Maybe a Witch

People have offered countless explanations for what happened to me.

My mother blamed loneliness.

My father blamed idleness.

My cousin insists I mistook infatuation for destiny.

Years later, professors would tell me that the human mind has a remarkable talent for inventing patterns where none exist. Priests would remind me that temptation often disguises itself as fascination. Doctors would speak of obsession with the confidence of men who have never truly been obsessed.

They're all wrong.

I know the exact day I was bewitched.

It was the first week of October, 1994.

It was raining.

Of course it was.

Blackthorn always seemed to exist beneath the same stretch of gray sky. Even on the rare occasions the sun appeared, it felt borrowed, as though the town had stolen it from somewhere brighter. The houses were beautiful in the way abandoned cathedrals are beautiful—grand, silent, and cold enough to make you lower your voice.

My father called my stay there "a lesson in humility."

He had another name for what happened at university.

Disgrace.

One foolish decision during my final year of law school had earned me a year's suspension. The newspapers never heard about it, but our friends did, which was worse. My father refused to let me spend the year hiding in my apartment.

So he packed me off to Blackthorn to live with my cousin Victor, who managed several of our family's estates there.

Victor had his own ideas about how a twenty-two-year-old man should spend an autumn afternoon.

"We'll show you the town," he said.

By "the town," he meant St. Agnes Academy for Young Ladies.

Every afternoon, just before dismissal, Victor and his friends parked across the street beneath a row of old chestnut trees and watched the students leave through the academy's iron gates.

They had a game.

Every girl received a score.

Eight.

Six.

Nine.

Four.

The rules were embarrassingly simple.

The shorter the skirt, the higher the number.

Long skirts were a tragedy.

Ankles hidden beneath thick stockings were apparently crimes against youth itself.

I laughed when they laughed.

I wish I could tell you I was better than that.

The truth is, I wanted them to like me.

That afternoon the wind was fierce.

It rushed through the avenue in sharp bursts, tugging at scarves, umbrellas, loose hair, and school uniforms. Victor grinned.

"Perfect weather."

His friend beside him whistled.

"We're getting tens today."

Girls emerged from the academy in groups, clutching their satchels while fighting the wind. Laughter echoed down the pavement.

Then she appeared.

No one noticed her.

Or perhaps they noticed her only long enough to lose interest.

She walked alone.

Her skirt fell well below her knees, carefully held against the wind with one slender hand. Her dark curls spilled forward, hiding most of her face.

"Three," someone muttered.

"Generous," another replied.

Victor had already turned his attention to another group.

I should have done the same.

Instead, I noticed a sheet of paper escape from her satchel.

The wind caught it immediately.

It skated across the pavement before lifting into the air.

She didn't seem to notice.

"Hold on," I said.

Victor frowned.

"What?"

"She dropped something."

Before anyone could answer, I opened the car door.

The paper nearly escaped me twice before I caught it against a hedge.

Only then did I glance down.

A mathematics exam.

Thirty-eight percent.

Across the top, written in neat handwriting, was a name.

Helena Ashcroft.

I hurried after her.

"Excuse me!"

She turned.

For years afterward I tried to convince myself that something impossible happened in that moment.

It didn't.

She simply looked at me.

Yet I've never forgotten her face.

Her skin was almost startlingly pale against the dark curls framing it. Large brown eyes, framed by impossibly long lashes, regarded me with quiet curiosity. Her cheeks carried the faintest hint of pink from the cold. Her lips were naturally red, as though she'd stepped out of an old painting.

Her fingers—long, delicate fingers—closed around the exam paper as I handed it back.

"I think," I said, smiling, "you might need a math tutor."

She looked down at the paper.

"I do."

There wasn't even the slightest trace of embarrassment in her voice.

She simply accepted the truth.

Then she looked back at me.

"Are you one?"

"I... yes."

The answer escaped before I'd considered it.

"I'm good at mathematics."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"My name is Helena Ashcroft."

She reached into her satchel and tore a small piece from the corner of a notebook.

Carefully, she wrote a telephone number.

"My mother has been looking for someone to help me. If you're serious, call us."

She handed me the note as though offering directions to a library.

No flirtation.

No hesitation.

Just quiet certainty.

Then she thanked me for returning the paper and continued walking.

I slipped the note into my jacket before climbing back into Victor's car.

"So?" he asked.

"What?"

"What took so long?"

"Nothing."

He shrugged.

Within minutes the conversation had moved on.

Mine hadn't.

That evening, while emptying my pockets, I unfolded the small square of paper.

The number was still there.

I called.

An older woman's voice answered.

When I introduced myself, she sounded relieved.

"Oh, wonderful. Helena mentioned you."

Mentioned me?

"We're in Gray House," she said. "You'll have no trouble finding it. Everyone in Blackthorn knows Gray House."

She was right.

Everyone did.

The house stood at the end of an old elm-lined road, hidden behind weathered stone walls draped with ivy.

It wasn't the largest estate in Blackthorn.

Nor the newest.

The great mansions nearby displayed wealth with polished columns and shining windows.

Gray House displayed time.

Its stone had darkened with rain and decades. Vines climbed its walls unchecked. Tall windows reflected nothing but clouds. It looked less like a family home than a place that had quietly observed generations come and go.

Rain soaked my coat before I reached the front steps.

I hadn't even lifted my hand to knock when the heavy oak door opened.

Helena stood there.

"Hello, Adrian."

She smiled politely.

"You'll catch a cold. Please come in."

Warmth wrapped around me immediately.

The house smelled of old books, cedar wood, and something herbal I couldn't identify.

A fireplace crackled in the sitting room.

An elegant woman rose from an armchair.

"You must be Adrian."

She gestured toward the fire.

"Please. Warm yourself."

Helena disappeared toward the kitchen.

"My daughter is making you tea."

Her mother studied me for a moment before speaking again.

"Have you tutored before?"

"No."

"Then why should I hire you?"

Her question wasn't cruel.

Only practical.

"I've always enjoyed mathematics," I admitted. "And I'm studying law."

"Were studying?"

I hesitated.

"My studies are... postponed."

She nodded once.

She did not ask why.

For that kindness, I was immediately grateful.

"Helena excels at nearly everything," she said. "Literature. History. Sociology. Languages."

She smiled toward the kitchen.

"But numbers and I have never been friends."

"So she inherited that from you?"

"I'm afraid so."

She laughed softly.

"If you're willing to visit twice a week, we'd be delighted."

"I'd like that."

Helena returned carrying a tray.

She placed a steaming cup before me.

The tea tasted unlike anything I'd had before.

Earthy.

Sweet.

Floral.

"What is this?"

"My daughter's blend," her mother said.

"She gathers the herbs herself."

Helena looked faintly embarrassed.

"I like walking."

"She means she likes disappearing into fields for hours," her mother corrected fondly.

"Our little herbalist."

I thanked her and opened the mathematics textbook.

Within minutes I understood why she'd failed.

She wasn't lazy.

She listened carefully.

She copied every example.

She simply thought differently.

She searched for stories inside equations.

Patterns.

Reasons.

She wanted mathematics to explain itself before she trusted it.

"You understand once someone explains it," I told her.

"But you need practice."

She nodded.

"I know."

"What do you usually do instead?"

"I read."

"And?"

"I walk."

"Where?"

"The meadows."

"Alone?"

"Usually with my friend Vivienne."

"The weather here is miserable."

I gestured toward the rain striking the windows.

"Why would anyone choose to spend time outside in this?"

She looked beyond me, toward the storm.

"I like storms."

"Why?"

"They remind me how little control we actually have."

I laughed.

"Most people don't enjoy feeling powerless."

She finally looked back at me.

Her expression was thoughtful rather than mysterious.

"I think they should."

The room fell quiet except for the rain.

Years later, I would remember that sentence differently.

I would convince myself it carried some hidden meaning.

That it was a warning.

Or perhaps a promise.

Looking back, I should have finished my tea, thanked the Ashcrofts for their kindness, and never returned.

Instead, I agreed to come back on Thursday.

That was my first mistake.