The sign that welcomed us into Craftborough wasn’t made out of metal. It was wood, and it looked as if it was hand-carved. That should have been my first clue that I was stepping out of anything resembling a normal town and into something…else. The unmarked and nearly empty streets had no stoplights and frighteningly few road signs. I was glad Jacky was driving instead of me.

Olivia directed us through the center of town while she put away her notebooks and headphones. We turned off the main street and parked in one of the few marked stalls the town had. Olivia asked Big Jacky to open the trunk as she gathered up her bag and exited the vehicle.

Jacky and I joined her at the back of the car as she was rooting through her luggage for something. While she did that, I gazed at the buildings around us.

They were all done in what I thought of as “colonial style.” There were small windows and lots of wood siding. A few of the grand houses were made of red or white brick. The buildings were all well maintained, but it was easy to imagine a man in tails and a tri-cornered hat popping out from behind one of the wooden doors. The trees towered over the streets with their thick gray trunks and empty branches. There were a few low fences. Some of them were made of wrought iron. Others were made of stacked stones that had been individually cut.

“Well, this is a historical place,” I muttered.

Olivia snorted.

“Was that a snort of agreement or scorn?” I asked.

“‘Historical’ is such a succinct and oblivious word,” she said. “It only communicates two things. One, that you were observant enough to notice the place is old, and two, that you haven’t been subjected to it long enough to form an opinion.”

I had to run her statement through my head twice to decide if she was insulting me. At the end of the review, I still couldn’t tell.

“We need to hurry,” she added. “We’re late.”

I pulled out my phone and glanced at the time. “We’re seven minutes early.”

“We have to walk from here, and it’s a ten-minute walk. We’re late.” She pulled out a thick wool cape and threw it over her shoulders. Then she reverently pulled out her witch’s hat, put it on, and turned to me. “How do I look?”

She had on one of her typical dresses that fell to about mid-calf. Beneath it she wore a thick pair of tights, high-heeled boots, and a thin set of gloves. The only part of her outfit that wasn’t black was the dark gray inner lining of her cape.

No matter how off-handed she tried to sound, I could hear a tightness in her voice. She was nervous. I would have been happy to assure her, but I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. I settled for the obvious answer.

“Like a witch.”

“Oh,” she said sarcastically, “are you sure?”

I gave her a thumbs up. “One-hundred percent. Anyone would look at you and think, ‘there goes a witch.’”

“Good.” She turned to Jacky. “Mr. Noctis?”

“I’m ready, Miss Oliversen.”

Olivia shut the trunk, turned, and marched off at a quick pace. Jacky and I followed her. When we reached the corner, she turned and headed up the main street. I came up to her side. Jacky stayed behind us.

As we walked, I noticed a few more odd things about the town of Craftborough. There were more pedestrians than I would’ve expected for a cold February day, most of them were female, and only a few of them glanced at Olivia’s outfit as we passed.

“There’s a lot of people out,” I said.

“Parking in this town’s a nightmare, and most of the students don’t have cars,” Olivia said.

Students.

I glanced at a gaggle of young women going the other way. They were laughing, talking, and all holding disposable cups featuring the name of a local coffee shop. They didn’t look old enough to be college students.

“They’re witches?” I asked in a hushed voice.

Olivia glanced toward them. “Probably.”

No wonder they didn’t care about her outfit.

“You were a student here, right?” I said.

Olivia let out a tsk sound. “Obviously.”

“So you know about the town?”

Olivia’s face took on the slightly haughty expression she wore whenever she was about to lecture someone.

“The town was founded in 1718, but it had existed as an unofficial settlement for years before that. It was a haven for witches to escape the persecution that was common from the religious communities around them. The five founders organized the first coven in North America and established Saufgrove.”

“Is that the name of your school?”

Her face suddenly went cold and blank. “It’s not my school. I’ve graduated.”

Huh. Interesting.

I tucked my hands in my pockets before saying in a tone I hope conveyed the perfect innocence of my curiosity, “Have you been subjected to the town long enough to form an opinion?”

“Oh, yes,” Olivia said.

“How would you describe it?”

“Archaic.”

Okay. I thought the word “archaic” meant old, but the way Olivia had said it made it sound like it meant “diseased.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

She turned to Jacky. “Mr. Noctis, do you know what to expect?”

“I do,” Jacky assured her. “Iset spent all of last night coaching me on the protocol. I’m looking forward to it.”

Olivia and I shared an uneasy glance. It wasn’t that Jacky’s grasp of protocol was bad. He was very good with manners. It was everything else that gave him problems. If he was looking forward to reporting while Olivia was nervous, that meant that he didn’t know enough to be worried.

“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” I asked Olivia.

“Yes. Stay in the back and don’t say anything.”

“No worries. I’m invisible.”

“But—” Jacky started to say.

I shushed him. “You can’t see me.”

“Emerra, I most certainly can see you.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Noctis,” Olivia said. “I don’t care if she’s invisible”—she glared at me—“so long as she’s mute.”

I locked my mouth shut and threw away the nonexistent key.

The grand old building Olivia took us to was made of bricks that were so old their edges were rounded, and the mortar between them had aged enough the materials blended together, making the structure look like one solid mass trickled through with off-white lines. The face of it was punctuated at strict intervals by windows with ivory-colored frames and ivory-colored lines between each pane. Against the white and gray backdrop of the winter scene, the red of the bricks stood out, lending the building an extra air of authority it certainly didn’t need.

Olivia walked up the four stairs that led to the two dark wood doors. She took both iron handles and leaned all her body weight into pulling them back. After a moment, the doors gave way and swung out on their ancient hinges.

When Olivia stepped through the doors, the first sound was her heels against the worn hard-wood floor. She turned right and walked down the long narrow hall that followed the front of the building, the sound of her heels keeping perfect time. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was listening to a clock tick backwards.

Outside a small set of dark doors, a woman was waiting. She would’ve looked like any other professional woman if not for the fact she was wearing a witch’s hat.

She nodded as we approached.

Once we were close enough, she said in a hushed voice. “Good morning, Miss Oliversen. We weren’t sure if you were going to make it.”

“Are we too late?”

“I glanced in a minute ago. They were about to call up the other reviewee. If you sneak in now, you should be fine.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barlowe.”

Mrs. Barlowe pulled back one of the doors far enough for us to slip inside.

When we entered the room, my first impression was that we were looking over a vast forest from above. But they weren’t dark fir trees. They were hats. A forest of black, pointy hats.

At least five rows of benches ran along the back and both sides of the large room, and every bench was filled with witches. More witches stood behind them or along the edges of the narrow walkways that ran between the benches to the breaks in the banister that separated the sitting area from the center of the room. The witches wore a variety of clothes, ranging from jeans and sweaters to business wear—but they all wore a black pointed wide-brimmed hat.

I’d never felt so cowed by a bunch of headwear.

Some of the women turned to look at us as we sidled our way toward one of the last empty areas in the back. Most of them politely looked away. A few of them watched Olivia for a moment before returning their eyes to the poor girl in the center of the room.

She had to be there to report. She looked like she was the right age, and she was trembling. An older woman stood behind her. They were facing the front of the room, where, behind a long table covered by portfolios, tablets, and papers, sat a line of the most imposing witches I could imagine.

Each one of them sat tall on their hard-backed chair, radiating confidence and power.

I rubbed my eyes.

Olivia leaned over and hissed in my ear, “What are you doing?”

I shook my head and pressed my lips closed like a good mute—happy for an excuse to avoid answering. I was getting used to living with two legendary, magical eyeballs stuck in my head, but it wasn’t always easy to explain what I was—for lack of a better word— seeing.

The confidence I could blame on their posture and bearing. But how could I see power when there was nothing to see? And why did it make my eyes hurt when I tried to focus on that particular nothing?

The woman in the center of the head table was talking. I missed what she said, but the young witch under scrutiny answered with a humble, “Yes, Mistress.”

Mistress?

I gave Olivia a quizzical look.

She whispered, “She’s the head of the coven.”

The head of the coven was definitely out of her twenties, but her skin was so well cared for, I couldn’t tell if she was in her thirties or forties. Long wavy auburn hair ran from under her hat to a few inches below her shoulders. Her face and body were trim, and she moved with unconscious elegance. She wore loose black pants that flowed when she moved, bright purple heels that added a bold note of color to the outfit, and a simple ivory top that some designer must have spent months agonizing over until they had achieved perfection.

Oh, yeah. That woman could definitely be the head of the coven. She looked so regal, I was amazed that she was content to be in charge of merely that.

“Mistress” must have been her title.

It sounded less ridiculous in an archaic building filled with pointy black hats.

The witch there to report stepped forward and held up her hand. My eyes followed the line of her arm to a dusky yellow candle in a black holder. It was on top of a round table that sat between her and the head witch.

A spark of white popped at the top of the candle’s wick, and a tiny flame grew along the cord until it burned with a steady light.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I presumed it was ceremonial. She certainly hadn’t done it out of necessity. The white walls reflected the sunbeams streaming in from the windows on the side of the room, making any additional light unnecessary.

There were other candles in the room—what felt like hundreds of them. They were tucked into the multi-armed scones spaced around the walls. Collections of them looked over the crowd from the tall candelabras standing in each corner. And, above us all, hanging from the thick beam of an unpainted rafter, was a tremendous three-tiered chandelier lined with stately yellow candles—all of their wicks, an untouched white.

The candle the girl had lit was the only one in the whole room that was burning.

She stepped back. The older witch stepped forward.

The head of the coven said, “Good morning, Mrs. Linns. Are you ready to witness Miss Hansley’s report?”

“I am,” Mrs. Linns said.

“Excellent. Miss Hansley, you may proceed.”

The young woman stepped forward again and recited one of the most boring speeches I’d ever heard. It covered everything she’d learned in her first year of apprenticeship. Based on her rushed, monotone delivery, it was obvious she’d memorized it, and considering how long the speech was, I was more impressed by that feat than most of the ones she listed.

That’s a pretty cocky attitude for someone who doesn’t know the first thing about casting a charm, my brain pointed out.

I mentally shushed myself. After all, I was supposed to be mute.

I was still mulling over whether you “cast” a charm or “made” a charm when Miss Hansley finished her monologue.

The head of the coven folded her hands over the papers in front of her. “Thank you, Miss Hansley. Mrs. Linns, is her report accurate?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And are you satisfied with the work Miss Hansley has done?”

“Very satisfied.”

“Well done, Miss Hansley. We look forward to your final report in a year’s time.”

The young woman bowed. “Thank you, Mistress.”

There was no applause or noise from the audience, but a shower of smiles rained down on Miss Hansley as she and Mrs. Linns walked behind the banister and resumed their seats on one of the front benches. When Miss Hansley was seated, a witch behind her reached out and patted her shoulder.

The head of the coven carelessly waved her hand without looking up from the paper she was studying. The candle on the table went out. A second later, she raised her head. Her eyes scanned the room before lancing the witch beside me.

Olivia didn’t even twitch.

“Miss Oliversen,” the head of the coven said, “you decided to join us.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You were late.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

I had wondered if Olivia would tone down the attitude since it was a special occasion. Silly me for underestimating how entrenched her personality was. Olivia’s voice could have, maybe, passed as respectful, but her notable lack of any apology or explanation was as loud as a bullhorn.

The head of the coven stared at Olivia for another second, then said, “Are you and your master both present?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Then come forward and report.”