“Of course you’re worried, sweetheart. Being questioned by the police is not a laughing matter. I’m not laughing. But trust me, I’ve got this one in the bag.”
Ingrid frowned. Forseti certainly looked different from the last time they had seen him, but otherwise everything else, including his absurd confidence in the legal system’s ability to give them a fair trial, was exactly the same. “With all due respect, Mr. Forseti, the last time you advised us, you also argued that magic was not real and we were hanged anyway,” Ingrid said.
“So, what are you saying?” the lawyer asked, looking offended.
Ingrid looked at her family. Her mother had aged a hundred years in one night, and Freya looked as if she were about to faint. “We tell the truth this time. Our magic is real. We are witches. But we had nothing to do with this. We don’t practice black magic and we didn’t cause Molly’s murder or the mayor’s suicide.”
Freya nodded slowly and the color returned to her cheeks.
Mr. Forseti shook his head. “Dicey, dicey, dicey.”
“Are you sure, Ingrid?” Joanna asked. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m sure.” Ingrid nodded. She remembered Salem all too well, sitting in that small prison cell for eight months, subsisting on stale bread and water. She had watched her fellow witches carted off down the hill never to return. She had sat in the courtroom and listened as a succession of her dearest friends had called her names, had blamed her for every disease and run of bad luck they experienced, had turned her helpful advice into a twisted tale of black magic and devilish sorcery. Every day she had waited for the sound of the carriages that would take her to her death. She had not been afraid of death, but she had been deathly afraid of pain. A round of questioning was only the beginning; soon there would be an arrest, a trial, a conviction if they were not careful. The hanging trees were gone now, but one could still live out the rest of this lifetime in a prison cell. Life imprisonment meant something else for the immortal.
Maybe her mother was right: their only chance was to run, to hide in the shadows and disappear. But this was her home. She thought of her friends, and of Matt, who had whispered in her ear as she was led away: “I believe you.”
She looked at her family. “It’s time to own up to the truth. When they ask us what we did, we’ll tell them. We’ll admit to who and what we are. Freya?”
Her sister nodded. “I don’t see any other way. And Ingrid’s right. I don’t want to live a lie anymore. What can we lose?”
Everything, Ingrid thought. But she was willing to take that chance.
chapter thirty-nine
The Brief Wonderful
Life of Tyler Alvarez
Since Forseti was still negotiating with the police department for a time that would be more convenient for the women to meet and answer questions, Joanna took the opportunity to visit Tyler at the hospital the next day. The children’s wing was painted a cheerful blue and pink, but Joanna thought she had never entered a more depressing place. So much false hope and promise, when, really, all around was the scepter of death at the doorstep, snatching away the most precious of lives. Children should not be allowed to get sick or die; it should be a rule, Joanna raged. One should not leave mid-world until one had had a full life . . . at least until eighteen? Thirty? Sixty? Time did not mean anything to those who had too much of it, but it was even more precious once it was limited.
She had promised herself she would never love another child. After what happened to her boy she knew she would not survive if she lost another. How could she let this happen? And the girls—she could not even think about the ongoing investigation and the girls’ upcoming interrogation. She hoped they knew what they were doing, but she was worried they were far too optimistic about their chances. The world did not change; she had been around long enough to understand that much. Children died. Either on the gallows or in a hospital.
Joanna looked at the small, shriveled form in the large bed, connected to a maze of wires and drips. She stood at the far side of the bed, while his parents kept vigil on either side, his mother holding his hand. Tyler had been moved to the ICU a few days ago. After Freya and Gracella had brought him in he had recovered only to get sick again, this time with a worse infection. The doctors could not explain it: there was no bacterial infection, and he did not respond to viral treatment, either. But Tyler was not the only one: there were two other children on the ward with the same symptoms; and in the main hospital, there were adults with the same phlegmy, forceful cough, the same ragged breathing. Like Tyler, the victims had displayed milder symptoms in the beginning that could be attributed to allergies or the flu; but one by one they took a turn for the worse, with complications that affected lung and brain functions. Freya was visiting her boss, Sal McLaughlin, who was down the hall, and Joanna bumped into Dan Jerrods, whose wife, Amanda, was now on life support.
She watched Tyler’s chest rise and fall, heard his difficult breathing. The attending doctor entered. “Tell me the truth . . . how bad is it?” she asked.
The young resident looked at his feet, his voice strained. “There is nothing we can do for him now but make him comfortable. I am so sorry.”
The Alvarezes turned to her to translate. What did the doctor say? What did he mean? Joanna shook her head and began to cry softly, and that was when Gracella began to scream. Hector tried to calm his wife, and the nurses surrounded them. They were taken to another room, where Gracella was given a sedative.
Joanna stood, rooted at the spot, still trying to process the doctor’s words. Make him comfortable. Nothing we can do. Was this truly the end? Was there nothing anyone could do for him? She clenched her fists and cursed the gods who could not hear her. This was just like before. She could still remember the voice that had doomed her son to eternity, how her boy had been enveloped by smoke that rose from the ground and then taken down to limbo, to nowhere, to serve his sentence.
The door opened and Ingrid appeared, holding a fruit basket. “It’s from Tabitha and Hudson. They heard. How is he?”
“The same. No, actually, that’s not right. He’s worse.”
“I’m so sorry, Mother.” Ingrid squeezed her shoulder, but she was crying herself.
“I know, my darling.” Joanna patted her daughter’s hand and held back a sob.
“And there’s nothing . . . I mean, I know there’s nothing you can do . . . but . . . ?”
Joanna shook her head. She cursed the magic within her. Her useless, useless magic. This was the greatest tragedy of her gift: Joanna could bring anyone back to life, could cure any sickness, could bring health and happiness to the person dying in the next room. She had saved Lionel Horning from the Kingdom of the Dead.
But her magic was immune to those that she loved. She remembered that girl in Salem, Bridget Bishop, whom she loved as she loved her daughters. Bridget had died in a river of her own blood, while Joanna remained shocked and helpless, unable to do anything to save her.
Over the next several days, the Beauchamps brought Christmas in August to the children’s ward, especially Tyler’s room. While the attorneys negotiated, Freya made beautiful feasts, huge cakes dripping in cream frosting, fat éclairs swathed in chocolate sauce, the most succulent pastries and the largest chocolate chip cookies. Ingrid made spells to keep Tyler’s pillows plump and fluffy, charms that allowed his sheets to stay dry even through the night sweats. Joanna brought the dancing puppets, the warring soldiers.
One evening, Tyler opened his eyes. He saw Joanna and smiled.
“What do you want, my darling? My sweet? My dearest love?” she asked as she smoothed his hair.
“Want to fly,” he said, looking longingly out the window. “Outside. Like you.”