Back to Black

There was a mouse in the window.

The glass was coated in a thin, cracking layer of frost, abstracting the view of the little creature just enough to prompt a curious glance outside. There were often small animals creeping about, but that particular mouse, curled up against the window, was a dreadful sight. 

The satin curtains over the window were white as the snow. The house was gray, nearly the same shade as the sky. The lazy cat splayed on the splintered porch was brown, the trees were pale, and the sun was silver behind the clouds. The wind was starch with lingering snow, and the sharp, little blades of grass biting through the ice were turning blue in the frost.

But the mouse was black.

Crawling slowly about, back and forth across the windowsill, slinking carefully over the splintered wood. Forward and backward and forward again the mouse went. Its dark fur remained sleek in the dewy air, tail trailing lazily behind it. Its beady eyes were so dark one could not tell which way it was glancing.

Anywhere else, that mouse might have been ordinary, if not a bit offsetting in its contrast with the rest of the frozen world, but not at the Atelier. At the Atelier, the color black meant witchcraft.

A pale hand pressed against the cool glass. The mouse paused its pacing.

The window made no sound as it opened, but the wind whispered as it entered the house. The curtains danced like royalty, waltzing about, caught up in the frigid wind, tangling like lovers. The hand moved slowly. The mouse did not cease its pacing, so the ghostly palm stretched further over the little creature, but before skin met fur, the mouse let out a terrible screech, like a pig out of its pen.

The hand drew back as the mouse seized. It squealed and squirmed for only a moment longer before collapsing on its back. Lying there supine like a careless child’s discarded toy.

Slowly, the sleek black fur paled, fading like a frostbitten flower until it was only barely the color of ashes.

Sephtis watched the still mouse for a moment longer than she should have before shutting the window on its corpse. The tips of her fingers stung where they met the icy glass. She pulled away silently.

The dead mouse was less an omen than a message. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, Sephtis mused. She wondered if word of the ritual scheduled for that same evening had somehow spread between the secretkeepers. The woman who’d requested Sephtis perform it had demanded no one be told the truth, and though Sephtis was often dishonest, she never betrayed a deal.

Sephtis made no sound as she descended the stairs, ghostlike in a house made to be haunted. The Atelier was chilly in winter, but remained well-warded against the wind. Sephtis returned to her place on the hardwood floor, the center of a delicate chalk circle she’d drawn in preparation that morning. The seven symbols surrounding her shone warily up at the ceiling; they knew their purpose, dark as the mouse had been.

Sephtis pressed dry sage into the bowl before her. She held her hand over the crumbling herb and watched her veins turn black with magic. Smoke curled instantly from the sage, crawling around the room like a whisper.

A knock came at the door.

It was time.

Sephtis came to the call, and there was Carmen Phillips, mother of four, school teacher, trophy wife, perfect neighbor—terminal cancer patient with too much to live for. Or, Sephtis suspected, one with too little accomplished.

“Have you chosen?” Sephtis asked.

Carmen Phillips had the nerve to look ashamed. “I have.”

Sephtis stepped aside for Carmen, who crossed the threshold only after glancing around the area to ensure no one witnessed Mrs. Model Citizen associating herself with the Witch of Maraoc. How low she’d fallen.

Sephtis watched with a furious sort of amusement as Carmen surveyed the Atelier. Her eyes trailed the seven ebony symbols painted carefully around the ceremonial circle. By the time they were through, those runes would be reduced to snow and ash, like the mouse. The woman looked properly horrified in the face of dark magic, which angered Sephtis to an unfortunately familiar degree.

This wasn’t the first time a woman like Carmen Phillips had come begging her for assistance. And it wouldn’t be the last.

“Now,” Sephtis said, coldly. Carmen turned very suddenly, like she’d forgotten she had company. “Whom is it you have chosen?”

Carmen stood straighter, but the tremble in her left hand where it clutched her faux leather bag betrayed her. “Destiny Ashford.”

Sephtis did not bother to hide her grin. “The lawyer?”

Carmen cast her gaze to the ground. “Yes.”

“And you have brought me an item of her affection?” Sephtis inquired.

Carmen reached a hand into her purse and retrieved a crystal box. She presented it. “Her mother’s old music box. It was a wedding present.” 

Carmen’s voice was growing watery with guilt. Good, Sephtis thought. Let it. There was no greater shame than what Carmen Phillips planned to do that evening. 

Sephtis accepted the box and knelt in the center of the circle, cleansing the item in the smoky incense of the burning sage. When she removed the box from above the small flame, she glanced once more upon Carmen Phillips, then froze.

“Are you praying?” Sephtis demanded. When Carmen did not respond, Sephtis smiled slyly. “Do you often pray to your God after murdering an innocent woman?”

Carmen opened her eyes, hand still wrapped around her cross. Her dark eyes were plainly furious. “I did not murder—”

“You’re right,” Sephtis said. “I suppose she’s not dead quite yet, is she?”

“This is what God wanted,” said Carmen. “He told me so; I deserve to live.”

“And Destiny Ashford does not?”

“She sins.” Carmen pinched her eyes shut. “She will burn—”

“Did you know Hell was first described as a frigid ice land?” Sephtis wondered aloud, with dangerously calm intention. “Your God has Heavenly Fire.”

“What?”

“Fire once represented purity, light, and righteousness. Now it is a symbol of evil and punishment. Fire is a beautiful thing. You cannot resent it just because it burns.”

“You speak like the Devil,” said Carmen, distastefully.

“If you believe me in alliance with the Devil,” Sephtis said, “what are you doing in my home? Why do you request my help? If you are so righteous, if your God deems you worthy of life, why not heal you Himself?” Sephtis leaned out of the circle. “Why did He condemn you in the first place?”

“That was not God, that was Satan,” she said.

“Who are you to determine what creations were born at the hand of your God and which were not?” Sephtis smiled with white teeth. “You may say the Earth and all her children were designed by God, you may say that all of nature belongs to Him, and that His is the hand that sends waves to the shore and rattles thunder in the clouds,” she said, “but you may not blame Satan for every terrible thing to happen. Your benevolent, all-powerful God who controls all, does not stop at evil, I assure you.”

“God is good.”

“God created the world?”

“Of course.”

“Who do you think created Satan?”

Carmen stood straighter. “I asked you to free me of my sickness,” she said, “and you will do so, you witch. I did not provide you with a vessel for my illness only to stand here and be ridiculed for it. Heal me.”

Sephtis smiled. “Very well,” she said, rising to her knees. “But I warn you, Carmen Phillips, blood spilt on the ground cannot be gathered up again.”

“I—”

Sephtis raised her hands. The tips of them were darkening, as if dipped in paint that had forgotten how to be wet. It curled across her skin, down her pale arms, running through her veins like rusted wires. Carmen stumbled backwards as if struck, but Sephtis drew her back into the circle. White-blue fire caught the runes, flames so hot they were nearly cold to the touch. They did not burn Sephtis, but Carmen screeched.

Sephtis ignored the woman and took up Destiny Ashford’s music box. She could see her in it now; a woman, with dark skin and warm eyes. Sephtis wondered what young Destiny had done to earn such a terrible fate at the hands of Carmen Phillips.

The black on Sephtis’ hands was creeping up into her sleeves. She opened the music box that hissed like hot coal in her palm. Carmen’s mouth opened, yawning like a mountain cave. The blackness crept from her, too.

Her limbs shook with the effort it took to stand.

Ossa sunt infirma. Weak are the bones.

Sephtis watched as her great cancer, the cells of Carmen’s own body, burned spots on her skin. Darkness the likes of which she’d never seen bled from the holes of her flesh. Blackened blood swept up into the crystal music box and Carmen Phillips collapsed.

Sephtis watched the fire die away, its silver flames wilting like petals in autumn. The holes in Carmen’s face and arms began to stretch back together just as the runes of the circle paled like the mouse in the window.

Sephtis’ own hands were already blue in the frigid absence of their magic. The music box turned slowly, a melancholy tune like a death march pierced the silence. Sephtis watched the box, spying once more upon Destiny Ashford, who had suddenly taken up a fit of coughing. A hand came to rest on Destiny’s shoulder.

Are you alright? Destiny? Destiny!

The woman fell very suddenly to the floor. There was a scream, and Destiny Ashford ceased breathing.

The music box slammed shut.

Carmen Phillips gasped at Sephtis’ feet, inhaling like she’d been drowning. She scrambled to her feet.

“It is done,” Sephtis said.

Carmen touched her face. “I am free of my illness?”

“It is your illness no longer.” Sephtis offered her the music box. “Destiny Ashford has died of cancer in her bones.”

Carmen accepted the box with tears. “My cancer?”

Sephtis ignored her. She had no time for the whiles and regrets of cruel hearts. “Let us speak of what you owe,” she said. “I have freed you from death. You recall our arrangement, do you not?”

Carmen bowed her head. “I do.”