Witch - By Fiona Horne Page 0,67

I carried within me the magic that had led to her death.

And I had to pretend that I didn’t know.

‘Vania, when I was twenty-five years old I was very sick and the doctor told me I could never have children of my own.’ My mother paused, searching my face for a response. I made my eyes open wide like I was surprised to be hearing this. ‘My darling, you are adopted. Your father found you in the house that night of the fire. I begged him to adopt you.’

She took a step towards me, but I drew away.

‘Even though you were not born of my body, you are born of my heart. I have never wanted anything in my life more than I wanted you,’ she said.

I turned my back to this stranger-woman and ran more dirt through my fingers. I wished I could dig a hole to bury myself in and make all this go away.

But as many answers as I had now, I still had one more question.

‘Why did we move back here?’ I asked.

‘When your father’s friend died and they offered him the job back here, I encouraged him to take it. I thought it would be better for you to live in America, your birthplace. I thought enough time had passed. Never in a million years did I think that you would end up looking into the death of the woman . . . of your mother.’

‘The laws of quantum physics say that everything is interconnected, so I would say it was unavoidable,’ I said.

‘You are so smart, my darling. It’s good you aren’t my biological child. God forbid if you had my intellect. I’m such a simple woman.’

As much as I was feeling distanced from this woman, who had been my mother up until a few days ago, I couldn’t bear to hear her talking like this.

‘You are smart!’ I protested.

‘I can’t even operate a computer!’

‘Well, you can operate a sewing machine and that’s way more complicated, trust me!’

There was silence for a moment, and then we both laughed a little. The atmosphere softened around us. I remembered that no matter whether I was born from her body or not, she had raised me . . . and I loved her.

‘Vania, we adopted you – you are our child and we love you very much. Your father is a man of few words, but he does love you. But in our generation men weren’t always allowed to show their feelings – and being on the force all these years has made him tough, you know?’

She hesitated and, to make it easier for her, I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

‘He tries to make me happy, and he wants the best for you, he really does. That’s why he took the job in Australia. He thought it would be better for you to grow up somewhere far away, where you wouldn’t have the stigma of being her child.’

The child of a dead woman. I ran my hands through the dirt again. It crumbled between my fingers and tears tumbled down my cheeks as I allowed myself to really think about all the unsettling new information in my head now. I was crying hot tears of release, and it felt good. It was okay to be different – it was okay to be me. I knew who I was now, and I was free to continue on with my life. Practically and magically.

My mother squatted down next to me. ‘Come here, honey.’

She put her arms around me and I melted into her. It didn’t matter that I was the daughter of a dead witch – this woman was the only mother I needed right now.

It was late and the door to my bedroom was closed shut. My parents and I had talked about my need for privacy, and they had explained that their rule had been enforced not from a place of wanting to inhibit me but from a place of wanting to protect me. After my precarious beginnings in the world they’d never wanted me to be that vulnerable again.

The waning moon hung low in the sky. Through my bedroom window I gazed at the sliver of celestial beauty, so evocative and magical, and its dim light led my thoughts back again to the woman of Queen’s Cross – my mother. She was a witch, and she had been casting a spell when she was killed. It had been a love spell, surely – the rose quartz,