The Witch's Secret: A Novel

ONE

The Magisterium, in its eagerness to see me gone, dug deep into its coffers and paid for an express ticket out of Boston. Five days later, by the time I reached St. Joseph, Missouri—as far west as the railroad could take me—their pointless extravagance had become a source of faint and bitter amusement. After a long day’s wagon ride from St. Joseph to Atchison, Kansas, I handed over seventy-five dollars, the last of the Magisterium’s largesse, in exchange for a stagecoach ticket to Denver City. I boarded, believing I was already as exhausted as it was possible for a body to be.

The ensuing week taught me better. Seven juddering, jouncing days, never stopping for longer than it took to change out the horses. Seven days wearing the same clothes, growing dirtier by the hour thanks to the inescapable dust. Seven days gnawing on meat dried so hard it was like chewing rope and drinking water drawn from streams and huddling beneath the hairy, stinking buffalo-hide blankets the driver handed out against the chill October nights. Seven days sitting with my knees drawn toward my chest so there was room for my luggage beneath my feet. Seven days of catching what sleep I could manage sitting up between my fellow passengers as the coach bucked and swayed along the rutted trail beneath a waxing prairie moon.

I wondered darkly if the Magisterium had weighed the misery of the journey when determining my sentence.

There’s a witch out in the Colorado Territory, Marthe had told me when she emerged from the conclave. Josiah Merritt. You’re going out to him.

I let out a groan. Another apprenticeship? No one else has had to do so many. I don’t see why I should— I caught a glimpse of Marthe’s face, and the protest died on my lips.

It’s not an apprenticeship, my guardian said, looking a decade older than she had a few hours earlier. You’re to be bound.

Bound? I repeated, so appalled I could hardly choke out the word. For how long?

Until we decide to unbind you, she said, a hint of steel coming into her voice.

We? You agreed to this? What about Thomas? And Lisbeth? What’s going to happen to them?

They aren’t your concern anymore, Marthe snapped. Joya, do you even understand what you’ve done? Did you think there would be no consequences? You’ve been warned before. You knew better, but still you— She cut herself off with a visible effort, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were full of tears. Child, you don’t know how hard I had to fight to get you this much. It’s a chance for tempers to cool and memories to fade. It could have been so much worse. She reached for my unwilling hands and clasped them in her own. This is a gift.

It didn’t feel like a gift. My life as I knew it was over, had been over from the moment I decided to go to the Magisterium with what I’d discovered. My freedom was gone. My position was gone. Worst of all, my magic was gone—or it might as well have been. The silver chain the Magistra sealed around my wrist before I left looked like an unassuming little bauble, but a sharp-eyed observer might notice it had no clasp. If I removed it, I would be declared anathema. I’d heard the whispered stories about what happened to such witches. Hanging would be a relative mercy.

I tried to find a way around the binding. Of course I did. It was the first thing I did after the train left Boston. I closed myself in the ladies’ lavatory and attempted half a dozen spells. None worked. Each time I tried to draw on my power, the chain grew hot. By the time I gave up and went back to my seat, the skin around my wrist was red and tender, and my chest was tight with a fluttering feeling I managed to identify as suppressed panic. Using my magic had always been like drinking from an endless well. Now it was like trying to slake my thirst by catching raindrops on my tongue.

A dozen times a day I forgot myself and reached for my power. To cast a warmth charm. To sweeten the air in the coach. To help myself sleep. To stop someone’s snoring. To urge the horses to run faster. Nothing obvious enough to disturb the other passengers, all of whom were Mundanes. But the sort of thing I had done hundreds—maybe thousands—of times over the years since I’d come into my power. Each time, there was nothing there, and the band around my wrist went hot with warning.

The constant reminders of what I’d lost—of what was being withheld from me, still there, but always out of reach—were a goad and a torment. I’d heard of bound witches going mad, and during the endless days of travel, I wondered if I might become one of them.

When the stage driver bellowed word of our arrival into Eagle’s Nest Station, I lifted the canvas flap covering the window and peered out, hoping it at least had an actual privy. I’d passed up the chance to squat behind a bush at our last stop, but there was no way I could last another fifteen miles to the next one.

I was in luck. Eagle’s Nest Station consisted of a large barn and a small cabin with a discreet wooden structure behind it. Twenty minutes later, I was waiting to reboard the stage when the sound of approaching riders sent a flutter of concern through the huddle of passengers. The McGills, a Methodist minister and his pigeon-breasted wife, who were horrified that I was traveling alone and had taken it on themselves to guard my virtue, stepped up to flank me on either side. The driver and guard exchanged a tense look, the latter tightening his grip on his rifle. We’d been fortunate on this run, or so I’d heard them say to one another: no bad weather, no broken axles, no sign of Indians along the route.

The driver climbed onto the seat and peered south, shading his eyes against the noontime glare. Looks like Garvey and Doyle, he said after a moment.

The guard relaxed and glanced at us. Colorado Rangers, he said. ’S all right.

I edged away from the McGills, trying not to do so too obviously. They were cloying—not to mention years too late with regard to my virtue—but I avoid alienating members of the clergy whenever possible. I don’t think the Methodists ever burned any witches, but there’s no point in taking chances.

A moment later, three riders cantered into the yard and reined to a stop.

Afternoon, boys, the man in the lead said, raising a hand to the driver and guard. I’m damned glad to see you.

Looks like you caught something this trip, the guard said, his eyes on the man atop the trailing horse.

I followed his gaze and straightened. The rearmost man was slumped in the saddle, his ragged hair hanging over his face. He was coatless, with a blanket draped around him. His hands were manacled, and he had no stirrups or reins. His horse wore a lead rope tied to the saddle horn of the man in front of him.

Sure enough did, the first rider replied.

Where are you headed with him?

Fort Halleck, but we’re not kitted out to take him all the way there ourselves. I was hoping to put him and Garvey on the stage with you and then head back to Denver City.

The stage driver shook his head. I don’t have room for two more. Could maybe squeeze in one extra, but we’re not taking custody of him.

The man—Doyle, if the other was Garvey—grimaced. I’ve been out two weeks already. He was harder to find than we expected.

The driver shrugged. Can’t help you unless you can talk at least one of them into giving up their seat. He waved in our direction.

All around me, passengers straightened and shuffled their feet. The stage ran every ten hours, so in theory any of us could agree to stay behind and wait for the next one. But I’d been warned that seats were in such demand that you could wait days for an opening. The others must have gotten the same advice, because not a one of them had taken the chance during the week we’d been traveling, even at the stations that offered decent meals or real beds.

Doyle’s dour expression as he turned to survey us said he had no expectation of success. Any of you headed to Denver City?

A few of us raised our hands. His gaze skipped over me in my fashionable traveling dress and neat kid boots to rest on a pair of rangy-looking brothers whose names I hadn’t bothered to learn. What about you two?

A wordless conversation passed between the siblings. We’ll ride the rest of the way with you, one of them said with a tobacco-stained grin. For the cost of our stage tickets.

I don’t have that kind of money and wouldn’t pay you that much even if I did, Doyle said, sitting back in his saddle. At most you’re two days out of Denver City.

He spoke as if two more days were nothing much, but the words landed in my gut like a lead weight.

That’s our price, the other brother said.

I had deliberately avoided thinking about how much farther we had to go or calculating exactly how long it would take. The thought of spending another two days trapped in that box with these people was intolerable.

Doyle scowled. I can’t—

I have a split skirt in my bag. The words were out of my mouth before I knew I was going to say them.

The rest of the company fell silent, staring at me.

How long will it take? I went on. The ride. Is it faster than the stage?

Mrs. McGill let out a little yip of dismay and clutched at my arm. Joya, no. You can’t go off alone with him. Why, the very idea.

Doyle ignored her. His expression was guarded. Faster? Probably not much. But it’s more direct. If you’re a good rider, we could make the Jensen place tonight and Denver City by late tomorrow.

What about Josiah Merritt’s place? I asked. How far is that?

He looked surprised. Merritt? That’s between the Jensens and Denver City. A day’s ride from here.

So at least a day faster than taking the stage into Denver City and then finding someone to take me to his farm?

He ran a hand over his unshaven chin before he replied. I’d say so.

I reached into the coach for my bags. Then let’s go.

Doyle and Garvey took no chances with the prisoner. They left the manacles on as they pulled him off the horse. He let out a pained grunt, and the blanket slipped, revealing a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his shoulder. He shuffled, bent forward like a much older man as they walked him toward the stage, paying no attention to the watching passengers.

At least, paying no attention at first.

As he drew even with me, he stiffened as if startled by something, then lifted his head. His face was flushed with fever, his nose had a scabbed cut over the bridge, and his eyes were ringed with green and yellow patches of healing bruises. They roamed over the passengers, then locked on me with an eerie intensity. He stopped walking and drew a breath, but before he could speak, Garvey jabbed him in the side. It was hardly more than a tap, but the prisoner paled and staggered. His ribs must have been injured in addition to the shoulder wound.

Keep moving, Garvey said.

I drew back among the clustered passengers as he continued on toward the stage, not liking his scrutiny.

Unfortunately, I wound up back beside the McGills, who took the opportunity to try to change my mind about leaving their company. I ignored their increasingly lurid warnings about how I was imperiling my immortal soul. By the time I’d climbed onto Garvey’s horse, they had washed their hands of me, and they pointedly averted their eyes as they climbed back into the coach.

My best to Bonnie and Sam, the driver called to Doyle as the stage rumbled westward down the trail, Garvey and the luckless prisoner now swaying on its top. Doyle raised a hand in silent response, then clucked to his horse and turned it south, leading the third horse behind him.

I followed. The station dwindled behind us, and sooner than I would have imagined, the two of us were alone on the vast, empty prairie. Very, very alone.

I was used to having my magic to defend myself. But now that wasn’t an option, and I eyed the man in front of me in vague, unaccustomed discomfort, abruptly aware that I might have done a foolish thing.

He rode with the ease of a man used to long hours in the saddle. His broad shoulders were rigid with muscle. He wore a heavy leather duster over stained buckskin pants and a shirt so rimed with dust and sweat I couldn’t tell its original color. Greasy tendrils of black hair trailed from beneath his hat.

But none of that meant anything about his character. He said he’d been out chasing the fugitive for two weeks. Anyone would be dirty living rough for so long. After a week on the stage, I hardly smelled like rose water myself.

As if he felt me watching him, Doyle twisted in the saddle to look at me.

Did I hear that woman call you Julia?

Joya, I said. Joya Shaw.

Joya, he repeated. I’m Langston Doyle. You’re headed to Josiah Merritt’s place?

He’s my uncle, I said, sticking to the story I’d been given before I left.

Doyle frowned. He’s pretty old to have a niece your age. What are you, twenty?

Twenty-three. And he’s my great-uncle, I added, improvising. Do you know him well?

No, he said. Met him a time or two, but that’s all.

That’s more than I’ve done, I said. He’s lived in the west since before I was born. I wanted to ask his impression of the man. But it might seem odd. If I were family, surely I’d have heard at least a little about him. I hesitated, but my curiosity got the better of me. What can you tell me about him?

Not much, Doyle said. He lives about a half day’s ride outside Denver City. Keeps to himself. Only comes into town once a month or so. He’s got two hired men who live out there with him. Brothers, I think. Mutes, both of them. Now it was his turn to hesitate. You’re traveling alone. Where’s the rest of your family?

As far as I knew, I had no living kin. My parents died when I was six, crushed to death when the shoddy, crumbling tenement we lived in collapsed. I was the building’s only survivor.

Magic usually reveals itself during puberty, but it sometimes flares earlier—usually when there’s a mortal threat involved. The ceiling above my bed cracking and caving in on me was enough to bring mine on. A mention of my miraculous escape in the Boston Journal attracted the Magisterium’s attention. They swooped in and took possession of me before my parents were laid in their paupers’ graves. I’d been Marthe’s ward ever since.

But there was no easy way to explain any of that to Doyle, and I wasn’t inclined to try. I’m from Boston.

He read it as the deflection it was and switched topics with admirable smoothness, turning to face the trail again.

Long trip for you. Any trouble on the way?

No. There were Union soldiers on the train through Missouri, I said, wondering where he fell on the topic of the war.

His voice and posture didn’t change. That’s good. It’s been ugly there.

How about here?

There have been some incidents. We have a Unionist governor, but there are rebel sympathizers around, especially out in the mining camps. They’ve formed some militias and tried to do some recruiting, but they haven’t gotten far. Especially after earlier this year. He glanced back at me again and must have seen the question on my face.

A rebel force out of Texas came up the Santa Fe Trail in April, hoping to take the goldfields. The Colorado Infantry and a company of Rangers force-marched four hundred miles from Denver. We caught them at Glorieta Pass. Burned a bunch of their supply wagons and pretty well broke them. There’s no more sign of any organized campaign.

There was pride in his voice. When he said we, he wasn’t merely referring to his brother Rangers. He’d been there.

Good, I said.

He flashed me a surprisingly white, even smile from behind two weeks’ worth of ragged beard. Before he could turn back to the trail, I asked the question that had been in the back of my mind since we left.

Who was that man? The prisoner.

Doyle’s face darkened. His name is Marcus Broaderick.

What did he do?

Kidnapped a woman. From a bro— He cut himself off, clearly not willing to say the word brothel in front of me, then tried cover it with a cough. Sheriff and his boys went after them. Broaderick got away, although he took a beating doing it. Doyle’s face was grim, and my stomach knotted.

What happened to the woman?

He hesitated. Broaderick set the house they were in afire. Left her tied up inside. They didn’t get to her in time.

I tried not to imagine it, but I couldn’t help myself.

My horror must have shown on my face, because he drew up on the reins. Are you all right? There’s water in my canteen, if you need it.

I straightened. I’ve done some nursing. I’m not squeamish. Isn’t there a jail in Denver City? Why were you taking him all the way to Fort Halleck?

Doyle seemed to decide I wasn’t going to faint. Politics, he said in a tone of distaste. The sheriff is new, and he doesn’t much like the Rangers.

I’d spent years watching the members of the Magisterium wage vicious—and often supremely petty—battles over turf and influence, so I nodded my understanding and let the conversation lapse.

We rode for a time in silence while I thought. It didn’t seem remarkable that a man like Broaderick might take the opportunity to stare at a woman. I thought of the way his eyes had looked once they fastened on me. I was just as glad he was on his way to Fort Halleck in chains.

I shook off the last of my unease and began paying more attention to our surroundings.

The day was brisk but sunny, the sky overhead an endless blue vastness like nothing I’d ever seen back east. As we plodded along, I breathed in the scent of dry vegetation and distant pines. It was beautiful country, a fact I’d been unable to fully appreciate while crammed into the stagecoach box.

There was no trail to speak of. The grass was thick and brown, beaten down by sun and wind into twisted humps of turf. Our passage set ground squirrels and long-eared jackrabbits to running, and after a while we had a number of enormous birds—golden eagles, Doyle told me when I asked—wheeling on air currents above us. Every so often one would fold its wings and dive, faster than a raindrop could fall, to snatch the prey we’d flushed for them. One took a rabbit so near me that I felt the wind of its downward rush and caught a glimpse of sharp black talons as long as my fingers.

We reached the edge of the Jensens’ claim, where Doyle said we would spend the night, just as the sun touched the top of the mountains, and by the time we crested the rise overlooking the homestead itself, the light was fading. It was a tidy-looking place, with a squat, square cabin and a lofted barn.

A pair of shaggy oxen in a split log corral raised their heads and bawled at us as we made our way down the slope. The noise split the still air, and a flock of birds exploded from the hayloft, wheeling away in a clatter of wings and making my horse start. I quieted it and looked around the yard. A pair of quilts hung limp on a line, their bright patchwork muted by the deepening shadows. The kitchen garden, already lying fallow for the winter, was a dark rectangle of earth cut from the pale grass of the yard. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, no lamplight from the windows.

Doyle reined in his own mount, frowning, and cupped his hands around his mouth. Hello, the house!

As his voice died away, a cow lowed from inside the barn. The forlorn sound raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

We rode forward, slowly, and my chest went tight as the details of the cabin came into focus.

The front door stood ajar.

Doyle—

I see it. He raised his voice as he swung down from his horse. Harp? Becca? You there?

When no response came, he handed me the reins. Stay here. Doyle strode to the door, pushed it open, and had one foot over the threshold when he froze. There was a half second during which his expression was that of a man who couldn’t put together what he was seeing. Then he reeled backward with a muffled curse, his face stricken and his hand fumbling for his gun.

TWO

I reached for my power, then hissed in pain as the silver cuff seared my wrist.

Doyle didn’t notice as he spun to face the yard, his weapon drawn. His eyes were sharp, and the big revolver’s barrel was steady as he swept the area from one end to the other. After a long moment, he drew in a deep breath and lowered the gun. His shoulders dropped, and he rubbed his free hand across his mouth and chin.

I dismounted and half stumbled toward him, my legs gone wobbly. What’s happened? I tried to go around him, but before I got close enough to see anything, he reached behind him and yanked the cabin door closed. I jerked to a stop and stared, waiting for him to say something.

When he spoke, his voice was grim, and he didn’t look at me. It’s too late to go on tonight. And we can’t— He cut himself off. We’ll have to stay in the barn. Can you water the horses? He nodded in the direction of the corral. There was a well and trough beside it. I’ll be along in a few minutes.

Without waiting for me to answer, he took a breath, as if steeling himself, then opened the cabin door just wide enough to slide inside, blocking my view with his body and closing it again behind him.

I stared at the door, vaguely offended but too weary to press the matter. As my heart resettled into its normal rhythm, I led the horses to the dry trough and began turning the well crank. The oxen met us, so large up close that I backed away in concern. But they seemed friendly enough, pushing their enormous, shaggy heads into the trough with a degree of eagerness that said they’d been untended for a while.

I drew what felt like endless buckets of water, wondering what Doyle was looking for in the cabin. The Jensens must be dead. And they must not have died peacefully—fever or flux didn’t make a seasoned lawman look like that. Or draw his gun.

There were stories of men who’d gone mad and slaughtered their families when the farm failed or the isolation became too much to bear. Maybe Harp Jensen was one of those.

Maybe there’d been an Indian attack, though something about that didn’t feel right. The newspapers said most of the Indians had moved to the new reservation the government had given them in the south of the territory. And they would have burned the place, wouldn’t they? Or it could have been the rebels. Doyle had said there were militias. But they would have taken the animals, surely, and here the oxen were.

As if to emphasize the point, the cow mooed again from inside the barn.

The barn. My mouth went dry. Doyle hadn’t checked it. There could be someone—any number of someones—hiding inside. I dropped the bucket, then fell on my rump as I jumped out of the way of the frigid water while trying not to take my eyes off the barn door.

I was on the verge of shouting for Doyle when I registered that the wooden latch was closed. If there was anyone in there, they were trapped. I let out a breath and pushed myself to my feet, my face hot with embarrassment. At least no one but the oxen had seen me behaving like a ninny.

The cow made another plaintive noise, and I made myself walk toward the door. I flipped up the latch and pushed it open. Harp Jensen had kept the hinges well-oiled, and it swung wide without a sound.

The last bit of lingering daylight was all but gone, and the barn’s interior was cave-dark. It smelled of hay and animals. On a shelf inside the door, I made out a battered lard-oil lamp with a box of matches beside it. I lit the wick, my hands still a little shaky. The flame danced as I peered into the shadows.

A pen to my right held a pair of baby goats, who bleated and tumbled over one another, wagging their tails as I approached. I bent to rub their heads, and they latched onto my fingers with their rough little mouths, suckling with frustrated intensity. The cow lowed again, and I turned toward the sound, wiping my wet hand on my skirt.

She pushed her pretty red head over the door of her stall as I approached, and I scratched her between the ears. She mooed at me again and looked at me with pleading brown eyes. Are you hungry? I asked. Is that what’s the matter?

She needs milking, Doyle said from behind me, and I sucked in a breath and almost dropped the lamp.

Don’t do that, I said sharply as my heart pounded in my ears. I could’ve set the whole place on fire.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. He had the quilts from the clothesline draped over one arm. I don’t suppose you know how? To milk a cow, I mean?

No. I knew horses. I’d served an apprenticeship with one of the Magisterium’s breeders. But he hadn’t kept cows.

I’ll take care of it. He handed me the quilts. I have a bedroll, but these should do for you, if you don’t mind making up a pallet. There’s plenty of fresh straw.

I stood with the quilts clutched to my chest as he lifted a tin pail from a hook beside the stall and opened the door. He seated himself on the low stool beside the stall partition, put the bucket beneath the cow’s teats, and began sending sharp streams of milk into the pail. A trio of barn cats appeared almost at once, meowing and stropping themselves against his calves.

Little beggars, Doyle said. Ought to be out catching your dinner. He reached for a cracked saucer I hadn’t noticed before and tipped in some milk. He set it among the cats, and all three crouched onto their haunches and began lapping away.

I waited for him to say something about the scene in the house, but he only went on milking, the steady hiss hiss the only sound in the barn.

I ran out of patience. What happened to the Jensens?

He didn’t raise his head. They’re dead.

I couldn’t suppress an exasperated huff. I gathered that much. How did they die? Is it safe for us to stay here?

There was a long pause before he replied. It’s safer to stay here than to travel in the dark. We’ll be fine. His tone said he expected me to be content with that answer.

One of the cats, an enormous gray beast with tufted ears and an absurdly fluffy tail, stretched and yawned before venturing over to sniff first the hem of my dress and then my outstretched hand. He let me scratch him behind the ears and rewarded me with a purr that sounded like a saw rasping through wood. When he’d had enough, he sauntered away, and I broke apart a bundle of straw and made my mattress for the night.

I waited until Doyle came out of the stall with the full pail to ask my next question. Shouldn’t we bury them?

He hesitated, then shook his head. "I’ll borrow Josiah’s hired men and come back tomorrow to