“The Prince of Vultures represents what’s shedding Light, or casting Darkness, over your dilemma,” Gwyneth reminded me.

  “Picking over the dead?” I frowned. “Does that mean I should question the ghosts?”

  “Perhaps. But vultures aren’t only a symbol of death and cannibalizing ancient wisdom. They also symbolize silence,” Gwyneth said.

  There were all sorts of silences in my life—my own, Matthew’s, my parents’ secrets, Ysabeau’s untold tales. They cast a deep shadow over everything that I did.

  As I gazed over the cards, I recognized that The Box, The Key, and The Death’s Head all symbolized great mysteries. The Box’s image of chaos unleashed into the world was one option facing me. The Key, with its dual messages of opening doors and locking away secrets, and new possibilities as well as solutions to old problems, felt like a better second choice. But the oracles were suggesting that The Raven’s Head would lead to the best possible outcome.

  I sat back in my chair, reflecting on why the black bird oracle had chosen The Raven’s Head rather than one of the other raven cards. The image was specific to alchemy, representing the nigredo, or blackening phase, of the philosopher’s stone. Alchemists likened it to death, as the substances in the crucible were subjected to heat until they were reduced to ash, then put through other chemical processes to separate the charred substance from its inner spirit. The Raven’s Head was thus a symbol of rebirth, too.

  “The end of one stage of being, and the beginning of another,” I mused. “Shedding what’s not necessary to make room for something new.”

  I studied the cards that provided a horizontal axis for the spread: The Vulture Prince, The Heron Prince, The Owl Queen, Quintessence.

  “Matthew, Dad, Mom, and the children,” I said, running my finger across the cards to confirm that my reading was correct. They tingled and sparkled, the firelight catching the surface in glints of amber and blue.

  And I was The Unicorn caught in the maze of their conflicting desires. My confusion stemmed from the concerns and priorities of those I loved. How could it be otherwise, when the Bishops and Proctors were tied up with the de Clermonts, my magical talents, and Matthew’s blood rage?

  Somehow, Matthew and I had to do a better job keeping these threads untangled. Secrets and lies clogged the back of my throat and made my eyes stream with frustration as I contemplated what a difference it would have made if the important people in my life had chosen a different path.

  If only Dad hadn’t made my mother give up higher magic.

  If only my mother had stood up to him.

  If only Philippe hadn’t been such a good chess player.

  If only Ysabeau could part with her prejudices and secrets.

  If only I could center myself, quiet the constant chatter of guilt and responsibility, and choose—

  “What do you want to do, Diana?” Gwyneth inquired. “Don’t overthink it. Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

  “I want to best Meg at the Crossroads,” I said, surprised by my own vehemence. “And then I want to study higher magic until I am an adept, like my grandfather and mother before me.”

  The echo of my words filled the air. The hexafoils and sigils indicated that I had uttered a powerful truth, flickering in joyful pinpoints. The ancestral portraits reacted next, nodding their heads on stiff necks. The besom resting against the fireplace spun into the air and hung over the table, as if offering to take me on a wild ride through the stars.

  For the first time since coming to Ravenswood, I felt connected to the true spirit of the place. It may be shadowed in power and heavy with legacy, but at its core was the pure exhilaration of being true to one’s self.

  Gwyneth reached over and clasped my hand in hers. “Never forget the feeling of being aligned with your purpose. It will steer you through Shadow and illuminate your path no matter where it leads.”

  Right now, it was telling me that my husband and children belonged on the Dark Path with me.

  “I’m going to call Matthew.”

  * * *

  —

  Back at Orchard Farm, I put my treasured oracle cards to bed in the carved spellbox that Gwyneth had given me and settled into the armchair in my grandfather’s office.

  Then I dialed my husband’s cellphone.

  “You’re up late,” Matthew said. “The coven meeting must have lasted longer than you expected.”

  I swallowed around the lump in my throat, unable to say the words my heart yearned to speak.

  “Diana?” Matthew’s voice warmed with concern.

  “Could you come to Ipswich?”

  Matthew’s breath left his body in a whoosh of relief. “Thank God. We’ll be there in four hours.”

  The drive from New Haven to Ipswich took nearly three hours without traffic, griffins, dogs, and children who needed food, drink, and frequent bathroom breaks. There was no way he could make it here so soon. I glanced at the clock ticking on the desk. It was nearly three o’clock now. Matthew would reach the Boston area just as rush hour started.

  “Take your time,” I protested. “You’ve got to pack, and get the twins ready—”

  “We’ve been ready for over a week,” Matthew said gently. “The car has been packed since the last time you extended your stay.”

  “Oh.” I reminded myself that vampires seldom slept, and therefore had extra time to prepare for every eventuality.

  “You needed space and time,” Matthew said. “I understood that, hard though it was difficult to stay away. Rebecca and Philip were less able to see things from your perspective.”

  The cultivation of empathy had been a focus of our child-rearing since the children could walk (and had teeth), but it was not easy for them to exercise this superpower when they were hurting or lonely.

  “We’ve missed you.” Matthew’s voice dropped. “Me most of all.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I said. “Ravenswood, Ipswich, Salem—I’m so overwhelmed I can’t think straight.”

  “I was concerned about you facing the crowd at Gallows Hill by yourself,” Matthew said. “Now I can be with you. Perhaps the children can stay behind with Gwyneth?”

  “No.” I was firm. “We can’t keep the children from their lineage and its legacies.”

  Matthew was taken aback by my response. “Of course, mon coeur. Let’s talk about it when I get there.”

  He was intending to pressure me into protecting the children.

  “I won’t change my mind, Matthew,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “I will not do to Becca and Pip what was done to me. No secrets. No lies. It all stops here and now.” I wiped away a fat, falling tear. My witchwater was rising, as it always did when I experienced strong emotions.

  “Besides, it would take more magic than I possess to prevent Gwyneth from attending such an important event,” I continued. “The children will have to come with us. They must learn who they are and where they come from—from us, rather than discovering the truth on their own.”

  Darkness was drawing in and couldn’t be kept at bay for much longer.

  “Very well,” Matthew said at last. “I would have preferred to wait, but in light of the Congregation’s letter…” His voice trailed off into silence.

  “It’s time,” I said, supplying the words Matthew couldn’t yet say. “Don’t worry. They’ll be utterly surrounded by Proctors.”

  Matthew didn’t know or trust the Proctors—yet. He was used to relying on members of his family for support, not mine. That would have to change, too.

  “Drive safely,” I said. “Please try to obey the speed limit.”

  “No promises,” Matthew replied. “See you soon, my love.”

  I held the phone to my heart after Matthew hung up. Had I done the right thing? I wanted Matthew to be there when I met Meg’s challenge and chose my path. When he found out all that was involved, would he refuse to walk it with me?

  I was too exhausted to think about it now, and there were precious few hours of sleep left before Matthew and the twins arrived. I climbed the stairs, flipped on the light at the bedroom door, and sloughed off my shoes.

  Nestled into the center of my pillow was a fluffy gray-and-white feather. The horizontal markings resembled those of a barn owl, but the colors were wrong. The size was wrong, too. This feather was far lengthier than would be found on most owls.

  I checked the windows, thinking some strange bird must have flown in through a loose screen. They were all secure.

  My flesh rippled at the uncanny sight of that single, long feather with its downy fluff and shadowed hue.

  Perhaps the Owl Queen had paid a visit.

  I plucked the feather from the pillow and brushed its softness against my cheek. Then I crept into bed and turned off the light, the Owl Queen’s gift still in my hand.

  Part Two

  Chapter 11

  Next morning, the slam of car doors and chorus of ecstatic barks and chirrups indicated that Matthew and the children had arrived. I flew out of the Old Place to meet them.

  “It tingles!” Becca was already out of her seat, hopping from one foot to the other. Tamsy hung from her arms, eyes wide with astonishment. “See if you can feel it, Pip.”

  Pip climbed down with more caution. He stood, unsteady, then bent over to put his hands on the earth.

  Becca removed her lavender sneakers. “It’s even better with bare feet!”

  Matthew released the back hatch and Ardwinna tripped out on her long legs, graceful as a ballerina. She gave a good shake and slunk off to the scrubby brush on the side of the property, sniffing to see if there were any creatures hiding there that she might be able to chase.

  Apollo stuck one paw out of the cargo area, then slowly released another. Gingerly, he dropped them to the ground so that he was half in the car and half out. Apollo’s eyes widened in surprise. As a magical creature, he felt the same tingle Becca had. He slithered until he was fully out of the Range Rover, at which point his Labrador disguising spell evaporated, revealing the splendid griffin underneath. My poor weaving was no match for the power of Ravenswood.

  Matthew lowered the hatch and it snicked closed. At the touch of his eyes, the world was set to rights. We met halfway between the car and the house, each of us eager for the reassurance of physical contact.

  “I don’t like being separated from you,” I said as he folded me in his arms.

  “I don’t, either, ma lionne,” Matthew replied.

  We held each other, my heart beating in a rapid rhythm. Matthew’s pulse was equally strong, though slower, and my own quieted to match, reveling in our instant connection.

  “Mommy!” Pip thundered toward us, one shoe on and the other forgotten by the car. He barreled into me without regard for the fact that I had no vampire blood to withstand such an enthusiastic reunion.

  “Steady, Philip.” Matthew stayed Pip’s momentum with a firm hand. “Maman cannot hug you with broken arms.”

  “Mom!” The fireball of energy that was Becca plowed into the family hug. “I love it here. The ground is welcoming me. Can we stay?”

  “You are always welcome at Ravenswood, Rebecca.” Gwyneth had followed me out of the house, leaving plenty of space for the family to come together before she joined in our reunion. “All of you are. I’m Aunt Gwyneth.”

  “Thank you for having us.” Matthew gathered the children closer. It was an instinctive movement, and Gwyneth’s eyes flickered as she registered it. “It’s a pleasure to meet another member of Diana’s family.”

  My husband’s tone did not match his words. It was wary, like his embrace of the twins. Gwyneth pretended otherwise and approached Matthew with her hand extended.

  “Matthew de Clermont.” There would be no effusive hugging between my aunt and my husband. “My brother, Taliesin, met your mother during the war. She left an indelible impression on him.”

  So Gwyneth had known about Ysabeau’s interactions with Grandpa Tally.

  “Which war?” Matthew’s expression was carefully neutral but his eyes narrowed.

  “World War II,” Gwyneth replied, without missing a beat. “He was in the Allied intelligence service.”

  “My mother never mentioned him.” Matthew absorbed this piece of information with his usual impassivity, but I suspected that it was not the whole truth.

  With a bright smile, Gwyneth turned to the children.

  “You must be Philip.” She gestured toward the griffin, who was preening in the strong sunlight. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Apollo,” Pip said shyly. “And he’s not my friend. He’s my familiar.”

  “I thought as much. Do you see that big rock down by the marsh?” Gwyneth shielded her eyes and directed our attention to the enormous granite boulder that dominated the shore. “That’s where your grandpa’s heron familiar, Bennu, first appeared to help him learn his knots so he could make spells.”

  Pip’s eyes were round. “Really?”

  “Really.” Aunt Gwyneth beamed at her great-great-nephew. “You look like your grandpa, you know. All those freckles.”

  Pip giggled.

  “This is Tamsy.” Becca, feeling left out, held her doll up for Gwyneth’s inspection. The bone ring around the doll’s neck shone in the light. “She wanted to come home, too.”

  Gwyneth drew a sharp breath. “I imagine she did. Where did Tamsy get her ring, Rebecca? It looks very old.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “It was in the dead raven’s beak. I thought she’d want me to keep it.”

  A gentle buzzing in my pocket suggested that I could ask the oracle about Becca’s decision.

  Ardwinna was the last to welcome me. She had finished a thorough exploration of the hedge and was panting with all the excitement of new smells and sounds.

  “Hello, sweetie.” I ruffled her fur and scratched her ear until her back leg thumped in ecstasy. “I trust everything meets your expectations?”

  The deerhound’s vigorous tail-wagging confirmed it.

  “Where are my manners!” Gwyneth clapped her hands. “You’ve had a long drive, and must be thirsty. Who wants lemonade? And I have blueberry muffins, too.”

  Becca nodded enthusiastically. Thankfully, her reliance on blood as a major source of nourishment had waned as she aged, and she was less finicky about what she consumed.

  “Yes, please,” Pip said.

  Gwyneth beckoned the twins toward the house. “Let’s get out of this bright sunshine and get everybody fed and watered.”

  Ardwinna, who knew what both fed and watered meant, loped past Gwyneth to the promised land of the kitchen, the twins behind her. Apollo glued himself to Gwyneth’s side, chattering away and letting out the occasional chortle. He spread his wings wide, his feathers ruffling in the breeze.

  “Yes, there are a great many birds around here.” Gwyneth responded to the griffin as though she understood perfectly what he was saying. “I don’t imagine you have anything to worry about, Apollo. You’ve got wings and a beak. Surely that’s all you need to join in their flights?”

  Matthew and I remained where we were. A shimmer of awakened power filled the space between us with golden motes that attracted the dragonflies and bees that hummed over the meadow.

  My husband searched my face, caressing my cheek and drawing a wayward curl away from my eye. His expression of wonder reminded me of the first time we’d dared to touch each other in love, the power of our connection undeniable.

  “You look like you’re seeing me for the first time,” I said, resting my cheek in his hand.

  “Maybe I am,” Matthew replied softly.

  I kissed his palm and his eyes smoldered with unmet desire. Then he remembered where we were. The moment passed, but we would return to it later. He took my hand and we strolled toward the house.

  “We’ve barely got time for an early lunch and a whirlwind tour of the Old Place and Orchard Farm before we have to go to Salem,” I said, knowing how many questions Matthew must have about my experiences at Ravenswood. “Can our catch-up wait until after the ceremony?”

  “It sounded urgent last night,” Matthew said, frowning. He suspected something was not quite right.

  “You’ll see why when we get to Gallows Hill,” I said. “Essex County is not like Madison County. The witches here are in a league of their own.”

  Matthew’s frown deepened, but he let me lead him into the Old Place to join Gwyneth and the twins.

  It was, I knew, only a temporary reprieve.

  * * *

  —

  “Good Lord.” Matthew surveyed the cars that were parked haphazardly near the intersection of Bridge Street and Boston Street, a short walk from Proctor’s Ledge. It had been cordoned off so that the witches could find a place to park on a busy summer Saturday, when Salem was filled with tourists buying black hats and potion bottles filled with scented oil.

  I sighed. “It’s a lot. I know.”

  Matthew was familiar with the close relationship between witches and their modes of transport, be they car or broom. Vampires were the same, although they prioritized raw horsepower over everything else, including fuel economy and the environment. But nothing could prepare you for the sight of a hundred parked cars driven by witches from all over New England on the anniversary of Salem’s hanging times.

  Curious visitors took pictures of the vehicles to share with the folks back home. The snapshots would no doubt feature the SUV with a flying black witch attached to its roof rack. The bumper stickers Sarah was so fond of were all represented, as well as others that were unique to the area. we are the daughters of the witches you didn’t hang! proclaimed one popular example. 1692—they missed one! read another.