The Witching Hours

chapitre deux pt. i

"thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" 

Exodus - 22:18

2010

It was midsummer. A warm day with only the occasional breeze. The manor was awake with life, jasmine wafting in the air, carried through scented candles, and soft whispering echoed in the forlorn hallways. Light streamed in through open windows, offering a comfortable and warm embrace.

Most witches from all seven circles, of the United Kingdom and the Republic of Ireland, were present. Festivities were being held in the massive courtyard that surrounded the house. Seventeen-year old Kora, preferred to wander aimlessly through the ancient corridors: corridors she had spent most of her life running through, unafraid, and free. The dark wood beneath her feet creaking from time to time, only silenced by the muffled tapestries draped over it. The walls were mostly bare, the occasional mirror, hang from a white wall, making the dark-haired girl falter in her steps.

The house was empty, the party was being held outside. She was not in the celebratory mood. The new Supreme would be sworn in, in not long . The youngest there has ever been. Only a handful years older than Kora herself. 

Tahlia Barlow.

The name had been in her mind for weeks, echoed by a strange longing and desperate hope. The witch had been highly praised by many: one of a kind, they said, and as all witches should aspire to be. 

Kora stopped in front of a door she recognised well. White, and chipped in some corners, and a scratched golden handle on the right side. Her room since she joined the coven. She briefly wondered if anything would change, now that they would have a new leader. 

Her room was plain. A double bed in a corner, with white linens and soft-coloured pillows. An old oak armoire against the opposite wall, filled to the brim with too many jeans, and sweatshirts. A bookshelf, with unfinished spells, and her many notebooks on potions. A small table, that seemed to give off the illusion she was the studious kind: littered with crumbled paper, strange-smelling herbs, dry ink, and candles. Tarot cards spilled over her Wuthering Heights copy. The Fool, the only card she could clearly see.

Kora walked over to the window that overlooked the backyard. To an outsider, it would look like a gathering of friends, celebrating a merry event. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. The witches seemed to be in syntony with their surroundings. Blending in with the sunlight, walking, careful steps, carried by the mild wind. Beautiful whispering, she could see, but not hear. They all belonged. Different circles would not change what they were all born with. Sisters in more ways than one. Magic flowing in their blood, entwining between them, connecting them as one.

Kora felt it too. But still, there was something missing from the interaction. Like a missing scale from a tiny fish in the ocean. Wholesome, and yet not. A bell jar that kept her away, not fully, but enough to be noticeable by herself, but also by the others. A bell jar she built, that became stuck: unmoving and unyielding. A confinement that would protect, as much as it would isolate her.

A soft knock on the door. Kora turned around. A dark-haired young woman stood before, the ceremonial black cloth draped over her slender body, sharp narrow dark eyes staring at her from underneath the hood. A beautifully manicured pale hand, pulled the cloak off her face.

Beautiful would be a wrong word to describe this woman before her. She was not beautiful by the usual standards, but rather something else. Alluring, and incredibly captivating. A witch who knew she had the advantage. A Siren, that trapped her prey. A tantalising smile played on her lips, her head slightly titled to the left. Nothing less than an inspection.