The Witches of Cambridge (29 page)

Cosima exhales. “You are simply the sweetest, kindest, loveliest man I’ve ever met. And you’re going to be the most amazing father, I know it, and I’m going to follow your example in every way.”

Kat sighs, shaking her head.

“Okay,” Cosima says, “now it’s your turn.”

Kat glances at Noa, still in Amandine’s arms. There is nothing she wants to do less right now, than endure any more truth, but she can see that, with each word spoken, Noa seems a little more alive. She glances from Cosima to George and back. Then she fixes her gaze on her sister.

“I was so happy before you came along. Then you took Mama away and Dad and then George.” Kat’s eyes fill and her voice drops. “And I hate you for all that. I know I shouldn’t but I do. And this”—Kat nods at Cosima’s belly—“this is the icing on the cake. I wish, sometimes I wish…”

Cosima steps forward toward her sister. “What?”

Kat begins to cry. “I wish, sometimes, that you’d never been born.”

Cosima steps forward and reaches her hands out to Kat, but Kat just stares at her feet, tears dropping onto her shoes. Cosima picks up her sister’s hands and holds them tight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, sorry, I’m sorry…”

She dips her head into Kat’s shoulder, mumbling the same words over and over again. Suddenly, Kat lets go of her sister’s hands and wraps her arms around Cosima and holds her tight and sobs.

“I love you, sis,” Cosima mumbles into Kat’s shoulders, “I love, love, love you…”

Suddenly, George stands up.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m, I’m…” He takes a deep breath. “I am gay.”

The other witches stop and look at him. Kat and Cosima let go of each other. Kat wipes her eyes, her mouth open.

Héloïse smiles. “You hid that well,
mon ami
. I never—you’re clearly more powerful, a better spell caster, than you think.”

Amandine raises her eyebrows. “That explains a lot.”

Kat steps forward. “It certainly bloody does.”

George holds up his hands. “I’m sorry, Kat, I’m sorry I’ve never told you. I just, I just…We’ve never talked about that sort of—anyway, I’m not, I don’t like…”

For a moment Kat is absolutely furious, then hurt, then relieved. She hurtles through these emotions as if she were on a roller coaster on a Blackpool pier. And only when she reaches the end does she realize that this is the best news she’s ever heard. It wasn’t that George didn’t find her attractive. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her that way. It wasn’t that she was somehow unlovable. All these years she’d thought there was something wrong with her, something missing (and there was, though not something she could do anything about), but that wasn’t it. She was fine, she was perfect. She just wasn’t a man.

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me? You stupid, stupid…” Kat grabs George and hugs him tight, her words dissolving into sobs.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” George mumbles into her shoulder.

Kat pulls back, wiping her eyes. “Don’t be daft,” she says. “It’s not that. It’s just, if I’d known that twenty years ago it might have saved me a fair amount of unrequited heartache, that’s all.”

“What?” George asks, startled.

Kat smiles. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s my own silly fault. I should have told you years ago. And, honestly, I’m starting to think the whole crush had more to do with my own romantic insecurities than you, anyway.”

“Oh, okay,” George says. “Well, that’s good—I guess.”

“Hey,” Cosima bursts out. “Sorry to interrupt all this emotional growth, but she needs our help.”

Everyone looks to the ground at Noa, who’s begun softly groaning.

Kat reaches for her sister’s hand and squeezes it. “You’re going to be a wonderful, wonderful mother.” Then she kneels on the ground next to Noa.

“
Dī, tē perdant. Tē malēdicō. Dī, tē perdant. Tē malēdicō
…”

Cosima joins in, then Amandine and Héloïse and George. Finally, between soft groans, Noa begins to chant too—her words are broken and her voice jagged, but she doesn’t stop. Gradually their voices grow louder and louder, until all the witches are shouting into the sky. In a second the heavens seem to open. A gale tears through the witches, so they all drop to their knees. Clouds of hail pelt their bent shoulders. Shattering claps of thunder sound so close that they all press their hands into their folded arms. Silver forks of lightning splinter the sky, so close to the roof they are blinded by light. But still the witches keep chanting. Their voices rise and fall, separating and uniting, dancing together and always strong. Then, suddenly, the air is still again.

The witches fall silent.

Gradually, Noa uncurls and tips her head slightly so she’s looking up. Slowly, she smiles at each witch in turn—a little curl of her bloody, chapped lips—a small smile of triumph, gratitude, and relief.

“Thank you,” Noa says softly, her words still bruised, but no longer broken. “Thank you.”

C
OSIMA GLANCES OVER
at her sister standing at the counter, folding pink paper napkins. She’s shut Gustare for the afternoon for the baby shower. Every table is sprinkled with rose petal confetti; every place is set with a single chocolate and rosewater cupcake with swirls of pink icing, each of them topped with a frosted cinquefoil (beloved daughter) flower. Pink balloons bounce and bob against the ceiling and a vast array of cakes of every variety crowd the counter: chocolate and pistachio cream, vanilla and elderflower, red velvet, passion fruit and pear, white frosted layer cake.

Cosima has been up all night baking, having taken a little morning power nap for a few hours. The sisters have been decorating in silence since ten o’clock. The other witches, invited a few hours before all the other guests, are due at lunchtime. Cosima sits at the other end of the counter, blowing up pink and white balloons.

She stops and sighs. “I don’t have enough puff for these. I need help.”

Kat puts down a pink napkin, then picks up the unfolded pile and brings them over to her sister. She sets them down and takes a balloon. “Let’s swap.”

Cosima smiles. “Thanks.”

Kat stretches the balloon, pulling it taut. “So, how are you and—”

“Good. Really good, actually,” Cosima says as she begins to fold. “I honestly think it’s worked out in the best way of all.”

Kat raises an eyebrow at her sister. “You’re saying that raising your baby with a gay man is the best possible scenario for parenthood.”

Cosima giggles. “Well, not the ideal perhaps, but in the absence of Tom—a nice committed heterosexual husband—then yes, I’d say that George will be the best partner and, most important, the best dad ever.”

“Well, I suppose…” Kat stretches the balloon until it’s about to snap. “But I still think—”

“I know,” Cosima says softly. “But life isn’t like a perfectly balanced equation, Kat. It’s messy and muddled and you just have to go with it. And it’s all going to be okay, okay? I promise. George is excited. He’s virtually as excited as I am.” She places her hand on the large bump of her belly. “And I’m taking care of us, the best care. We’re getting regular scans and my blood is being monitored like crazy. They’ll induce me at the end of next month, two and a half weeks before I’m due, just to be on the safe side, and—”

“I’m still terrified,” Kat says, stretching her balloon to the breaking point.

“Careful,” Cosima says, gently relieving Kat of the balloon. “Anyway, how are you and George?”

“We’re fine. We’re good.” Kat sits at the counter. “We’re on the way to being friends again. I’ve come to my senses.” She raises an eyebrow. “It must be that cake you gave me. Won’t you tell me what was in it?”

“Nope,” Cosima says. “But I can tell you, you’re going to be…”

“I know, I know.” Kat smiles. “I’m going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay.”

—

Noa sits in the breakfast nook of her aunt Heather’s kitchen. Her aunt stands at the stove, stirring hot milk for their coffee, still steeping in a cafetière. Noa bites her thumbnail and gazes absently at her aunt.

“A chocolate cake for your thoughts,” Heather says.

Noa focuses. “Cake?”

“I bought one from that café. I know you like them.”

“Gustare,” Noa says. “I’ve missed you.”

Heather smiles. “I missed you too.”

Noa lets out a little sigh.

“What?” Heather pours the coffee.

“I was just wondering,” Noa says.

“Wondering what?”

“What I should do now.”

“Well,” Heather says, “that all depends on what you want to do.”

“No, I meant, how am I going to live with this ‘gift’ of mine, without alienating everyone I ever meet?”

Pouring hot foaming milk into their cups, Heather considers. “Well, what about those witches? They like you, don’t they?”

“I suppose so, yes, they saved my life.”

“There you go, see,” Heather says. “Some people have courage, and they are able to see and speak the truth, and some people are cowards and they have to hide their fear in lies. You just have to search the world for the brave. There are fewer of them, of course. But friendship is always about quality over quantity, don’t you think?”

Noa nods. “And what about love?”

“Ah.” Heather smiles. “Well, love’s easy. In that case, you only have to find one.”

“That’s not easy,” Noa says. “It’s not easy finding one person to love you if you’re not very easy to love.”

Heather hands her niece a cup of coffee, then kisses her on the cheek. “My dear girl, you have no idea. You’ve a lot to learn about love. What you hate quickly becomes ferocious. You hit it for long enough, it’ll hit you back. But what you love soon becomes beautiful. So it is with any trait, any personality quirk. When you embrace something you don’t like, really and truly accept it as a slice of who you are, when you stop seeing it as obnoxious, it won’t be obnoxious anymore.”

Noa sips her coffee. “That sounds pretty damn difficult to do.”

“Perhaps,” Heather admits. “It takes practice, certainly. But of everything in life, it’s the part most worth mastering.”

“Yes,” Noa says, momentarily imagining an entire lifetime of self-loathing, “I expect it is.”

—

“How’s your mum?”

Sylvia shrugs. “Okay.”

“I meant—”

“Yeah, I know. She’s still sober, okay? Sixteen days.”

“That’s great,” Amandine says, squeezing the steering wheel. “That’s a great start.”

Sylvia shrugs. “I guess. She’s still a bit of a bitch though. But at least it’s better than before.”

“It’ll get better too, every day,” Amandine says as she pulls the car alongside the curb outside Sylvia’s school. “I’m sure.”

“Bullshit,” Sylvia says, her fingers on the door handle. “Don’t say things like that when you’ve got no clue.”

Amandine tenses, about to object, but then she nods. “Yes, you’re right but I hope so, I hope it’ll get better, for you both.”

Sylvia sniffs, pushing open the door. She mutters something before stepping out onto the pavement and slamming the door shut.

Amandine opens her own door, gets out of the car, and hurries around to the pavement.

“I’m not a kid, you know,” Sylvia says. “You don’t have to walk me to the front gate.”

“I know,” Amandine says, “I just enjoy your company.”

“Liar. Why are grownups so full of shit?”

Amandine’s eyes widen. She’s lost for words and then, she thinks of Noa. “You know what?” Amandine says, stopping in the middle of the pavement. “You’re right. I was full of shit. I don’t enjoy being with you when you’re rude to me. I don’t enjoy feeling how much you hate me. I don’t enjoy trying so hard to befriend you and having everything, every time, thrown back in my face.”

Sylvia stops walking and regards Amandine with a look of openmouthed astonishment and muted admiration.

“I don’t hate you,” she mutters. “I just wish…”

“What?”

Sylvia shrugs.

“What?” Amandine asks again. “Please.”

“I…” Sylvia trails off, glowering up at her stepmother. “Look, if you weren’t with my dad, you wouldn’t give a shit about me, so don’t—”

“That’s not true,” Amandine says. She’s surprised to feel a sudden shift in Sylvia’s emotions, from violently angry to lonely and scared. “I think you’re amazing. Hey, you’re Eliot’s daughter, I know you must be amazing. And I’d like to get to know you, if you’ll let me, I really would.”

Sylvia bites her lip and shrugs again. And, for the very first time, Amandine feels a tentative rush of affection coming off her stepdaughter and is so overcome with gratitude, relief, and tenderness that she offers Sylvia a secret.

“You know, I can teach you some rather cool things, if you’d like.”

Sylvia looks skeptical. “What things?”

“Special things, things most people can’t do.”

“Yeah?”

Sylvia is deadpan, but Amandine feels her curiosity and excitement rising. Out of the corner of her eye, Amandine sees a teenage boy lingering by the school gates. He’s tall and lanky with floppy black hair and stares at his shoes as if they contain coded messages he’s trying to decipher.

Amandine nods over to him. “Who’s that?”

“Oliver Greene.”

“Well, I believe he rather likes you.”