial funds for the new library, which she has never stepped a foot inside. She flaunts her status like a sceptre and the other girls hang on her every word, desperate for a slice of popularity.
“Well?” Yarrow’s voice is demanding, her hand wedged on her hip. Disdain drips from every word. “Are you going to apologise to me or not?”
Hecate straightens awkwardly, like a plant in a dark room growing and growing as it tries to find the sunlight. She fiddles with the strap of her satchel.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t...” Hecate’s eyebrows draw together, remorse flooding her features. Her words are uncertain and flimsy, like a fawn trying to find its footing. The other girls stare at her expectantly, nudging each other and smirking.
She swallows harshly. This sudden thrust into the spotlight is too much. She’s not sure what she’s done to provoke such hatred from her classmates. The back of her neck prickles, uneasiness mounting as she starts to suspect that this encounter had been planned.
Hecate has always tried to keep to herself, to mind her own business, too burdened by hers to take on anyone else’s. She’s kept company only with the owls and the rats, feeding them scraps that she secretes away from her plate at meals. She has never wanted any kind of attention from her peers, let alone animosity.
The fringe of woodland that runs in the distance is home to wild deer that run rampant across the edges of the grounds. Hecate admires their antlers: marvels that they wear their weapons in public. They have no notion of keeping anything up their sleeves.
If only it was the same with her classmates, though perhaps she hadn’t been vigilant enough to note the signs of their dislike. Sometimes it is better to see the snake before it strikes.
She tries again, wanting this to end. Teetering on a ledge that she is rapidly slipping over. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Yarrow slices through her reply. “Oh, I think you knew exactly what you were doing. Not enough just to sabotage my potion so you come top of the class yet again.” An icy breeze whips around them but Hecate barely feels it, goosebumps already covering her skin.
And Yarrow is nowhere near finished. “Always the know-it-all, trying to shove in our faces how clever you are. Well, guess what? It’s pathetic. You’re a nobody.” Loathing ripples off her like dark clouds blotting out the horizon.
Hecate’s insides coil tightly like a serpent readying itself, heat rising to her cheeks as she shakes her head. Apprehension is building swiftly within her stomach. This seems to be spinning out of control so quickly and she can’t find her balance.
“I would never—” She wants to protest against the accusations steeped against her that are nowhere near to being true, but she stops, anticipating that any words she offers will fall short.
She’s had enough. Even if she has to walk the whole perimeter of the castle to get back it’s a better option than enduring any more of what’s unfolding here. Bowing her head, she turns on her heel to leave, but as she takes the first step she feels a sharp pain against her scalp. And then Yarrow’s fingers move down, snatching the middle of Hecate’s dark braid and yanking her backwards.
Hecate barely resists the urge to scream, her hands flying up to free herself until she’s once again nose to nose with Yarrow. Her eyes close involuntarily and her jaw tightens. Hecate counts backwards from ten. Tries to list the ingredients for Ariadne’s serum one by one in her mind. Orris root, ground citrine, a raven’s feather. A crow’s feather will do in a pinch.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Yarrow all but snarls, clicking her fingers at Juniper in some form of wordless instruction. “We aren’t done talking. Don’t you know that it’s very rude to walk away when someone’s speaking to you?” Hecate feels trapped and tiny, like she might at any second be snuffed out by a wet thumb and forefinger. Yarrow is too close, too close, and she can’t breathe.
Suddenly Juniper barrels forward, ripping the potions book from Hecate’s hands. She tosses it to the ground and stomps on it, grinding it underfoot. Hecate can hear titters of laughter swarming around her and it takes everything in her not to cry. She will not break in front of them, will not cower. She digs her nails into her palms until she’s sure she can feel muscle pushing back.
The trees a little way back, gnarled and noble oaks, cast shadows on the ground in front of her. Misshapen and bony as the undead. Sturdy secret keepers. She wants to hide amongst them, unseen and unnoticed, so that no one can ever find her again. She wishes to be as invisible as an uttered curse.
“No one likes you, you know? Just because Miss Greyhorn thinks you’re hot shit doesn’t mean anyone else does.” Yarrow is smiling in a way that makes bile rise in Hecate’s throat. The others are still eyeing her slyly, whispering between themselves, but Hecate’s vision is blurring and she can no longer make out faces. Only pearly white teeth and open mouths, twisting as they surround her.
“Truth be told,” Yarrow gestures around her in a circle, voice low and saccharine, “we’re all rather tired of your insufferable presence. So you might as well do us all a favour and end it like your—”
Something black and hot scorches through Hecate, the mass that has been expanding behind her ribs finally rupturing. Magic is organic and in constant flux. It abides by no rules, and unless properly channelled it has a way of creeping out and making up its own mind.
Before she can pin it down and control it, before she can even begin to think of the repercussions, Hecate throws up her wrist. Red sparks fly out and Yarrow is knocked from her feet, her words dying in the air as she hurtles backwards, landing unceremoniously on the floor. Hecate feels violently sick. There is something murky and dreadful in not knowing what your own hands might be capable of when pushed to the limit.
There’s only a split second that passes before Yarrow’s eyes lock with Hecate’s. It’s just enough time for Hecate to realise the gravity of her actions, the target that she has pinned against her forehead, though she suspects it was sketched there long before.
Yarrow rears up, screeching, grabbing Hecate by the shoulders and using all of her weight to shove her backwards as hard as she can. Magic is all well and good, but when it boils down to it, darker things require flesh and blood.
Like a piece of straw meeting a hurricane, Hecate’s lithe frame sails towards the ground erratically, knocking into a statue of Persephone cradling a posy of flowers. The impact brings it crashing down beside her, pieces shattering against the stone.
She is momentarily winded, her arms still covering her face as she desperately tries to get her bearings. The previous night had been witness to a hard frost and the path is still freezing beneath her. Her body is bent at an awkward angle, sprawled untidily across the cobbles. Her mouth tastes of salt.
The back of her head throbs and she feels dizzy, but she just about makes out Yarrow’s threat she fires it. “I will get you for this, Hecate Hardbroom. Count your days.” She wipes the back of her hand against her nose and is startled to find red smeared against her pale skin.
It is only then that Pippa nears the group, finally lifting her eyes from a well-worn copy of Jane Eyre. Her slight form edges closer, draped from head to toe in the pinkest robes imaginable. Her cheeks are ruddy from the wind and only add to the headlong assault of colour that nearly blinds Hecate as she squints against the pain in her shins.
In a sudden flash, Mistress Hazelgrove appears at the heart of the chaos, with the look of someone who has just been dragged into the cold from their favourite spot by the hearth.
“And just what is the meaning of this rabble?” Burning eyes flit between the broken figure and Hecate’s drooping limbs. She turns sharply, scanning the faces of the other girls, who are now very interested in their shoelaces. Using her hand to shield the last rays of the sun from her face, Hecate tries desperately to make out what is unfolding.
Mistress Hazelgrove grunts, displeasure marring her typically schooled features. Her gaze drifts to Pippa and she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply.
From the very start of her time at Cackle’s, Pippa had refused to wear anything but pink, much to the chagrin of the school board. The dress regulations were not taken lightly by the powers that be, but Pippa, too smart for her own good, and too sweet to be angry with, had matter-of-factly threatened to cite eleven separate stipulations of the Code that Cackle’s was violating, and eventually they had relented.
Usually, if there is mischief to be found, Pippa is knee-deep in the midst of it. Nothing serious, mind. Nothing sinister. But if one of Rudge’s strawberry pies vanishes from the kitchen, it is a fair bet that Pippa will be vehemently declaring her innocence in such matters with sticky, red fingers behind her back. On this occasion, however, Pippa’s eyes are wide, trying to work out what she’s missed.
Mistress Hazelgrove shifts again to look at Hecate who still hasn’t moved. Her robes are ripped and in dire need of stitches, dirt crusts her scraped knees and she is breathing heavily, very probably on the verge of tears. This is not what she envisaged when she began turning in for the evening. Shaking her head, she grudgingly proffers her hand towards the trembling girl on the ground.
Hecate’s eyes dart wildly, not daring to look at Mistress Hazelgrove as she solemnly reaches for the extended hand and allows herself to be lifted to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Mistress Hazelgrove, I—” she stammers, tripping over her words. Dread twists in her abdomen. She chews her lip, unable to continue. How is she supposed to explain herself with a thousand beady eyes watching her, waiting?
She quickly casts a mending spell over the buckle of her shoe, which has somehow torn in the scuffle. It’s a shoddy job, but it will have to do under the circumstances.
“Who is responsible for this? I’ve a good mind to expel all of you insolent witches at once. Brawling like caged wolves will not be tolerated at this school.”
For what seems like an eternity, no one speaks. Hecate once again watches the shadows swaying on the floor, slow and ill-defined. Enviable.
Yarrow’s voice unspools across the silence with cold conviction. “It was Pippa.” Pippa gapes, a peppermint hanging from her tongue, and manages only a small noise. Her golden hair glows against a backdrop of girls elbowing each other.
Hecate’s mouth opens. She wants to speak up, to tell the truth, to claim Pippa’s innocence, though she’s unsure if she was there, watching and tight-lipped, for the worst of it. A smug grin slides across Yarrow’s lips in triumph.
“Is this true, Pippa?” Mistress Hazelgrove frowns, disbelief evident, as she looks between the two offenders. She clicks her tongue. “Given your outstanding records I suppose that dismissal can be waved. But you know what the punishment is for quarrels such as this. The turret will be a sufficient remedy for your ills.”
The turret. The threat of the tower has long kept many girls from stepping a foot out of line at Cackle’s. Rumours that it is haunted have swirled the campus for years. Tales of several students who had ventured to explore it one All Hallow’s and came back mute and shaken. At the very least, its rafters are filled with bats and spiders are no doubt present in their droves.
Pippa’s eyes flick to Hecate, who looks dangerously close to crying. It is the first time she has really seen the strange girl outside of their classroom, but in the daylight she doesn’t seem so strange after all. She seems real, and frightened, with a line of blood against her cheek.
Pippa has known Yarrow since they were infants, running around dwarfed by their mothers’ pointed hats. But she has changed, toughened, and Pippa fears what Yarrow might do to someone like Hecate if they are alone together each night in the turret. She thinks of Jane in the Red Room, alone and helpless. How things might have been different if only she’d had a friend by her side. Makes up her mind and does the only thing that her heart will permit.
“Yes, I’m afraid it was me, Mistress Hazelgrove.” Hecate’s gaze locks with Pippa’s and she is surprised to find that her eyes are almost beseeching. She doesn’t understand why Pippa has confessed to something that she’s not guilty of doing, but she bites back the urge to protest, afraid to incur more of Yarrow’s wrath. Cowardly. But there’s also something unspoken that Pippa is trying to communicate, and she instinctively knows that she should not challenge her.
Instead, she says meekly, “And me, Mistress Hazelgrove.” Shame scorches her cheeks for a multitude of reasons, but she wants to offer something in return, though she can’t pinpoint Pippa’s motives. Though her words are about as useful as a bent penny.
“I’d puzzled that one out,” the older woman snaps, waving her hand dismissively in the air. There’s anger there, but Hecate surmises that it’s also annoyance at being kept from something that she feels to be entirely more pressing. A bottle of port, perhaps, judging from the leathery scent of berries that Hecate smells on the breeze.
Mistress Hazelgrove sighs, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “Pippa, your parents are going to be very disappointed when they hear about what has transpired here, as am I. And Hecate—” She turns her attention to the latter, catching herself before she speaks. It’s an omission that is almost a kindness. She says more gently, “Gather your things. And collect some spare blankets from your dormitories. I’ve been told that the turret is rather drafty.”
Hecate knows better than to argue, doesn’t dare to test the consequences should she refuse the request. Though she’s indignant at the injustice of it all, she spares a glance at the shock of pink beside her and eases. Her significant annoyance dissipates, giving way to something quiet, and almost warm.