Ambrose doesn’t seem ruined to Hilda. He’s still her sweet boy, who teases her and makes her laugh and takes her part against Zelda. But there are no two ways about it: He committed a crime against their kind and was sentenced, bound to their house for “conduct unbecoming in a warlock.”
Zelda says he’s disgraced their family. Hilda wouldn’t mind that, but her Ambrose, who wanted to eat up the whole world, is trapped in their house. He tries to laugh about it, but she sees his mouth quiver even as he laughs. She knows he must feel as if the walls are closing in. Hilda sometimes feels that way, and at least she can go to town and have a browse through the bookstore. The bookstore owner is rather a dashing man.
She worried that Ambrose would be jealous of Sabrina when Sabrina came to live with them. But Ambrose always treated the baby with careless affection, as though she were a pet. When Sabrina was small enough to carry about in Hilda’s arms, Ambrose would kiss her little gold head as he flittered by in his restless hummingbird way. Sometimes Sabrina would catch at his clothes or his ringed hands with her tiny fists, relentless even then, and Ambrose would seem amused as he allowed himself to be held.
But these days Sabrina has a whole life outside the Spellman house. When she breezes out, Hilda catches Ambrose’s gaze fixed on the door in a way she doesn’t like. These days Ambrose doesn’t wear rings, or dress as if he might leave the house at any moment.
Perhaps Ambrose is jealous now. Hilda understands the feeling of wanting your own life so much you hate everyone else for having theirs, but Hilda is afraid of the dark passions in other hearts. She didn’t know Ambrose was plotting a crime once. She knows, now, that she can never be sure of what Ambrose might do.
If she’d said no to Ambrose more … But she can’t say no to Ambrose now. She can’t say no to Sabrina. All they have to do is look at Hilda and her heart melts, soft as butter in hell.
Zelda says no to Sabrina all the time. Sabrina seldom listens. Hilda worries that is her own fault too. That she really is ruining Sabrina, that Sabrina and Ambrose would both be better off without her.
But she couldn’t bear to leave them. Not any of them, even Zelda. Sometimes Hilda has the oddest notion that her sister is even more afraid than she is, and that is why Zelda clings to her and then shoves her away so hard. It makes Hilda want to be gentle, even when Hilda is most frustrated with her. And Hilda wants to be there for Ambrose and Sabrina, to comfort them and stand up for them. That’s always been her place.
Death makes you so tired. The earth weighs heavy on her eyelids, sealing them shut. Every time she dies, Hilda feels more tempted to stay in her grave. Living her own life is too hard. Dying her own death might be easier. Hilda could keep her eyes closed, and stay here, be only her own and dream new dreams as tree roots twine through her hair.
My children, Hilda thinks. She opens her eyes, though the earth falls into them and makes them sting. She claws her way upward into the air and the light.
She receives her reward immediately. Sabrina is perched on a nearby gravestone, waiting for Hilda to wake, eating a peach. She swings her Mary Janes against the tombstone. Hilda blinks the grave dirt out of her eyes and watches Sabrina’s white teeth sink into the tender flesh of the fruit.
“Why did Aunt Zelda do it?”
Hilda shrugs. Hilda doesn’t remember what she said wrong this time, only that she was feeling that itchy, irritable feeling of wanting to be free of Zelda. She snapped at Zelda, and the next thing Hilda knew, her sister was walking toward her with her face white and set, brandishing a knife. There’s no sense upsetting Sabrina by discussing the whole ugly business. Hilda just smiles and makes sure Sabrina takes death lightly, and does not consider the consequences.
“No harm done, love.”
Sabrina hovers by Hilda’s elbow as Hilda makes her way back into the house. After Hilda is washed up, Ambrose and Sabrina circle around her like attendant birds intent on cheering her. Sabrina is talking about school, Ambrose is telling jokes, making even Zelda rest her chin on her hands and smile. The stove is warm, and the lamps shine behind stained glass. At moments like this, Hilda thinks she has a lovely home and a lovely family. She’s very happy here, sometimes.
If Zelda ever struck down Ambrose or Sabrina, no matter if Zelda brought them back the next minute, Hilda thinks she could show the steel and fury people expect of a Spellman. She would know the blood hunger of the tigress in the long grass, whose cubs are under threat. She would pick up the knife or the shovel or the damn axe, and swing.
Who knows what it would do to Sabrina? She is half mortal, half sweet Diana. Hilda never blamed Edward for loving Diana. Hilda loved Diana too. She kept secrets for Diana that nobody knows, and Hilda hopes nobody ever finds out.
Diana died. Mortals are always doing that. But superb, unconquerable Edward died with her. Both Sabrina’s parents, mortal and warlock. Maybe there is no way to keep yourself safe from heartbreak.
Nobody has ever heard of a half witch, half mortal before. The Church of Night talks about little else besides Sabrina’s coming, Sabrina’s dark baptism. The coven hushes when Hilda and Zelda enter. Hilda is so afraid that something might go wrong. She’s afraid the world might hurt Sabrina, as it hurt Ambrose, as it destroyed Sabrina’s father.
Zelda has never harmed a hair of Ambrose’s or Sabrina’s heads. Zelda would never do it. Zelda loves the children too, Hilda tells herself. Especially Sabrina, the golden apple of Zelda’s eye. Zelda will help Hilda protect Sabrina, and Sabrina will come through her dark baptism and be a shining darkness. Sabrina will make the whole family proud, as Hilda never could.
Hilda ruffles Sabrina’s bright hair, resting her arms against the determined line of Sabrina’s thin shoulders. She presses her hand against Ambrose’s cheek, and he drops a quick kiss in her palm, and she smiles and ignores the grave dirt under her own fingernails.
The fear that wakes her, even in the final darkness beneath the earth, means nothing.
Her children are safe.
Early the next morning, a truck pulled up outside my house. Ambrose and Aunt Zelda weren’t up yet, and I was sitting with Aunt Hilda eating porridge she’d made for me with honey and nuts and hopefully no dried newt eyeballs. Aunt Hilda insists they’re nutritious. I find them upsettingly crunchy.
Aunt Hilda was drinking tea with herbs bobbing in her copper mug and reading one of her romance novels. A man with a mullet and a flouncy shirt was on the cover, along with a woman who seemed to be having troubles with her corset and her spine. The romance novel lady couldn’t be comfortable, bent over in her hero’s arms like that.
“Good book?”
Aunt Hilda beamed. “Oh, Sabrina, it’s a gripping read! It’s called Taken by Storm. The hero’s name is Storm.”
“That’s … a wordplay.”
I didn’t say it was a good one.
“He’s also referred to as Satan’s minion among the clubs of London,” Aunt Hilda continued. “But they’re only talking about all his gambling and whoring; he doesn’t actually worship the devil. Which was a little disappointing to realize, obviously, but it’s still a rattling good yarn! He’s a duke, you see, and the heroine is a fishmonger, and she accidentally hits him in the face with a fish. Which gets his attention!”