Mary sat herself in the circle of candles. Black for protection. Black for secrets. They were the only light in the dim shack in which she’d hid herself. The only light with which she could illuminate her reflection in the silver hand mirror she’d managed to steal. The only light by which to read the Grimoire.
Focus, she told herself. The stars were in alignment, the moon was at it’s peak. If the time was not now, then when?
The Grimoire was open before her. Atop it, the mirror.
Focus, she reminded herself.
Carefully, Mary took up the mirror, and examined her haggard reflection. Dirty from days without wash, drenched in sweat from the effort of concentration and preparation for the spell. Irritated, Mary brushed muddy strands of fiery hair away from her freckled visage. Sadly, the life she’d chosen afforded her little time for vanity.
“I am the Witch, Mary Bradbury,” she proclaimed to her reflection. “Tomorrow, I stand trail for the crime of witchcraft. But magic is no crime, no matter what the God of this new world or those who worship Them think. What they truly seek is not my confession, but my Grimoire, and the power it holds—spells from the old world, knowledge that cannot be found anywhere else, and more. These people fear what my magic can do…and fear makes people more dangerous than magic ever could. They seek to control it so that it can never be used against them. And if they cannot control it, they will destroy it.”
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Mary paused to wet her lips. She released a shuddering breath, steeling herself for what was to come.
“For this reason…for this reason, I have chosen to hide the Grimoire where no one will ever find it: inside myself.
“In this way, the secrets it holds shall avoid capture or destruction from mortal hands…” she placed a hand over her heart, “…it will be as safe as my own life. It shall live on with me and all those of my blood. The witches of my line shall cultivate and refine this power over their lifetime, before passing it to their next descendant. In this way, the secrets of the Grimoire shall be protected and grow. In this way, our legacy is secured. In this way, our magic lives on. Magic is in us all. Magicae in omnibus nobis.”
The face in the mirror blurred into the face a young girl—Mary’s niece—who repeated the words, “Magicae in omnibus nobis,” her voice ringing out in place of Mary’s. Then the reflection changed again, this time to show a man with long sideburns and greying at the temples.
“Magicae in omnibus nobis,” he said.
Then again, and again, the face in the mirror changed, showing four hundred years of descendants, each intoning the phrase, “Magicae in omnibus nobis,” like a litany. Faces and words blurred into one another, until, at last, it was my grandmother’s face, and then mine.
“Magicae in omnibus nobis,” my reflection said, and then I woke up.