The Gathering

The Witch-house

XI. The Witch-house

Sarah turned onto Orne Road. The streetlights grew sparse. Houses gave way to trees. The night pressed close against the windows.

"It's just up here," she said. "Around this bend, you'll see the... what the hell?"

She slammed the brakes. The seatbelt locked across Mia's chest.

The car skidded to a stop in front of a stone wall: old, weathered, but solid. Beyond it, illuminated by the Honda's headlights, rose a house.

Not a ruin. Not a decrepit manor with a caved-in roof.

A house. A sturdy stone mansion, three stories tall, with intact windows that reflected the light like dark eyes. The garden beyond the fence was manicured, not perfect, but clearly tended, with hedges trimmed and flower beds weeded. The fence itself was wrought iron, freshly painted black, without a single spot of rust.

And on the gate, spray-painted in fluorescent green that glowed in the headlights:

YOU KNOW THE CODE. WELCOME.

"This is impossible," Sarah breathed. "I was here six months ago. There was nothing but rubble. The walls were half-collapsed. The garden was... it was a jungle."

"Impossible is becoming a rather overused word tonight," Alice observed.

Mia was already out of the car, walking toward the gate. The others followed. The gravel crunched underfoot. The night air smelled of jasmine and something older, stone and damp earth.

The electronic lock: modern, incongruous against the old ironwork. A numeric keypad, plastic warm from the day's heat against the cold iron. Ten digits, waiting for input.

"We know the code," Mia read aloud. "Do we?"

"Try your birthday," Lora suggested.

"That would be remarkably poor security."

"Try it anyway."

Mia entered her birth year: 1963.

Nothing.

She tried Lora's: 1962.

Nothing.

"The year of the tornado," Alice said. "1982."

Mia entered it. The lock clicked. The gate swung open.

"Well," Lora said. "Someone's been expecting us."

They walked up the gravel path. Their footsteps were loud in the silence. The garden smelled of night-blooming jasmine: a scent that had no business existing in Massachusetts in July, yet here it was, thick and sweet.

The front door was unlocked.

Inside, the house was furnished: not lavishly, but comfortably. The air smelled of beeswax and lemon oil. A sitting room with mismatched chairs. A kitchen with a full refrigerator humming against the wall. A library with books in a dozen languages. Everything clean, everything waiting, as if the house had been prepared for guests who were expected but hadn't specified when they'd arrive.

On the central table in the sitting room, a note:

Make yourselves at home. The bedrooms are upstairs. The answers are in the basement. Take your time with both.

A friend

Emma's shoulders straightened. "The basement. That is where we should begin."

Mia rubbed her eyes. "The bedrooms. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours, and neither has anyone else."

"Sleep is inefficient when data awaits."

"Sleep is necessary when your brain stops working." Mia yawned, as if to prove her point. "The basement will still be there in the morning. The answers aren't going anywhere."

"You cannot know that."

"I can guess. And my guesses are usually pretty good."

Alice had wandered to the window. The glass was cool against her palm. The curtains smelled of lavender, faintly dusty. "Emma is right that we should investigate. Mia is right that we're exhausted. I propose a compromise: we rest until dawn, then explore together. No one goes into the basement alone."

"Agreed," Lora said.

"Acceptable," Emma conceded.

They were heading for the stairs when Sarah's voice came from the doorway.

"Um."

They turned. Sarah was standing at the threshold, one foot inside, one foot out, her weight shifting from foot to foot.

"I should probably go," she said. "You don't need me for... whatever this is. I'm just the driver."

Lora stepped toward her. "You're not just the driver. You've been helping us all day. You've asked good questions and kept your head when things got strange."

"But I'm not... I'm not like you. I'm just normal."

"So were we," Mia said. "Once. Before the tornado. Before everything." She walked back to the doorway and took Sarah's hand. "You wanted to know what it felt like to make something that mattered. Well, this is how it starts. You show up. You stay. You see what happens."

"But my dad..."

"Can survive one night without you. Text him. Tell him you're helping friends with a project." Mia grinned. "It's not even a lie."

Sarah looked at the others. Alice nodded. Lora smiled. Emma, after a moment's calculation, spoke:

"Your presence increases our operational capacity by approximately twelve percent. You have local knowledge we lack, transportation we require, and a perspective unclouded by the assumptions we bring to this situation." She paused. "You are moderately useful."

"Moderately useful," Sarah repeated.

Mia leaned against the doorframe. "For Emma, that's practically a declaration of love."

Emma's hands moved to her hips. "It is not. It is an accurate assessment of utility."

"See? She's blushing."

"I am not capable of blushing. My circulatory system does not..."

"She's definitely blushing."

Sarah laughed, a real laugh, surprised out of her, stepped fully inside.

"Okay," she said. "I'll stay. But if my dad asks, you're all giving me music lessons."

"Deal."

The door closed behind her. The latch clicked into place.

Outside, in the garden that shouldn't exist, a night bird sang.

Inside, five women climbed the stairs, hands trailing the bannister's worn wood, toward rest, and toward whatever answers waited below.