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Chapter Text

The fire burnt to embers and cold creeping in through the imperfect seals on the cottage windows, Mary Wardwell was gradually lifted from sleep by the chill, which started at her ankles and worked its way up. She stirred, her body attempting to throw off the stiffness of sleeping on a couch... and could not.

She startled fully awake, fear shooting through her, as she found her arms and legs bound, her mouth gagged. Past the fabric, she screamed, called out for help, but she knew it was pointless, given the isolation of her home. Her mind raced, trying desperately to hold back panic as she wracked her memory for clues as to what had brought her here. But despite all her straining, there was nothing, a long stretch of nothing, merely a milky blur that shimmered around the edges. She clenched her jaw, growling with frustration, until the whiteness slowly resolved itself into a carnival, to herself wandering around the place, considering the games...

But that had been days ago! It was of no use to her now.

Desperation mounted as she tugged at her bindings, her weeping growing stronger with every moment, and she begged her mind to be still, to be logical, and escape this situation, lest it somehow worsen. She ran through what she knew for certain: she was at home, where the fire had evidently been burning, meaning she had set it with the intention of sitting down to her evening's reading; the bindings on her limbs — she had almost worked the ties on her legs loose around the knee, but her elbows were still painfully locked together — were made of a fabric she hadn't kept in her home, meaning that whomever had tied her up had brought it with premeditation; from the scent on her gag, it was one of her own scarves, draped in the same subtle fragrance that her mother had worn throughout her childhood, meaning that it probably had been a spur of the moment addition to her imprisonment.

All this pointed to (bile rose up the back of her throat) a home invasion. But the valuables around the room all seemed undisturbed— what little she could see of the house anyway. And so the only target left was... herself. She felt no pain other than the bindings, and there was no sign of damage to her clothing. The creeping cold dread was rising up her face, numbing her ears. Had somebody tied her up, drugged her, and had their way with her? It would explain the amnesia, assuming it was unrelated to her regular blackouts of the past few months.

The burning in her throat was increasing fast, and her diaphragm had begun to spasm in terror and nausea; but she knew she must not vomit, or the gag in her mouth would likely choke her, leading to an even uglier death. Tightening her eyes, locking her jaw, clenching her fists, she took deep, pointed breaths, pictured herself in her beautiful places: the forests just outside of Greendale, the little wooden bridge across the river where she had skipped stones as a young girl...

With this concentrated effort, she calmed her body, reigned in her mind enough to become diagnostic once more. She was not bound to the couch, and so she could find her way to the kitchen, given enough time, and perhaps somehow use a knife on the bindings. Rolling carefully, she soon learnt that gravity had little interest in her comfort, and hit the wooden floor with a hardness that told her exactly where and how big her bruises were going to be. She took a moment to seethe, bringing up her knees to curl against the pain and consider how to proceed; it wasn't going to be graceful, but it could be done. Whatever horrible things her mind had blanked from her, both now and before, she had survived them. And she would be damned if she was going to give up now, lying like a worm before her couch.

But before she could begin her awkward manoeuvring, a low female voice sounded from behind her:

“Well. She really is a thoughtless brat, isn't she?”

Chapter Text

Mary struggled to get a look at the intruder, but the couch was in the way. Managing to finally work the gag down her chin, she called out: “Who's there? Come out where I can see you!” Despite trying to sound commanding, her voice had cracked from the get-go, and she hated how weak it made her sound.

“I'm sorry, but for the moment I can't do that. You'll understand soon.” The woman was calm, but weary in her jadedness.

“Did you do this to me?” She had given up her wriggling, trying to learn as much as possible while she had the chance.

“Perhaps indirectly. But no, I didn't tie you up and abandon you on your sofa. That honour went to one of your precious pupils from good old Baxter High.”

Baxter High...

Mary ran through a tally of the sorts of students who might possibly be involved in something so appalling, and a few names sprang regrettably to mind. For this to have been done to her by one of her own students, it was unthinkable! But if true, then it was far worse than being at the mercy of some unknown brutes.

“Please... if you mean me no harm, then untie me. This is so humiliating.”

A sympathetic sigh and the woman approached from her blind-spot. “All right, but you'll need to avert your eyes. My face might be a little too much for you right now, you'll have to trust me on the matter.”

Mary nodded at the small condition, closed her eyes obediently as slender hands helped her into a half-kneel, and some manner of tool sliced her free. Then the twisted scarf was removed from her neck, and she brought up a shaking hand to feel the skin where it had been. “Thank you. Can I at least ask your name?”

“There's no harm in that, though I doubt it will mean anything to you. My name is Lilith.”

“Lilith. Like the first woman of Eden?”

Surprised registered in the stranger's voice. “The same. Impressive, Ms Wardwell.”

Mary allowed herself the smallest glimmer of pride, now that she knew her life was not in immediate peril. “Well, I... I've always found solace in ancient stories. There's something so deeply...” she shifted, became aware of developments in her body. “Um, if you'll excuse me, I need to— “

“Of course. I'll light the fire while you're away.”

On unsteady legs, Mary made her way to the lavatory, holding onto the walls for more than physical stability. After having relieved herself, she stayed seated for a while, folded over with her head in her hands. In this private space, she allowed the tears to flow, silently into her palms and down her wrists.

Whoever the woman in her house was, Mary had the instinctive belief that they were somehow kindred, and a nervous trust had budded in her gut. But the past month had battered and bruised her more than she could have ever thought possible, leaving her full of anxious doubts by daylight, and attacked by gruesome nightmares by moonlight. And so she needed to first loose the tears that had built up behind her eyes, before she could handle any further interaction, kindred or no.

On her way back, she pulled a shawl from atop the laundry basket to drape over her shoulders, and kept her gaze respectfully low. “I should have warned you, but... the fire can be rather difficult to start, I'm afraid. The wood has been quite damp of late.”

But her concerns were proven needless, as a full and healthy fire crackled in the hearth. Mary stared into it, as ever calmed by the beauteous dancing colours, the soft glow it sent all around the room, and onto her own body. She had liked to imagine that the fire imbued her with a sort of protection against the darkness.

Given recent happenings, perhaps not.

She pressed her lips tight against mounting emotions, and clasped her hands before her, clearing her throat.

“Um, thank, thank you again, for your kindness, Ms Lilith. Is there anything I can offer you?”

As she approached the couch, Mary saw that the stranger had seated herself, bare legs in black pumps crossed at the knee, scarcely covered by the rich brocade of a red cocktail dress.

“You may offer me a brandy, if you'd like.”

“Brandy, yes I, I think I still have some in the drinks cabinet.” And there it was, right in front. As were two of her best snifters. Odd, she usually stored those separately. But then, who knew what sort of changes she had made, during those lost months?

It was awkward, carrying the items and placing them on the coffee table without stealing a glance at her visitor's face, but Mary was a woman of her word, and under the circumstances, decorum felt even more crucial. As she lifted the brandy to pour, she saw how badly her hand was shaking, such that attempting to complete the action would be quite ill-advised. But before she could give up, a soft, crimson-nailed hand slipped over hers, steadying both it and, surprisingly, her spirit.

“Thank you.”

“You really shouldn't keep thanking me,” Lilith's time-worn voice chided gently. “You don't know the things I've done.”

“I know you're helping me.” Mary brought a thin but grateful smile to her pale lips. “And that is a lot more than most people have been doing recently, if truth be told.”

Lilith withdrew her hand in order to take her drink. “Yes, it seems that the people of Greendale — and certain people, in particular — aren't especially good at recognising those who suffer on the outskirts. Quiet folk like you, Ms Wardwell, tend to become invisible.”

“I don't mind being invisible. Most of the time. But recently...” she felt the tremor entering her words, but there was nothing for it, “I've just really needed somebody to... to ask me. How I'm feeling. And,” she covered one hand with the other, carefully retaining hold on the snifter, “really listen. When I tell them the answer.” Small tears escaped her eyes, and she lifted an arm to absorb them.

A pause, during which she feared she had been discourteous.

Then Lilith broke the silence:

“Mary Wardwell?”

“Yes?”

“How are you feeling?”

The surging sensation in her chest threatened to overwhelm her, and Mary carefully placed the drink down before wrapping her arms around her waist, physically girding her loins. “I feel completely lost. I'm... not even sure who I am anymore. All around my house, there are things I haven't seen before, that I don't remember bringing home. But obviously I did, or they wouldn't be here. Some I, I can't imagine why I'd ever own, or what they could be for.” Her words were coming faster, pouring out like her untouched drink.

“There are entire months missing in my memory, and during that time, well, it seems I became principal of Baxter High! I've never wanted to be principal! Not at all. But people have said I was good at it. That I was confident and in control and intimidating— Intimidating!” she laughed mirthlessly. “Why I couldn't intimidate a poodle. So I have no idea who they're talking about. Who was I, what happened to me? Was I just...” she remembered a recent horror film, “was I body-snatched and puppeteered for six months?”

Lilith's response to the tiny joke showed no acknowledgement of humour. “No, that's not what happened, I can assure you.”

“Well no, I didn't mean that, really. Only... the pieces just don't fit. And it's making me crazy. At times, I have flashes of dreams, right in the middle of the day, while I'm teaching or even d-driving..." She didn't care to remember those incidents and their near misses. "It's as though my synapses are misfiring, and I wonder... am I schizophrenic? These hallucinations, and the nightmares... so many terrible nightmares... ” She fixed the position of her glasses out of nervous habit. “Has something irrevocable changed, inside of me?”

A deep sigh came from Lilith then, and she lifted her arm to drain her remaining brandy in one go, causing Mary's eyes to widen in instant trepidation: sudden movements like that often preceded stressful situations, and she was in no state to weather it.

As if sensing (or perhaps merely seeing) her anxiety, Lilith's hand came back into sight, and reached in to take hold of Mary's, gathering both in her own.

“It's unavoidable, I suppose. We can't keep it up forever, this... See No Evil routine. It's time you looked me in the eyes. But please, try not to panic. I'll explain everything to you.”

Fresh apprehension shot through Mary's veins, but she steeled herself, aided by the firm grip of Lilith's hands on her own, and lifted her gaze...

...to a face that was both hers and not. Her brows knitted deeply and her eyes began to well up in confusion.

“What is this? Who are you?” Her mind raced with possible answers, one of which made its way outward. “Are you— do I have a, a secret twin?”

The face so like hers, yet sculpted further with powders and pigments, lowered with regret. “If only it could be something so mundane. You see, my dear, well, there's no simpler way to put it: I'm not exactly... human.”

Mary laughed reflexively, pulled her hands back and pressed them against her thighs. “What could you mean by that? Not human? Are you playing me for a fool?” Even as she made the accusation, though, Mary knew it was not the case, and that she was being eased into something very real.

Lilith took a steadying breath, brought a hand to her face and tapped her lips with her knuckles as she decided how to proceed.

“Perhaps it would be best if I were to start at the very beginning.”

Chapter Text

Mary pulled her knees up onto the couch so that she could wrap herself more fully in the shawl; it seemed that this woman — this Lilith who inexplicably bore Mary's face — would be explaining herself for a long while, and Mary wanted to take in every possible detail placed before her. Her eyes shone with the possibility that she might soon achieve an understanding of what her life had become, of how and why it spun out of control, while her mind was lost in the fog of October's passing.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl. Just a girl, in the usual sense, but she was special because she was the first. As such, she had no other women to guide her, only the instincts with which she had been born. And the awareness of her own personhood, discreet from those around her, who were all beast and... man.”

Lilith's tone on that final word, Mary read it with ease. And she knew the myth she was hearing, but kept silent to let the storyteller work towards their shared goal.

“Specifically, a man called Adam. The first of his kind as well, as it happened. And as such, the two were, one could say, made for each other. And upon learning so, they were both incredibly happy. At least for a time. Then it became clear to that burgeoning woman, that their relationship was not one of full equality, that Adam expected her to walk behind him, to... nurture him, where he felt no need to do the same. She baulked at the idea, believing herself just as valid an individual, deserving of equal affection, and of course she was correct. But that didn't help matters at all, because her softly voiced concerns were brushed aside as whimsy, and her more firmly worded complaints met with angry dismissal. And so she grew weary of talk, and opted instead for silence, though a silence that spoke volumes.

"And when the time came for the two of them to engage in the Intimate Act and agree to produce offspring, the young woman resisted being laid atop. She insisted that it was only dirt that should be crushed under weight, that two such as they should lie side by side to couple. Adam disagreed, and attempted to hold her down, but she was just as strong as he and wrestled him off of her, then fled into the forest where she hid from the furious sounds of frustration that followed her.

"Once he had calmed down and sought her out, gone through the overtures of apology where promises were made, they agreed to try again, once a little time had passed. He began to show her more affection, inquired after her health and mood on a more regular basis. He caressed her without escalation, showing her only that he was there, to love her, to cherish her. But in fact, he was leading her down the rose-scented path to a snare.”

The darkening tone of Lilith's already shadowy voice was putting Mary on edge, and she reached for her brandy, finally beginning to sip it and experiencing a welcome stinging on her lips.

“Once they lay on the soft mossy ground, in the shade of a tree more ancient than time, he played the part of the doting lover, stroking her hair, looking deeply into her eyes, gently kissing her lips. And she, child that she was, felt love, and revelled in it. And that was her mistake, because in that moment, he took hold of her and rolled her beneath him, pinning her as he sat upon her hips. Still with the soft face of affection, he smiled, said sweet words as he began easing himself inside of her.”

Despite the sparse description of the act, Mary was growing uncomfortable and drew her limbs in more tightly.

“Angrily, the woman rebuked him, that this was not the arrangement they had discussed, and in tender tones, he assured her that it was the only way, the intended way. But she was not convinced, and struggled to reposition the two of them. It was then that his body tensed and he moved to hold her down, with more vigour than ever before. Enraged, she took a clump of mossy earth and shoved it into his face, blinding and choking him, so that, coughing and yelling, he leapt off of her. Once his eyes were clear, he looked for her, to punish her, but the woman was long gone, having fled once more into the woods.

“There she communed with the beasts, asked them what to do because they would never allow themselves to be slaves to Man. The rats told her to run, to seek a safe place and plot. The wolves told her to find strength in numbers and build herself a different life. And so she journeyed deeper into the woods, until one day she discovered a high stone wall, and realised that, for her entire life, she had been sealed in a garden. She wondered, was this to protect her from something that dwelt outside, or to keep her from her freedom? Spurred on by these questions, she found ways, using the tools of the forest, to climb atop the wall, and soon she was looking down at the stretches of land which she had previously believed boundless. But now that she could see the wall that encircled it all, she knew that was not the case.

“Daring at last to look behind her, to the other side, she saw an imperfect world. True, there was still beauty, still trees and ponds, but there were also patches of death, black ground where flames had stolen the prosperity, stony hilltops where nothing could grow. And here and then, in the sky, she saw peculiar winged figures, similar to herself but taller, with burning auras that made them painful to stare at for too long.

“Possessing of supplies collected along her journey, she decided to walk around the wall, and see what she could learn from either side. Eventually, after what seemed like days, a familiar clearing came into view, and a familiar figure. Cautiously she moved, in a crouch, just in case he should look up to the clouds and sight her. For now, she wished only to be an observer, as she had never seen him without the face he chose to show her. And as she watched, another figure walked into the clearing — another woman, she realised, with a pang of longing. Someone like herself. Oh if only she could meet her, talk to her, share their experiences! Learn from each other. But then, in horror, she saw that the woman had lain down, and that Adam, without pause or preamble, had climbed atop of her. And she had offered no resistance as he pinned her, enjoyed himself upon her, barely even acknowledged her.

“The woman found that she was weeping, and she had to look away, staring instead across the wastes that stretched forever, and yet seemed somehow kinder now. And as she did, a voice came to her, booming and authoritative: You must leave, it told her. For your sins, you are no longer welcome here. A more fitting wife has been created, and you must reap the rewards of your insolence. Witch. Demon. Never return. And never stop running, for you are no longer under my protection.”

Yes, Mary knew this story. She had read it many times, from many perspectives. But never this one. It felt so personal. The way Lilith's voice had grown tight in her throat, the way her large eyes were red-rimmed and shining, it seemed less like a story, and more like a memory. Reflexively, she reached over a hand and made contact with Lilith's upper arm, the closest she was willing to touch towards that Twin Face of hers. “She was right to leave,” Mary said carefully. “She would have been miserable with him, after all that she had learnt.”

Lilith gave her a wan smile of gratitude. “She would have indeed. But misery was to be her bedfellow nonetheless. Come.” She stood up. “Let's get you something to eat before we continue. If you don't mind me saying, you look rather less than rosy.”

Mary dropped her head in embarrassment, at the idea that her fatigue was showing so badly. Slowly she stood, aware that the blend of brandy and exhaustion would definitely lead to light-headedness. Once she made eye contact again, Mary's kind blue eyes conveyed her gratitude once more, though she respected Lilith's request for her to not voice further words of thanks.

“Of course. I'll make sandwiches.”

Chapter Text

All the ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter, Mary proceeded to cut the thick loaf of brown bread that she had baked the previous night. Subtly spiced and sweetened with almond, honey and cinnamon, the bread gave easily beneath the knife. Baking it had been meditative, one of the few things that soothed Mary's mind these days. But now, in this kitchen, she was feeling something she hadn't known she had been missing: companionship. Simple, domestic companionship. This woman who, for still unknown reasons, shared her face, was sitting quietly by while she built a meal out of small things and experience. There was no need for conversation, no compelled speech. She hadn't felt anything like this for a very long time.

Her mind drifted to Adam, much as she had preferred it not to, and the corners of her mouth drew down, out of sight of her guest. In cases like these, he would also sit by, cheerfully regaling her with stories of his adventures while she prepared the food, warm and satisfied. She didn't mind that he had all these tales and she had only the stories she had learnt from books. Her imagination had taken her places even he could never travel, and hearing the pleasure in his voice as he recounted the things he had seen and done, it always brought a smile to her face.

Lilith's retelling of the myth of the Garden, of her namesake's genesis, Mary had expected that it would have threatened to bring up memories of her own Adam, but she had been so focussed, so in the moment, that those thoughts had no room to surface. Now, though, she could not help but reflect how very different those two Adams were. Mary's Adam was never forceful, nor inconsiderate. True, his buoyant nature often led him to go for a kiss unexpectedly, but it was so rooted in youthful exuberance that it felt more like being bopped in the face by an excited puppy. He loved her, truly and deeply loved her. And when her guard fell down, when she stood alone, she missed him so, so very much, a deep and wrenching ache. But perhaps now, finally, she could learn where he was. If Lilith truly knew all that she suggested. And Mary had the patience to wait for that knowledge.

She put the kettle on the stove, then brought the sandwiches to the table, where the elegant stranger sat with hands clasped before her, following Mary with blue eyes that seemed much older than they had any right to be.

“Won't you continue your story? After the woman set forth into the wastes?” Not only did Mary want to hear that purring version of her own voice continue, but she was also curious as to which iteration of the tale she would be told. She did not wait for an answer before bringing a sandwich to her lips, wanting to prevent the embarrassment of her hunger becoming audible.

Lilith nodded in acquiescence, leaned forward onto her arms. “For the first few months, she saw nobody, heard no human voice but her own, when she would sing to herself to keep the madness at bay. The animals there did not communicate with her, either aggressive or fearful when she came across them. But eventually, while she slept, voices began to visit her. Voices born out of the ether, speaking to her in tongues she only understood through the medium of dreams.

“The voices were female, and she could identify at least three distinct personalities. They shared certain secrets of the harsh land with her, aiding in her survival, and also rituals. They told her over and over, night after night, until she finally remembered the instructions upon waking and set about casting what were to be her very first spells.

“First there was a spell of protection, allowing her to sleep in the open without fearing tooth or claw. Then a spell of reduced hunger, so that she could spend less time foraging and more time developing her incantations. In time, the magic became innate and the Wastes were no longer a threat. That which she needed, she could procure. But even with the women who whispered to her in her sleep, there was still a great loneliness which weighed on her. And so she wrote a new ritual, a summoning spell. Wrapped in aromatic leaves and dancing around a bonfire of cedar and crushed pine-cones, she called out to all the realms who would listen, inviting a companion to recognise who and what she was, and to join her on her life's journey. After hours, spent and believing the ritual fruitless, something dark slithered out of the burnt out pyre and resolved itself into the shape of a large crow.”

Mary tried to uncover this part of the myth from her memory, but there were already a number of diversions that did not follow expectation. So she thought instead of her books on the history of Greendale, of the 'mountain women' who many said were witches, driven out by covetous men. There were writings that these women were followed around by strange animals which acted far more like people than beasts, and seemed to obey the commands of their mistresses.

“The crow... it was her... familiar?”

Again that surprised glimmer in Lilith's eyes, which filled Mary with pride. “It was. A demon named Stolas who chose to travel with what was now a powerful and experienced witch. Uncovering the secrets of the Wastes.”

The kettle whistled from the stove, and before Mary could leap up, Lilith had stood and gone over to it. At which point Mary noticed that she had not bothered with her share of the sandwiches and worried that they had looked too dull to be appetizing. She turned to find Lilith easily locating her teas and straining them into the teapot. Was her little kitchen really so intuitively laid out?

When she returned, Mary gave voice to her concerns. “Is the food not all right? Perhaps I can offer you something else?”

Lilith raised her brows, as if realising a slight for the first time. “Oh. No, it seems I just wasn't hungry. I eat very infrequently, I'm afraid. Please help yourself.”

She pushed the plate over to Mary, then poured them both tea. Then, slowly sipping the interesting blend she had brewed, Lilith told the tale of how the woman — the Lilith of the tale — had years later met the fallen angel, Lucifer. And how she had used her well-honed abilities to heal his bloody wounds and sooth his war-torn spirit. And the years of affectionate companionship which followed. Lucifer had given her a lover who allowed her sovereignty over her own body, and offered love-making which enriched their relationship, rather than driving a wedge between them.

But there it was, of course, the time when their lives together darkened.

“You see,” Lilith's voice had retreated into a controlled monotone as she refilled their cups, “his bitterness had all the while been consuming him. He hid it from her, relishing her adoration, but it was always there. An anger that began to distort his body. First came a cloven foot, then a hoof. And then one whole leg was cursed by the depths of his hatred.

“Seeking some time alone to centre herself, the woman announced that she would be going into the wilds to conduct a ritual of Seeing, which would take her away from him for at least a week. He agreed, though was clearly not happy with the idea. And she and her familiar set off. She meditated, wrote spells and songs, enjoyed her fresh solitude. But when she returned, feeling clear of mind and strong of spirit, she found that her lover had been replaced by a hideous monster. Covered from hoof to horn in rank, scraggly fur, his heavenly face replaced by a snarling, dripping muzzle. And she understood that this was not an outward transformation, but the symptoms of a disease that could no longer be contained.

“She ran, deathly afraid, as any woman would be. But he caught up with her, as she set camp for sleep, and dominated her, pressing her flat against the ground and unleashing his petty annoyance at the time he had been left alone. He blamed her for his transformation, and punished her for it, over and over. He—”

Lilith broke off then. Lost in the story, she had not noticed that Mary's eyes had grown wet with fear and that she had clamped her palms over her mouth to control her reaction. With regretful eyes, she leaned across and placed a hand upon Mary's, encouraged her to lower them to the table. But those hands were trembling and needed to be held for far longer before they calmed down.

Yet Mary was the one to apologise. “I'm sorry, I... I don't know what's wrong with me. It's only a story, there's no reason for me to get upset. Please forgive my...”

Lilith frowned deeply, and Mary couldn't quite read the expression.

“There's nothing to forgive, Mary. At least, not from my side. But I'll get to that soon enough. Are you all right to continue?”

The pressure and warmth from Lilith's hands were soothing, and Mary found herself nodding.

“Thank you. I think I should perhaps summarize for a while. The story after that gets a little difficult to hear, even for me. So let's just say that, while five thousand years passed by, she endured indignity after indignity, trapped by loyalty, by promises made, and of course, by perpetual dread. She had given up on running, because where could she go that he wouldn't find her? Her only course of action would be to do as he asked, but try to always do it on her own terms, for her own reasons. Somehow. And that's what she told herself she was doing. But the truth was, she had been torn down the middle, and her spirit wept through each agonising moment of her continued existence.”

She met Mary's eyes, blue to blue, and Mary could tell that this was not just a story. Even as her logical mind treated it as such, her heart knew better.

“You said promises were made. What did you— that is, the woman, what promises did she make?”

A twinkle of interest passed Lilith's eyes, but not her words. “Ah yes. Well. There was one especially large promise, made by the Fallen Angel, who now called himself the Dark Lord. He told the woman that, should she continue to serve him loyally, willingly and quietly, in all that he demanded, she would, eventually, be lifted up. She would be rewarded for her servility by a place at his side. A throne and a crown. And to finally receive the respect that she craved, from both Man and the Hoards of Hell, where he reigned.”

Mary did not fail to notice the small fissures that had begun to appear in Lilith's voice, how fault lines kept trying to trip her up, drag her down into emotion. The monotonal delivery had become decidedly unconvincing.

“But he didn't... did he?”

“No, he didn't. She should have expected it, though. And on some level, she absolutely did. But what else could she do? He held all the strings, and she, a powerful witch but nothing grander than that, could not move against every ally and servant the Dark Lord commanded.”

“She was trapped.”

“A state in which she was all too used to living. Which somewhat brings us up to date...” Lilith glanced over at the cute wooden wall clock, shaped like a cat. “Perhaps you'd like to stop for the night. You must be tired.”

Something in her voice alerted Mary, that she herself would rather not continue. No, not now, when things had finally come back around to her own life.

“Please, um... can we continue? I'm fine. I don't think that I could sleep if I wanted to. The truth... please, Ms Lilith. You must tell me the truth.” She was wringing her fingers, so hid the fidgeting by pushing them out of sight, into her lap.

“The truth,” Lilith whispered, lines gathering around her features as the word seemed to summon a number of unpleasant thoughts. “As you wish. But,” she raised her jaw, tilted her head as though listening to the weather outside, “let's have a change of scenery first.”

Chapter Text

Wrapped up in her mustard coat with an argyle scarf at her neck, Mary kept stride alongside Lilith, who had, it turned out, brought along an interestingly textured black leather coat, which she had fastened against the chill breeze. They were heading down her driveway, towards the forested road which ran towards town.

“Tell me,” Lilith said at length, the heels of her black pumps digging audibly into the gravel, “about the nightmares.”

Mary's hand went to her chest, as though to protect her heart against the word. “If you really want to hear them. Though I'm not sure why you would.”

“For the moment, why don't we consider it therapy. Have you described them to anyone else?”

“Not in detail, no. Nobody has really asked, after finding out I'm having them.”

Lilith made a low noise in her throat. “As expected. But I can assure you, I've heard worse, no matter what you might think. So please feel free to unburden yourself.”

Folding her arms high against her breast, Mary nodded. “Then I will thank you for your invitation. In my nightmares... I am fairly... no, I'm absolutely certain. That I'm in Hell.”

Lilith showed no reaction, her profile set in what Mary was learning was a habitual look of resting displeasure, as her gait continued unaffected by her improper footwear on a country road. And so Mary took a deep breath, allowing the mishmash of horrific memories to flow back into conscious thought.

“It's never exactly the same, but there is a theme, always: Helplessness. I'm helpless to save others, or myself, over and over, from the most terrible of fates. As you know, I'm an educator at Baxter High, and, well, in my nightmares, I often see my students. In the narrative, I'm usually leading some kind of field trip, where a feeling of supernatural dread hangs around us, nameless and crushing. The children will stray from the path, and I'll cry out to them, but find that my mouth has been... sewn shut,” she wrung her hands, then pushed them in fists into her pockets, stiffening her shoulders. “Or I'll move to grab them, before something else does, but my hands are intangible and pass right through their arms. So instead, I can only watch and listen, as they are torn limb from limb... their bones broken and crumbled into dust... their blood soaking the ground, spraying... onto me...”

Her lips trembling, she quickly brought a hand up to press upon them, while tears made their way down her face. For some time, they walked in silence, shielded from the sky by mounting rows of tall trees. Eventually, a shuddering breath expanding her lungs, Mary was able to continue.

“It isn't always human children. Oftentimes it's... animals. Pups or kittens. Little birds. Sweet Heavens, Lilith... why, it's torture! I can't think of another way to describe it. These aren't the workings of my mind. I've never had thoughts like these. They... I can't say how, but I know, I know they were given to me. And... I know that it might sound strange, might make me sound certifiable, in fact, but... like the poets and artists in centuries past, I do believe that I was, somehow... actually there.” She hung her head, frowning deeply. “I'm sorry, that must sound ridiculous.”

Lilith was unmoved by the admission. “Not at all. You're hardly the first person to have encountered feelings of supernatural intervention, light or dark. Who am I to say — well. Actually, I am very much the person to say it.” She fixed her steely gaze upon the shaken woman, a bitter curve to her lips: “You absolutely were in Hell. Mary. And I can prove it.”

Chapter Text

Away from the road, where the trees were thick and many, Lilith led them to a clearing where stood an ancient forest king, its trunk wider than ten men could encircle, and immense, tendril-like branches which explored the air and ground.

“They call it an Angel Oak, but that name belies its full abilities.”

Mary stared up at the twisted branches, strong and broad enough to support every child in her largest class without bending. “It's majestic,” she marvelled, putting a hand to its coarse bark.

“It is that. But it is also useful. Stand back, Mary.” Lilith waved her away and behind where she herself stood, giving the tree a good five meters of breathing space. “Now, remember, I told you that I could prove it to you? Where you were for those six months.”

Mary dutifully kept her distance, from both tree and woman. “Yes. How could I forget. But... what are we doing here? Are you trying to tell me that this oak tree is a gateway,” her voice fell to a whisper, “to Hell?”

Lilith's tone was sardonic. “Well not exactly. It's more of a viewing window. Like being at the aquarium and watching the sharks through reinforced glass.”

When no word came from Mary, Lilith turned and saw that the woman had her hands tightly clasped, resting against her chin, while with eyes clenched shut she whispered what could only be a frantic, fearful prayer to her god. He who had banished the first woman from the Garden.

“It will do you no good to pray to him, my dear. He has no more interest in your well-being than he does mine, despite what your preachers would insist.”

Mary scowled as if in pain, and slowly, with a tiny whimper, stopped praying, lowered her hands and face. The woman may well have a point: after all, if she had truly been in Hell -- Mary Wardwell, a loyal follower all her life -- should He not have retrieved her from such suffering?

Questioning her faith came unexpectedly, but something about being in the presence of this doppelgänger and this ancient tree made it feel somehow natural. And what could be done to her now, for her doubting, that was worse than being damned to Hell?

Lilith raised up her hands, palms towards the tree, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder at Mary once more. “Don't be afraid. And don't run. No matter what you might see or hear.”

“I'm not afraid,” asserted Mary. Still her subconscious held the understanding of who and what Lilith was, though her logical brain did not translate it into words. And with that familiar face — her own angular, weathered face — she felt strange comfort. “You're going to... to do a spell. Aren't you?”

Lilith's mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly, managing to convey respect for Mary's resolve. “I'm going to draw apart the curtains.” And with that she turned away, lifting her hands once more, and chanting under her breath.

Though she was no great language scholar, Mary had of course dabbled in Latin, while at university. And so she tried to distinguish phrases from what Lilith spoke.

“Silva nobilis rex, expergīscere!
Aperī fenestram ad inferos!
In flammas revēlā,
et corpora nostra cēlā!”

The trunk of the oak tree seemed to lose focus, as though it alone caused drunkenness when viewed directly. Mary squinted at it, with her glasses and without, and while she stared, the trunk grew translucent, moss glowing gold like seething metal. A heavy thrumming filled the air, and Mary felt her inner ears pop, winced at it.

Shapes began to resolve themselves within the trunk, and it was, as Lilith had said, much as a high window upon a vast land. As Lilith continued to chant, the view on the other world changed, grew closer. Grey and red crags, sharp as petrified daggers, gave way to foggy marshes and fields, and a sudden intense pinch constricted Mary's gut, as her soul experienced an agony of familiarity, such that she folded over briefly.

But Mary could not keep from looking back, past the still-chanting figure of Lilith, whose bountiful brown hair was being swept around by energies that had nothing to do with the wind. “Come closer,” Lilith told her. “Stand beside me and gaze into Hell.”

The phrasing struck her through with dread, but Mary obeyed, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. Though her every cell wanted to break away and hurtle out of the forest, she willed her legs to be firm, clenched her fists in her pockets, and stared through the infernal window.

“I see it,” she whispered, “I see the places I've been. There's—“ she gasped as, within the viewing window, a hulking mass, malformed and impossible, lurched out of the mists, turned its ponderous flat head towards them.

“Don't move,” Lilith commanded, and Mary knew her body had betrayed its intention to bolt. “It can't see us.”

“But how does— “

“Think of us as an air current, a will o' the wisp.”

Mary nodded and stared anxiously into the trunk, wherein another demon, its snout long and barbed and its eyes rotting pits of yellow, slithered between the shadows. Her breathing had grown short and quick, hyperventilation threatening.

“Do you know them?” came Lilith's firm voice, steadying Mary's resolve and her lungs.

“I do. They were some of the creatures who...”

“All right, then I think you've seen enough. Ultra vēlum intrabit claude!”

Gradually, the rolling vibrations lessened, like heavy machinery receding into the distance, and Lilith's hands dropped to her side.

“Well. Nothing like a waking nightmare to enliven the spirit, is there?”

Mary had closed her eyes as soon as Lilith had spoken the final Latin, working stringently to keep her vital functions performing correctly, to keep her emotions from breaking down, her mind from collapsing amidst the insurgence of memory and knowledge. She nodded at Lilith's question, though she only knew from the tone that it was a question and had not heard the words at all.

“Mary?”

Her name was spoken close to her ear, and it startled her eyes open, only to see her own anxious expression mirrored back at her. She found her voice, though breathy and short, to reassure her doppelgänger:

“Yes, I'm... I'm fine.” She was not. But she soon could be.

There was no cause to question this, to accuse Lilith of theatrical trickery. There was not a showman in the world who could perform an illusion this complete, in the middle of the woods, with no tools or assistance.

There was but one word for what she had witnessed, and it was a word a part of her had always yearned to believe in:

Witchcraft.

Chapter Text

Mary sat on a tree stump with her back to the magical oak, resting her face in her hands as she tried to process what she had witnessed.

Hell was real. Not an abstract concept, not a metaphorical deterrent for immoral behaviour. But a real place. With tangible soil and bodies — human and inhuman — where souls were sent after death. But what were the specifications of that sending? What, in this new literal interpretation, earned a soul damnation?

As was her nature in times of confusion, she shut out the world and visualised a bullet-point list: To end up in Hell, one must first be removed from one's body; in order to leave one's body, one must presumably die (though now witchcraft-related separations of body and spirit were not off the table, such as zombification, bodily possession and so on); if there was a Hell, then there was reason to posit that there also existed a Heaven, at the very least, or else some other paradise-like realm (though she reminded herself that any assumption of ordered design was perhaps naïve in a chaotic universe).

Given that there were most likely different places where a soul might be sent, what had led to hers to be sent to one and not the other? Was there such a thing as an error of accountancy in these situations, or had the followers of their faith (or any faith, for that matter) simply not been given enough information to properly secure the eternal rest of the soul, no matter how pious they may have believed themselves?

Reaching an end to how far she could reasonably ponder on her own, Mary stood and sought out Lilith, who had been respectfully staying out of her way, walking the perimeters of the clearing.

“Well, have you come to terms with this expansion to your little universe?” Lilith was feigning disinterest, but something in her manner told Mary that she was holding back. More information, or perhaps an opinion.

“I fear that will be a long time coming, but... this has been incredibly illuminating. Life altering, in fact. To know this much, more I would imagine than the majority of human beings who have ever lived... terrifying as that is, it is a— well, it might be strange to call it a 'blessing'. But I thank— “ she cut herself off when a deep shadow fell over Lilith's countenance, and pretended that she had misspoken. “I think, that is. I think I understand how they felt. The great writers and artists, who described their experiences of Hell.”

Lilith betrayed her impatience. “I'm very happy for you. Regrettably, I expect you still have questions. Otherwise you'd already be back at your desk, writing Wardwell's Inferno, rather than ruminating in the woods alongside a...” she trailed off, dissatisfied with the direction her words had taken.

“A what?”

Lilith frowned off into the middle distance, eyes so dilated in the dark that they seemed deep brown. She wanted to brush off the question, but plainly realised it was not to be.

“Alongside a five thousand year old demon.”

Surprising herself, Mary didn't miss a beat: “But you're not a demon, Ms Lilith.” Her soft voice was rich with genuinely held compassion.

Lilith, by contrast, was taken aback, and faltered for a moment. “How, what would you know about it? You're but a babe. A child of Man.”

“Yes, but... with respect. I'm also a woman. Just like you. And you told me yourself, how you were thrown away. For your convictions, and your wisdom.”

She drew closer to the stiffened figure, who stood taller than Mary's identical stature by dint of her aggressively chic footwear. Though Lilith had half turned away, she did not fully retreat, and Mary took her hand.

“I understand how you might begin to hate yourself. Being treated so poorly by the ones you love. But...”

Lilith's down-turned face was pained, and through clenched teeth she murmured: “I'm the one who killed you.” She turned wide, furious eyes on Mary, startling her backwards, though her voice was hard and controlled. “I damned you to Hell. I sentenced you to those months of torture. Without thought or regret. Knowing full well what awaited you, and how little you deserved it.”

She raised her magnificent jaw and released a glacial stare upon Mary. “So tell me. Mary Wardwell. Tell me again. How you're so very certain that I'm not a demon.”

Mary staggered back further upon the uneven ground, her earnest face twisted in disbelief. “You? Why... how could that be true?”

Lilith had come to her kindly, freed her, listened to her, given her much needed knowledge, all while appearing as her twin, her ethereal mirror self. How could Lilith possibly have been the one to wrench her from life and hurl her knowingly into torment?

She scrambled for excuses. “It was... an accident. Perhaps. Could it be that you didn't know— “

“Oh, I knew.” Lilith's expression was all darkness now, a mask intended to chase away any and all doubts concerning her demonic nature. “I planned it. I waited for you by the side of the road, and when you welcomed me into your home, I bled you dry, and stole your face.”

Mary shook her head, as though trying to jostle free those memories. “I don't believe it. I... I don't remember anything about that. The last thing I—“

“Then let me be the one to gift you the agony of memory.”

She whispered a few arcane words, grabbed them out of the air with a flourish of her fist, then gestured the foul-tasting knowledge back into Mary's mind: the image of Lilith as a spectral girl on the side of the road, dirt-clad and supposedly assaulted by the Greendale woods themselves; the memory of how Mary's gentle nature had led her to welcome a doll-faced murderer into her home; to offer her freshly-baked sustenance, only to be terrorised by a diabolical voice and gruesomely stabbed, left to bleed without dignity.

Mary remembered how it felt, to have her consciousness slip away — like falling asleep while drugged, the spirit frantically swimming upward but feeling itself dragged down... and down...

She screamed one final denial at Lilith, who stared through her with empty eyes, as though she did not even warrant focussing upon. Then she turned to leave, to rush away from this forest of ugly revelations before the pain inside of her could burst forth and hinder her with blindness and clumsiness.

The trouble was, what with following her doppelgänger to the tree, her mind on their conversation, she did not know exactly which way was out. And every time she thought she did, the branches and bushes were wrong. She fought back panic, telling herself that the road had to be but a few paces away, just through the brush up ahead, it would all be revealed soon.

But somehow, despite how quickly they had reached the Angel Oak before, minutes like hours passed by and still she was unable to find her way free. Exhausted, she relented and sat down too hard on stony earth, began sobbing into her hands.

A curse. This had to be some new curse. Lilith had cursed her for... for something.

For doing some part of this wrong. For having the wrong words, or the wrong thoughts.

And now she was never to find her way home. She was going to perish once more. Perhaps be plunged right back into her nightmares — only they were not nightmares, they never had been.

She felt the fight leave her, her body limp in nihilistic misery.

So close...

She had been so close to understanding. To feeling complete. To being able to begin healing.

Now it was all ruined, and she was growing very cold, the warmth of her body being drawn out by the ground, as nature attempted to balance everything out. Hugging herself, wishing she could leave, but feeling no motivation to do so, she allowed her limbs to chill, to cramp up.

Given how she had first met Lilith, a girl apparently ravaged by the woods, perhaps it was appropriate that it should overtake her thus. Perhaps it was her punishment for being a foolish woman who could not sniff a threat even when it was right in front of her, bathed in the headlights.

It's what I deserve.

Chapter Text

Standing just a few feet away, hidden behind a birch, Lilith listened to Mary's sobs with an imperfect pokerface. This close to the Angel Oak, these woods were awash with unseen presences, and as expected, they had sensed Mary's pain, her vulnerability, and closed ranks around her. What the wretched place was trying to achieve, Lilith could only guess, but it seemed to her that the airy soup of loose tree spirits, souls of lost children, strange animalistic awarenesses with no name... they had no clear idea either.

She rested a hand on the birch and a frisson of sylvan energy tickled her fingertips; the place was far too active, too dangerous for an exposed mortal with precious little understanding of the magical world. She would need to get Mary out of here, before all her efforts were nullified.

Is it worth it, I wonder. Giving into my cruelty so easily. Hardly a kid-glove performance, was it, demon? Was it really so satisfying to take your bitterness and guilt out on the pitiable mortal?

She harrumphed deep in her throat, knowing the answer full well. It was time to face, well, her face. And bow her head to her actions. First, however, they would have to relocate.

She stepped into view, but was not noticed by the weeping willow, who now had two fronds of the forest coiling around her ankles, attempting to anchor her to the earth.

“Mary,” she called firmly, anxiety tingeing her voice. “We're leaving. Pull yourself together.” She disliked the continued cruelty in her tone, which there seemed no method of removing for the moment. Its intended purpose was achieved though, Mary startling to awareness with drowned blue eyes and lips which hung open. She said nothing to Lilith, and it was unclear whether that was an intentional snubbing or the muteness of fear. Whichever, it was quite irrelevant right now, and so Lilith went down into a half squat and took Mary's hand — earning a considerable flinch in response — and stared her straight in the eye, conveying that they were doing this together, that it was safe.

Ethereal winds briefly buffeted their bodies, the feeling of resettling on a new surface being as natural to Lilith as taking an elevator, but leading Mary to topple over. They were back in the cottage, this time in Mary's bedroom, and Lilith quickly fetched the quilted comforter off the bed, draped it over the shivering Mary's shoulders, then knelt down before her. She swallowed, searching the patterns on the rug rather than Mary's face.

“I'm sorry. The things I told you, they were true: I had no feelings either way towards your suffering. You were nothing. Just another disposable mortal. And I'd been tasked with removing you from the narrative, and... usurping your place. Slipping into your life, so that I could do my Lord's bidding.”

While at first it was a toss-up as to whether Mary was listening at all, on this point she spoke up:

“Why me? I'm... nobody.”

Lilith frowned, pained and regret-filled. “That was rather the point. He wanted someone who could easily be replaced.” Her heart felt as though it were being squeezed by the clawed hand of the Dark Lord himself, her face contorting in accordance. “The only important thing was that you had a friendly relationship with the girl.”

The warmth around her shoulders had brought Mary back to herself, and her mind was awake to its hunger for knowledge once more. “Which girl?”

Lilith's tone darkened, full of memories of the frequent betrayals wrought upon her. “Sabrina. Sabrina Spellman.”

“Sabrina?” Mary sat herself more upright, confused anew. “She's... why? She's only a girl. What interest could she be to...” she whispered the word, “Satan?”

Lilith fought the urge to roll her eyes, knowing Mary would absolutely take it the wrong way and being very careful not to exacerbate her emotional state. “I'm afraid there is a lot you don't know about the child. In fact, she was the... no. Let me not get into that just yet. For now, we need to talk more... about witches.”

Mary looked away, pulling the comforter more tightly around her. “I'm not sure I want you in my home any longer, Lilith. You've admitted to murdering me. Even though I'm alive now... as far as I can tell... I don't think I can forgive you for that.”

Lilith's stomach sunk. But it was a fair reaction. And in the past, the feelings of mortals really hadn't come into the equation of her life. How she had changed.

“You don't understand.” Her voice had become hushed. “It was you or me.”

Agonising, all too recent sense memory overcame her body: being gripped and dragged about by her hair, hurled against the wall — a wall in this very house — throttled until her vision was all black snow, fed excruciating words on the topic of her own weakness, uselessness, ugliness... and given the ultimatum that she do the Ritual of Separation or else have her gut slit open, her own entrails pulled out of her body, and used to hoist her from the ceiling.

True, he had made it very clear that she was going to die anyway, after the ritual was done. For crossing him, for thinking herself his equal, for thinking she could truly be Queen of Hell. But the hope was that it would be a quicker death. And the bigger hope was, of course, that the time in-between would give her the chance to manoeuvre.

“My entire life, the only thing I've really fought for... is survival. At whatever cost.”

Mary obviously wanted to resist feeling sympathy, but her reply showed that she could no more shut off that part of her nature than will away her own heartbeat. “He hurt you that much?”

A laugh jerked out of Lilith, a mirthless hiccough, and her voice returned hoarsely. “In so many ways, I can no longer list. His power over me was absolute. After all, I had nobody else. Nobody in Hell would stand against him, certainly not on my behalf. For what was I, but his cheap little,” her throat tightened around the word, didn't want to let it out, “whore.”

She turned to Mary's glistening eyes. “Not that that has been his interest in my body, for a very long time. Rather it is a vessel for demonic gestation, the magic inside of me nurturing all manner of creatures, calling them forth from the elemental planes by the spilling of my blood as runes.” She could not seem to stop the words, for all that sharing them with Mary would surely prove counter-productive. “So many horrendous creatures have burst forth using my body as a conduit, I could not help but be tainted. Their residue infected me. And I too... began to turn monstrous.” She ran a hand slowly over her face, through the thick brown hair at her temples. “I lost myself. In the horror of what I had become.”

Her voice had all but dried up, and by some ridiculous human tendency, Mary Wardwell had inched closer, not wanting to miss a word.

“That's why you call yourself a demon.”

“Among other things.”

Mary paused, her gentle face creasing in thought, her lips searching for the right words. “I think that's too harsh. You're correct when you say I don't understand. Why, I can't even imagine what living one thousand years might feel like. Let alone five. I can't imagine what living through such unending cruelty could do to a woman. But even so, I... I believe that you judge yourself too harshly. For every living creature, the preservation of self is its highest priority. Even if, as people, we choose to believe we are nobler. You can't be blamed for wanting to live.”

“That's a very nice sentiment. But it cannot remove the taint on my soul.” Her eyes climbed the drapery in a defeated haze. “If I even still have one at this point.”

“I believe that you do.”

The Christian woman had let go of her doubts and slipped a hand into Lilith's, inexplicably kind. How could she have ever thought she could masquerade as someone so intrinsically good? They were as different as day and night.

“Is that what your precious God tells you?” she said sardonically, thinking back to the Biblical paraphernalia about the house.

“No,” Mary replied with impressive certainty. “It's what my heart tells me.”

Normally Lilith would have made a supremely disgusted face at such a mawkish turn of phrase. But from Mary, it seemed sincere. And she was at a loss for how to respond to that.

Perhaps sensing her confoundedness, Mary took herself back a pace to sit. As if addressing a classroom, she lifted her chin and put a genial smile on her face: “If I recall, you said that there was more I needed to learn about witches. Perhaps you'd like to enlighten me further?”

Chapter Text

Awed and mellowed by Mary's unrelenting kindness in the face of so much bitter truth, Lilith had sought an activity that would give her back her sense of agency, while forging ahead with explanations. And thus they had returned to the kitchen, where Lilith insisted on taking part in the chopping of ingredients, striking a somewhat comical figure by pairing her red cocktail dress with one of Mary's pale floral aprons.

Mary was hesitant to hand her the knife — understandably so — but had over-ridden it in a courageous offering of trust. Back in Hell, that sort of foolishness was all a rival would need to gut one from the crotch up. And in Hell, everyone was a rival. It was only a matter of how high up one felt safe pointing one's blade, before the chains of power descended to crush the combatant's spirit, and their bones.

“The purest form of magic,” Lilith continued, lopping the heads off fresh asparagus, “is drawn directly from the stuff of Creation, the cells of every living thing, the... essential energy that binds the universe.”

Mary paused while coating a pan in olive oil, frowned straight ahead as she listened, determined to understand. Exactly how much that would be, would all depend on how skilfully Lilith could break down the gigantic realities of magic for mortal consumption.

“Do you remember what I told you, about the voices who spoke to the first witch, in her sleep? As she wandered the wilderness.”

Mary tilted her head, “As you wandered the wilderness.”

“Yes. As you say. You’ll have to forgive my tendency to mythologise, it’s not often that I’m able to speak freely about who and what I am. Especially here, in Greendale. The people here, well. They know me as you, don’t they?” So saying, she had returned her eyes to the vegetables, neatening up the chopped stalks with excessive focus.

Mary nodded, showing no further distress at the idea of Lilith's impersonation, and clearly far more interested in the history of magicks. And why wouldn’t she be? Lilith had drawn back the curtain on the secrets of the universe, and someone of Mary’s intellect – Christian devotion notwithstanding – could not help but crave that knowledge.

Indeed, in many ways they were similar: both outcasts, hungry for knowledge, wary of the motives of others, lonely yet self-reliant... Perhaps Fate had had more of a hand in Lilith’s choice of disguise than she had thereto suspected.

“Well,” Lilith continued, “the things those spirits taught me, they were based on that very essential weaving of the elements. In order for a human – that is, as close to a human as I could be said to be... in order to harness that magic, at first, I had to perform the most complex of rituals. I had to charm the elemental spirits out of hiding, suggest rather than command them to aid me. And I learned many, many times that the wrong gesture or stated intention could have... unpleasant outcomes. To say the least.”

Mary had gone back to her preparations, rinsing two plump tomatoes and placing them on Lilith’s chopping board, and then selecting carrots to peel. Even as she busied herself to gain stillness of heart, her eyes showed that she was absolutely alert to Lilith’s every word.

“In time, I was able to improve my dance with the spirits, and was able to call on them at will. I became a conduit all on my own. Of course, this wasn’t a task done quickly, not before hundreds of years. And after Lucifer... tumbled down into my life, it became more and more difficult to improve.” She sliced through the first tomato, setting a little lake of wet seeds free onto the board. “He called it ‘dirt magic’,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Compared to the power he drew from his Celestial blood, he thought it quite abhorrent. Not that that stopped him from demanding I teach him how to use it, just the same...”

She paused, held up the cluttered board for Mary’s advice, who gestured that Lilith could empty her diced ingredients into the pan. After doing so, Mary handed her the carrots for chopping, then went to fetch a glass bowl from her cupboard. The easy back and forth of their tasks, it was quite extraordinary to Lilith: she had not said a word with her lips, and yet their creation of a shared meal was steadily progressing.

As the thought occurred, a pang rang out in her breast: was this how it could have been, had she been able to spend time with Adam’s second wife? Had she only, rather than being cast out for her sin of independence, been allowed to spend time with that woman, to share their thoughts and the touch of womanly hands... what could her life have been? That woman, who the modern scriptures called ‘Eve’, would she have been so ready to lay herself down for Adam, had she not been so alone?

Had neither one of them been forced to exist as singular islands, strangers from their intended, alien in their difference...

Perhaps they could have been witches together.

And Lucifer...

(Her mouth set in a thin line.)

He would have bled out in the wastes. Witnessed only by the prowling beasts who would have eagerly stripped his easy flesh.

“Lilith?”

She snapped to an awareness of Mary’s concerned gaze. “I’m sorry, I had... lost myself in thoughts of the past. And foolish whimsy.”

Mary’s face showed that she did not believe Lilith’s estimation of her thoughts, but gave no comment on the topic, rather beginning to whisk the egg and olive oil together in her bowl, waiting in silence for Lilith’s continuation.

Another pang, but this time slightly different; Lilith shook it off, pushed herself back into recitation:

“He wanted every sort of power he could harness, you see. It didn’t matter whether or not he thought very much of it. He would squeeze out every bit he could, without any thought to the consequences.” Her tone hinted at the colours of vivid recollection: “And magic always has consequences. Especially in its misuse.”

She moved the last of her ingredients into the pan, rinsed her hands and dried them on her apron. Then at Mary’s nod that there was nothing more for her to do, Lilith sat herself at the kitchen table.

“Whenever he was too rough, the energies would revolt in some manner or other. Brute that he was, that was the case more often than not. And he would rage against it, blaming the feebleness of ‘dirt magic’ for the failure, and... punishing me for my part in it, whatever that might be. It didn’t really matter, he just needed somewhere to direct his anger. And there was always so much of it, when he drenched himself in torn up magic and seething ambition. He wanted to build a domain to rival Heaven, you see. Something that his Creator would look down upon... and tremble.”

Lilith saw that Mary was silently gripping her crucifix, pressing it firmly against her chest with one hand, while using a wooden spoon on the contents of the pan. A thought came to Lilith and she stood, slowly approached the other woman and placed a hand on Mary’s, stopping her from stirring. “Let me show you something.”

Uncertain but obedient, Mary stepped aside, and Lilith removed the pan from the stove. She then turned on the gas, but did not strike the spark. Making eye-contact, a faint twinge of playfulness in the blue, Lilith pursed her lips and sent a sharp breath towards the burner cap – which erupted in a bloom of flame.

Mary leapt back, a hand to her breast, but her shock quickly turned to delight: “You’re a kitchen witch!”

An unexpected smile spread across Lilith’s face, as something warmed her from the inside. “Well. My abilities do have their versatility. Now, watch...” She gracefully flourished a hand, red-nailed fingers dancing, and reached towards the flames.

“Lilith, be careful!”

Not pausing to reassure the concerned mortal, Lilith let her fingers be kissed by the flames, keeping her mind gentle and loose, inviting the magic that lived in her every cell to take the destructive force of the fire and pass it right through, never letting it dwell long enough to burn. Rather, it nipped at her, as though she held her hand in a writhing nest of baby vipers, to whose venom she had become immune. The spirited glee of it never failed to reach her jaded soul, even now.

With eyes that shone with ancient knowledge, she turned to Mary: “This was my first great victory, as a witch. No flame can harm me, as long as I do not perceive it as my enemy.”

Mary’s voice stuttered, but with excitement rather than nervousness. “That’s how you lit the hearth, isn’t it?” When Lilith nodded, Mary rushed closer, and drew Lilith’s hand into her own, examining it with scientific fascination. “This is... it’s amazing! Lilith, it’s... it’s so beautiful!”

Lilith closed her eyes, let the unfamiliar feelings wash over her. “I’m glad you think so. It’s one of the few elemental abilities I’ve managed to hold onto.”

Mary look up from the hand which she still gripped in both of her own, met Lilith’s gaze. “Why? What happened to the others?”

“Once Lucifer had his kingdom, his Hell... and its demonic magic which was self-sustaining, he no longer needed the dusty magic of the Earthly plane. He hated to be reminded of those humble beginnings, and so preferred I not practice it.”

Sadness took over Mary’s face. “He wouldn’t let you?”

“Not as such. But whenever the opportunity arose, he would make a mockery of it. ‘Oh Lilith, do you remember that pathetic dirt magic you toyed with, back in the Wastes? Aren’t you happy I saved you from throwing your time away conjuring mud and rolling around in it?’ What sort of fool would I have been, to give him further opportunity to publicly humiliate me?”

“So you... stopped? Altogether?”

“No, not immediately. It was one of the few things that still brought me joy. I would urge pyracantha to life despite the dry soil, having them climb the walls of my caves in intricate shapes, and bringing forth berries despite the searing air. But, inevitably... he would either find the evidence of my transgression, or catch me in the act itself.”

Mary’s voice was tiny: “What did he do then?”

Lilith gave her a sympathetic look, raised her elegant eyebrows: “You don’t really want an answer to that, my dear. So I won’t be putting any pictures in that sweet mortal head of yours.” She withdrew her hand from Mary’s and put it to her hip. “But needless to say, his repeated scoldings were sufficient to break me of the habit. And restrict my casting to the arcane arts, which could be practised directly in the service of Hell.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well. There’s no reason to think about that now.”

Except, there was, wasn’t there? It wasn’t over.

After all that had happened, the freeing of herself from his grip, the precious victory and the claiming of the throne and crown that she had fought for so long... she was once again under his hoof, his spawn now dwelled inside of her, by necessity. Abandoned at every turn, she had done what she had to — as she always had done — in order to survive. And now there was every reason to once again contemplate a life of cowed obedience, where a vicious glare and a curled lip was the only rebellion she could risk.

Seemingly sensing her inward distress, Mary had turned away, picking up the pan and setting to work on their meal. The scent of rosemary and basil wafted up, attempted to charm Lilith's nostrils; but try as she might, cursèd imagination flashing with every flicker of her lashes, the only thing she could smell was brimstone.

Chapter Text

The choice of meal had been entirely spontaneous, decided upon with very little discussion between the two of them, and yet it was only once Mary halved the fluffy, colour-strewn omelette and brought the plates to the table, that she realised the beautiful symbolism of it. Of course it would be eggs. Feminine. Motherly. Fertile with possibility. Seasoned with variety, into something vitally fulfilling.

That thought, paired with the confusingly pleasurable company of the first witch, made her first bite all the more delicious. More than that, the humble flavours composed her rattled spirit. Before she knew it, she was closing her eyes, appreciating every sensation that she could; with the things she knew now, there was no telling at what point her life might go entirely off the rails once more, with absolutely no warning. She wanted to trust Lilith, and a sizeable part of her had achieved that, but Lilith was not the only witch, nor the only denizen of Hell, and Mary — a nobody with nothing to recommend her use in any sort of grand plan — had already found herself a cog in devilish machinations.

Appreciate every moment of bliss you can. Appreciate every ounce of sweetness. Because there exist fates worse than death in these chaotic times.

She observed Lilith, hoping to see an equal enjoyment of the treasure they had created together, but while the woman was indeed eating, slowly and methodically, her eyes stared off into immeasurable distances. She had not spoken since a murmured Thank You, and Mary felt an anxious tightening in her chest. She considered keeping a respectful silence, but found that her worry would not allow it, threatening to poison her body if she held back.

“Where have you gone?” she probed gently. “Could I perhaps urge you to come back?”

Lilith's wandering eyes skipped around the unseen landscape, and her voice was like a long-distance phone call.

“I won't unburden myself on you any further, Mary Wardwell. I've caused enough harm already.”

“But... I want you here. In this room, with me. You're...” She didn't want to say it, because she feared it would sound manipulative, which she had no desire to be, but it came out regardless: “You're all I have left. Please don't leave me here alone.”

A shimmer, light glancing off sea-spray, passed across Lilith's eyes, and then she closed them, frowning hard as she dragged herself back against an incredible undertow. Her lips grew rigid to halt a show of emotion, and she leaned forward onto steeped hands, took a deep breath through her nose. And opened her eyes.

“All right. I'm here.”

Relief quavered in Mary's chest. “Thank you. Please stay. And,” she gestured carefully at Lilith's plate, “please eat. You look exhausted.”

A sound that in another life might have been a laugh escaped Lilith's terse lips: “Not as exhausted as I'm going to be.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head, dark brown mane bouncing: “Never you mind.” She picked up the fork in a show of compliance, brought the food to her mouth.

Mary observed intently, hoping that Lilith would betray some enjoyment, from whatever desolate space she was anchored to.

“Do you like it?”

“I do.” The voice was unconvincing.

“I... I really wish that you would... find some peace. Even if only for the time that it takes to,” she forced herself to complete the bold statement, “taste something good. That we made together.”

An ineffable expression moved over Lilith's face, wretched and aching, and somehow also perplexed. She took another piece of the rapidly cooling omelette in her mouth, chewed slowly with her gaze fixed upon her poised hand.

Behind that controlled expression, Mary knew that something enormous was thrashing about, surging through dense, inky black waters.

“I do taste it. Thank you.”

It was enough. Mary knew that she could not hope to plumb those depths, definitely not now and possibly not ever.

But in this moment, they shared a small respite, a brief suspension of the horrors that lurked behind both of their eyes.

Chapter Text

Even though, for the two of them, time had collapsed into a private pocket dimension, for the outside world it progressed unabated, as it always must. And despite the strong black tea she had brewed, in order to keep their intense conversations going, Mary felt herself nodding in her seat, her eyes frequently unfocussing.

She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite catch it."

Lilith, who seemed as weary as usual without actually appearing fatigued, raised an eyebrow. "I'm not surprised. Do you think perhaps it would aid in our further untangling of your situation, if you were to finally bow to the needs of your body? We can't all be well-nigh immortal demons with the ability to go days without rest."

"You're not a demon," came Mary's definitive murmur.

"So you keep saying, my dear. But whatever I am, our needs are quite different. And you'd do well to remember that, before you collapse head-first into your teacup."

"I suppose you're right. But..." She fiddled with the mess her low bun had become, tried in vain to tame the stray hairs, "I still have so many questions."

"And as much as I can, I will attempt to answer them," Lilith insisted reasonably. "I've already made that abundantly clear."

Mary bowed her head. "You have. But I can't help but worry. These past few hours, they've been something out of a dream. To the degree that, even now, I can't be sure I'm truly awake."

"Oh believe me, you're not."

Frowning, though nonetheless granting the remark a little smile, Mary persisted. "I suppose the truth is... I'm frightened. That if I sleep, the spell, as it were, will be broken. And that when I wake up... you'll be gone."

"And you'll be all alone again."

"Yes." Her mouth twisted downwards, as though at a sour taste. "Maybe I'll even forget any of this happened. And I'll be right back where I started." Exhaustion disrupting her hold on her emotions, she couldn't disguise the heavy tremor in her voice.

Lilith gave a deep sigh. "I won't lie to you, I do have to leave. For a little while. Needs must. There is upheaval in the underworld and as a person of some... dubious importance... it is vital I be a part of the proceedings. My absence would be a glaring one, and there is every possibility that I could easily be traced right to your doorstep. I assure you, neither one of us wants that."

Mary couldn't argue on that point; from everything that she had learnt, and everything she had felt, all the way down to cellular memory, Hell was not a place where one rocked the boat. And Lilith's vessel was clearly already on very tumultuous waves.

"But... you will come back?"

"I will."

"Please promise me."

Lilith shot her a look which, while not exactly irritation, did speak of a certain chafing at having demands placed upon her time. "Isn't it enough that I have the intention? I can't know what will be asked of me, once I return to the Pit. And what if I should be forced to stay and take part in some elaborate ritual, lasting days? You'll assume I've purposefully abandoned you, won't you? And imagine yourself so unworthy of love that even a... creature of Hell... wouldn't give you the time of night."

The words smarted, and Mary looked away mutely, unable to deny Lilith's predictions.

"No. I won't run the risk of perjuring myself with a promise. But, believe me, Mary," earnestness had crept into Lilith's voice, and she leaned forward emphatically, "I want to return. I owe you that much. And if I'm to have any hope of respecting myself, of... well. Being, as you put it, kinder... to myself. Then I have to begin making amends. And nobody deserves my immediate amends more than you do."

Mary's vision had fogged up, and not just with fatigue this time; Lilith's outpouring, despite her level tone, showed an overwhelming amount of vulnerability. And Mary believed very strongly that it was quite an atypical mode of expression for her. She felt strangely honoured.

"All right. No promises. I will wait for you, and trust in your intentions."

Lilith's sigh conveyed frank gratitude, and she stood, gestured Mary towards the bedroom.

Once there, and clumsily changed into her flannel pyjamas, Mary found that her tiredness had been replaced by restlessness. For all that she lay comfortably under her covers, and that her thick curtains kept out the steadily rising sun, she could not relax her mind.

Lilith sat at the foot of her bed, also restless, visible in how she smoothed the folds of her dress or cast her eyes around the dim room. She needed to leave, and Mary had told her over and over to do so, that it would be fine. And yet, Lilith lingered.

"I'll read," Mary told her, indicating a significant pile of novels on her bedside table. "Please don't worry."

Lilith pulled her lips tight, distrusting. Then her veiled eyes came alive with a decision, and she came over to kneel on the floor beside Mary's head, her bare arms resting upon the bed. "Close your eyes. And listen to the sound of my voice."

Mary did as she was told, and Lilith started to hum, a velvety, rolling sound, with notes both sweet and sombre. The sound seemed to fill up the spaces inside Mary's head, pushing out the hungry thoughts which had congregated there. Her mind felt as if it were vibrating, like a tuning fork; it was the quietest it had been, in as far back as she could remember. There was no room for anything there, except that soothing lullabye. And before long, she had begun to slip under. She was too weak to fight it, and neither did she want to. Distantly, she felt her hair being stroked, and a tiny sound of contentedness came from her throat. Before time too departed, and the room was no more.

Chapter Text

Normally Mary's body would have already come awake, knowing no distinction between work-day and weekend, responding to an ever-dwelling anxiety of oversleeping and being late for work. But now, still under the influence of Lilith's sleep spell, she did not stir until well after noon. And when she did awaken, it was not with a jolt, but a slow rising up, as though through thick, warm clouds. So rested was she that it took some time for memory to join her body in awareness, swimming back gradually. But once all the facts of the previous day and lengthly night had emerged, Mary's heart clenched, giving her the sensation of being punched in the chest.

She's gone. But I didn't dream it, she was here.

The woman with my face. The woman who stole my face.

Lilith.

The one who killed me. And the one who saved me.

She's not here anymore.

Mary did not doubt it for an instant; the emptiness of the cottage was a palpable thing to her, after all this time. It was as though she could sense the space being taken up by other bodies. And most especially, a body like Lilith's should be easy to decipher.

Picking up vibrations, it seemed like the sort of thing a rabbit might be able to do, rather than a witch.

She could never be special enough to be a witch. Not plain old Mary Wardwell.

Before melancholy was able to take hold, she rolled over and hugged her pillow to her face, reminding herself sternly:

She will come back, and you will have your answers. Be patient. You can be patient, can't you? You've been plodding along steadily for decades, so why call for instant gratification now?

Besides which, there were other types of satisfaction to be had. Simpler ones. Starting with a cup of tea, and a bowl of fresh porridge.

“And then,” she told herself aloud, “we'll see where the day takes us.”

Once the tea was brewed and the pot sat bubbling on the stove, she began to go once more through the months' of newspapers which had amassed in her absence. She had skimmed them before, in hopes that some or other reported event would jog her memory of being present; but now she knew it impossible, and that any mention of 'Mary Wardwell' likely had nothing to do with her. Whereas this time, she was searching for clues to the otherworldly, hidden in plain sight.

Previously, she had researched the legends, the folklore of Greendale, and the significance of its natural spaces to those who once lived there, and those who still did. She had written up as many pages as she could on the horrendous tragedy of the Greendale witch-hunts, wept over the lives of innocent women who ran afoul of puritanical custom. She had learned, from the fragile pages of historical ledgers which most dismissed as superstitious whimsy, the tales of strange happenings in the Greendale woods, of sightings that defied logic or belief. And even in the furthest depths of her research, she was ever in two minds: the scholar, and the escapist.

But now? Now she knew that witches were absolutely real, had witnessed the beauty and power of witchcraft first-hand, in multiple forms. And so her focus, as her fingertips grew dusky flipping through that stack, was thus: where did the daily happenings of Greendale, that peaceful, forested town, intersect with the hidden world of magic-weavers? What had she missed, while assuming that those forces — if they even existed — would have kept themselves to the shadows?

An incident came to mind and she flipped back into the previous year, back through December, until... there it was: December tenth. The occurrence of a freak tornado, which drove the entire town into the basement of Baxter High for safety. It had struck her as extremely strange, given that the number of tornadoes to hit their area of the country in the past century had been in the single digits. Even so, it had not been enough to remark upon, and she had quickly moved on. Now, however, there were little twinges of doubt sparking behind her eyes.

Despite the high threat level indicated, the town had been 'lucky' that no major damage had been done by the winds. A storm warning so intense as to drive an entire town underground, yet no roofs had been torn up, no young trees uprooted... there had not even been reports of much of a street clean-up following the event.

Even so, from inside Baxter High, townsfolk had reported the loud banging of windows, the sound of swirling winds, a sense of electricity in the air. Undoubtedly, there was a storm. But they had just been lucky, extremely lucky, to have had the firm hand and clear minds of local families and staff (notably a Ms Wardwell and the late Principal Hawthorn), who had taken charge of organising both bodies and supplies.

She read on:

Local store-owner and ex-Channel 20 weatherman, 'Herbert Cerberus', says that it was the biggest meteorological event the town has seen in years, and that it was a true testament to the strength of Greendale's citizens that they reacted so quickly and calmly. Most especially, he wishes to praise the efforts of the Spellman family, who stood watch at the front entrance of the school, making sure the doors stayed secure, and stayed vigilant for any approaching stragglers. When Spellman sister Hilda was asked about her bravery, she reported that she had done little more than pray, but that she was glad to have somehow reassured those assembled.

Standing at the brink and praying... it would have seemed a non-detail before. But now, Mary wondered if there were more to it. Perhaps she should—

She leapt up and rushed over to the stove, lifting the smoking pot off the flame and switching off the gas.

Well. There goes breakfast.

And glancing back at the table, she knew that, out of petulance, the tea had gone cold.

The remaining few bites of her marmalade toast resting on a plate on the mantel, Mary tried to build up the courage to pick up the receiver and dial the phone number. It was not as though she hadn't done this many hundreds of time before, yet the sturdy, carved bronze of the telephone loomed before her in a manner which bordered on outright antagonism.

She did not know how long she had stared at it — possibly only in the area of seconds, who could tell? — but eventually a high sound of annoyance jerked from her throat, and she grabbed too quickly at the receiver, almost mishandling it onto the floor. Steadying herself with climbing irritation, she took a deep breath and dialled.

Within three rings, a cheerful female voice answered. “Cerberus Books, how may I help you?”

Mary hadn't been expecting that and took too long to reply, so that the woman spoke again: “Hello, is anyone there? Not some kind of silly game, now is it?” The voice was buoyant, as though the owner had not a care in the world. Mary wondered what that might be like.

“Can I— hello, sorry, I was, um, could I please speak to the proprietor?” Inwardly she chided herself for the formality, but at least she had gotten the message across, as the woman broke off and Mary could hear her calling 'Dr Cee!' not too far away from the mouthpiece.

Within moments, a familiar voice took over the call and Mary felt her chest relax. “Hello there, this is Dr Cerberus himself, to whom am I speaking today?”

“Richard, it's Mary, um, Mary Wardwell. How are—“

“Mary! Why it's so good to hear from you! Gosh, it's been ages, hasn't it? Ever since, hmm... well, goodness, of course I've seen you in the store plenty of times, but we haven't really spoken since before you won that makeover, from the ladies' magazine!”

Confusion started to twist in her gut and she shook it off. “M-makeover?”

“Yes, of course! The kids were going on and on about it, how different you looked with your hair down, and all that new make-up! I'll be honest, when you first came in again, I didn't even recognise you, for quite a few minutes,” he chuckled good-humouredly, “but eventually I said to myself 'Ah, I'd know those striking blue eyes anywhere!'”

She smiled into the receiver, touching her cheek to check for redness. “That's very nice of you to say, and... I really must apologise for not catching up with you sooner, only...”

“Of course, of course, think nothing of it! Why, when I heard you'd become principal, I knew you'd probably have your hands full for months, dealing with all those young troublemakers.” Another little chuckle.

“Actually, I... stepped down from the position.”

“Oh you did? That's a shame, was it not what you'd hoped for?”

“No. That is, yes. I just realised it... it just wasn't me. I wasn't meant for that position. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Well Mary, I'm sure you made the best decision for your own peace of mind. Now, why don't you come down to the store, and I'll treat you to one of my famous Lycanthrope Lattes!”

For an instant, she was tempted. But then she remembered: Lilith. She couldn't leave the house now. She had to wait. What if Lilith returned to find an empty house, and decided that her errand was not worth a second attempt? And even if that were not the case, Mary would feel terribly rude, asking her to come back and then just abandoning her post. Of course, she could perhaps leave a note, but...

“Mary? Are you still there?”

“I'm sorry, I can't. It does sound wonderful, I'd really like to catch up with you. But I just can't leave the house right now.”

His voice slipped quickly into concern. “Are you not well? I can have something delivered to you, I'll just get hold of one of the boys and he'll be with you in a jiffy.”

Again the temptation. But what if there was company, when Lilith returned? How to explain their dual visage to a stranger? Or a friend for that matter? She barely understood it herself.

“No, I'm— well, I'm not ill. But I've been very tired. Richard, thank you, but please let's postpone 'til another time.”

“Of course, Mary, whatever you need.” She could hear the soft smile in his voice and felt guilty.

“Well, I was actually hoping I could ask you about something.”

“Absolutely, anything Dr Cee can do to illuminate the path, he shall!”

She couldn't contain a ringing laugh from escaping, and he joined in with her laughter. “That's the Mary I know! So go ahead, bend my ear all you want. I've got nothing but time.”

Warmed by the kindness of their friendship, distant as she always managed to keep it, Mary organised her thoughts and began.

“It's about the storm, Richard. In December. When the whole town took shelter in the basement of Baxter High...”

Chapter Text

At first, he would only keep up the same story as was told in the newspaper, but Mary persisted, reminding Richard Bennick that she was well aware of his decades-long romance with occult literature. She pressed him on whether he truly believed there was not more to that storm, whether there did not seem anything strange about a lone woman 'praying' at the door of the school, as though to keep the weather out.

Evidently surprised by her fervour, he eventually relented, giving out a resigned sigh. “All right, Mary, I can see I'll have to lay my cards on the table: you're right, there is more going on than meets the eye in Greendale. But, I'm sorry, I'm just not at liberty to give you more details, it doesn't feel like it's really my place to do.”

Mary's breath threatened to abandon her chest and she clutched the receiver. “Then who? Please, there must be some clue you can give me, someone who can tell me more, I... I truly need this, Richard. Please.”

He was silent for a while, and Mary could picture the soft yet focussed frown he would give when sorting through options, be they books, menu items or truths. “I can... ask Hilda to call you. After the shop closes this evening. We're going to have dinner together.”

“You're having dinner with Hilda Spellman?”

“As a matter of fact, Mary, we're— well, we're engaged! As it happens!”

The announcement left her speechless for a moment, as she received the influx of information. Hilda Spellman: the probability was very high that she was a witch — though she had seemed very normal when the two of them had meetings at Baxter High. Not that witches were bad people, of course, she knew that, only it was all very new, and now Hilda Spellman was in a relationship with one of her oldest friends, presumably had been for a while, if they were now engaged...

Engaged.

As though she had just swallowed rocks, the feeling hit her stomach. Her head became foggy and she grabbed ahold of the mantel, narrowly avoiding the toast plate. Her voice was breathy as she clung to the phone, pulled it back to her lips.

“I'm sorry, I'll have to call you back. Thank you for your help.”

She hoped it had not sounded too worrisome, that he would not immediately rush all the way across town to check on her. But she could not spare any longer, as she instead had to force her attention onto carefully lowering herself to the ground, phone and all.

Once she was safely down, sitting cross-legged, she put the phone aside and lowered her chin, closed her eyes, worked on calming her head down. Episodes like this were not uncommon, though they did present in various forms, depending on the trigger. She knew what to do. She would just have to wait it out, no sense trying to rush. There was nowhere she had to be, other than as close to the ground as possible.

She waited and waited, and eventually the dizziness cleared and she was able to sit up straighter, to begin clearing her mind; and the first thought to accompany that clarity, brought an ache to her heart:

If Lilith were here, this wouldn't have happened.

She was shocked at how certain of it she was, but as she closed her eyes once more, pictured Lilith's soft, manicured hands covering her own, felt the reassuring pressure and warmth, she knew it to be true. The connection of their hands was a tether to the world. For all that Lilith had caused her unspeakable pain — both of her own volition and not — she had also come back, full of regret and a desire to atone; she, a witch, a woman, who had bathed in the cruelty of Hell for millennia, believing herself to be a demon by contamination and decision... she had still come back. And brought with her a small but remarkable gentleness.

For now, though, Mary was still alone, and would have to continue functioning that way. The episode behind her, she carefully stood so as not to become light-headed, then moved to the bedroom. Kneeling down beside the bed, she pulled a narrow teak box from underneath, brought it to her lap. She had looked over the contents many times, recognising many of the items as having occult associations: a strip of animal pelt, bits and bobs of fabric, small bones, a cedar and sage smudge stick bound in gold thread, a ball of solid onyx that fit in the palm of her hand, a shard of clear quartz, bird feathers, and most notably, a jet black ring, with barely discernible runes carved into its inner circumference. It was for a far larger hand than hers, almost definitely a man's. So what was it doing here, in this box full of witch paraphernalia which Mary now realised had to belong to Lilith.

She picked up the ring, brought it close to her face to stare at the runes, turning it around and squinting, as though this time she might unlock its secrets, where every other attempt had failed. She knew without knowing that it was connected to him, one of the most glaring missing pieces of this damnable puzzle: her Adam.

Whenever Lilith returned, Mary resolved to ask her about this ring, about everything connected to it, even though the thought of doing so struck fresh fear into her gut. Knowing was better, of that she was certain, but that didn't make it any less terrifying to contemplate.

Feeling suddenly restless, she tucked the ring into the pocket of her pyjama bottoms and, leaving the box where it was so as not to forget about it later, headed to the kitchen. Perhaps Lilith would be back at any minute, or perhaps it would be late into the night, but she could not bear to sit around waiting. That would be madness. Instead, she pulled ingredients out of the cupboard, laid them out on the kitchen table, and was soon ready to begin filling her solitude with what always felt like the perfect mix of pleasure and practicality.

First, though, she fetched her little wireless radio from the living room, set it at a safe distance from the food stuffs; music or radio chatter would, she hoped, keep the most talkative parts of her mind from intruding. The programme currently being broadcast was a tribute to 1940s film soundtracks, performed by a full orchestra, with little discussion segments in between each piece. That sort of bold, dignified composition, it was just the ticket to keep her internal monologue at bay.

Without consciously considering why, she had decided upon sugar and spice cookies, already imagining how wonderful the house would smell once the notes of cinnamon, nutmeg, clove and vanilla wafted out of the oven. She could not help but smile at the vision of Lilith returning and being greeted by such a welcoming aroma, could only hope that the ancient witch's face would, at last, reflect some simple delight.

She started mixing the spices and flours, to the accompaniment of Citizen Kane's Waltz Presentation, the strings bringing lightness to her hands. Creaming the butter and brown sugar was slower labour without an electric mixer, but she preferred it that way, feeling the tiny granules being gradually transformed to paste under the wooden spoon, by the efforts of her own hand.

As the music shifted into the wistful Yearling suite, she beat the eggs and vanilla extract, combined them with the butter mixture, and bit by bit added the spiced flour until she had a smooth ball of dough. This she placed in the refrigerator, then moved on to preheat the oven and prepare the baking tray. The dough would need at least an hour before she could continue, and so she would use some of that time to wash up the bowls and utensils, leaving the kitchen neat for the second half of the process.

Meanwhile, the programme had ended, and the host began to introduce the next segment, 'The Crooners'. Mary turned the water on in the sink, watched it slowly fill the large mixing bowl, as the artists who would appear on the programme were introduced. She poured dish soap into the bowl, and lowered her hands into the rising froth to start soaping the spoons.

Then the first strains of a famous standard swum across the ether, unabashedly sentimental, followed soon by painfully earnest singing:

“Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me, tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?”

Mary rolled her eyes, scoffed in her throat: what a predictable opening number, and a highly over-rated one, at that. Overwrought emotion of this calibre was fit only for the dramatic throes of teenage passion. No sensible woman would...

“Do your memories stray to a brighter summer day, when I kissed you, and called you sweetheart?”

Mary hung on to her disdain, even as images of the past swept obediently to her mind's eye. She curled her lip, scrubbed harder at the dough-caked spoon. She wanted to turn off the noise, but her hands were too wet to go near the radio, and besides which, that would be admitting weakness to the saccharine composition. Instead, she tried to tune it out, as the song moved into its second, spoken verse, an insipid rumination on the 'life as theatre' conceit.

“...Act one was when we met, I loved you at first glance
You read your lines so cleverly and never missed a cue
Then came act two, you seemed to change and you acted strange
And why I'll never know.”

Against her wishes, Mary's mind wrapped around the idea: Lilith... had she met Adam? Had they been together? And had he noticed the changes in everything about her?

“Honey, you lied when you said you loved me
And I had no cause to doubt you
But I'd rather go on hearing your lies
Than go on living without you...”

She found that she had shut her eyes hard against feeling, but that it was like holding back a rising river with a dinner tray.

I didn't lie... Adam, it wasn't a lie. I did... I do love you. I just...

“It wasn't a lie,” she whispered, as the still-running water reached up to her elbows, where they were pitched rigid in the sink. Tears were on her face, once again, and she hated herself for it. Hated herself for being stirred to emotion by some simpering ballad. Some piteous love letter to the lost and haunted. And hated herself for doubting the sincerity of her affection.

Distantly, she knew the sink was about to overflow and create a dreadful soapy mess on the floor and down her legs, but she was powerless to budge. And blind to the whole affair.

And so it was with some surprise that she heard the water stop.

She felt the body standing right behind her, and would have panicked had she not instantly recognised the perfume — spiced with jasmine, alight with amber, grounded with wood — allowing her to give in to her overwhelming need, and collapse against it.

That body allowed her imposition, supported Mary as she shook, was even kind enough to not complain about Mary's wet hands, which were an affront to the refined, feminine clothing they pressed against.

As the contact steadied her, Mary grew embarrassed, and was about to move away, full of apologies, when Lilith's voice came, softly and tightly, and mere inches from her ear:

“I miss him too.”

Chapter Text

Despite her claims to not care about the state of her dress, Lilith had apparently conveyed some irritation beyond words, as Mary insisted she be allowed to carefully hand wash the garment. And thus, with a sigh, in the middle of the living room, Lilith had dropped the shoulders of the dress and let it fall to the floor, earning her audible discomfort and Mary's quick exit to the bedroom. She could not contain the smirk which played on her lips; while it had not been Lilith's intention to set a panic of modesty upon the woman, her haste was amusing nonetheless. Whether it would have been her reaction to any denuded body, or whether it was more the sense of staring a bewitched mirror that disturbed her, Lilith could not say, but this body had served her well, and she continued to enjoy its effect on people; It was a dreadful shame that Mary could likely not enjoy the same confidence.

Mere moments after the thought's completion, Mary returned with eyes averted, carrying Lilith's emerald satin bathrobe.

“I think this is yours.” She held it out, shielding her face in pointed courtesy, until Lilith took it with a twitch of the lips and clothed herself.

“Indeed. One of a few items you've no doubt discovered. Once I returned to the Pit, I no longer required such mortal accoutrements.”

“I've found some things, yes. Things I knew I wouldn't have bought, yet there they were." She waited until she could be certain Lilith was covered, before bending down to pick up the red brocade. "I'm afraid leaving them to me was a bit of a waste.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say. You'd look every bit as captivating as I do, down to the atom.”

Mary laughed uncomfortably. “It's not so easy for me, Lilith. I don't think I have it in me to be quite so bold. In my presentation.” She finally met Lilith's gaze, brows knitted yet with a hesitant smile. “But thank you for saying so.”

Lilith simply nodded, choosing, at least for the moment, to let the woman's self-image be.

Despite Mary's efforts to clothe her more modestly, the robe had been made to serve the opposite function: fire light reflecting off its synthetic fabric, her every soft curve was emphasised, her breasts seemingly contained by little more than the witch's iron will, and Lilith had to firmly tug back her amusement, at how transparently Mary's gaze fought against gravity to not admire her directly.

The levity soon left Lilith's spirit, however, once Mary had returned from placing the dress to soak, and took a seat by the fireplace, Adam's black ring of failed protection revealed in her palm. The sight of it, so starkly and suddenly there, was more than jarring, and Lilith hid her reaction in a slow flexing of her fingers, while Mary found her courage to speak.

“Before anything else... before I get distracted again, just please... please tell me one thing.” Her voice barely jittered, as she bravely choked back everything else that wanted to rush out. “Is he... is Adam... dead?”

Lilith did not answer right away, turning her eyes to the fire while she readied her tone: her words must be cool and balanced, and her own emotions must (as was frequently the case) remain subsumed. It was a discussion she would never relish, but neither could it be avoided.

“He is. I'm sorry.”

She kept her distance, feeling the silence settle upon them like white organza.

Under Lilith's meticulous eyes, Mary went through a restrained yet still agonising journey, one hand tightening around the ring, the other balled at her side. She forced a slow, shuddering breath in and out of her chest, and turned to Lilith:

“Was it you?”

Against her wishes, Lilith's composure fled for the shadows, and she descended to the rug, solemnly meeting Mary's eyes. “No. No, I could never. I swear, I... you mustn't think that of me.”

“With... with respect, I,” Mary's fists tightened, “I don't entirely know what to think. But if you hurt him...”

Lilith placed a hand firmly over Mary's, understanding the full power held within that touch. “I did not. I could not. At least, not directly. Not by volition." She broke contact, frowning deeply, uncertain how to explain without unloading the entire, terrible story. “I tried to protect him, Mary, you must believe me. I genuinely thought I had found the solution.” She moved her hand to rest above the ring. “That's what this was for.”

“But it wasn't enough.”

“No.” The floor of the room seemed to be wholly moving beneath her, descending towards Hell. “No, it wasn't.” Visions which she would never share with another soul beset her memory, actions she had been forced to take, under threat of fates worse than any death.

The back of her throat remembered it, remembered its flavour and many textures, and grew hot with bile. She coughed, trying to force the sensation away, but tissue spasm only made it worse. Slowly she stood, fingers pressed to her lips, as demure as she could be; with a small sweeping gesture, she bade Mary please excuse her for a moment, and could not pause to know her reply.

Her expression folding into a mass of lines, she reached the room and braced her arms against porcelain, as the acid made its rude and ruthless exit. Every part of her burned, as though scored with lashes from the torturers of the Pit. Her every sense remembered, in their each terrible way.

There was no escaping it when her body remembered so completely. No matter what she consumed in the days and months which followed, it was always lurking: the after-taste of betrayal and all-too-weak mortal flesh.

To consume a man, hair and lymph and bone? Child's play for a demon. She could pick her teeth with their stripped fingernails, wear their faces as whimsical masks as she tipped her head back, drunk on their fear-enriched blood. She had spent many such unremarkable evenings.

But none of those men had mattered. They were barely even human, and deserved no respect at all, even in death. Their arrogance doomed them first, their tendons gamy with entitlement; never, in the ignorant minutes leading up to their demise, had a single one persuaded her to show mercy. Why should she? Even in desperation, they were repulsive; even more so, when they thought their words might sway her mind, just for being a woman.

They underestimated her, every last one. The children of her intended, and the bastard spawn of Cain, none saw her as she truly was, even when it was far too late for them to bow to her. And for this she would ruin their flesh and damn their souls, as was her privilege as the Dawn of Doom, the most vicious tooth and claw of Satan's hoards.

Indeed, for thousands of years... that had been the case. Never to be questioned.

Because never before had human flesh so churned her insides, so immediately demanded purging.

Never before had she refused it with such desperation, wept and begged to refrain with all her heart.

And that was why—

she dry-heaved, then laid her wretched face upon an arm.

—he had enjoyed it so.

The pleasure he had gained, from so easily shattering the kneecaps of her happiness...

He was the cruellest tiger-tamer, a preening sadist centre-stage, demanding a powerful beast be collared and shackled, shocked and whipped into obedience. Made to roar on command.

There was no way to convey this feeling to Mary, even if she wanted to. Her only hope would be to break it down to its ugly essentials.

If she only had the time to prepare.

“It was Satan,” came Mary's small voice from the doorway, and Lilith caught the remnants of her sobbing.

She gave the barest nod, a motion emphasized by her dishevelled mane. Her throat was too raw to speak.

“There was nothing you could have done to stop him.”

An exhausted shake of the head.

”I'm sorry.” There she went again, the soft-hearted mortal with her needless apologies. But this time, it was not an apology against some perceived slight; it was an acknowledgement, that neither one of them should have seen the things they had seen, felt the things they had felt. That, whatever their difference, it could not be excused.

Lilith heard her fidgeting, as though wondering what to do, whether she should offer to help somehow, and she lifted a hand to wave Mary off, and convey that she would be fine, given just a moment. Just a few wrung-out moments.

And so, with the best intentions, Mary left, returning to the warm glow of the hearth. And Lilith stared down into the bowl, at the mess she had wrought.

Chapter Text

Lilith could not deny how much the unassuming cottage — and in particular this space in front of the hearth — had come to mean to her; gazing into the flames, which she would personally set ablaze with only the laziest of breaths, something mildly intoxicating in her hand, a soft pocket of shadows encircling her from behind, these had become an effortless form of meditation, wherein she could unwind from days spent carrying out the Dark Lord's machinations. Not that she minded the schemes and spinning of deceptions, far from it; she took pride in her wits and myriad skills, gained great pleasure from manipulating those foolish enough to trust her words. Her sweet and sensible words. But even an arch-manipulator like herself needed to cast off the masquerade every so often, and relax in her own frank company.

The cottage had surprised Lilith by immediately welcoming her, as though convinced she really was its rightful owner. Initially, she had scoffed at the tweeness of it all, but soon found in its rustic mundanity the first truly private, personal space she had experienced in centuries.

Whenever she had attempted to carve out a home within the various regions of Hell, he had always made it known that his was the full sovereign right to inspect or claim those places — or indeed, destroy them — as he saw fit. Nothing and nowhere was hers alone, he had made certain that she knew that, to her very core.

Naturally, he had been in and out of this cottage many a time since she had moved in, but for a while that was only when they had issues to discuss. And it had somehow felt as though he were but a visitor, one who required her permission to intrude. That was, until...

Until her folly.

Until she had begun to let the mortal into her heart.

“He was a confoundingly gentle man. I must admit to being put on the back foot, by his kindness. It was never my intention to indulge in it.” Staring unblinking into the fire had caused her eyes to dry out and sear, and she was forced to shut them, carefully pressing the moisture which had burst forth in protest out from under her lashes with her thumb and forefinger. “I've never known someone like that, who put my needs so far ahead of his own. Without it being a means to an end.”

“Never?” There was an earnest note of sympathy in Mary's question.

“You mustn't think I'm telling you this so that you'll feel sorry for me. After all, it was his concern for my happiness that brought his life to an end.” She made a bitter sound into her drink. “As usual, no good deed goes unpunished.” The glass was already empty and she placed it on the side table, brows raised sardonically. “It was bound to happen. I am a plague upon those foolish enough to... develop an affection for me.” She had very quickly prevented herself from mentioning 'love'; just the foretaste of it had felt sour on her tongue. “The demoness Lilith, maimer of bodies, hearts and minds... one's reputation must always be upheld.”

Mary kept her eyes on her half of the room. “It would be naïve for me to offer an opinion on the matter. As you told me out there in the woods,” she lowered her face to her cup of tea, and the steam turned her glasses opaque, “I'm but a babe. I couldn't possibly understand what has shaped your opinions. Of yourself and others. I having lived barely half a century on this earth.”

Her words seemed to Lilith to be dangling a 'but', one which never came, draping her in disappointment. Even with all her insistence that she could not be trusted, that she should be seen only as corruption incarnate, in a guise of human flesh, she found herself wishing to have it refuted. She had no doubt about what she had become (what she had been forced to become), but nonethless craved the lie from the lips of this innocent, that it might not be so. Even if only here, in the brief now of their circumstance.

“Yes, well. I've been known to say a lot of things. I won't pretend all of them are worth immortalising in brass.”

“Then, are you saying you'd like to hear my thoughts? Childlike as they might be?”

Lilith exhaled more visibly than she would have liked, causing her robe to slip halfway off one shoulder. She did not know why Mary's words had been such a relief, why part of her had been so tense at the idea that she had forced the erudite mortal back into reticence. But that tension had eased slightly, and she let a soft smile grace her face, for Mary's sake as much as her own.

“If you'd care to share them with me.”

Mary nodded, slowly placed down her tea cup, and folded her hands together in her lap. “If you and Adam found happiness in each other's company, then I don't resent you for it. I'm... glad. In fact.”

Lilith was surprised at the admission, and her eyes conveyed it. She had expected the usual jealousy and resentment, to varying concealed degrees. But it seemed Mary Wardwell was dedicated to sidestepping yet another of her preconceptions.

“The truth is,” Mary continued, “as much as I know he loved me with all his heart... there was always room for more. That is to say, in his work. His time with Physicians Without Frontiers. You'll know about them, of course... but, taking on a career like that, it relied on limitless compassion and objectivity. He couldn't allow personal concerns to take priority over the needs of hundreds of thousands of strangers. Every child he healed had to be worth just as much as any child in Greendale, and any woman's life had to matter just as much... as much as mine.”

Her voice had grown very quiet, and Lilith leaned forward with eyebrows raised, ready to protest, when Mary shook her head.

“I don't mean it in a romantic sense. I know he was devoted to me. Only, I was here. In Greendale, safe and secure...” she trailed off, brought a hand to her chest and made a soft fist.

'As far as he knew', the fist said. 'There was no reason for him to suspect otherwise.'

Mary cleared her throat, frowned herself back into conversation. “And so it only made sense for him to spend as much time and energy as possible helping those less fortunate. Why, at any moment, a woman could be in danger of bleeding out in childbirth, and what good was he, spending his time skipping stones with me, over some idyllic country river?”

Why that memory of all memories? wondered Lilith, her hand unconsciously mirroring the action Mary's had taken, over her heart.

“And yet, even knowing that, he came back here. To be with me alone. It was Valentine's Day, wasn't it?”

Lilith nodded, then realised that Mary wasn't watching her and vocalised a soft confirmation.

“Of course. He always kept his promises to me, no matter how small. So, ” she repositioned her hands yet again, bending forward to lace them together over her knees, "if he made a difference in your life, by being here... then he was doing what he always wanted to do. And I'm happy. For you both.” She shut her eyes, as though to make sure she would not waver in this belief.

It was how the lonely mortal desperately wanted to feel, even if large parts of her heart surely yearned to be selfish. She wanted to be generous of spirit, as both her scriptures and her personal compass dictated. As someone whose morality was ever in flux, depending on how it served her in the moment, Lilith had to admire that determination. Even as she could see the pain it caused.

She knew she had to give something back, say something to confirm Mary's magnanimity well-placed. “Yes. I believe that he saw in me someone to help, to... heal. As best he could. Even if it was hopeless, he could never know that. He never knew what I was. What I've done.”

A clench took hold of her gut at the unbidden thought: unless Lucifer had chosen to add further agony to Adam's murder, by revealing to him all the truths that had been kept from him, and perhaps even some invented. It would be just like Lucifer, to do all he could to tattoo that look of horror across her lover's severed—

No. Stop.

She chided herself, shook her head against the image that attempted to slither once more before her mind's eye. And mercifully it was fended off.

Mary did not remark upon the gesture, still focussed on the lines of logic she had woven in the air before her. “He must have realised that something was different. You're... we're so unalike. He could only have assumed something traumatic had happened to me, to have my personality so changed.” She darted her eyes over at Lilith then. “No offence meant, of course.”

“None taken. And you are correct, I believe. He asked me who had hurt me. And I could... never truly explain, of course. But he..." Her voice caught in her throat.

He understood the pain in my words, even without knowing the context. He only accepted it. And tried to soothe it out of me. Mary, if I could only share my memories with you.

Mary's face showed that she had gleaned Lilith's struggles across the ether, as though some psychic connection might have sprung forth between them, in their artificial twinning.

Are my thoughts really screaming so loudly, that even a craftless mortal can receive them?

Perhaps she herself were doing it, without intending to. It had been so long since she had attempted a psychic link with anybody, but broadly speaking, it was easily within her ability to do so. Casting the line out to a mortal, though? Unthinkable. Her time roughing it with the residents of Greendale really had stymied her reason.

Noting the extended delay since her silence had begun, Lilith cast her eyes over Mary: the woman was still composed, but a new anxiety had attached itself to her features, and her slowly fidgeting hands revealed that there was something she dearly wanted to say, but could not quite get to. Lilith wondered whether she should ask, or let the notion pass. This conversation was exhausting enough as it stood, and despite not needing to sleep in the mortal sense, between this high water and the familiar Hell, she would not have minded a rest.

Unfortunately, Mary had found her words.

“When you were with Adam, were you with him, in the... the carnal sense?”

She was so bashful, this middle-aged mortal, around a question which Lilith had heard bandied about as casually as a football amongst the boys of Baxter High. Was it the result of a lifetime of allegiance to the False God, and the perverse decree that the natural instincts of the human body hold inherent shame?

Normally Lilith would have no cause to tiptoe about such things, but just for now, she would attempt it. And let Mary dictate the limits of her sharing. “Yes. To a fashion. I will admit he wore me down, in that department.”

“You were coerced?” A subdued though definite note of alarm.

“Not at all. But it is not usually my tendency to become intimately involved with, well... prey. And I seldom have more than two uses for men.” Mary made a questioning noise and Lilith attempted what she hoped was sufficiently euphemistic: “Tactical pawns or culinary indulgence.”

Mary's face quickly grew blanched and she averted her eyes.

“I told you, my dear. You'll find more and more how difficult it can be to look at me and see a human being.” Having made reference to her cannibalistic behaviour, dread had bloomed in her gut as to whether Mary would question its relevance to Adam and whether she would be forced to come clean after all.

But Mary had inwardly dealt with this new information, and returned to her initial query. “So you and Adam were intimate. And it was pleasurable? For both of you?”

Lilith was again surprised. “I believe that it was. Yes. He was a very... giving partner.” Which was, at its root, the reason she had allowed it to continue.

Mary pulled her lower lip under her teeth, contemplatively. “That's good. I'm glad. Honestly, I am.” Her eyes grew wet as she said it, though her voice remained calm. “He deserved someone who could, who could give him, give that to him.”

So that was it. “You've never had such desires, have you?”

Mary looked down at her hands, embarrassment misshaping her features as she shook her head. “It wasn't him. I swear, I loved him with all my heart, but... I couldn't, I simply don't...” She had clearly never had to explain this aloud before, but was determined to complete the thought. “It just isn't in me. I wanted to, for his sake. But I couldn't connect with... that feeling that one is supposed to? And to force myself into a lie, where he would certainly realise I wasn't... that he would have to cope with the knowledge that I...”

Lilith held up a hand. “You need not explain further. I understand. ”

“But am I not... surely it speaks of something broken in me? I look at you, Lilith, and I see what I could have been, if I'd only tried harder. The confidence you have with your body, the way you look...”

“This?” Lilith motioned a graceful hand over her sculpted face, her bountiful tresses, her partially bared bosom. “It isn't who you are. It's who I am.” With a finger, she traced the lines of her arched brows, where she had filled them in to appear even more aloof, the thick smokiness applied to her large, hooded eyes; she tapped lightly at the predatory redness applied to her shallow cupid's bow. “This is my shield and my sword. The way I wield my power. It is what I have chosen, for the woman I have come to be. And it is of no use to someone like you.”

At that moment, a feeling prickled the back of Lilith's neck, and a fuzzy tinnitus filled the passages of her ancient awareness. Reflexively, she kept the hawk-like alertness from her features. “Perhaps you should take a shower, Mary,” she put forward, the force of magical suggestion subtly woven in. “You've been in those clothes for a while. You'll feel better once you've refreshed yourself with warm water.”

In no mindset to resist Lilith's compulsion, Mary nodded with easy acquiescence and stood. “You're right, I should neaten up. But thank you, for listening.”

“Of course. And please, take your time,” she added, with the lightest touch more psychic steering. “I'll be right here when you're done.”

Once Mary had obediently moved out of sight and closed the bathroom door, Lilith stood, resting a stiff arm on the back of the couch as she peered wide-eyed at the entrance to the cottage. The rapidly approaching presence, she could not quite identify it. But it was focussed, driven... and it had very effectively put her on edge. She was not in the habit of ignoring her instincts, and without conscious thought, a personal ward was whispered around her body. She fought back the trembling which threatened the tips of her fingers, tightened her sharp jaw against the stress of uncertainty, and forced herself towards the door.

Chapter Text

While denizens of Hell at Mary's door would have been a worse omen, Lilith was not exactly thrilled to see the soft silhouette of the younger Spellman sister, frozen mid-knock, her mouth fallen open at having been met first. Her cautious eyes flitted up and down Lilith's body, taking in all the tell-tail signs that she was not the rightful owner of this cottage.

“Oh! It's you,” her mouth quickly ran through designations, “Madam... Satan. I was, well, I was actually expecting—”

Lilith curled her lip. “What do you want, Spellman?” She didn't bother to keep the knives from her tone; even if this one was the least annoying of the group, she was still a Spellman, and was far from welcome, here of all places.

“Ah, well, you see, the thing is, I had actually rather expected to see Mary Wardwell here. I mean, the original article, if you will, uh, so...” Hilda's voice grew higher as she attempted to peer past Lilith, “Where... might she be hiding? If I may ask?”

“I don't think that's any of your affair. Am I to assume you've come to empty her mind again? Was one ham-fisted spell not enough for your clan? Or perhaps you worried it wouldn't stick.”

“I... I beg your pardon?”

Beg harder, came the sneering thought. Still, at least Hilda was somewhat bestowing the correct amount of respect for Lilith's station. After all, it wasn't too long ago they had been praying to her, and while the memory was now tainted with bitterness, it was nonetheless one she treasured. And it seemed that Hilda hadn't entirely cast off the courtesy which had accompanied that devotion.

“Your niece. No doubt she stumbled in here full of teenage hubris, and cast the memory wipe with her one remaining brain-cell held behind her back. Leaving her beloved teacher alone, confused, and trussed up like a pig on the spit.”

“Well, to be fair, Ms Wardwell did — wait, she what now?”

Lilith did not hide her amusement at the woman's ignorance of her brat's thoughtless actions. Why not stir the cauldron, if the opportunity presented itself? It was more than warranted in her opinion.

“You heard me quite correctly, Ms Spellman. Your sweet Sabrina, rather than merely lulling her teacher into the same enchanted slumber as the rest of Greendale, chose instead to first terrify her with the image of one of her dearest students attacking her in her own home, no doubt magically paralysing her first, and tying her up. Even adding a gag for good measure. I wonder who might have given her that sort of idea.” Lilith had her own suspicions on the matter, particularly if magical paralysis were part of the equation, but it was hardly of consequence now. She gestured across the room: “Sabrina left her over there, on that couch, and only once Mary Wardwell had fully experienced the confusion and betrayal,” she emphasized each emotive word, going straight for Hilda's famously soft heart, “only then did Sabrina wipe her memory and put her to sleep.”

Still hovering on the verge, Hilda peered down at her feet. “That's not, well, it's not entirely what Sabrina told us. I mean, to be honest, she, uh, didn't really give many details. Just said that she'd made sure Ms Wardwell was 'out of the way'. For what we had planned at the carnival.”

Lilith's lips set tightly, and she motioned Hilda inside. “I hope you'll not pretend to be surprised at getting only a half-truth from your half-celestial half-wit.”

“Ooh, steady on,” murmured Hilda, but without much commitment to the scolding; she was alert and ready to learn what had actually happened.

“Tell me this, Spellman: when the schoolmarm woke up, all alone... bound and gagged... what do you imagine she did? What thoughts must have gone through her recently-emptied head?”

Hilda was avoiding Lilith's face, instead casting her eyes around the room, a place she had presumably never been. “I can't think it was a very pleasant experience, no, but—“

“And what would have happened to her, I wonder, if curiosity had not brought me back here? Does your family perhaps believe Mary Wardwell of possessing the skill of escape artistry?” She set stern, probing eyes upon Hilda, “Has she, in your experience, ever demonstrated the ability to magically translocate?”

“Well obviously not, she's not a witch, so—“

“Precisely! She's not a witch. And do you know what happens to mortals who are unable to escape their bindings, when nobody is watching over them?”

Hilda had grown tired of being interrupted, choosing not to reply to Lilith's questioning, but answering nonetheless with a grim look of understanding, the various unpleasant outcomes playing across her eyes.

“And yet? It seems Sabrina did not return, to set her free. Even with the mind wipe cast, did she really still consider this feeble woman too much of a threat? Or did it merely slip her mind? This unimportant detail, of another woman's existence.”

Lilith's anger was of course centred on Mary's abandonment, but she had also reached down into her own fury, at having been just as thoroughly left for dead by Sabrina, when the girl had entirely neglected to warn of Lucifer's imminent return.

“Well, um, obviously none of that is all right, and I will absolutely talk to her about this once I get home, but... with respect, Madam Satan—“

“I'll kindly ask you to stop calling me by that name,” Lilith drawled, disgust interlaced with her features, and Hilda was visibly thrown.

“I'm... I'm sorry? Is that not... isn't that what you've wanted to be called?”

“Well, perhaps once that was true, while I toiled beneath the Dark Lord's cloven hoof, but as you'll recall, I did quite plainly come to your homestead with the intention of ending our... business relationship. The moniker of which you speak, it was a tribute to a future which I had been promised, but which turned out, quite unsurprisingly, to be yet another lie.” And one which still stung. No matter how many layers of anger and dismissal she put between them. “So you see, it's quite inconceivable that I would still wish to associate myself with that title.”

Hilda nodded, the haughty speech having seemingly left her a little over-whelmed (an outcome of which Lilith approved). “Right. I can see why that would be uncomfortable. But then what would you prefer? Madam... Lilith?”

“I'd prefer Queen Lilith of Pandemonium, but given the less than ideal state of affairs in which I find myself, that will have to do.”

“Ah. Good. Then, as I was saying, Madam Lilith, and I say this with respect and admittedly some small amount of trepidation... to be fair, for all that you're very quick to criticise Sabrina's treatment of Ms Wardwell — and, oh, believe me, you have every reason to, I'm quite displeased with it myself — did you not... well... kill her? Though? And, might I add, in fact, damn her soul to Hell?”

Well. Look at this. A backbone of steel wrapped up in squirrel pelt.

Between the speedy bursts of rambling sentences, this Spellman was far more than met the eye. And that intrigued Lilith. Not enough to give her the upper hand in this conversation, however.

“At my master's bidding, yes. Like your once-proud Church of Night, I was not in the habit of stepping too far out of line, even more so on matters where he was especially invested in the outcome. Being as her life had to be taken in order to position me close to his precious Sabrina, well...” she batted her lashes, coyly, “what's a girl to do?”

Hilda was unconvinced, as Lilith expected she would be. “So... you'd like me to believe that you did not want to take this woman's life? That you only did it because you had to?”

“I expect nothing of the sort. But I am nearing a lifespan of six thousand years, I've been taking lives and torturing souls for longer than the women in your family have been permitted to hold a quill. I have put my own survival ahead of any other living creature, because I was the only one who would, and I have been in greater and more frequent peril than you could possibly imagine.” She paused, lifted her chin to let the dignity of her words sink in. “And yet. After less than a fleeting year stuck amongst weak, terrified mortals... I have begun to reconsider my approach to their lives. It has been a very long time since I've been surrounded by the noise of human society, and locked into my role as Mary Wardwell, I was forced to recognise that their existence had the potential to matter. And so,” she sat down on the back of the couch, folded her arms and tilted her head, “if an ancient demon such as myself can begin to care about the lost and forgotten amongst mortals... you witches, who have dwelt alongside them for generations... what exactly is your excuse? For abandoning an innocent woman to the ravages of Fate?”

Hilda had dug her hands into the frilly pockets of her cardigan and was regarding the carpet with a face that did not seem as moved as Lilith would have expected.

“She's not an innocent, though.”

“Oh no? Do enlighten me.”

“She's not an innocent. Because she came to my home. And shot my sister in cold blood.”

Lilith laughed in surprise. “Oh is that where she got off to, after the Dark Lord got his tendrils into her brain and terrified her halfway back to Hell. I suppose there's a certain poetic irony there...”

“What, what's that supposed to— no, forget it, what... what do you mean? About the Dark Lord? He was here? In this house?”

Lilith contorted her face mockingly. “Yes, of course. He chased me down here, to my final desperate port of call, after your dear sister Zelda rejected my heartfelt plea for sanctuary. He was hot on my heels even then. I had hoped in vain that the presence of the False God in this house would prevent him easy access, but I had forgotten how easily malleable mortal minds are, no matter how intrinsically good they might be.”

“So Ms Wardwell, she invited him into the house.”

“She did. In the guise of a Christian preacher. And he exposed me with as much sturm und drang as infernally possible. Luckily for her, I managed to motivate a fast exodus, but it seems it was too late for her sanity at that point. For all I know, he'd dropped one of his creeping choler-beetles on her.” A look of anxious recall came across Hilda's face and Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Oh so you've had some experience with them? No doubt scuttling all over the Academy as you attempted to keep him under lock-down with a measly salt-circle. Honestly, it's as though none of you are even trying...”

Hilda advanced on her angrily, then quickly stopped and regathered herself, realising how fruitless it would be to attempt to physically threaten someone like Lilith. “Look. I am clearly very full of emotion right now, and while I recognise that it's not exactly flattering, I would like to say that I was only very recently resurrected from a violent death, by my sister, who, for whatever justifiable reason, was in fact shot dead by the woman who you've got somewhere in this house right now, and to be perfectly honest, I just... need... to speak with her. I need to find out if she remembers what she did. And I need her to—“

“What? Apologise?” Lilith scoffed at the idea. “No my dear, it is all of you who should be doing the apologising. You, after all, are the ones with the power, over life and death. Zelda Spellman is alive and well, is she not?”

“Only thanks to the quick work of family and friends.”

“And you yourself have recovered with no ill-effects from what I can see.” She tilted her head from side to side lazily, pretending to examine Hilda's froufrou from differing angles.

“Not without Zelda rallying every witch to her side, including some quite anti-social hedge-witches, to reach out to the spirit of Hecate, and beg her to lend her power to my resurrection.”

The passion in Hilda's words earned nothing but a sardonic glance from under Lilith's brows.

“Yes, the news of those histrionics did reach me eventually. I must admit to being quite insulted to learn that your coven threw me away like yesterday's rotting sacrifice, only to turn its sights on another mere witch. Ancient or otherwise. Or have you forgotten that night, when Sabrina insisted upon performing the first witch exorcism? When we called upon the witches of centuries past, to lend us their power in the endeavour? Was Hecate not one of those names we entreated? As well as,” a knowing, bitter smile, ”my own?”

“Well, all right that... that is rather a good point,” Hilda muttered, embarrassment creeping in. “But... surely she's more than just a witch? Zelda said the idea came to her in a dream, that she should seek the source of womanly energy to—“

“And yet she forgot who was the first amongst women?” She harrumphed deep in her throat. “Whatever Zelda thinks her dream told her, the fact is that dreams are seldom meant to be taken literally. They can mislead us, based on what we want to hear.”

“But then, why did it work? Why did the ritual bring me back?”

“Well isn't it obvious?” Lilith rolled her eyes at the ignorance. “You assembled a team of seasoned witches, from all across the land, and placed in its centre an incredibly determined, and talented witch. It's possible that Hekate was indeed moved by the flattery and did in fact lend her force to the spell.” She gave a deep sigh of exasperation. “But as I've been trying to explain to you all for the longest time: the power lies in each and every one of you. Every woman of the craft holds it in their blood, just as all the witches that came after me. Of the elemental forces who lent us their knowledge, from across the planes beyond this one. If you pool your abilities with absolute certainty, you don't need a goddess, or a god, or any higher being, to channel it for you.

She shook her head at the ceiling, excruciatingly bored with the stupidity of it all. For her part, Hilda appeared dumb-founded, and had turned inward to consider this extremely logical information.

Which was when, wrapped in a mint-green towel, hair in a damp top-knot, Mary Wardwell stepped out of the bathroom, and, seeing that they had a visitor, disappeared right back inside of it with a breathy apology. Hilda turned but was too slow to see the darting woman, and so she looked back to Lilith with uncertain eyes, finding her purpose here no longer very clear.

Lilith put a hand to her hip and returned the stare wryly. “Perhaps we should give her some privacy. Why don't we adjourn to the kitchen? And I'll fill you in on some of the more distasteful outcomes of your coven's abandonment of me.”

Chapter Text

While Mary dried her hair at the bedroom dresser, Lilith and Hilda gained the additional separation of the kitchen door, seating themselves at the table. The Spellman sister had suggested brewing tea, but Lilith had neutralised the idea by diving right back into her grim regaling. Starting with the violence wrought upon her by Lucifer, which, she emphasised, was a direct consequence of Zelda’s refusal to grant her sanctuary.

Unlike the censored version of events she had relayed to Mary, here Lilith spared no excruciating detail. Though laced with spite, it served the dual purpose of affording her some small catharsis.

“Of course, as you know, Lucifer was still trapped in the flesh prison of your ex-High Priest.”

“Yes, we... I’m sorry. He was our responsibility. When Sabrina suggested binding them together, it just really seemed like a good idea. I mean, he quite literally fell into our hands.”

“So it was her suggestion? I am woefully unsurprised.”

“Yes. Well. It was also kind of fitting? In a way? Trapping the Dark Lord in a servant of his, it seemed—”

“You’ll have to pardon my lack of amusement at any perceived poetry there. After all, unlike the antagonistic relationship afforded Lucifer by young Mister Scratch, you Spellmans handed him a willing partner-in-crime. Someone with the matching goal of sewing chaos and suffering. And with the sort of misfortune to which I’ve been betrothed, I was first on their list of grievances.” She averted her eyes. “I always was first among women. Wasn’t I?”

Hilda was staring at her lap. “I’m sorry. That should never have, um, he shouldn’t have been able to escape. We could have done better.”

“For a coven who once reached out to me with their prayers and adoration, I certainly had hoped for more.” The pain that sat heavily in her chest was kept from her voice by the stiffening starch of anger, and she made sure to keep fanning that feeling. It wasn’t difficult. “I’m sure you’re aware that you’ve rather burned your bridges with me in that respect.”

“And I fully accept that. Zelda is, well, she’s my sister, and I love her. But we aren’t the same, and I dare say I might have reacted differently. For what it’s worth.”

“Very little, I’m afraid,” Lilith intoned dryly.

“That’s fair. But, Blackwood, he... he’s only a man. Right? A wicked, repulsive man, yeah, who we probably should have put down like a rabid dog rather than seeking to bring him to any sort of justice. But, a man.” She looked up, into Lilith’s overcast eyes, with something approaching hope. “Even with the Dark Lord inside of him, he can’t have overpowered you for long, could he? I mean, you’re rather quite a bit stronger than one would expect. As I recall. I mean, it’s completely besides the point, and you absolutely shouldn’t have had to battle him off. But you seem to have come out of it okay? All considered?”

Lilith’s expression was stony as a bitter laugh came and died in her throat. “Yes, you’d like that to be true. It would be easier for your guilt. But unfortunately, a wicked man willingly possessed by the Devil has access to violent rage that even I can’t resist. Even if I’d been foolish enough to try.”

When Hilda’s face continued to display scepticism, Lilith narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Have it your way.”

With that she stood, raised her palms to her lips and whispered a word into them. Then she passed her right hand before her face, revealing little by little the angry grazed skin across one side of her forehead, cheek and jaw; the scab which had formed atop her sharp cheekbone; the still bloodshot eye.

“A glamour,” whispered Hilda, a shocked hand going to her mouth.

Lilith cocked her head, thick chestnut waves falling across the damage, as her gaze bore into Hilda. Then she ran her palms over her throat, uncovering the purple choke-marks that wrapped around it, each maniacal finger discernible. She closed her eyes, pushing back against the beginnings of shame, as she crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, her sliding hands revealing a symphony of bruises. She took some deep, steadying breaths, then raised her chin and opened her eyes. To see Hilda with her hand clamped tightly across her face, eyes wet and unblinking.

“Quite the exhibition, isn’t it?” The pain she held tight at its reins added a gruffness to her voice. “You can understand why I’d prefer to apply some... supernatural concealer. For the sake of my dignity.”

Shaking herself free of emotional paralysis, Hilda pushed back her chair and rounded the table cautiously, keeping her gaze respectful. Lilith could just about hear the witch’s fretful heart. “Um. May I?”

Lilith huffed irritably and turned her face, giving Hilda the best view of the worst of it.

Hilda had her hand raised, but was careful not to get too close to Lilith’s skin, her tight little breaths of distress giving Lilith some small pleasure. “I’m so sorry,” Hilda was whispering, barely audibly, over and over. “So, so sorry.”

It was amazing what the visible proof of battery changed for some people, Lilith mused mirthlessly. All her life, agony after agony had laid bruises across every inch of her spirit, had split open the skin of her self-esteem, bled furious rivulets of desperation into every blackened hallway of her heart. Yet a litany of very human bruising on the outside of this mere flesh? Just one particularly unlucky night for the first and oldest witch? That was what it took, to earn their sympathy. Pathetic.

She took a step back when Hilda got too close. “That’s enough of that, I think.”

“Wait, don’t hide it again, just yet, um, just... won’t you let me get some herbs from my garden? I could definitely calm that nasty scrape on your cheek, at least.” Hilda was touching her own cheek, empathetically. “Not to presume, but I don’t suppose the glamour hides the discomfort, does it?”

Lilith was crossing her arms again, on the defensive against the offer of assistance — it was never something she trusted, and being beholden to someone at a later date was not something she intended to risk. “I’m not bothered by a bit of discoloured skin, Spellman. I’ve felt far worse.”

Hilda nodded. “Oh, I well believe you, absolutely I do. Only, there’s nothing to be gained by keeping wounds alive. That is, unless for some reason you’re attached to the pain?” The reaction her insightful words got from Lilith’s face made her quickly back-pedal, palms raised apologetically. “Not that I’d know anything about it, I’m sure, Madam... Lilith. Far be it for me to tell you what you should and should not feel. I could only speak for myself, and, well, there’s been a lot of times when Zelda, bless her proud heart, I do love her but she can sometimes be a teensy-weensy bit of a bitch,” her voice had become conspiratorial for the brief admission, “but when she’s at her most cruel and thoughtless with me, when she pushes me away hardest, with the harshest of words? That’s when I know she needs me. And I need to ignore every dirty look she gives me, because it’s all just her way of protecting her reputation. As someone who never feels anything that could be seen as weakness.”

Lilith was still keeping her distance, but her arms moved from being crossed to akimbo. “I hope you’re not comparing me to someone as petty as Zelda Spellman. She and I are nothing alike.”

A little smile passed over Hilda’s lips like a cloud. “No, no, wouldn’t dream of it, of course. Not saying that at all. Just that sometimes I’ve learnt that what people say to me? How they don’t need anything from anyone? Well. I’ve figured out when sticking my neck out is really going to get me murdered with a shovel, and when it’s not.”

The choice of wording was a little puzzling to Lilith, but she did not care enough to ask, assumed it to merely be one of the witch’s quaint English idioms. She sighed, realising that nothing short of out-right antagonism was going to make this issue go away. “Well if you insist on throwing your herbal tinctures and what-have-you at me, I suppose there’s no point in fighting it. But I’m surprised you’re so ready to leave when you’ve not yet done your so very urgent evaluation of Mary Wardwell.”

The small look of victory upon Hilda’s face faded as she remembered the purpose of her visit. “Oh. Yes, right. Well. I could come back quickly.”

“And what if I spirit her away in the meantime?”

“Is... that something you’re likely to do? Do you think?”

Lilith shrugged, and doing so restored the glamour across her skin. “Perhaps not. But this house is hardly secure, in the spiritual sense. Who's to say what manner of creatures could burst in and wreak havoc, now that the Dark Lord has defiled the place with his actions?”

“Oh. That’s true. I’d... rather forgotten about that.”

Lilith barely held back her smirk at how easy it was to short-circuit the kindly sister. Why, she could make up any old threat and the woman would probably jump to consider how to safe-guard against it. And judging by her face, she had already puzzled out a way.

“Do you perhaps have a, um, magic box? Anywhere in this house?”

Lilith opened her mouth, but before she could answer, three careful knocks sounded on the door, and Mary opened it, peered in with her newly-brushed hair loosely bound, a shawl adding an extra layer of protection against the eyes of a guest. She appeared to be summoning the bravery to take charge of her own kitchen, rather than being side-lined in her own home.

“Hello, Ms Spellman,” she approached Hilda with a forced smile, hands hidden in the pockets of her flannel nightgown. “Thank you for coming to see me. I hope I didn’t bother you earlier. When I ambushed Richard with all my, my many questions. I didn’t know the two of you were an item. That is to say, that you were engaged. Oh my, that was rude of me, I should say congratulations, shouldn’t I?”

Hilda gestured to her empty chair, moved to sympathy by Mary’s palpable anxiety. “That’s quite all right, deary. Please sit down, won’t you? And I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea.”

Her manner worked easily on Mary, who gave her a sincere smile this time and accepted the seat, then looked over at Lilith. “Sorry I took so long to come back. I got my hair wet by accident and unless I straighten it, well, it can be a terrifying sight.”

Lilith’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I have become aware of that, yes.” She ran a hand pointedly over her crown, where the hair bounced back from being flattened immediately, conditioned to maximum health. “It seems a small price to pay, though, given the end result.”

Mary was unconvinced. “I don’t know how you get it to do that. Perhaps... witchcraft?”

Lilith wasn’t sure if that were meant to be a joke, and Mary’s resting look of bewilderment did nothing to clarify, so she did not reply to it at all. “Our guest has just asked me for my box of trinkets, Mary. You’ll know where it is, of course. Since you found the—” Immediately she regretted going down that route, saw in Mary’s eyes that she had experienced the exact same pang to the stomach. “Well. You’ll be able to bring it to us now. Won’t you?”

Chapter Text

Three mugs of chamomile tea gently steaming, and Lilith's witch's box laid open at the centre of the table, Hilda finally met Mary's patient yet eager gaze.

“So, about what you said to Doctor Cee...” she paused, brought the tea to her lips, evidently in no rush to get the words out.

It seemed odd to Mary, that this woman, beloved of and fiancée to one of her oldest friends, continued to call him by his stage name. Was it a cute habit, or had he really not owned up to his full history? Had he perhaps even had his name legally changed? It would be a little ridiculous, if so. If nothing else, he would have to deal with a lot of odds looks while signing papers at the bank, and even that level of awkwardness gave Mary squeamish feelings.

“You were right,” Hilda continued eventually, slowly and cautiously choosing her words. “There is a world of magic overlaying Greendale. And many of the town's residents are far more than they appear. To get right to the point, you could, in fact, call them witches.”

Mary nodded, showing plainly that the information thus far was not new to her.

“Oh? All right, then. Well... these witches, which live among us, they're not so different from everybody else, not like what you might imagine. They're often very upstanding members of the community, truth be told, and have been known to protect the town from supernatural threats.”

A small smile played on Mary's lips, at the woman's slow lead-in. “I know. They protected us in December, didn't they? When the town went underground for safety.”

Hilda nodded solemnly. “They did. That storm was far more than it seemed.”

At that, Mary leaned forward. “What was it? Truly?”

The question gave Hilda pause, almost as though she had hoped not to have to give clear details. From across the table, Lilith harrumphed, seemingly bored by Hilda's hesitation:

“The souls of the witches hung by mortal witch-hunters, known as the Greendale Thirteen. Tortured spirits who sought revenge, and who summoned as their executioner the Red Angel of Death, a powerful demon driven by bloodlust for vengeance.”

Mary's eyes grew round: “A demon... but why? After so long, why did they come back?”

Lilith did not answer, turned towards Hilda and gestured command of the floor back to her.

“We don't know. It's possible it was some surge of energy which woke them, due to the, well, to some events taking place, changes brewing in the fabric of... Hell and Earth. Or they could have been summoned. We just, um, it's hard to know, really.”

“But your family protected everyone, by standing guard at the doors.”

“What, why would you—“ Hilda turned quickly to look at Lilith, who gave her an exaggerated look of ignorance, palms raised.

“Oh, I... it was actually quite easy to piece together,” Mary said softly, trying to keep the pride from her voice. “Once Lilith told me that witches exist.” Hilda side-eyed Lilith again and was entirely ignored.

“Well, all right, we uh, yes. Yes we are. I mean, we did. We did that.”

“Your whole family... they're witches?”

Hilda tried to stall by drinking tea once more, but gave up almost immediately. “Yes. All of us.”

“Well, not all of you,” Lilith chimed in, enjoying Hilda's discomfort.

“Uh, no. Not if I'm fully accurate, no. My niece, Sabrina... well, of course, you know Sabrina, you're her teacher, but, uh, she's... she's what you'd call a—”

“Half-breed,” offered Lilith.

“Half-witch. Her mother was mortal. And a Christian. A fact which, as it turned out, was really quite important. To Sabrina's continued well-being. It rather saved her from, well, having to go against her principles and sign the Book of the Beast. Well. That time it did.”

“The Beast...” Mary took in, anxiety kept at a distance but still shining from the back of her eyes. “Satan. What does it mean?” she turned to Lilith then. “What would that have done?”

Lilith sighed, evidently about ready for the conversation to be over. “Exactly what it does for every witch who agrees to a pact with the Dark Lord: grants them fully-fledged witch abilities and binds their will to his.”

“And you signed this book?” Lilith's answering laugh was derisive, though to the idea rather than Mary herself, and the woman quickly remembered everything she'd been told. “Oh. No, of course you wouldn't have. But, Ms Spellman, you did? When you were Sabrina's age?”

Hilda nodded. “I didn't really have much of a choice. None of us did, when you get right down to it.”

“So you... do you regret it?”

“Sometimes,” admitted Hilda flatly. “But I don't regret the good things I can do with my powers. And now, well, it seems as though we have a new source of magic.”

Lilith rolled her eyes dramatically and leaned back in her chair, though offered nothing to the topic.

“What's that?” This was entirely new information, and Mary's interest was piqued.

“Um, well, you see we—"

“That's not important right now,” Lilith snapped impatiently, pointed at the open box between them. “We have to protect this house, before any number of creatures realise that it's fair game and decide to slither in on their scaly bellies. Down the fireplace or even right through the front door.”

Her tone jolted Mary upright, her heart shaken by the images Lilith had evoked. “How can we do that? What do we do?”

Lilith met her gaze firmly, though not unkindly: “Not us. You.”

“Me? I... what?” she clasped her hands in her lap, resisted the urge to hug herself.

“It has to be you, Mary.”

“We can help you, deary,” added Hilda sympathetically, “but it's your home. You've got to shape its energy yourself.”

“But I'm... I'm not a witch! I could never, I'm, I'm just me.”

Lilith drained her tea, regardless of its temperature, and placed the mug down next to Mary's.

“Well, you might not have the blood of a witch. But you're a woman with a determined spirit. And with the right guidance, and the power of my ritual instruments... there is every chance you may succeed.”

Chapter Text

This was all moving much too fast. In what felt like the space of just a few brief hours, Mary had taken in so many revelations: the nature of life and death; the existence of Hell; the truth of the woman who came ahead of all women and had somehow elected to wear her face; the fact of the very real presence of magical activity which lay over Greendale, and presumably the entire world; and the fact that one of the oldest families in the town, the Spellmans, were indeed practitioners of the occult arts. Among other things.

And here she now stood, a page of written notes gripped in her barely-steady hand, trying to memorise words for the ritual she would soon have to perform, all on her own, to ward off the darkness.

It was all so absurd. Not the magical world itself, that was something which brought her fascination and joy, but the mere expectation that someone as deeply mundane as she might have a hand in something of this nature. If there were magic to be gleaned from paging through dusty tomes into the early hours of the morning, from ruining her eye-sight at a young age by straining to decipher scrawled journals by candlelight, huddled in places her parents would not find her, from isolating herself from the people around her out of awkwardness and indecision... perhaps then she could be said to hold magic in her bones. But she knew this was not the case, and feared horribly that she was about to let down both of these women, who had deigned to lend her their kindness. The thought tunneled into her muscles, made her limbs feel hollow and unstable, and she quickly lowered her hand to her side, lest she grow limp and drop the page.

Lilith was lighting candles on the mantel, one black, one red, one white, while Hilda Spellman sorted through her deep pockets, placing fabric sachets on the dining room table and moving the contents around between them. Presently she came over, two of the little muslin pouches in her open hand.

“These will give you a bit of protection during the cleansing, just in case there's any lingering creepy crawlies or whatnot, hiding in the shadows.”

Mary tried and failed to make out the contents through the sheer fabric. “What are they?”

“Oh, just a few little sprigs from my garden: willow, sandalwood, angelica, Solomon's Seal, just the root, obviously... oh, some onion oil, to piss off the Dark Lord,” she chuckled conspiratorially, “and just a pinch of sea salt, to bind it all together!”

“I see,” Mary said, hoping her rising panic wasn't audible.

“Now then, let's get these into your pockets, shall we?”

Mary looked down at her knee-length tweed skirt, patting her hips along its seams with equal parts helplessness and apology.

“Oh, that is rather the way of things, isn't it?” sighed Hilda. “Not as though a woman might want to carry anything around with her. Can't have that. Might have people talking.” So saying, she took each of Mary's hands in turn, tied the little pouches around her wrists by their ribbons. Then she stepped back, hands on her hips in satisfaction. “There we are. Sorted.”

“What do I do now?” Wake up from this anxiety dream, hopefully.

“Well... do you perhaps have a favourite scent or plant? That might grow around here?”

Mary brightened, glad to be able to offer something at last: “I have lavender bushes alongside the cottage. The fragrance, I... I find it very calming. Sometimes it even helps me sleep, if I put a posy under my pillow.”

“There, you see, you're more of a witch than you think you are. Now why don't you pop outside and gather some? We'll use it in the ritual, make it a little bit more personal. Doesn't that sound nice?”

Mary looked across the room to see whether Lilith had anything to add, but she was continuing in her silent preparations, now seeking items in her witch's box. If Mary didn't know better, she would have read the behaviour as Lilith being nervous about the proceedings and so keeping herself isolated for the sake of calm; but that couldn't be true of someone like her, so ancient and skillful. Clearly, Mary concluded, she was merely projecting her own feelings. It would not be much of a mental feat, given the circumstances.

And so, against the dying light, she ventured outside with a woven handbasket and secateurs. The bees had mostly gone to sleep, but a couple still buzzed lazily around the lavender flowers, not doing much of anything in their fatigue.

“Go to bed, you silly things,” she scolded with a smile, reaching carefully past them to cut firm stalks. Not knowing exactly what the plant would be used for, she crouched down and gathered up the fallen heads which were scattered around the rich earth, still intact but knocked down before their time by weather or clumsy fauna. And just to be doubly sure, she made certain to include some crisp leaves in her basket.

The scent had been rubbed all over her fingers, leaving them feeling slightly waxy, and she held them up to her face, closed her eyes and inhaled.

Yes. It's all right. It's going to be fine.

As long as the world still has sweetness like this. And as long as there are still quiet places where no one can see me, where I can speak to the plants and say whatever strange things that come to mind out loud...

Then it will be fine.

Inside her cottage, at this very moment, two women who were both far older than they appeared, far more than human, were preparing to aid her in the recovery of her peace. That was something for which she should be — and indeed was — extremely grateful. It was new. And strange. But wonderful. And, in many ways, bewildering. Why should it be, she wondered, that her life would first have to be entirely decimated, torn apart in the most heinous of ways, before she should be granted a boon such as this?

There is no way to understand the meaning of light, before one has been lost in darkness. I suppose.

And she had been so very lost. If she were honest with herself, she would have to admit that it began well before her brutal death, her torture, her resurrection, the turmoil of months of nightmares and lost memory. She hadn't felt complete for... years. It wasn't as though she were unhappy with her path, she did after all enjoy working with teenagers, attempting to mould their young minds with access to as much intellectual material and enthusiasm as she could offer up. But a great portion of her soul had felt constricted. She was trapped inside her head so much of the time, that she would often be jolted quite alarmingly by the presence of another human being in her physical space, regardless of how carefully she were approached.

Her loneliness was a complicated issue, because it didn't feel like loneliness, on first blush. Only like privacy. The certainty of silence, aside from the sound of her own voice when she would narrate her tasks or find herself unexpectedly singing or humming. But there was always the hour when her mood dipped, and her soul reached out to the empty rooms around her. In vain.

Yes, every few months, he would arrive. And it would be wonderful. Her spirit would brim, her laughter bright and frequent. But it only made it harder, in the days following his departure, to re-convince herself that she loved the silence, above all else. That companionship was only necessary as a distraction, for those who lacked a clear purpose in life.

And of course she had a purpose. Didn't she?

Unbidden pressure was building behind her eyes, and she shook herself out of the reverie, standing up and quickly ducking backwards out of the path of one of the sleepy bees.

“Didn't I just tell you to go to bed?” she chided with irritation that really wasn't for the bee at all.

Quickly making certain that the pouches were still firmly fastened around her wrists, she took a last, steadying breath of the clippings and headed back inside. As she approached, however, she saw that Lilith was talking to Hilda, and she slowed, eavesdropping despite what her upbringing had taught her.

“...and there is every possibility that my presence could influence the efficacy of the ritual. I'm not willing to take that risk.”

Hilda nodded, frowning, and was about to reply when her eyes drifted to the doorway, alighting on Mary's approach. Her face softened abruptly, and Mary knew that it was entirely for her sake. She quickened her pace indoors, so as not to slow the proceedings or admit her reluctance.

“Is this all right?” she asked, holding up the basket.

“Oh, I'm sure that's plenty. And my, doesn't it smell wonderful!” Hilda beamed, and Mary could not help but doubt the sincerity of her cheer.

Lilith peered into the basket dispassionately. “Lavender. Good, that will bind well with the white sage.”

Mary didn't like the dull tone to her voice one bit, but felt helpless to inquire upon it. Instead, she tried to coax more conversation out of Lilith, hoping it would reveal more of her mood. “I think I know the words now. Though I should probably keep them on hand just in case. Could you please explain it again, how I should move through the house? Just so that I don't miss anything.”

Lilith cast her eyes about the room, anywhere but straight at Mary. “As you wish.” She waved a hand towards the front door. “You should start there. Spread the smoke into every corner, as you move clockwise around the house. If there is a large piece of furniture, wave the smoke behind and under it. We've opened all the windows already, so whenever you get to one, draw a pentagram in the air, over the opening, to seal it against intrusion. Don't forget the fireplace, it is a very common access point for malicious spirits. They're drawn in by the destructive power of the flames.” She gestured to Mary's basket. “Toss a few of those heads into the fire while you're at it. Then once you've done a full circuit, and you stand at the front door, draw a pentagram which covers the entire doorway, and restate your purpose.”

Finally her eyes met Mary's, and within them shone a cold edge which Mary recognised from the Angel Oak's clearing, when Lilith had admitted to being her murderer. Mary couldn't understand what had put it there, and the confusion physically pained her.

“Remember: you have to be clear and firm. This is your home, and you mustn't show any weakness. You must command the spirits across all the nearby planes to respect your sovereignty. Any doubt you show will be easily sensed, and the ritual will be for naught.”

Fresh fear shot through Mary's body, and she was unable to hold back the lurching nausea which culminated in a rocking dizziness in her head and a fuzzy ringing in her ears. Lilith was so different to how she had been in the kitchen, when she had stated her belief that Mary could do this. What had changed? Had she done something wrong, unknowingly angered Lilith with mortal incompetence?

She frowned down at her shoes, attempted to play off her inner turmoil as seriousness. “Of course. I'll... do my best. I'll be firm. I can be firm.”

“Good. Now come, I have some final protections to apply to you.”

Lilith moved matter-of-factly back to her witch's box and drew out five tiny vials and a bowl. Mary stared after her, vision growing misty, when suddenly Hilda blocked her line of sight, and put a hand to her elbow.

“You poor dear, you really are nervous, aren't you? Not to worry, this is actually not that unusual for mortals to do. In fact, back when I lived in Kent, it was very common for the eldest woman in a family to spread hallowed smoke around the whole house, come spring time. Or tie strings of herbs around broomsticks as they swept. To shove all the spiritual cobwebs out the window, you see.” She gave a smile which showed off her teeth. “Not that they really understood what they were doing, exactly, but everyone felt better for doing it, and that was what mattered. Do you see?”

Though Hilda had misdiagnosed the primary reason for Mary's distress in the moment, she had spoken to other parts of it, and it did in fact help the breath enter and exit Mary's lungs just a little more easily.

“Yes, I see. Thank you. I think I'll be fine. It's fine. Really.”

Hilda patted her on the shoulder. “Of course you will. Just a little bit of spring cleaning. Nothing more than that.”

Lilith wasn't leaving that alone, though, and her voice came darkly from behind Hilda, making the woman grimace.

“It's a great deal more than that, Spellman, as well you know. The Dark Lord isn't just some will o' the wisp trying to steal your pumpkin pies off the window sill. And neither are his henchmen.”

Hilda scowled, muttered over her shoulder. “For crying out loud, I was just trying to calm the poor woman—“

“She doesn't need to be babied by you. Do you, Mary?” Lilith's eyes met hers and Mary could not read what was in them, but whatever it was made her gut twist.

“No... I... I don't think so. But... I'm sorry, I just need to...”

Mary saw Hilda dart forward then, felt the sturdy woman grabbing onto her arm, then steadily lowering her to the ground, concern filling her hazel eyes. “Oh goodness, you were about to faint, weren't you? Are you all right?”

She nodded, but noted that the edges of her vision were spotting with black. “I'm fine. Please don't worry, I think I may just have let myself become dehydrated. It's silly of me, but I do get very distracted sometimes.” Try as she might to sound normal, she couldn't conceal some heaviness of the tongue.

Hilda straightened up, glad to have an answer. “Well you stay right there, deary, I'll just fetch you a glass of water.” So saying she hurried off to the kitchen, and Mary slowly sought out Lilith, dreading what she might find displayed on the first witch's face.

Which, when their eyes met, quickly dissolved from hardness to remorse. Still holding the bowl of vials in one hand, she walked forward and bent down with the other out-reached.

“I do forget so easily what the human heart can sense. And how very fragile it can be.” When Mary accepted her hand and let herself be lifted up, Lilith gave her a tight smile, her face not managing the apology she clearly wanted to make.

Hilda returned and Lilith took the glass from her, exchanging it for Mary's basket. “Tie some of these sprigs to the bundle. They'll aid in the warding.”

The witch glowered at her from beneath thin, pale brows, muttering “I know what they're for...” but accepting the basket anyway and going over to Lilith's box with it.

Being upright wasn't doing Mary much good, and furthermore, the feeling of Lilith's hand upon hers did not bring its usual comfort. Which Lilith could apparently intuit, as, a sigh escaping through her nose, she gestured with her head that they should go to the bedroom.

It was darker there, with a softer surface to collapse upon.

Perched on the edge of the bed, Mary gripped her hands together. “Did I do something wrong?”

Leaning against the wall, her arms as folded as her carried items would allow, Lilith shook her head. “No. No, you didn't. I'm sorry, I'm poisoning you with my mood, it would seem. Quite unintentionally, I assure you. So please, think nothing of it.”

That was not the sort of request Mary's spirit could grant. “Then... what is wrong? Maybe I can help? Somehow?”

One side of Lilith's mouth twitched, and she lifted herself away from the wall. “You really are kind to a fault, aren't you? It's a wonder standing this close to you doesn't reduce my body to ash.”

Her voice was still cold, but Mary could easily tell that her anger and mocking was directed inward, and so it didn't hurt her. What did hurt was not knowing how to soothe Lilith's mood; but given the grimness which rolled off Lilith in waves, she doubted very much that it was something that could be done, at least for the moment. And so she attempted something else, something she was quite good at: pragmatism.

“It's all right. If you're... that is, if you say I'm not the problem... then I'll try to keep that in mind.” And in heart, she thought, one hand pressed to her breast as she attempted to quieten the frantic beat. She gestured at the bowl that Lilith's fingers held secure against her hip, at the vials held cupped in her hand. “What's that for?”

Lilith looked down, as though she'd forgotten what was there. “Oh. These are anointing oils. Those little pouches on your wrists won't hurt, but I prefer to cover every base, in situations like these.” She knelt down at Mary's feet, put down the bowl and took out the vials. One by one, she held them up to Mary, before placing a certain number of drops of each into the bowl.

“Cedarwood. For purification and grounding to the earthly plane. Geranium. A barrier against negative forces. Lemon. To disperse confusion and worry. Myrrh. For spiritual awareness. And jojoba. To keep the rest of them from searing your skin right off.”

She looked up with raised brows and the slightest of smirks, and quite suddenly a great deal of weight was lifted from Mary's shoulders. Lilith was being playful. Only a little, barely enough to remark upon. But it was there, and told her for certain that she had not cast the plague on Lilith's mood.

“That's good,” Mary laughed. “I'm quite attached to my skin, all considered!”

Lilith picked up the bowl, stirred the oils together with her index and middle finger as she whispered what may have been foreign words, and may have been merely rhythmic spell components. Whatever they were, the sounds sent a pleasant oscillation throughout Mary's mind.

“Now,” she said, raising up onto her knees, “close your eyes. The fumes can sting quite badly when they're fresh.”

Mary obeyed, plunging the room into darkness. And before long she felt Lilith's soft fingertips, and the lightest graze of her nails, on the space between her eyes. The thick, complex aroma of the oils spread out, making her eyes tear a little, despite their being shut. The scent of it was heady, and she opened her lips to draw in fresh air.

Lilith began to hum, though it was not the hum of sleep induction which Mary had heard before; more it seemed to be a focussing sound, to which a spirit might tether. Like a sounding bowl.

She felt oil gently anointing her prominent cheekbones, touching the pulse point on her neck, the dip between her clavicles. And where Lilith touched, Mary could feel herself glowing. The first witch took each of her hands in turn, and warmly oiled the pulse of her wrists, granting them too that rich violet glow, which Mary could see so very clearly in her mind.

Then the touches ceased, and Mary wondered whether she should open her eyes, but nonetheless waited for permission. Then, out of the darkness, she felt fingers taking hold of her entire face, settling on her forehead, her temples, the hinge of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek and, finally, the space just below her lips. That sweet humming had grown closer, so that her very skin seemed to vibrate in harmony.

She took in a sharp breath, but kept herself from pulling back; for all that having her face surrounded was claustrophobic, it was also perplexingly comforting. She breathed slowly and deeply into the feeling, the aroma of the oils assisting her serenity, so that when the soft lips finally reached her forehead, she did not flinch. And when the kiss was placed, she saw purple flame surging through her veins. And yet it did not burn, only warmed her from within, while setting every inch of her skin alive, causing it to break out in gooseflesh.

What is this? What has she done to me?

But there was no alarm in these questions; although curious, her spirit had been soothed.

The fingers withdrew, and for a little while Mary moved with them, not quite ready to be let go. Then she heard humming cease, and slowly opened her eyes, blinking Lilith's neutral expression into clarity.

“What did you do?”

“Something I perhaps shouldn't have. But, well, what do rules matter, in days such as these?”

Mary put a hand to her face, still perceiving the weight of Lilith's fingers. “So... what? Then?”

Lilith rested back into a low kneel, a twinkle in her eye as she lightly nipped her lower lip. “I gave you a little something. A gift. To use in your ritual. I can't do it with you, so think of this as... a sip of magic. A little piece of me that you can keep inside you, at least for a while.”

A sip of magic.

If that was a sip, what must it be like, to live one's whole life, full of that power?

“Thank you. Lilith, this is... I can't describe this feeling, my whole body, I feel like I should be afraid, but...”

Lilith smiled. “Take it. Use it and enjoy it. For as long as you can.”

The sensation of ancient power seeming to coat her skin from within, the insides of her eyes and mouth as well, Mary became aware of her rising determination.

“Thank you. I think... I'm ready.”

Chapter Text

While Lilith remained in the bedroom, changing into one of the dresses she had left behind, Mary stood in the hallway, looking over her notes one last time. It was purely perfunctory, however: she knew the words, they waited on her tongue to be called forth whenever she wished. While remembering complex information well-studied was not unusual for her, the unwavering confidence appeared to be coming from Lilith's anointing kiss. As did the sensation of distant tingling in her finger tips, the feeling of supreme clarity behind her eyes.

Hilda had woven Mary's sprigs of lavender artfully into the rigid bundle of herbs, their pale purple harmonizing with the golden thread of the bindings. She placed the page down on the table, beside the hand basket which still contained many pieces of the plant, then accepted from Hilda a black stone bowl, which was the perfect size to be held in one hand.

“Watch out for falling ash, you won't want to burn holes in your rugs or curtains. Be sure to keep the stick above the bowl at all times, even while you're reaching out with it.”

“I'll be careful,” Mary confirmed, and noted a lightly amused look on the witch's face. “What is it?”

“You've really cheered up, haven't you, my lamb?”

“What do you mean?” Mary couldn't remember saying much of anything after she'd come out of the bedroom, far too busy with the experience of magic coursing through her mortal body.

Hilda said nothing to the inquiry, but rather put her hand behind Mary's shoulder, and turned her to face the wall-mounted mirror beside the front door.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, genuinely surprised: in the middle of her face, a quite uncharacteristic smile had made itself at home. She was, in fact, beaming. Now that she saw it, she could feel that her muscles had been doing it for a while, and raised a hand to her cheek, growing bashful at the display.

Hilda patted her gently on the arm. “Nothing wrong with a bit of a smile. I do love cleaning house, makes me quite giddy, really, every time I do it. Knowing you're about to create a sacred space, where you can carry out whatever your heart desires, in total peace and safety. Makes a house a home, is what it does.” She mirrored Mary's smile, patted her once more then stepped back, acknowledging Lilith's return with a dip of the head.

Mary turned away then, a hand still to her cheek, not sure she wanted Lilith to see the silly smile that was emblazoned there. But she needn't have worried, because Lilith, rounding her, was wearing a smile as well, though far more demure and scarlet than hers. Mary's heart brimmed at that expression, though she could not fully read its motivation. It didn't matter. The darkness had gone from Lilith's face, and that made Mary feel as though she were glowing from head to toe.

Lilith took Mary's hand from her face, laced their fingers together, and brought her other hand up to lightly cup Mary's jaw.

“Enjoy this. Even if it's only for tonight, I think you'll like it. Being a witch.” She let her fingers slip loose, slowly descend to her sides. “Reclaim your home, Mary. Don't let anybody take it from you again.”

Mary didn't miss it, that catch in Lilith's voice: a hiccough of emotion not quite submerged beneath her silver-throated purr.

“Thank you,” she replied, hoping those two words conveyed at least a little of the oh so many thoughts behind them.

Lilith dropped her eyes, gave a private smile, which soon dissolved like sugar into water as she turned to regard the Spellman sister.

“It's time we went outside, the moon will be risen soon.”

Hilda gave her a curious look. “It... will, won't it? And I suppose that's, um, important? Right.” She stuffed the last of her things into her pockets and joined Lilith at the door, turned to wave cheerily at Mary. “We'll be right outside, deary! Just give us a call once you're finished, and we can all have another round of tea!”

Lilith raised disdainful eyebrows at Hilda, and Mary felt a little snort in the back of her throat.

She still couldn't quite believe it: Mary Wardwell, a witch. Even for one night, to be a witch. To be special. She would do as Lilith said, enjoy every moment of it. There was no other option, really, not with the way her entire body sang.

Once the two women had vanished, the doorway remaining open by necessity, Mary picked up the wand of herbs and brought it over to the mantel, holding it over the red candle until the tip bloomed with flame, then blackened and began to smoke. It was beautiful, the tiny flashes of orange which showed through from the burning core. And the aroma... it increased her sense of purpose.

She closed her eyes, focussed on the intention of her ritual, and spoke to the room, to the energies of her home, and to any others which might be present:

“With goodness of heart and clarity of mind, I consecrate this space. This is my home, my hearth, my sanctuary, and evil is not welcome here.”

She began to move clockwise through the house, spreading the fragrant smoke ahead of her as she went, feeling quite like a creature of air herself, in the way the smoke seemed to anchor itself to her, both spreading out and staying close at once. Entering the bathroom, she was surprised to find that Lilith's red dress was no longer soaking in the sink, was in fact nowhere to be seen, and that the area had been wiped clean and dry. She reasoned that perhaps Hilda had done it, to 'get the house in order' before the ritual started. But where could she have put it, if not over the bathtub?

In order to guard against the approach of intrusive thoughts, she began to hum, replicating as best she could that which Lilith had intoned, so close to her skin, and which still resonated inside of her. At first it sounded strange, coming out of her own throat, but gradually she realised she could make it sound more and more like Lilith's. Which made sense, of course. But it was still a wonder to her, and she hummed louder, smiling as she gestured the sacred smoke into corners, behind doors, beneath the furniture.

Once she arrived back at the fireplace, she took a handful of lavender pieces from her basket, as Lilith had suggested, and tossed them into the fire. “I cast this elf leaf, herb of love and purification, to chase out any spirits which may hide within this chimney.”

In the air before the hearth, she drew a pentagram out of smoke, and saw that, for just an instant, the symbol hung in the air, glowing like foxfire. Her eyes shone likewise, her spirit soaring at the world she had somehow stumbled into, the agency that she had been granted to, at long last, make a stand, to define her own boundaries. She felt with absolute certainty that what she was doing here was having an effect. The air around her, the very oxygen in her lungs, was alive with that certainty.

Finally she reached the open front door, and took a moment to center herself, mustering as much intention as her spirit could manage. Then she took a deep breath, and stated her purpose once more, in its full version:

“With goodness of heart and clarity of mind, I cleanse this home of all baneful influences and spirits; this is my home, my hearth, my sanctuary, and evil is not welcome here. I claim ownership of the energies in this space, where peace, health and safety abide. Only Love may enter here; only Love may emerge. With determination and warmth of soul, and with the strength of those who cherish me, I, Mary Wardwell, proclaim this home a sacred space. So Mote it Be!”

With that, she crouched down to draw the left foot of the pentagram, stretched up on her tiptoes to draw the uppermost point, down again for the right foot, then, as she stood up, stroked diagonally to the left of the door, at the level of her heart, sharply across her body to the right, finally going into a half-kneel to draw the last clean line back to the left foot.

Once again she witnessed the fleeting foxfire, and felt her ears open up, the air in her face suddenly refreshed, as though she stood in a forest clearing, in the crispness of dawn. Her heartbeat skipped and she carefully stood, placing the dying smoke stick in its bowl to burn its last. Returning to the mantel, she blew out each candle — red, black, white — and placed the bowl on the table. And, even though it was not a part of the ritual, it felt correct to go over to the yet-untouched glass of water, its blocks of ice long-melted, and down it in one unhurried, measured swallow.

She closed her eyes, took a moment to let the completion of the ritual settle around her.

Then, as though walking out of a lucid dream, she stepped outside, stared into the night, and waited for her witches to see her and return.

Chapter Text

Having walked far enough away from the house that they were certain they would not block the flow of energies through its doorway, Lilith and Hilda paused, and the Spellman sister lifted her face to seek out the moon.

“What was that business earlier, about moonrise? I don't recall that—“

“Moonrise is the point at which my magic grows more powerful, I wanted her to have as much of that time as possible.”

“Um, all right, but what does that have to do with it? I mean, you're not in there casting the ritual alongside her.”

“Well, not exactly.” She let the slightest twitch of amusement flit across her lips.

“What do you mean, not exactly? You're out here with me. Respectfully, I think I'd know if I were talking to an astral projection.”

“I mean, Spellman, that I left something behind with our Ms Wardwell. A keepsake. If a fleeting one.”

Lilith appeared outwardly abstracted, only the barest touch of scorn audible at Hilda's confusion, but inwardly she was wishing she could see through walls, straining her psychic abilities to monitor Mary's energy as she moved around the house. At this distance, it was a challenge. But with the familiar scent of her own magic creating a beacon, she was having some limited success.

“You... you gave her some of your magic? But she's mortal, you can't just—"

“I think you'll find I can do far more than your petty coven statutes would have you believe,” Lilith intoned flatly. “I'm not bound by witch law. Or any other law you might dig up.”

Hilda's reply was a mutter, but an insistent one. “I should think you'd obey the laws of Nature.”

“Well that one is less of a law and more of a... conversation. We've known each other for a very long time, She and I. And it's not unheard of that one might, within the confines of a close relationship, explore behaviours which are not usually permitted for less intimate practitioners.”

“That's as may be.... Madam. But mortals, they're not equipped to handle that sort of power in their veins. It can make them fool-hardly... dangerous.”

“Oh relax, Spellman. I only gave her a taste, not the whole bottle. And besides, do you really think Mary Wardwell is the sort of woman to go on a magical rampage?”

“Um, if I might remind you—“

Lilith brushed it off with a gesture. “Actions taken while under the Dark Lord's thrall are not proof of anything. I would have thought someone of your experience would find that obvious.”

Hilda pursed her lips, all out of viable objections to Lilith's act. “But... why, though? It's just a house cleansing. She doesn't need all that, even a mortal can succeed at such a simple ritual, with the right tools and state of mind.”

“Because he was here. He could have left the way open for anything, so I'm not taking any chances. This needs to be more than just a mortal warding.”

Hilda searched her face. “Is that the only reason?”

Lilith raised her eyebrows with disdain. “What other reason could I have?”

“Well... forgive me, but, um, maybe it's possible you'd be feeling a little bit of guilt? Given everything? I mean, what with the, uh, murdering. And the tormenting. And such-like.”

“I have bowed my head to those things already, and she has accepted my penance. It's no longer a concern.”

Hilda was taken aback. “You have? She... she did?”

Lilith chuckled. “I can see you've underestimated the woman. But then, it seems that has always been the behaviour of this wretched little town. No wonder she elected to dwell so far away from all of you. Now, wouldn't you say it's time for you to depart? As I recall, you were quite obsessed with rushing back home for liniments. Despite it being entirely unnecessary.”

“I was, yes, but... shouldn't I be here when she's done?”

Lilith shrugged dispassionately. “That's up to you to decide. But if you're concerned about the distance, I suppose I could aid in your translocating.”

“Oh,” Hilda was plainly surprised, “you'd do that for me?”

“Don't make it sound so momentous; I would have done that and more for your coven, had you only retained some feeble semblance of loyalty. And if it will get me some peace from your prying eyes for a few minutes, all the better.”

She put her hands out before her, palms upward, and after some mumbled considerations, Hilda stepped forward and took them. Both closed their eyes and spoke a teleportation spell, Lilith lending Hilda the far increased range that she would need to get directly back to the Spellman mortuary, rather than pausing to recast.

Once the woman had vanished, Lilith breathed a sigh of relief, and allowed the stark mask of disdain to fall from her stately features. She turned her attention back to the cottage, sensing that Mary had covered approximately half of the house's breadth and that it was safe to head back. Keeping well out of view of the front doorway, she moved to the side of the house where, on the other side of bricks, the bathroom lay.

At her feet, lying in a sopping heap on the concrete pave-stones, half-fallen into the drain, was her red dress. She stared down at it, not feeling especially moved to pick it up. She had crafted the thing — blood-roses floating upon black waters — as a victory garment, to commemorate moments where she felt empowered. Capable. Full of agency. She had worn it at the end of the year, on the night she finally did away with the loathsome Principal Hawthorn, taking him up on his lascivious offer for 'dinner', and claiming his title. She had worn it on the night she decided to risk everything to overthrow Lucifer, banding together with the Spellmans, not giving up after the first failure, and even after the second, raising her hand and grabbing by telekinesis the throat of the man who had hurt her more than anyone ever could, and who even then injected into her so much fear that, behind her bold countenance, every inch of her body shook. Yet she had persisted.

Then, as the grotesque aristocracy of Hell attempted to jostle her from her seat, she had worn that red dress of courage and determination once again, to seek out Sabrina, perhaps subconsciously hoping it would bring her luck. But it had not. Certainly during these past few days, helping Mary reclaim what was hers after granting her enough information to move on with her life, she had paid some small penance (one barely notable given the depth of the injury). But had it been a victory? Not at all.

Rather, on this night, out here under the life-giving moonlight, she bathed in the pain of loss. For the duration of the evening, she had attempted to conceal it, yet again and again the feelings had rolled off her, battering the emotionally astute Mary into confusion. Granting her the magical boon was the least she could do. And she had indeed managed to leave the woman with a smile, the likes of which she had not seen on that expressive face since they had first met — and even then, Mary's smile had been stretched taut with instinctive nervousness, one far more merited than she could have possibly guessed.

The beaming smile this night, though, on the woman who played the witch, was full, enlivened, even happy. Lilith was glad she could have urged that smile to life, little by little, despite being herself a creature of limitless cruelty and darkness.

But she would not be seeing it again. Not unless she decided to randomly masquerade her way through the halls of Baxter High. This simple, unassuming little cottage... she was going to miss it so badly.

Her hands rolled into fists at her side, and she gave herself a moment to sit in the feeling before flexing them loose. The place had been her home for a relatively short space of time, all considered, but she had imprinted her heart upon it. And somehow, it truly had felt like hers; absurdly comfortable, like the finest squirrel-hide glove, tailored for her elegant fingers alone.

But now no longer. Thanks to the events she herself had set in motion, she could no longer return to the glow of that hearth, even if she wanted to. The place would soon be fully warded, she knew it in her bones as she felt Mary's illuminated passage through the house. The woman practically radiated magic, readily using Lilith's gift for her first blessèd ritual.

Lilith remembered it well, and could see them so clearly in her mind's eye, the movements of Mary's body: the first waltz upon witchcraft's graceful arm, intoxicating and beautiful. Of course, Mary would not have much magic left after this, it had only been a sip after all. But Lilith knew that the memory would be woven into the fabric of Mary's being, remembered always as one remembers effortlessly the feeling of sun on one's skin.

Oh to be new again.

She frowned her eyes shut, cast her face down for just a moment, then once again tightened her resolve. After kicking the dress into a convenient shape, she set it ablaze with white hot flame, the dampness offering no barrier. Within seconds, the crimson brocade was nothing but ash. She took a deep breath to keep herself from the inconvenience of feeling, and involuntarily encountered a whiff of chemical residue in the process.

Rounding the house once more, at a distance, she observed the emerald glow of Mary's final sigil, blooming like bioluminescence.

Interesting. So that's what her spirit made with my gift: earth-fire.

She supposed that should have been the obvious outcome. Still, seeing it with her own antediluvian eyes, themselves having taken in more than any other woman or witch ever had, was a privilege: a spirit glowing blue-green out of decay, out of stagnation, a breath-taking display of beauty where previously there had been only darkness and rot. In nature, a bloom of this luminosity was rare, but Mary, Lilith had learned more and more, was herself a rare creature. So subtly, though, that what lay inside her spirit had been entirely overlooked by the mundane world around her.

What lay inside of her was not the stuff of witches, but it didn't have to be.

As the pentagram faded and Mary stepped away from the door, Lilith experienced once more the now familiar pang, which took hold of her entire chest. But it was no good to her now. Fortifying an inner hardness was her only option. And fashioning an outer kindness which would make this parting less difficult, at least for some.

This was as it should be. What good would it do gentle, forgiving Mary Wardwell, to have an unpredictable demon coming and going at will, disrupting the warmth of her home with venomous shadows? Who could tell whether, on some vexing day, Lilith would turn up full of embittered rage and take it out on that convenient target, whose hospitality would once again lead to a violent demise? It was only a matter of time before her teeth and claws came out of hiding.

The woman had come out onto the doorstep now, brimming with the knowledge of a home well-warded, and stood expectantly, staring into the night.

She's waiting for me.

The unbidden phrase struck weakness into her joints, but there was no remedy for that. And from across the smallholding, the Spellman sister was steadily approaching.

There was no plausible reason to delay the inevitable, and so Lilith whispered a cantrip of fortification to her heart, willed regal bearing upon her sinews, and took step upon step towards her aching farewell.

Chapter Text

Once Mary caught sight of her, Lilith was greeted by a renewed look of excitement, and a mouth that was eager to share so much of the experience with her. She managed to respond with a soft smile as she covered the last stretch of ground between them. Given her measured pace, however, it was unsurprising that the Spellman sister's enthusiastic scuttle had brought her to the doorway first.

“Congratulations, my darling, I saw the whole thing from across the way. You've done so very well.”

The witch opened her arms in an invitation to embrace, and while Mary hesitated, not knowing Hilda all that well, her glee at the success of the ritual led her to accept it, bending down slightly to be pressed against Hilda's firmly-styled blonde hair.

From the cramped position, she looked up at Lilith with eyes that were slowly becoming bashful at the attention, and for her alone, she mouthed thank you, so earnestly that Lilith could hear the words without hearing, felt them imprint themselves onto her already aching heart. She fought back the impulse to look away and let Mary have the moment of connection, though she knew her face was mirroring that warmth not a whit.

Once Hilda released her and she straightened up, Mary's body language cautiously conveyed that she wouldn't mind repeating the gesture with Lilith, which Lilith pretended she hadn't noticed. Instead, she looked to Hilda:

“I'd like a little time alone with Mary, if you don't mind. Perhaps you can find something with which to amuse yourself inside.”

Hilda might have normally baulked at the tone, but her eyes showed that she had cottoned onto something, and she squinted at Lilith quizzically, already turning to go inside. “Right... I can do that. I'll, uh, just go put on some tea, shall I?” She nodded at Mary, her smile plastered on, and then cast a final sceptical look at Lilith over her shoulder.

The last thing I need is a Spellman with intuition, came Lilith's barbed thought.

The rest of them seemed remarkably immune.

Mary was looking puzzled, but still sat in the glow of her success, and so once the door closed behind her, she stepped closer to Lilith. “That was incredible. I can't believe it, I... actually did it. That is, not on my own, of course. It was your power that did it, but even so, it seems that I didn't fail. You saw, didn't you?”

The woman's need for validation was precious and Lilith could not help but give it to her. “Of course. And I felt it. You used my power admirably.”

Lilith could tell that Mary was straining against the desire to request a hug, by the way that her shoulders were tensed, how she clasped her hands together before her, keeping them under control.

You'll need to manage that impulse on your own, I'm afraid.

“If I could ask a question or two?”

Lilith nodded, indicating that they should ramble around the property while they spoke; she very much did not want to have this conversation standing still.

“I'm not a witch now, am I? Even though I did a... spell?”

“A ritual,” Lilith corrected. “And no, one does not become a witch. Well, most witches do not. They are born into magic. Just as I've told you.”

“And so none of the things that witches have to do apply to me, do they?”

“No. You'll have no dues to pay for this experience. Unlike Lucifer, I gave of my power freely and without expectation. A gift should not come with consequences. Not for the receiver, anyway.”

Mary indicated her understanding, watching the ground as they spoke, as though sensing Lilith's need for some kind of continued distance. “And the gift?”

“It's fading, and it will continue to fade. By tomorrow morning, there will be nothing left to call upon.”

Mary's disappointment was clear in her words, as was her resignation to the fact. “I see. You did tell me that, I know. I suppose I was just hoping that somehow...” she trailed off, shook her head in embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I'm just being silly. Really, this was enough, more than I'd ever hoped for. You've shown me so much, and I doubt I could ever repay you.”

Lilith laughed, both surprised and pained. “Repay me?”

Mary snuck a cautious glance. “Yes? For showing me a world I only dreamt might exist.”

Lilith set her mouth against another mirthless laugh; what was the matter with this woman?

“I find it strange, to say the least, that you'd feel that way. Perhaps your amnesia is returning. The things I've done to you—”

In an uncharacteristic move, Mary interrupted her: “I haven't forgotten. And I haven't forgiven you either. Only...”

Lilith stared at her, inwardly aghast; this must have been the result of the magic which still ran through the mortal's veins, emboldening her to speak with the confidence of a full-blooded witch. Of course, Lilith would hide her reaction entirely.

“Only?”

“It doesn't change what you've given me. I do not believe that our actions in the past... they shouldn't dictate who we're able to become. People are allowed to change. To grow.” She turned to look at Lilith hopefully. “Aren't they?”

Lilith's chest had grown progressively tighter, and she was forced to place a palm upon it, as seemingly absent-mindedly as possible, to try and soothe the sensation. “Perhaps... people can...”

Mary stopped walking, waited for Lilith to pause before she spoke. “Why are we out here? Lilith... what's going on?” An edge of anxiety had entered her voice, and Lilith was again forced to confront the woman's considerable powers of empathy.

“Because we can't be inside. Together.”

“What do you mean?”

Lilith averted her eyes from the pointed stare, and searched for words, finding them very slippery. “In order to... ensure your safety... sacrifices had to be made.”

Mary stepped forward with intention and Lilith found, to her great surprise and annoyance, that she had tensed.

“What sacrifices?”

“My presence. In your home. The two things are, ultimately, incompatible.”

Mary blanched, slowly drew her arms up and crossed them against her breast. “What have you done?” The confidence had drained from her voice.

“Nothing. Well. I was merely scant on the details: you warded your home, Mary, beautifully and effectively, against the entry of evil beings. Do you understand?”

Mary was frowning deeply, audibly fought to keep her tone level. “Are you saying that I've... barred you? From my home?”

“You... have. Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me! Lilith, how could you?” Mary's eyes implored her to deny the truth, and Lilith knew she must not be too gentle, lest she give the woman hope and string her along.

“Because you would have refused, would you not? No. I could not allow it. There must be no available pathway for evil to tread into your home. Not for the stray spirits who linger on the boundaries of those woods,” she gestured, “not for the hoards of Hell, and absolutely not for the Dark Lord himself. And as I form a part of that terrible legion, it was quite necessary that I be barred as well. No other outcome is permissible.”

Mary's crossed arms were a hug, and she turned her back on Lilith. “How... how could you?”

“Mary—”

“You said you wouldn't leave me alone.”

The strength left Lilith's arms and her shoulders slumped. “I'm sorry, Mary. It was the only way. I said that I would tell you the things you needed to know, and I have. And now I must take my leave of you.”

After a weighty pause, Mary's strained voice returned, her face still concealed. “You haven't told me everything. There's one more thing.” She straightened up a little, took a measured breath. “Tell me that, and... I'll accept that you're leaving.”

The statement concerned Lilith, aware of any number of possibilities that she would not relish explaining. “What thing is that?”

“When you found me, on my couch, tied up—” her voice caught, and she coughed it clear. “How did I get there? Who could do that to me? You said it was one of my students, but I can't... I just don't want that to be true. Please tell me it was a lie. Say you lied. As would a demon.”

Lilith felt as though she had been punched in the chest, found herself stumbling back apace.

'As would a demon'.

Well. I convinced her at last.

“I regret telling you that. But it was not a lie. The person who did that to you was indeed a student, and one you know well: young Ms Spellman.” There was no reason to drag the truth out at this point.

“Sabrina. Of all people...” Mary's voice was exhausted, but she kept herself upright. “And why? What did I do, to force her into such drastic measures?”

“I'm sorry, I can't tell you that.”

“But—”

“As I do not fully know why myself. Surprising as it may be, it seems that I am not at the top of anyone's list of priorities, when it comes to being kept abreast of current affairs. Least of all hers. But from what I have gleaned, it had something to do with your apparent usefulness to a group of antagonistic magic users. Some aspect of your personhood would have been exploitable for their purposes, and believe me when I say, you would not have come out of the ordeal well.”

That should suffice. If she could avoid bringing up the situation with Zelda Spellman, then for as long as immortally possible, she would do it.

“So she did it to help me? But why would she need to— to do it in such a dreadful, cruel way?” Mary had given up trying to keep the pain from her voice, and Lilith was grateful that she yet concealed her face.

“That, I'm afraid, is an aspect of her personality. A highly problematic one which her family is far too lax in addressing. I have tried to temper her... impulsiveness. But to little avail. The girl has a chronic addiction to chaos, woven into her DNA. Unravelling it would be witchcraft far beyond even my abilities.”

Mary stood hugging herself a while longer, and Lilith had no doubt that the silence contained the passage of mournful tears down sunken cheeks. After some time, however, she took a shuddering breath and pulled her shoulders back, let her arms fall to her sides.

“All right.”

“All right?”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you. For the information.” Though the intention was to have her words sound cold, Lilith saw right through them; Mary was good at many things, but hiding her emotions was not one of them.

“Well, you were owed it, after all. It was perhaps remiss of me to hold off on the facts for so long, out of some misplaced sense of mercy.”

“Perhaps it was.”

“Then I will excuse myself. Good luck, Mary. May you once again find your place in this world.”

Lilith put one foot ahead of the other, towards the woods, when the tight voice stopped her:

“Wait. You'll walk me to my door, won't you?” Mary turned around then, and quietly beseeching eyes met Lilith's. “Could I at least ask you for that much?”

Lilith sighed, no resistance left in her for argument. “Of course.” She managed a wan smile, though wished she could have given better. “Up until the verge.”

Chapter Text

Side by side they walked, a body's width between them. Where Lilith's pace was smooth and regular, Mary often had to slow or speed up to keep them in line with each other. The wooden door of the cottage, framed with foliage and peonies, was shut, but the warmth within spilled out through the cracks, spreading a welcome mat of light across the doorstep. Once they reached it, Lilith held back, only laying her eyes upon Mary at brief intervals. She felt as though sound had died inside of her, and that she could not possibly manage another goodbye, though dreaded that it would prove necessary.

Mary, whereas, trod wearily upon the step and rested her hand on the door handle. “You didn't have to do this,” she all but whispered. “There must have been another way. With so much magic in the world, we could have found something. Together.”

Lilith averted her gaze, steadfast; she would not engage further with such discussions. She could not. It was all that she could do to still be standing there, feeling as she could the blessed energy flowing out from the house, the sanctified hearth that belonged to none but Mary Wardwell — another solitary woman, who would live her life apart from those who could never truly understand her. Perhaps this cottage had been built with that sort of occupant in mind, when the ancestors of today's young witches first arrived in Greendale.

After Lilith's silence had prevailed for quite some time, Mary hung her head, sighed softly through her nose. “All right. I understand.” She pulled the handle with as much energy as her hand could muster, and swung the door inward.

The light fell across Lilith's body, and she flinched, expecting on some level that it would burn her.

Calm down, you old fool, she thought scathingly.

You've strutted down the aisles of cathedrals, tearing the heads off Men of the Cloth and making their blood run like sacramental wine across velvet-covered pews.

Do you really think the mere glow of that fireplace could harm you? This is a ward. A barrier. Not the rays of Heaven's fury.

Of course, the actual outcome of the warding was yet to be seen, as it was not just her own magic behind it, but the power of Mary's spirit and intention, the strength of her attachment to the earth. Every woman's ritual was unique, after all. Just as their souls.

And it's time my 'soul' removes itself from this place. There can be no mending of the mood I have set for the culmination of this evening.

A dish-towel drying her hands, Hilda appeared in the hallway. “Oh, welcome back. I was just cleaning up a little, didn't know how long you were going to be.” She glanced between Lilith's severe countenance and Mary's crestfallen one, and her chest sank. “Oh. I see. Well... come on, then.” She held out her arm towards Mary. “Best get ready for bed; it's getting awfully late for someone who has work tomorrow, I should imagine.”

Mary nodded listlessly. “It is. But it doesn't really matter. I've discovered that I can sleep-walk through most classes these days. The children don't seem to mind it.”

“Cretins,” Lilith heard herself mutter.

“They're young,” Mary shrugged, melancholy already nesting in her bones. “The world looks different to them. It's impossible for them to see what it's like... on the other side.”

Hilda scrunched up her face in sympathy. “Well, it wouldn't hurt them to try, though, would it, love? Even teenagers can learn to be kind. Or so I've heard.” The joke was so half-hearted that it had barely made it out of her mouth.

“It's all right,” Mary told her. “You don't need to pity me. Really. Actually, perhaps you'd like to go home? I'm sorry, Ms Spellman, you've been very kind, but... I think I'd like to be alone. To get my thoughts in order.”

Hilda nodded at the ground. “Of course. I understand.” She shot an accusatory glare at Lilith then, squinting to convey her dissatisfaction. To which Lilith gave only a baleful roll of the eyes.

Accuse me all you want. At least I was here. Even I, a devil in human skin, made the effort to pluck this woman out of her misery.

You local witches in your glass houses... I have no interest in your pettiness.

Mary had now stepped over the threshold and stood a world apart from her, leagues rather than inches dividing them. Lilith could virtually hear it, the booming echo of chasms splitting open beneath them. There was still one connection, though, maintained by the mortal: her large, blue eyes, exhausted yet somehow still compassionate, were tethered to Lilith's. For as long as they could be.

Goodbye, Mary. I wish we could have met at a different time. Perhaps, at the beginning of time. When I was new. And uncorrupted.

She hoped that her eyes conveyed at least some small part of what her lips could not.

Then Mary stepped back over the verge, that remarkable compassion cresting in her eyes as she gave in to her need at last and wrapped her arms around the frozen Lilith.

Yes, this had happened before.

When she had masqueraded as Adam, a foolish gamble which had brought her nothing but pain.

But this time, it was for her alone. That fragile human body had taken hold of her with all its might, as though Lilith were just another mortal woman; as though Lilith could not end that delicate life with the barest of efforts.

With every churning particle of her being, Lilith wanted to return the gesture. But she could not. It was a weakness she could no longer afford, now that she knew what shape the agonising years ahead were going to take.

Mary's hands were shifting, away from her back, coming to grasp Lilith's firmly, as they had many times before. And in a tiny voice, she uttered: “Forgive me.”

Before she could process the words, make sense of what forgiveness Mary could possibly be craving, Lilith found herself unbalanced, yanked forward with every bit of vitality that Mary's body could summon. She shut her eyes, set her jaw, and waited for the humiliation of being shoved back by the warding spell, of finding herself singed and sprawled in the dirt.

But instead, she stumbled in her heels onto wooden floorboards, her momentum wrenching her free of Mary's hand. Stopping herself from hitting the wall by crouching down, she gaped at Mary, horrified and confused.

“The ward didn't take.” She looked from Mary, who had both hands clasped over her face, eyes gleaming, to Hilda, who knowingly shook her head.

“It took. We can both feel it.”

Yes, Lilith could feel it. Which could only mean—

“I just knew it.” Mary had rushed forward to help her up, and tears had sprung up in her eyes. “I told you, Lilith. Don't you see?”

Once she was fully upright, Lilith stepped back from Mary's affectionate grasp. “What I see is that you found a way to build a loophole into the ward. Or rather, your... heart did. Without your conscious agreement. And the magicks took that into account.”

Mary looked at her blankly, her smile faltering. “What do you mean?”

Lilith put her hands on her hips, regarded the room in irritation. “You told the spirits that only love may enter here. By building a ward where the epicentre was fuelled by your affection, it seems you left a hole just the right size for me to fit through. A miscalculation that we shall have to remedy.”

Mary shook her head, as though to rid herself of Lilith's heavy words. “No... I'm not a witch, you said so yourself. How could I do something so precise?”

Lilith spread graceful hands in a show of bewilderment: “Magic can be unpredictable, in the hands of a novice. And you, my dear, are as green as the first leaf of Eden, in such matters.” She frowned with determination. “We shall do another ward. Tomorrow, once you've rested. A stronger one.”

Mary hadn't shifted, in neither pose nor belief, and the quiet excitement yet trembled in her words. “Lilith... you're not a demon.”

Lilith chuckled dismissively: “While that refrain may have once been charming, I'm afraid it's beginning to look quite threadbare.”

But inwardly, panic was mounting: she had millennia of elemental experience at the tips of her senses, had felt the spell's success as clearly as she felt any where her magic was involved, could taste it in the very air.

In a manner which she hoped would seem nonchalant, she was shifting backwards, towards the bedroom where the deepest shadows lay. Hilda Spellman had mercifully decided to mind her own business, leaving only herself and Mary to navigate this confusing shift in current. But not for long.

“Are you... going to lie down?” asked Mary, and Lilith knew that her retreat had been less subtle than she would have liked.

“Not at all. But I'll have to beg your pardon at this time, Mary Wardwell. I am going to need some time to...” her heart had, without her permission, begun to speed up, anticipating the bolt being readied in her limbs “...re-think the sort of ward you'll need. To keep this house safe from the influence of Hell.”

So saying, she backed into a shadow, and vanished, magically willing her body into shade and entering the passage which joined all shadows, everywhere on the mortal plane. She was no longer in the cottage. And yet she was. She was potentially anywhere, and yet absolutely nowhere.

Which was the only acceptable place to be — and not be — at this time.

Formless, she had no face to scrunch up, no eyes which might wish to shed tears. No jaw which might clench in frustration.

She let the void catch her up, and hasten her wherever it should please.

Anywhere but here.

Chapter Text

Mary could not quite settle on an emotion. For indeterminate moments, she had stared at the pocket of shadow where Lilith had so recently stood, as tangible as Mary herself, but had then vanished into, as though her physical form had never been more than an illusion.

Yet, even that frankly unnatural behaviour notwithstanding, Mary finally knew it, had her every doubt assuaged: Lilith was nothing like what she portrayed herself to be. The things she claimed to have done, those Mary believed were true, as each retelling seemed an admission that Lilith was loathe to put forward. And Mary had to admit that they had sewn troubling patterns into her heart, particularly the concept that Lilith, someone who on the surface appeared just as human as she, could consume the flesh of humanity — human men, in particular, she reminded herself — and not just in cases of desperation, but regularly and with nonchalance. Perhaps even with delight. 'Prey' she had called them, suggesting herself an apex predator, and on that point Mary had to agree: everything about Lilith's manner, her confidence and poise, fit with that assessment; the alertness which was ever present in her eyes, her ears, the movements of her limbs, they pointed towards a predator by evolution. And one which knew its peers to be fiercely competitive. Thus, Lilith was solitary, perhaps not by nature, but certainly by necessity.

That knowledge sparked within Mary, for the nth time since the two of them had fallen into conversation, a deep familiarity, and sadness. She was herself no kind of predator whatsoever, was entirely averse to the idea; and yet, her herd shunned her, for reasons far less primal. She had accepted it, for many years, because true kinship was not something she had ever perceived in another; but now, around Lilith, she did sense it. And to let go of that possibility, the chance for a closeness that felt entirely kismet... she was not about to bow to it, not until she had exhausted every option at her disposal. If it were possible for a lioness to lay down with a gazelle, she would do everything she could to make it happen, knowing that it was the last thing that anyone would expect from her, and feeling somewhat enlivened by that fact.

She had allowed Hilda Spellman to peel her away from her vigil, to escort her into the kitchen with gentle words that Mary did not fully lend her ear, and before long there was tea on the table, and across from her, the witch, radiating quiet concern.

Mary forced herself, with some difficulty, to push back thoughts of Lilith, just far enough behind her eyes that she was able to communicate with the world in front of her.

“She's very old, you see, deary,” Hilda was saying, after some other unknown length of explanation, “we can't really understand what goes through her head. I know it must be confusing, what with how she chooses to continue looking like you. But from what I've been told, that's really for the best.”

Mary appreciated the kind words, but disagreed. “I do understand her, though. I think perhaps more than I should.”

Hilda picked up her mug, scepticism playing across her face while her tone remained level. “How's that, then?”

Reminded of the tea's existence, Mary did likewise. “I don't really know. But I think we're similar, somehow.”

Hilda gave her a look which showed a vexing amount of pity. “It's not real, my dear. Feelings like that, they're expected. She's got your face, that's going to mess with your head. Especially since you weren't born into magic. Glamours, visual tricks like that... it's quite normal for them to plant ideas in your mind. Human beings are very open to suggestion.”

She reached forward to pat Mary's hand, but she reflexively pulled it out of range.

“It's not about my face,” she insisted, a stubborn note creeping into her voice which she did not like to hear; it made her sound, at least to her ears, like a child. Petulant. “It's something else. I can't properly explain it. I'm sorry.” She took the opportunity to slowly sip her tea, the steam hiding her troubled eyes behind fogged glasses and lending her some additional moments to consider her words.

In the meantime, Hilda was carefully pushing on with what seemed to Mary to be, probably unknowingly, a dismissal of her feelings.

“She was right, earlier, about you leaving a space in the ritual for her. In your heart. And like you said, you're not a witch, so you don't have full control over what magicks will do once you attempt to shape them. There's always room for error. And given that she's been the only person keeping you company in recent days — and I do very much regret that fact, believe me, we should never have allowed it, but—”

“I know it was Sabrina,” Mary said quietly, eyes still downcast.

Hilda's mouth conveyed the shape of her unease before words were formed. “Oh. You do. I'm sorry, that must be very, very difficult for you to hear. I promise you, though, there was a very good reason for it, and if I could just explain, um, not that I'm going to try and excuse her actions exactly. But as someone who knows her and loves her, I think it's only fair to give her side of the story.”

“I don't want it,” Mary said, surprising herself, hearing the unbridled hurt plainly in her voice. “Lilith told me all I need to know. That sort of cruelty... from somebody to whom I gave so much of myself, freely! Expecting nothing back. It's... unthinkable.”

She shut her eyes, as unbidden images of Sabrina coming to her office assailed her: again and again seeking solace, advice, somebody who would simply listen to her vent about her daily, teenaged troubles. She felt so foolish now. For so many years, she had laid her spirit bare, given of her energies wherever they were demanded. After all, what good was an educator if she could not spread love as well as knowledge? She had not put a hard limit on her emotional largesse, and now it was mortifyingly clear how crucial it had been to do so.

“I never once turned her away. Did you know that? When she would come to my office crying, wishing she could see her mother and father, just once. When she asked me whether they would be proud of her, as a student and as a person. I was always as kind and helpful as I could be. And... for what?” She hid once more behind the steam, not willing to speak further after hearing the alarming crack in her voice.

Hilda averted her eyes awkwardly. “I'm sorry. Sabrina, she's changed a lot, these past few months. Ever since... well, as I told you, she avoided signing the Book of the Beast, but not indefinitely. After the Thirteen, she signed it. In an effort to gain the power to defeat them, she said. To save us all. And I believe that she did. With, I now suspect, help from Madam— um, from Lilith, herself. But ever since then, she's been on a path that I will honestly admit has not pleased me. I've... tried... to guide her to a more peaceful relationship with the world around her. But I've not been nearly as successful as I would have liked.”

“Lilith says she has chaos in her heart,” Mary murmured.

Hilda sighed meaningfully into her tea. “That does sound about right. I'm sorry she did this to you. And that it feels like she's used you for her convenience all this time. She really does care for you, though. She always spoke very highly of you at home.”

“Just words,” Mary replied, keeping the anger from her voice as best she could. “If that were true, perhaps she would have come to see me. After I came back.”

Hilda met her eyes with a look of dread, and Mary almost laughed.

“Yes, I know where I was. What I don't quite understand is why nobody thought to tell me. Was it because you feared I was... too weak? To take the information? Respectfully, Ms Spellman... I had a right to know. My life... my death...” her voice threatened to disappear, “I should have been told.”

Hilda's lips were pressed tightly together as she gazed inward, fingers repositioning themselves on her mug, and Mary could tell that she was keeping something to herself. Not that it mattered at this point, as Mary had decided quite firmly what she wanted from the rest of the evening, and slowly, as quietly as possible, she pushed back her chair and stood, took the empty mug to the sink.

“Forgive me, but... I'm very tired. Would you please leave? I do not wish to be rude, but... I think I need to be alone. I appreciate everything you've done for me tonight. I really do. But I'd like to have the house to myself. Until I have to wake up tomorrow morning, and... go to work, and... pretend none of this has ever happened.” Once again.

Hilda nodded, keeping a fair number more things to herself, by Mary's estimation. “Of course. I'm really sorry. About Sabrina, and... everything. We should have been more aware.”

Mary didn't want any more apologies however. She needed silence. To truly sit with her thoughts, most especially those thoughts which were straining to be put front and centre once more. Thoughts of that which — of whom which — had with improbable, preternatural speed become the focal point of her life.

She escorted Hilda to the door, politely received a half-hearted hug, and then closed out the night, sealed herself in her freshly warded home, where only love might enter. Her final evening tasks were completed without her really noticing, and she soon found herself in bed, though with sleep held at a considerable distance, much as she willed it closer.

And as she loosened her hold on thought, she found that words were reaching out from her subconscious, became aware that they had been doing so ever since Lilith had vanished, calling out, but hereto unrecognised:

Wherever you are... please come back soon.

Come back home.

Chapter Text

The Shadow Path, a void which responded only to the whims of the most powerful of magic users, and mercilessly swallowed up those who faltered in their focus, had obeyed Lilith's subconscious yearnings for familiarity, and opened up into a cold room with concrete floors and piping all around, deposited her at the top of a metal staircase, and she steadied herself quickly with a hand upon its thick railing.

In an instant she knew where she was and supposed it was fitting; she had after all spent so much time in this building, and this was the closest Baxter High had to its own underworld. This was a realm where nobody but one had dared threaten her reign — an interloper she had quickly dismissed with a wave of the hand. The entire staff and student body looked up to her, just as they should. Even without knowing who she really was, the true extent of her power, only seeing her as a particularly competent mortal woman, their spirits knew implicitly that she was not one with whom they might trifle. They could not consciously know the delicious ways she might deal with insubordination, but like all of the lowest rungs on the food chain, their very skin was aware of it.

As she emerged from the basement door, onto the hard waxed floors of the corridor, Mary's earnest voice, full of relief and certainty, echoed within:

"Lilith... you're not a demon."

Did you think I was being whimsical, Mary? Did you think, when I spoke of being a magical conduit for the birth of countless monstrosities, when I told you that it tainted me from body to soul, that I was merely being poetic? Do you not understand how it has stripped me of the final remnants of my humanity, piece by bloody piece? There is none of that gentleness left in me now. The only thing you see, when you look into these dead eyes, is the reflection of your own warmth. And that will be your undoing.

Unhurriedly, she strolled down the corridor, her vision strong enough by the light of the moon to read the posters and other pages upon the noticeboards: yet another film club had sprung up in her absence, this one devoted to foreign animation, and they had apparently roped in the already overburdened Ms Glover as their staff supervisor; WICCA was still in session, though with a revised membership given the recent shift in the priorities of certain key members.

Her eyes drew across a sizable red and yellow poster, proclaiming "Cheer!", and she felt her lip snarl.

"Why? She's only a girl," came Mary's voice, in befuddlement.

I was a mere girl too, once. New and fresh, and stupid. Unfortunately, being pristine is a guarantor of nothing; not love, not protection, and quite definitely not respect. Corruption comes easily to the inexperienced. Those fresh faces who have never before had to craft themselves masks for every occasion.

She narrowed her eyes, fingers flexing as she resisted the urge to tear down the poster, and moved on. With each flick of the wrist, a spell of Knocking threw open the locked classroom doors she came across, and she meandered through them, amusing herself with the limited understandings chalked across their boards, with the inks and scratches wrought upon the students' desks by their thoughtless hands, in passion or spite, or the need to covet and claim, in contrast to their own helplessness.

And yet, even while I was new... I was never young. I did not grow. I was made. By a single overwhelming force. There were no halls like these in Eden, Mary. There were no classes in literature, because none had yet been written. No social studies, as there was as yet no society. To be surrounded by peers and share one's experiences, to find solace in that, was not a luxury I was afforded.

She entered another classroom, and casually began going through the teacher's desk, needing to catch up her flagging interest. It was full of confiscated items, rubber bands, paperclips, lost stationery... She picked up an unopened pack of gum and claimed a strip, chewed it while continuing to invade the privacy of whomever had written such tawdry love letters and failed to pass them successfully through the class before being intercepted.

Of course, I did not know it was lacking. Not until humanity grew rich and thick, and I was already too far away to gain its embrace. I have watched from a distance, how, even in the midst of violence and suffering, humanity has huddled together, loving and protecting each other. How hands reached out to grasp hands. How eyes closed, slept, full of comfort and assurance.

And I loathed it, to the depths of my being.

Her eyes sought the ceiling as she grew bored with the letter and tossed the pages in the trash, summarily dissolved them away with blue flame as her heels clacked back to the main corridor.

I, the First, should have been there amongst them. But instead, I was the only woman who never could be. The First Woman who became the First Witch, the First Witch who was ruined and ruined and ruined, until she became the first of all humankind to earn the title of 'demoness'. And henceforth, claimed whatever I could to ease that loneliness.

She threw open another door without seeing which it was, and only once she had stepped into the small room did the pang arrive, catching her off-guard. This place too she had claimed, without remorse.

She observed the chair upon which she had lounged in the most ill-fitting ways, touched the surface of the desk, where more times than not she had rested her heels. Now, where she had usually kept nothing but the barest semblance of work, the surface was strewn with bound volumes, notebooks and folders. Too many had been balanced near the edge of the desk, and perhaps under slowly mounting pressure of gravity, two had toppled over, fallen beneath the chair. She knelt down in curiosity, gathered them up: Virgil's Aeneid ("From hence are heard the groans of ghosts, the pains of sounding lashes and of dragging chains", she murmured) and selected works of William Langland, which opened to a folded piece of scrawled-upon notepaper, bookmarking the poem 'Piers Plowman'.

"Attired like a man, overturning Truth, ruining the crop, ripping up the roots..." she frowned as the theatre of pain provided her once again with unbidden memories, "Spreading false shoots to satisfy wants, in each country he came to, cutting down Truth, and sowing deceit in its stead like a god."

She straightened up, laid the books upon some of the precious empty space atop the desk. In doing so, she noted that the drawers too were packed to bursting, the bottom-most on the left wedged open by a perforated notebook, feint-ruled pages coming loose in the scrum. Feeling only the merest twinge of hesitation, she dislodged the drawer and withdrew the notebook. Its cover held no clue to the contents, was merely a standard school supply, and when she opened it, the first few pages had been left intentionally blank. Only five sheets in did a small, careful script note: 'things I think I've seen (possibly not dreams)'. As Lilith flipped through the following pages, the script became less neat, as thoughts spilled faster and faster from the crannies of Mary Wardwell's mind, and her hand rushed to keep up, to catch them lest they be lost forever, mysteries never to be solved.

'...And then my tormentors stood before me, with handsome human faces, though I knew they were anything but, and they told me of my failures, assured me that I had only been a moment too late, each time, to save each soul. The most recent mutilation, I had missed by a mere tenth of a second, before the body was contorted beyond repair. Around my hands, I can still feel the fishing tackle, cutting into the skin, as I struggle to keep my useless weapon from falling from my hands. And as they taunt me, I can just about see it, always just too far back at the corner of my eye: that horrific abomination, built like a stocky man, but with a face which was all protruding nose, surrounded by short, rough white fur, where an ugly patch had been shaved clean, as though to bare more of that sickly flesh, and whose empty eye-holes gaped at me, infinities deep. I could feel its cold breath on my neck, but whenever I should turn to face the creature, it would have moved, in an instant, into my other blindspot, ever out of contact, but ever stalking me. And the handsome man said to me: "Does he frighten you?" and I scoffed at him, and lied "What, that pathetic thing? I don't care about it at all. I have bigger concerns". But that looming body made my bones rattle inside of me, always expecting to be torn asunder with grotesque, mole-like claws.'

Lilith closed the book, eyes pressed shut against the image of Mary — the Mary with whom she had sat in peaceful silence, preparing food, drinking, sharing new and ancient truths, the Mary to whom she had earlier this very night gifted the precious taste of magic — being trapped in this ever-evolving nightmare. One which should never have befallen her.

Hell thirsted for the fears of humans, and knew just where to send their souls to most rapaciously feast on their terror. Lilith needed only to toss that soul into the pit, for a hound to grab it in its stinking maw and deliver the thing to its masters.

Am I not a devil, Mary? Am I not a very fine... Queen of Hell?

She blinked, and touched her fingertips to the skin beneath her eyes, beheld the wetness there in distant surprise. How strange. How unbefitting an emotion to have been permitted to trickle out.

In an attempt to distract herself from the feeling, she pulled out the next item in the drawer: a more attractive notebook, presumably covered by Mary herself in fabric and decorated with pressed daisies, protected under plastic. Once again, the obligatory empty pages, though this time they had been decorated with little drawings of flowers in each corner, in coloured ink. Then, without preamble, a poem:

'Meditation upon the state of Irrigation'

Between the barely broken lanes of earth
where seedlings feel the sun, beneath the soil,
soft rivulets do run the length and girth
while farmers take their rest from midday's toil

The well from which the limpid waters flow
is naught so rare a sight, nor purpose grand,
Yet from its depths, desire strong yet slow,
springs forth to quench the thirst upon the land

To guard against the frost or 'gainst the drought
To wash away the beetle and the weed
To spread its efforts equally throughout
That is the flowing water's driving need

But noble as this intention may seem
There lies within it one prevailing flaw:
the waters may not ev'ry seedling deem
alike in all the ways of Nature's law

The rice upon the paddies crave the flood
and grapes upon the vine crave only drip
Too easily might soil degrade to mud
should torrents flow where earth needs but a sip

How more effective might the waters be
If seeds could state their needs with certainty?

Iambic pentameter. The human heartbeat. Quaint, yet effective. Lilith sought to read the piece as would a removed scholar, and not imagine Mary's mood as she bent over the desk, putting melancholy pen to paper. She wondered at which point, before or after she had torn the teacher from her life, this piece had been written. Had she been able to return to such concerns, while her mind was beset by infernal visions? Lilith sincerely doubted it.

She flipped to the next page, to find only a brief fragment, stoic letters softly placed in the centre of the page:

Bright colors and shapes
A carnival of life passes
through my barren womb

Lilith closed the book abruptly and replaced it in the drawer, pressed thumb and forefinger against her eyelids as a mounting dryness crept up and down the length of her throat. This would not do. She could not allow it, not now when she had tugged herself away from the warmth that so generously waited with open arms for her return. She could hear them now, Mary's thoughts as she lay down to sleep; Lilith's barriers had dropped and, like a prayer, they called out to her.

She tightened her lips, but the bobbing in her throat had grown severe, and it only took one especially powerful lurch before she lost the battle, and allowed her sobs free rein. At least this place was deserted. No one could see her. It was all right, just for a little while, she supposed. To weaken.

Mary's pain was not new. Of course, Lilith had known that. Of course, it had not begun with the trauma of what that hellish girl had done to her, nor with the terrors emblazoned upon her by her time in Damnation. Nor even with her appalling death.

Her pain had not begun with Lilith's cruelty. It had lived within Mary, skulked in the shade of her heart, for longer than the woman had even lived. Her pain was ancient. And all too familiar.

All right. I admit it: to look at you... is to look at myself. Just as, I suppose, you see yourself in me. And if I could only save you — in the way that absolutely no one attempted to save me, and even now never has — then I would have at least been able to rescue that unspoiled reflection of who I once was.

But she was in no position to do that. With every minute she was unaccountable, there was the risk that he would raise an arrogant eyebrow and inquire upon her whereabouts. If she were needed, she must appear. Even with her insurance, there were any number of punishments he could safely inflict. And should she spend too long in Mary's presence, then she too...

Her chest heaved as the vivid prediction came true before her mind's eye, and a wretched sound escaped her throat.

She could not risk it. She simply could not.

Not this one.

Not this last part.

Not the last part that still remained.

Pure.

The sleepy prayer continued to summon her. 'Home', it told her. 'Come back home.'

"It's too late for that."

She felt Mary slip unconscious, yet the call continued into dreams.

'Please come home.'

She waved a trembling hand at the air, attempting to push it back, but to no avail.

"All right," her choked voice whispered into the staid room. "You win," she told the bookshelves and framed art prints. "I'll indulge us both. Just a little bit longer."

Chapter Text

The emotional weight of the previous evening having submerged Mary beneath many leagues of sleep, unaware of how her dreams had continued to call out to Lilith, it was with slow, reluctant strokes that she surfaced, stirred by a change in the physical composition of the room. As she became just a little more awake, she shaped that feeling into the sensation of a dip in the bed, behind where she lay on her side.

Without needing to move her body, Mary's spirit knew that she was back. And the familiar scent of her — muskier than when they had last stood close together — brought a smile to the still-sleepy muscles of Mary's face. Not only was she enormously relieved that Lilith had overcome whatever internal conflicts had caused her to flee, but deeply touched that she would seek out a place beside her on returning, where she could just as easily have waited by the fireplace for Mary to rise.

The rosy warmth of these feelings having wrapped her up so entirely, it was only after some time that she became aware of the exact nature of Lilith's weight, how her body did not keep a consistent gravity upon the bed. Carefully, so as not to rouse the woman, Mary rolled over, to find Lilith curled up her side, facing away; once again wrapped in her emerald robe, her knees were drawn up to her chest... and she was trembling. Quaking, in fact. And though Mary gently whispered her name, it seemed to have no effect at all on that body's distress. Growing more alarmed with each passing moment, Mary reached a cautious hand and placed it on Lilith's newly-exposed shoulderblade.

No sooner had she touched flesh, than Lilith had come fully awake and leapt out of bed, spun around with her hands raised protectively, perhaps in readiness to cast, her eyes wet, wide and wracked with visions that Mary could not see. Her lips were parted and she panted through a constricted throat.

Though far more violent than her own sudden breaks from tormented sleep, Lilith's reaction was fully recognizable, and Mary held up a palm, trying to speak as soothingly as possible. “Lilith, it's all right! It's me, Mary Wardwell. You're in my cottage. I think you were having a nightmare, but... it's all right now. You're fine.”

The wildness in Lilith's eyes, that of a cornered beast, flashed with distrust, but quickly understanding dawned and she lowered her hands, her face beginning to crumble before she could turn away. After a while, her words came hoarsely:

“I'm sorry. You're right. It was just a dream.”

Lilith's voice, much as she aimed for her usual assured tone, was shot through with aftershocks, and Mary's heart grew tight with concern. “Believe me, I understand. Try to focus on being here, don't let yourself get trapped in your head. Maybe you could... come sit here with me?”

Lilith had become a statue, silhouetted against the curtain as sunrise dimly threatened. Anxiety clawing at her insistently, Mary swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Stop,” Lilith commanded. “Stay over there. Please.”

Struck by the tone of the entreaty, Mary obeyed, and watched as Lilith lifted her arms to hug herself, smoothed back the hair which had been bedraggled by fretful tossing and turning.

“It's all right,” Mary repeated, hoping the words would eventually make an impact. “You're safe.”

That brought a choked laugh from Lilith. “Safe,” she murmured, as though tasting venom in her mouth. “Wouldn't that be nice.”

Although it was very much not in her nature to court trouble — even more so, these days — an urge which rang out like a great bell from within Mary's breast forced her forward, and her legs seemed powerless to resist.

Lilith turned to glance angrily over her left shoulder, her arms once again tightly folded, making her chest narrow. “Have your ears suddenly stopped working? Don't you dare take another step.”

The viciousness in Lilith's tone only encouraged Mary's forward motion, drawn by an innate need to comfort. She lifted a hand to once more rest upon Lilith's shoulder, when, without turning fully, Lilith grabbed her wrist with a grip like iron. Mary gasped, at both the shock and pain of it.

“What did I just say?” came the seething voice. Head bowed, Lilith shoved Mary backwards, so that she had to stumble to stay upright.

She rubbed at her wrist, with a concerted effort keeping her instinctual fear at bay, though it pooled in all of her muscles at once. She stared at Lilith's outline, as the witch whispered quick incantations; they were stuttering however, and she had to keep starting over, growing more and more frustrated.

Though her body fought her on every step, Mary gave Lilith a wide berth as she circled her, stood between the window and the witch. And it was a frantic heartbeat too late that Lilith reacted, raised an arm to cover her face and throat.

Mary's lungs seized, and she forced a cough to breathe again. “Lilith, what happened? How did you, did that happen?”

Unable to conceal her bruises, Lilith looked up from beneath grave brows. “Well. It seems I've failed to retain even the smallest scrap of dignity. Wonderful.”

“Who did this to you? Where did you go, while I was sleeping?”

Lilith snorted, her shoulders slumping. “Who? I really shouldn't need to tell you that. Who else could? But I apologise, I really... sincerely... had not expected to lose spell focus this badly. On such a trifling sliver of glamour too. I suppose my subconscious truly has seen better days.”

Mary frowned, processing the words. “You've been hiding this from me?”

Lilith waved away her concern. “In an attempt to avoid this very sort of upset. Believe me, Mary, this is nothing. Give me a few minutes to gather my wits once more, and I'll put it all out of sight and out of mind.”

As Lilith turned away, Mary rounded on her again, riding high on adrenaline and unwilling to be dismissed. “Lilith, please, tell me what happened to you.”

Lilith paused, sighed with her profile angled at the carpet, and her voice was far darker than any shadow in the room. “It happened here, in this house. He charged in and found me hiding. Cowering like an animal.”

Mary's hand was over her heart. “When?”

“Why, just a few days ago.”

Mary fought with her memory, full of dread. “I don't remember. Was I here?”

“You were. He tricked you to gain an invitation. As is his way.” Lilith took a deep breath, her expression softening as she looked back at Mary. “Do we have to do this? I'm just...” she put splayed fingers across her face, pressed the places around her eyes. “I'm just so... very... tired.”

Mary's hunger for the truth grew weak, as she saw the toll it was taking on Lilith. It wasn't important. Not now. Whatever had happened, it was over. They were both alive, and they were together.

“No,” she said, stepping closer and taking Lilith's free hand in hers. “It's all right, I don't need to know.” Even after all the time which had passed since her frenzied awakening, Mary could feel an unceasing tremble in the First Witch's body, and knew how embarrassing it had to be for someone as proud as Lilith.

This is why you choose not to sleep, isn't it?

I would too, if I had the option.

But... how weary does it leave you? Every moment of your life?

“Would you like some tea? I'd normally brew at this hour anyway. It'll be time for me to get ready for work soon.”

Lilith seemed as though she might refuse, but then a little bit more of the tension left her body, and she exhaled into a nod of assent. Mary squeezed her hand, deeply relieved. “Good. Thank you. I'll just need, um, could you give me a moment? I'll join you shortly.”

Lilith nodded again. “Certainly. I'll put it on in the meantime.” The tightness of her lips showed how very much Lilith hated being seen this way, and letting her go ahead to the kitchen seemed to Mary to be a boon of kindness to both of them.

Nightmares. She could more than sympathise. But the furious way Lilith had leapt up, confused and feral... what could have assailed her in her sleep? What could so rattle a powerful and ancient witch?

Well, thought Mary, resting her face in her hands as she sat on the edge of her bed, perhaps after more than five thousand years of struggles and torment, the sort of terror that plagues your unbridled mind... is not something mortals can comprehend.

Chapter Text

After Mary had pulled on her gown, and sat at her dresser with her broad, flat hairbrush, trying to get her hair tied back as quickly as possible, a slow rhythm began to pitter and patter from outside the window.

“Rain,” she whispered at her drawn reflection, blurry in the dim light and her equally dim eyesight. How unexpected. It had been so clear but a few hours ago, when she stood beneath the starry sky at Lilith's side.

This far out from the town, mornings were normally so very quiet. She would wake up just before the birds did, and hope to have her tea poured before they began to sing. There would be no birdsong now, though, as the hard little drops slapped upon the flowerbeds, the white noise growing in treble.

The weather never could make up its mind around here. She had been taught early on that she should always travel with an overcoat, no matter how nice the weather seemed, should always wear a short-sleeve beneath, lest the humidity climb out of nowhere, should always leave a scarf and heavier coat in her office, should the winds come from all corners of the earth at once and the skies tear open in an attempt to wash away the secrets of this quiet little town. To expose the bared soil of their lives to the sky.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then reached for her glasses and brought her tired face into sharp relief, staring back at her scoldingly. Telling her how little sleep she had gotten.

Believe me, I know. But she needs me. Sleep can wait.

Though for how long, she could not say.

When she reached the kitchen — where the door was only open as much as a woman of Mary's size and shape would need to slip through — she found the sombre figure of Lilith sitting at the table, unilluminated by the harsh electric lights which would have been the room's only option.

She paused in the doorway, listening to the rain and waiting to be acknowledged before she could enter her own kitchen.

“I made the tea,” said Lilith eventually, emotionlessly.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, hearing how timid she sounded and not appreciating it. “Lilith...”

She waited for the woman to look at her, and when she did, Mary saw on that neutral face that Lilith had not, after all, cast any magic over her bruising. Or, at least, had not succeeded in it. And the subdued colour in Lilith's eyes showed that her dreams yet haunted her, continued to exhaust her even once they had been thrown off. Like a crushing pile of rugs, all drenched right through.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“You already said that. Please, it's only tea.”

Mary shook her head, and quickly discovered what a bad idea that had been, steadied herself on the doorframe. “No, I mean, thank you, for... for coming back.”

A brief, tight smile. “Oh. Well. I could hardly stay away, could I? Your mind was crying out to me so plaintively, it would have been positively maddening to ignore.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't know.” She remembered thinking things, and not being able to stop thinking things. But she had never expected that Lilith would hear them, especially from so far away. “Um... where did you go?”

Lilith gave her another one of those forced little smiles, and Mary wondered who they were really for. “Come. Sit down and have your tea.”

Mary looked above her at the wall-clock: 4h42. When had she eventually fallen asleep? Half-past two? Three o'clock? It would be another forty-five minutes before her alarm would go off. The sound of the rain was coming from the wrong side of slumber.

She made it to the seat and sat down too hard upon it, felt the impact on her coccyx and frowned into the linoleum.

“Careful,” said Lilith, with feigned disinterest.

“Sorry. I'm still a bit sleepy.”

“You really shouldn't be awake.”

“It's all right. Like I told you, I have to get ready for work soon. It'll be okay once I've had some tea and showered, the hot water will certainly wake me up.” So saying, she raised her tea-cup and sipped performatively. It was tepid.

Lilith didn't bother disagreeing with her, which Mary found very telling.

Rather than asking again where she had disappeared to when she had merged with the shadows and fled, Mary turned her attention to the window, indicating with her whole body so that Lilith would join her focus. “Do you like the rain?”

“I do.” Though she may have imagined it, Mary felt that she could hear some small relief in those words. “It has the power to drown out so much.”

“Noise. Thoughts.”

“Yes. And...”

Mary fought against her urge to turn back, compelled her eyes to remain upon the grey glass, upon the wet, grey morning. She listened intently to the rain and only the rain. It was picking up.

At length, Lilith's low voice came: “What is this?”

Because she had to, Mary turned around, and saw that Lilith was holding a little glass pot, the lid of which wore a fabric frill, held on by an elastic band.

“Oh. Ms Spellman left that here, earlier tonight. Actually, she said it was for you.”

Lilith pursed her lips, looked through the glass base at the contents. “I see. How very humane of her.”

“I'm sorry?”

Lilith set down the pot, tapped it with two fingertips, then gestured them across her marred face.

“She knew?”

“She did.”

“Oh.” Mary wasn't sure how to feel about that. Jealousy and disappointment didn't seem very logical options, though. Nor useful ones. So she settled for persistent melancholy. “It's magic?”

Lilith's smile this time was a little more natural, more indulgent. “Nominally, I expect. She's a potion-maker. A brewer of tonics. And as someone who pours their heart into their ministrations, I'd say it's unavoidable that some element of her craft would make it into the bottle.”

She was becoming more wordy, which gave Mary hope; the more winding Lilith's sentences, the more like herself she was feeling, as far as Mary could deduce.

“Then, shouldn't you put it on? I mean, that is,” she stumbled, worried that she had sounded too eager for Lilith to cover up the marks, as if she were offended to see them, “if you want to. If it will make you feel better.”

Lilith lifted the tea to her lips, took her time before placing it back down and answering. “As you wish.”

“Oh, no, I... I only meant—“

But she was cut off by Lilith's stern gaze, which immediately thawed and condensed.

“I know what you meant. Really.“

Condensed and fell, like the rain.

Though clouds were gathering in Mary's mind, they parted where Lilith's hand landed upon hers, turned it over to place the pot of liniment in her palm. Lilith closed her fingers for her, left her own red-accented ones there, just a few heartbeats more.

“Finish your tea. I'll need to take off my war-paint first if I'm to apply that with any sort of efficacy.” She stood, her ancient blue eyes connecting with Mary's as though they stood on opposite ends of a wind tunnel, kept that connection all the way to the kitchen door, before breaking off, her thick mane the last thing Mary saw between long, exhausted blinks.

Pitter patter. Pitter patter.

Chapter Text

The make-up remover was exactly where Lilith had left it, although that made sense, as it was where Mary had kept it in the first place: in the cupboard, under the sink, the only place the economy-sized bottle of store-brand product would fit. It was close to empty now, given Lilith's cosmetic proclivities, but would have probably lasted Mary a full year at the very least.

She moistened the first cotton pad and closed her left eye, held it against her lashes until she felt the false ones begin to shift. Carefully she peeled off the extravagant piece and wiped away the remaining bits of glue. Already her eye seemed smaller. And at the same time, the scope of her vision had broadened.

As she had taken to doing — first for a laugh and then by habit — she focussed her efforts entirely on the left side of her face, first cleaning the mascara off her lower lashes, then her eyeshadow, then removing the fill from her eyebrow.

And now, as it always did, one half of Mary Wardwell's face stared back at her. It was always there, waiting. Just skin-deep. Just barely beneath the masquerade. To remind her that she could never be as real as that face. As honest.

It never used to bother her, wearing a dead woman's face. After all, someone may as well wear it. Mary no longer needed it, and it would be a shame to waste such a remarkable face. And she had done so much more with it than its original owner, had she not? She had used it to express her emotions to a truly theatrical degree, enjoying its elasticity, the way the brows seemed to always be alert and intrigued, the way the eyes caught and held the attention of every body in the room with their size and bewitching blue, the way the thin lips smirked just right to convey some secret enjoyment, beyond the ken of others; she used it to climb the ladder of authority, its dignity making her seem noble and deserving of leadership, severe and competent; she used it to charm, to ensnare, to put a pig on the spit.

But those victories, they were not her own, really, were they? How much Mary's face had inspired her to be bold, to stride through this little town as though nothing could stand in her way, of that she could never be certain. Yet somehow, after millennia of moving from that first pristine visage, to a variety of rapidly shifting attempts at an identity, to her eventual degeneration into a creature whose ghastly countenance earned the distaste of Lucifer himself (though he insisted it appropriate for her), finally, this seemed to be the face she had always been meant to wear.

And yet, it was too late; Mary Wardwell had gotten there first. By the lottery of mere human DNA, and the experiences of her fifty odd years.

How ironic to be the first woman to ever exist, and still be too late. And how churlish of her, to refuse to accept that and claim it for herself regardless.

Of course, Lucifer had bidden her find a fitting disguise for his grand plan, that part was outside of her control. And the convenience of this one — close to Sabrina in schedule and relationship, living far from prying eyes, solitary and unremarkable by the standards of society — could not have been denied. He had applauded her choice: it was very wise and fiendish of her, to have made such a sharp set of deductions and acted on her plan so efficiently.

But none of that detracted from the covetous feelings which had stirred within her, when she had first observed the woman, through the windows of her classroom: she had been collecting up her folders with quiet self-possession, knitting her brows to no one at all as thoughts ran through her mind, complicated pathways which drew connections far beyond the expectations of her post; Lilith had been able to mentally skirt some of those thoughts, when she focussed enough, and just that vague impression had piqued her interest. And then, as though sensing her presence, that angular profile had lifted and searched the freshly-vacated windows, unaware she was being stalked by the Dawn of Doom herself.

Lilith blinked away the glue residue upon her right lashes, and set about denuding that eye as well. She had barely finished removing the eyebrow pencil, her hand reaching for a new pad to wipe the berry stain from her lips, when a muffled sound of dismay came from the doorway. She shifted her eyes in the mirror, without turning, and found Mary staring back at her.

Or rather, at herself.

And Lilith realised that this had never happened before. Of course, considering the brief time in which they had known each other, it was not surprising for that to be the case, and given that Lilith had stripped away her mask hundreds of times, the experience of seeing double was largely insignificant.

But for Mary?

Examining the woman's deer-like alarm, the way her lower lip hung loose, corners drawn back, exposing her teeth... there was no mistaking that she was appalled. And indeed, afraid. Because this was something new she was seeing. Something old.

Lilith attempted to play it down. “I'll just be a little while longer. With a look as detailed as mine, well, these things take time to wash away.”

Mary's mouth opened and closed, and it seemed to Lilith that she had yet to blink. She spoke again, hoping the sound of her voice, the difference in their cadence, would break the hypnosis.

“Maybe you should sit down, Mary. It's quite clear you're in no state to be vertical.”

Obediently, Mary slid down into a crouch, yet bent back her neck so as to not lose sight of the source of her distress.

Lilith sighed, made quick work of her foundation, then washed off her face and took the moisturiser out of the mirrored cabinet, in doing so shifting her reflection away from the both of them. Which was enough to free Mary's senses.

“I'm... I'm s-sorry, I just, I didn't expect, um,” in her habitual dread of being impolite, her words spilled out frenetically, “it's not that I shouldn't have known, of course, I'm being awfully silly, only you've always worn so much make-up and, and, well I'm not criticizing, I know you said it was armour, and I, I don't, I don't mean to be rude about that, it's absolutely your choice, um, only I really wasn't prepared to see it and—”

“Hush now!” Lilith made her voice as commanding as she could, risked the edge of cruelty, in order to cut the woman off before she inevitably ran out of oxygen and passed out, something Lilith very much doubted either of them wanted to deal with.

As hoped, Mary pushed her lips together, clamped her hands over them as an extra show of submission. Lilith could only imagine how much worse it felt, seeing her own naked face admonish her in such an uncharacteristic tone.

“Thank you,” she said, immediately more gentle. “Please. Try to calm down.” It was good advice to herself as well, being as guilt was steadily climbing up her throat, shame close behind, with self-loathing patiently waiting for its turn.

“I'm sorry.” Mary's voice was but a whisper.

“You don't need to be. You know that, don't you? This,” she flourished her fingers before her face, “isn't mine to wear. It's yours. And...” she knew what she was about to say, and a ball of lead formed in her chest, “I really shouldn't be wearing it anymore, it's... obscene of me. To do so when you're alive and well. To have... done so at all.” The ball was growing bigger, making her fear that she might soon be dragged forward and down.

“What?”

“My face. I should change it back to... something else. Some...one else.” Options flashed through her mind, each less desirable than the last. Even if she could shift into any face that she wanted for a temporary disguise, using a complicated glamour which came easy to her after all this time, and even if she could perform the trick of 'tearing off' Mary's face to terrify a victim with some tame, human-shaped version of her demonic appearance, casting off the look of Mary would mean changing her whole body, permanently, once more. She could not simply shift faces, that would look ridiculous. Better to become someone else entirely, than make a mockery of this... flesh suit.

“What, um, who would you look like instead?” Surprisingly, the idea seemed to dismay her.

“I don't know. I haven't decided. But I've worn many faces and it would not be difficult to go back to any one of them.” Except it would be difficult, and agonising, in ways entirely unrelated to transmogrification.

“Oh...” Mary looked away, set her eyes at the space above her knees, which were drawn up to her chest.

Lilith waited, to see whether anything further would be forthcoming, and when it wasn't, she took a moment to close her eyes and steady herself with a slow breath, before unscrewing the moisturiser and massaging it into her face. Slowly and methodically.

“Um... Lilith?” That cautious voice, she wondered what it could be seeking.

“Yes, Mary?”

“I don't think I want you to change it. My face.”

The assertion was jarring, but Lilith tried not to show it. “Oh no? And why not? It's clearly very upsetting for you, to see me like this.” There it was, right on schedule: the poison that liked to slip into her tone whenever she felt threatened, or even uncertain. But Mary gave no indication that it bothered her.

“It is, but... I don't want to feel that way. Because, well, the fact that you look like me, it's... as though we're connected.”

But we're not, Mary. I'm ageless and irrevocably inhuman. You're young and unsullied. And full of potential. You mustn't taint yourself by wanting a connection with me. Not when that connection is probably— no, undoubtedly, going to end in a worse death than I ever gave you. And possibly an eternity of suffering, just so that I can suffer alongside you, as punishment for grooming yet another foolish attachment.

Tell her. Say it. Don't let her live in ignorance of the dangers that await her.

“We mustn't be. We can't.”

“What? Why not?” She was shuffling to her feet, putting a hand to the doorframe for support.

“Because,” Lilith's chest constricted around the lead ball, which drained the strength from her words, “you deserve better.”

“Lilith...” She stepped forward, unsteady in her exhaustion, with an arm outstretched.

“Don't misunderstand me, your... affection has been appreciated.” Saying the word had cost her much of her poise, and she struggled to regain it, pulled herself more upright and set her stolen features proudly. “But I cannot allow it to continue. You'll be in no end of trouble if you keep chasing after me like a doting pup.”

Mary drew her hand back, dropped it to her side, and Lilith hated how hurt the woman's face had become.

Eyes averted, Mary folded her arms. “What sort of trouble?”

Lilith frowned, regret laid plain. “You know what sort. Don't you? In the end, there can be no freedom for me. Only survival. And in order for me to survive, I must have no attachments in this world or any other.”

She bit her lip, forcibly stopping her speech, before she could say more. Things like: 'If I risk caring for you, I risk the both of us. And that is already a given. I am weak and foolish to have stayed beside you so long, when I should have merely set you free, given you enough information to move on with your life, and then vanished. This was pure indulgence on my part, and I do not have the right to inflict my personal restrictions onto you.'

“That sounds... that's so wrong. Lilith, you're... you're wrong.”

Lilith's brows shot as far up her forehead as they could in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You're wrong that you... that you have to be alone all the time.” Though it still sounded somewhat timid, there was anger building in that weary voice. “Just in case something goes wrong, you have to be alone? You won't take the chance to, to finally have a, a—” she took a quick breath “—a friend? You won't allow somebody to stand by you? Lilith, I'm... I'm not a doting pup. I'm a woman with a mind of my own, and even if it doesn't seem like much, I believe I can be something of, of value in your life. I want to.“

Unable to hold back the desperation in her voice, Lilith turned on her with eyes gleaming: “Mary, you don't even know what I am! The world I live in! I can describe it to you, I can tell you stories, and paint in broad strokes what it means to be me, to be Lilith, but... I can't make you understand. And I don't want you to learn.”

She dropped her head, put a hand to her cheek and happened upon the scab which still lingered on the upper-most curve. She fought to reduce the heaving of her chest, wanting to avoid stirring any further pity if at all possible. Pity, after all, was yet another dangerous emotion.

“Maybe you're right, that I can't understand, but, um... maybe there's still a way? With all the magic that's in this world,” Mary's words came, recalled from just a few hours before, this time delivered with more optimism, “maybe we can find something? Together?”

Before Lilith could lift her face to react, she found that Mary had made her dizzied way over to her, and had taken the lid off Hilda Spellman's concoction. She kept very still, feeling absurdly nervous, as Mary dipped two fingers into the cream, swirled them around, then waited.

Together?

Her heart was threatening to tear open with the hope that strained against its boundaries. Her bright mirror self, so unexpectedly bold in her kindness, was reaching out with healing balm. And she wanted nothing more than to lean into it. Just as she had leaned into the gentle waiting hand of Mary Wardwell's Adam. But how cruel could she possibly be, to follow up one sacrifice to the Dark Lord with another, this one so inexplicably kindred?

If you do this, you're destroying us both. There is no other way this ends. There is no 'something' to find. No rainbow that ends in a miracle.

Mary's hand continued to wait, though it shook with the toll of wakefulness.

If you do this, then you truly are the monster you say you are. You prove once more that you are every bit the demon.

“Lilith?”

The First Witch took a deep, quavering breath, set her jaw so firm that it ached.

So be it. What's another head on the plate of my selfishness.

She lifted her face, moved forward just the few inches it took to feel Mary's fingers alight upon her skin. With the skill of someone eminently practised in the art, she kept her expression neutral, though the effort left her no room for speech.

With every careful stroke of liniment, she experienced the words, with every warming, human touch:

Mary... I'm going to miss you. I'm going to miss you for the next thousand years.

Chapter Text

When Lilith had finally relaxed forward and allowed the touch of Mary's waiting hand, the woman had experienced a surge of relief, as though a klaxon deafening the neighbourhood of her mind had suddenly fallen quiet. The feeling soaked into her muscles and she had to put extra effort into maintaining the stability of her arm, which threatened to fall limp and be followed in close succession by her chin and all the rest of her.

She felt more than saw the tension in Lilith's jaw, compelled to keep her eyes to herself where possible. Though she tried to shove it down, fright yet fluttered in her chest, at the experience of seeing her own unadorned face bristling back at her; Lilith used that face in ways which Mary did not believe she ever had, her expressions seeming at once both familiar and alien. Much as she had grown used to certain shared characteristics existing between them, her subconscious had still managed to retain a sense of their being separate, the animal part of her seeing kin rather than clone. No matter what her more nuanced logic tried to tell it.

It was that higher part of her brain which told her over and over that she had not been 'yelling' at Lilith, when she had put forward her offering of friendship and insisted it be acknowledged. But try as she might, her energy depleted more and more with each ebbing moment, she could not shrug off the feeling that she had been unreasonable. Lilith was unmistakably afraid, both for herself and Mary, and that fear had to be Hellish in origin. Yet even as Mary understood that, she had pushed aside Lilith's concerns, like a fool who had apparently forgotten the blood-chilling terrors which so regularly struck her down .

That infernal imprisonment had torn and shredded her soul, leaving her a craven shadow of the already timid person she had been. There was not a single atom of her being that did not bear the mark of that pain.

And so the wise thing would be to obey Lilith and go through what would surely be the far less torturous experience of their parting.

She could do that, just let it happen. And by splitting, improve each of their chances.

She could slip back into her mundane life with a few more secrets to enjoy, a special knowledge known to a privileged few. And leave Lilith to navigate the other-worldly terrors which she was infinitely more equipped to handle.

It all made sense. Any intelligent woman could see it. So why did it feel as though her chest was being criss-crossed with reams of red yarn, attempting to bind her life to Lilith's?

She had ever been what people generously called 'big-hearted', putting herself out for the welfare of others. But that had always felt somewhat passive, as though she were wandering into people's lives at just the right time to bandage a knee or offer a lesson gleaned from literature. She had never forced her opinions on anyone, would not have dreamt of it.

And yet here, confronted by the bruised mirror of her own time-worn face, she had pitted her will against Lilith's; and without understanding why, it seemed she had won out. Which felt like the victory of a bully. The feeling was ridiculous, of course, given that Lilith outweighed her on every conceivable level, from physical strength to metaphysical finesse. So what had she done to earn herself the acquiescent bow of Lilith's head and spirit?

Her limited wakefulness preoccupied with such thoughts, she eventually realised that she had fully shut her eyes and was operating on touch alone, as she skirted the tendons of the First Witch's neck. Forcing her eyes open so that she could properly apply the ointment where it belonged, she was bombarded by angry purple marks and felt herself brushing her own throat, acutely aware of how little resistance it would offer under pressure.

Had Lilith taken on this fragility when she had duplicated Mary's body, the magic exploring the depths of her every cell, or was the resemblance but skin-deep? Did Lilith also experience the infrequent heart tremors which doctors said were nothing to worry about? Would she too suffer shortness of breath after carrying stacks of research projects upstairs at a brisk gait? Did cold weather also make her knees cry out when she stood from kneeling?

No, more than likely Lilith had had the wisdom to iron out these unfortunate things. And from the feeling of the First Witch's skin beneath her fingertips, she was also somehow softer, smoother... more alive of complexion. As Mary traced the lines of that face, she marvelled at how her every imperfection, even that maligned tapestry of creases which had progressively formed under her eyes, looked somehow dignified and beautiful on Lilith.

But before she could further examine this perceptual dissonance, her trembling arm surrendered to gravity, helplessly brushing Lilith's collarbone on the way down. Her jaw felt just as slack as her reason as she attempted a murmured apology.

“You need to go to bed,” came Lilith's voice through deep molasses.

“But I have work,” she slurred, knowing how ridiculous her protestations sounded. But she had a responsibility to the school, and what with her lengthly period of re-acclimatisation, she did not want to waste another ounce of their patience.

“You'll die,” Lilith said so matter-of-factly that Mary's eyes startled alert, and she was met by a face both amused and concerned.

“What?”

“You'll drive your car off the road and die in a ditch. Trust me, my dear, I've seen what you're capable of behind the wheel.”

The mockery felt deserved, yet Mary continued to protest. “Just a shower... if I just... I'll just shower and...”

“I don't know what sort of enchanted waters you imagine running through the pipes of this house, but I assure you, they are quite insufficient for your needs. You would have to bathe in the fountains of Macrobia at a bare minimum.”

“What?” she asked again, her mind trying to grasp at the reference but feeling it pour through her fingers.

“Sleep,” Lilith insisted. “But... perhaps not here. Come.”

She stood and Mary tried to track her movements but found that her eyes wanted to do anything but focus. The now bleary shape of Lilith — a smear of jade fabric, pale skin and dark hair — hovered over her, then vanished out of sight. The next thing she knew, hands were upon her, taking firm hold beneath her arms and pulling her upright with preternatural strength. Her legs wobbled but she managed to steady them — though not her voice, as it turned out.

“Th-this isn't necessary, Lilith. I can... do it myself. Just wait. I'll...” Her glasses slipped from her face and she flailed in vain to catch them; there was no plastic clitter-clatter on the floor, though, and Mary knew that Lilith had caught them, probably in one graceful gesture. She could never picture her body having reflexes like that.

She sighed loudly in defeat. “All right, I'll stay home, but... I have to call the school.”

They were making their way across the hallway, Lilith doing most of the work. “I'll call them.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have your voice, don't I? They won't question anything.”

“But you... you don't use it like I do.”

Mary heard the indulgent chuckle. “I shall do my best to play the part. What would you say is a good choice of ailment? Chronic indigestion?”

“What?” Mary asked for the third time, wrapped in bewilderment as she was released upon the bed. “No, that's not—“

“I know. I'll be more convincing than that. I fooled them for months. Didn't I?”

Mary's mind ebbed and flowed, dimly registered a hint of something in Lilith's tone but was unable to translate it; the softness of the bed was draining the last of her resistance.

Just as she was beginning to drop off, Lilith's voice came from across the room, and this time Mary did properly note its troubled timbre.

“Mary, there's... something I need to tell you.” She paused. “But, later.”

Alarm sounded somewhere in the back of Mary's mind, though so smothered by exhaustion that it barely registered. “Tell... tell me now. What's....” she drifted down, “what do you...”

“Later. I promise.”

But you don't make promises, Mary objected, as the room melted and fell away.

Chapter Text

Lilith withdrew her hand from Mary's brow, as the last, drawn-out note of the hum faded from her breath. Slowly she stood, and for a while allowed her eyes to remain on the resting face, appreciating how beautifully soft an expression lay on those sharp features, when the anxieties of life were shut off and the terrors of dreams forbidden entry. Even though Mary had needed no aid to fall asleep, she could not have been assured of a full rest, given the state of her subconscious.

But Lilith could give her that assurance. And she would sleep until Lilith woke her.

As a safeguard, the spell would vanish in the event that some physical threat were to enter the room — an idea which made Lilith shudder, having herself dispatched all manner of minor demons against transgressive mortals, well aware that what Mary was doing (to wit, wilfully bestowing companionship upon the friendless Mother of Demons) was absolutely a transgression. Of course, given Mary's stubbornness in the matter, her demise, one way or another, was assured, and much as Lilith thought herself capable of coolly containing that knowledge, a brief glance down at her white-knuckled hands, clasped and unsteady, quickly dispelled the notion.

She pushed the tension from her limbs with a deep, controlled sequence of breaths:

Now now, it's no use getting yourself all worked up over the inevitable. If raging against immovable objects ever achieved anything, you would not be in this wretched situation.

She narrowed her eyes, spared her inner tormentor a curl of the lip.

You've had every opportunity to put distance between yourself and that very breakable mortal. So if you've committed to this path, you may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

The manner in which she might do so, might lose herself in the thrill of machinations for a little while, was brewing in her guileful mind, and it was only for a fleeting moment that she considered actually making the phone call to Baxter High, as Mary had trusted her to do, before inwardly laughing it off, managing to hold back an audible expression of mirth until she had the bedroom door firmly shut between them. Not that the noise of her sniggering would have woken Mary, but she had over time become very used to keeping her reactions private.

The clock on the mantel told her that there were a good two hours before classes would start, and at least an hour before the first staff members would likely arrive (indeed, she still recalled the order in which they would show up, and in what state they would enter the staffroom, from those who had children of their own to ready before they left home, to those who had just barely rolled out of bed and looked it). Plenty of time. And what a treat, to be alone once more in this cottage which had for a time been her home, and which for some reason had welcomed her all over again.

It was so quiet here. Apart from the sound of birds which had traded places with the rain, there was only the measured cadence of her own breath, and presently her bare footfalls on the wood flooring as she headed for the kitchen. Pandemonium, much as the name proclaimed, was an endless shout of a place; never still, never stable, always clawing for dominance or attention or the last scrap of offal. The demon she had evolved into could inhale the chaos of the place and become one with it, but the witch in her sat scowling at the imbalance of energies, the misuse of spirit.

And the human? The first woman? She could only find the darkest possible corner in that ancient psyche, cover her ears, fold her face into her knees, and hum. Hum unceasingly until she was little more than a vibration herself. Lilith did her best not to communicate with that part of herself, knew it would only make things harder.

But not here. In Mary's cottage, the little human inside of her could drop her hands and open her eyes, blinking into the stillness and feeling her heartbeat normalise. She could smell the furnishings made of earthy things, the wood, cotton and wool. Her feet need not fear the ground.

Lilith reached into a clay jar and pulled out a handful of tiny cookies, fetched a carton of sweet grape juice from the fridge, then pulled herself onto the counter, sat eating and sipping while staring out the window, across dewy fields, at the forest which wore a cloak of airy white. How pleasant it would be to throw off this robe and tread barefoot through the mists, taunting the tree spirits with her nudity, with her feigned vulnerability; how pleasant to feel the wet earth between her toes, breathe the rising scent of pine-needles and conifers. But there would be time enough for that; if not this century, then perhaps the next.

She finished her snack and moved to the bathroom, where she pinned up her hair and took a fresh towel from the top of the cupboard. Unlike Mary had on her last visit, she made sure to wear the black and purple showercap, feeling no desire to spend an hour in the living room blowing out and styling her hair. Under the hard jets, turned up hotter than most humans would have tolerated, her body steamed off its tension — apart from that which was permanently ingrained upon her muscles. She made liberal use of Mary's shower gel (moringa and honey) and her facewash, the latter against her better judgement:

Pomegranate scrub, double exfoliation? Mary. Your skin.

There was nothing for it, however. It was no good wearing Mary's face if she did not also wear her scent, as far as possible. Whatever the woman was currently layering over her own warm scent, Lilith would match it, fine-tuning their sensory similitude.

She had observed the distrust on the faces of the staff that first morning, when they had seen her sitting in the middle of the dim teachers' lounge (staff members who could have sworn that they had been the first to be let in by the custodian), tea in hand and calves tastefully bared. Even with the sweet words she uttered, which tasted vile on her tongue, their approach had been leery. But once they entered the circle of fragrance which surrounded her — the scent of trustworthy, peaceable, soft-spoken Mary Wardwell — their guard dropped immediately, their body language shifting into comfortable authority over her.

Watching it happen so predictably before her very eyes, it had been quite a challenge not to laugh; for all their supposed intellectual progress, humans were still, and would ever be, slaves to their senses. Yes, it was true that, between animals with natural camouflage and the subterfuge of their fellows, they had eventually learned to distrust their eyes, or at least be sceptical of them; likewise, after losing many of their numbers to canny mimics, they also grew wary of their ears.

But the sense of smell is most primal of all, that which signals safety to those whose eyes have yet to open (the scent of mother, of the burrow) or warns of predators, wildfires or spoiled food. Creatures who might shape a lie out of scent were rare and highly successful, and so it was, to Lilith, quite hilarious to find that humanity had, through socially enforced gender norms, given their women the very tools with which to become just that.

Stepping out of the shower, she elected instead to use Mary's towel, as a final touch of olfactory masquerade. Then she freed her hair and gently dabbed the towel across her hairline where water had crept in, before letting it fall loose and using her hands to massage it through with de-tangler and moisturiser. She had left the products on her initial departure from the cottage, as something of a helping hand, knowing that Mary would surely assume she herself had bought them at some point and keep using them. Or such had been the hope, but judging by the amount left in each container, that may not be the case. She would have to bring it up, if for nothing else than to reduce the woman's excessive awe at the health of Lilith's hair.

She gently applied serum to her face, patted the skin beneath her eyes with the lightest touch of her middle fingertip. She ran a finger across her thin lower lip, stared at herself once again past the fog of the mirror, and became momentarily lost in the meditation of touch. Although Hilda's cream had already made something of a difference to the marks on her face, she would nonetheless need to glamour them away once more, and so she did, feeling her passive spell focus slip into place just as sturdily as expected. All was right, once more, with this precious face. And she would do her best to keep it that way.

After breaking away from the mirror and reclaiming her robe, she made her light-footed passage back into the bedroom, moving silently not out of stealth but by nature. Mary had not changed position on the bed, nor were there any signs of dreaming upon her face, just the same serene mask Lilith had left behind.

She glanced at the alarm clock on her way to the solid oak wardrobe, noting that the hour was edging towards seven.

Plenty of time yet. And even if there were not, it did not suit her to rush for the sake of that school's petty timetable.

The Queen of Hell does not—

Well.

A Queen of Hell does not really need a title to retain her dignity, now does she?

She held up one of the dresses she had worn to 'work' in November: a violet and pine-green number, which she had been surprised to find in Mary's closet, amongst the dowdier items. By the lines and scent of it, the dress had not yet been worn, and she had wondered whether it had been a gift or an item bought in an optimistic mood and then seen as too nice to be wasted on daily drudgery. Although, truthfully, she had not given very much thought to Mary's motivations at the time; after all, despite her stalkings, Lilith had spent very little time communicating with her, and most of that time was spent on a high of murderous intent.

And, by necessity, scorn. She could not very well end the life of an innocent woman with her empathy in operation, could she? An innocent man, well... she had never really believed in those. But Mary? By all accounts, she led a generous, blameless life. And so Lilith had to rely on something other than vengeance to fuel her violence.

Pathetic, Lilith had made herself think. So intelligent, so capable of breaking through walls of logic, yet she lives in ignorance of the true world around her.

So blinded by her kindness that she would pick up a stray demon off the road, with nary a concern for her own safety.

So painfully childlike, to believe the best of a stranger when I have barely bothered to hide the hellishness in my eyes.

And so deserving of being replaced.

Lilith felt her chest clench and brought her hand to press against it, grimacing at the memory of her own forced contempt.

She had disposed of the body with practised efficiency, pretending that creating a blue pyre of the fallen woman brought her no discomfort whatsoever. And once the evidence was gone, it was very easy to focus on the looming task ahead: obtain the girl's signature, and thereby please the Dark Lord, and finally become his... bride.

Her lips twisted downward and she shook away the taste of the memories, of her own misguided loyalty. Then she returned the dress to its place; it would not suit the day anyway.

Instead she selected an outfit very similar to that which Mary had been wearing when Lilith had...

(she sighed hard, frustrated by how emotions insisted upon invading her tranquil morning)

...discovered her.

She focussed harder on the task at hand: undergarments. Stockings. Undershirt. Sweater. Skirt.

And, distasteful as it was, her ruse required that she wear that silver trinket which symbolised Mary's devotion to the False God. She fetched it from its case on the dresser, knowing it wouldn't burn her, yet feeling a prickle of discomfort on her fingers nonetheless once contact was made. As she lifted it to her neck, she realised that her heart had begun to race and her throat had gone dry:

What if he feels it, somehow? When I put it on. What if he feels it all the way from Hell and pounds through the realms to get to me? To strike me down. To remind me of my alignment. To remind me of whose I am...

Eyes shut, she bit down hard on her trembling lips, running out of patience for this fear.

He won't know, she told herself, as the chain settled across the skin of her neck.

He won't come, she proclaimed, as the cross hit the hollows of her chest.

Chapter Text

Her mood centred once more, with the aid of a brew of valerian root and dandelion (a personal blend which she had left in the back of Mary's tea closet, behind the Twinings and local tea shop leaves), Lilith sat on the couch, with the final necessary items she had collected from the bedroom beside her, at the top of which were Mary's glasses. She would not have to actually wear them, of course, they need only be somehow visible.

Seven forty-five, the mantel's clock told her. The staff would be wondering what was keeping precise Mary Wardwell — though, having now properly met her, Lilith did wonder how accurate her assumption of the woman's time-keeping skills could have been; it now seemed quite likely that Mary might slide raggedly into the staffroom with bare moments to spare before the meeting closed and she was marked absent.

In which case, once again, there was still plenty of time. And she was more or less ready, had even taken the time to apply a flawless imitation of Mary's flawed make-up stylings.

And so she waited, staring into the distance as the minutes ticked away, rehearsing the sort of things she might say, when it came to it.

Ten to eight.

Five to eight.

Her eyes followed the second hand around the dial a few times more, and then the phone began to ring. She did not stir, knowing that Mary would hear none of it.

Let them believe Mary was in her car, stuck behind some fallen log or with a tyre sunk in a hidden pothole.

She picked up the handful of items, checked that they were all as they should be.

Eight o'clock.

They would have sent someone to let the students into Mary's classroom now, for register — probably Mrs Curtis, the librarian, since the school seemed to regard any free time of hers as being theirs to utilise.

Well. Now is as good a time as any.

Casting a quick, unnecessary glance at the bedroom door, she knelt down on the rug, in front of the couch. Carefully, she placed Mary's glasses a few feet away, on the ground but protected from mishap by the leg of a side table.

Then she took one of the ropes, looped it around her legs and fastened it skilfully at the knees.

Next, the scarf, which she rolled up and tied loosely around her neck, smearing her lipstick against it in the process.

Finally, she lay down onto her side, facing away from the door, and used telekinesis to firmly bind her hands.

A grin of puckish anticipation spread across her face, creases of mirth surrounding her eyes as she mussed her hair against the rug.

If the girl did not come, well, then her Aunt Hilda would have told her of her meeting with Lilith, would have scolded her and perhaps more (though it was unlikely to result in any actual punishment, considering previous outcomes). The girl would therefore assume her teacher had merely been held up for the usual human reasons. In which case, Lilith would head to school after all, and spend the day herding the lives of mortal children in whichever ways most amused her. And if necessary, remind the staff and student body that Mary Wardwell was not to be trifled with, no matter how innocuous she might appear.

And if Hilda had said nothing? Then it was quite possible she never intended to, if only to hide her part in the events of the previous night. After all, how would she explain aiding the woman who had shot her sister, in apparent 'cold blood', to the volatile Zelda Spellman? Aiding her magically, no less, to ward away attackers from her door, amongst whom a vengeful Directrix would most definitely be counted.

For all that she appeared the very picture of softness and honesty, Lilith knew that Hilda was capable of extreme measures when crossed, and knew also that she had lied to her entire family about Sabrina's Christian Baptism — the very thing which had allowed the girl to continue living in two worlds. If she could hold up that sort of lie for sixteen years, something which cut to the very core of their household's belief system, then concealing the previous night's erratic activity would trouble her conscience not a whit.

And so now... we wait.

Barely five minutes had passed when Lilith felt the rush of energy swirl into solidity on the other side of the front door, answering at least one question and stoking her anticipation of mischief. There had always been the possibility that the girl could have been occupied in Hell, rather than shirking her responsibilities in the intellectual wasteland of a mortal classroom, and that it would take her pack of chums to alert her to the situation. But the timing very much suggested that it had not been the case.

Ever since she had positioned herself on the ground, she had been steadily slowing her heartbeat, meditating the feel of it away, and reducing her lung activity to almost nothing. She wouldn't be able to do anything physically potent in this state, but that was rather the point. It would take a professional to read her vitals now, which, on so very many levels, her unwelcome guest was not.

When the knocking started, first polite and then quickly growing frantic, Lilith wondered briefly whether the house would bar the girl's entry; the magic of wards was a tricky thing, all based on an interpretation of energies, on the intention of the prospective visitor. Even a demon might be offered entry, if their heart was in the right place, while an angel with a thirst for carnage would, ideally, not.

“Ms Wardwell?” The young voice came muffled through the door, then moved to the windows, where the curtains were still drawn, despite the hour. “Ms Wardwell, it's Sabrina Spellman, are you home?”

A twitch of a smile crossed Lilith's face, and she knew she would have to contain herself better than that, even with her back to the doorway.

After there was no response from the home's owner, the girl took the bold step of trying the door, and found it unlocked — just as Lilith had left it.

Just as Sabrina had left it.

“Ms Wardwell?” she called as she stepped inside, and then Lilith heard the gasp, felt the panicked footfalls upon the floorboards as the girl rushed forward.

There were fingers upon her shoulder, first gentle then tighter, as Sabrina attempted to rouse her. Lilith made certain to let her mouth slip open as she was turned, her jaw as limp as the rest of her.

“Oh no no no no, Ms Wardwell, come on, wake up, it's Sabrina... Ms Wardwell!”

She was being shaken, the girl's trembling hands gripping hard in desperation.

This must be so stressful for you, Sabrina.

What an unforeseen result of your actions.

Consequences can be so very inconvenient.

Can't they?

The girl was muttering a spell then, a jumbled recollection of various healing magicks where she had remembered a head from one, a tail from the other, and was making up the parts in between. At one point, Lilith felt a warm glow begin to bloom in her cells, but it was gone in no time, as the rhyme fell flat and the force fizzled out.

Honestly. Did they teach you nothing at the Academy? Pick an incantation and stick with it.

It was to be expected, however: Sabrina was panicking, and her magic panicked with her. When this was all over, one of these acursèd days, Lilith would have to take the de jure queen aside and educate her on the proper use of the Earth's healing properties. After all, the girl would need to actually know how to control her powers, for all of their sakes. The prophecy of the Dark Lord's Sword had given her healing powers beyond any living witch — celestial in origin — but they had been transitory, and Lilith's kiss had returned only that power which was rightfully hers, unaugmented.

Then she felt herself released and let gravity place her where it pleased. Stepping away, Sabrina had started reciting another spell, her voice constantly threatened by sobs. Another healing spell? No...

“...qui vocat... Lamia!”

Lamia?

Is she trying to summon... me?

The question soon answered itself as, bereft and hopeless, Sabrina fell to the floor: “Qui vocat Lilith!” Her voice cracked: “Obsecro Lilith!”

You beg of me?

Well. Isn't that flattering.

“All right, Sabrina, no need to shout,” she said nonchalantly, rolling over to regard the quaking, wide-eyed girl with raised brows.

Sabrina leapt back, her mind rushing through explanations. “Ms Wardwell, I... I healed you?”

Lilith angled her head disapprovingly, dropped her voice for clarity: “Try again.”

“Lilith?” Her eyes grew furious, while her body still shook. “Lilith! What are you doing here? Why are you... why are you dressed like Ms Wardwell? What the Heaven are you... how...” her voice betrayed the mixture of emotions, from confusion to relief to rage. “How could you do this!”

Lilith snorted, sat up straight and pulled her hair loose from its bindings, merely for the sake of drama, and shook it out. “My dear, I can't imagine what you're talking about. Unless... no. You can't have had anything to do with what befell poor, abandoned Mary Wardwell, could you? No. That would be unconscionable. Though it does beg the question of why you surged here with the speed of Arion.”

Sabrina clamped down on her lips, dark eyes fuming but beginning to consider her words more carefully.

“What do you know about Ms Wardwell?”

Lilith stood, her bindings cast off, brushing imagined dirt from her arms and front. “Well, I was stopping by, you see. Many of my possessions still remain here, as a sort of security measure, against the pilfering paws of the infernal court. And who should I find, I wonder...” she feigned her past surprise. “Lying here, all trussed up and unconscious. Looking quite alarmingly dead.”

Playing with the tone of her words, the rhythmic use of cadence to manipulate a heart, it was not only second nature, but also easily done when she had spent so long reading Sabrina's smallest reactions to the world around her. Lilith had been compiling the Sabrina Songbook for months, and now she was singing from it.

“Dead? But, she--”

“Sabrina. Do you perhaps know why I might have found your dear teacher in such a state?”

The girl paused then straightened up with renewed control, evidently deciding that there was nothing to lose by conveying some information.

“She... she shot my Aunt Zelda. She came to our house with a gun, and I don't know why, but... she shot her.”

Lilith raised a single brow. “My, my. That is shocking behaviour for someone of her reputation. Whatever could have driven her to such a thing?”

“I don't know, but she called Aunt Zelda a witch, so she obviously found out somehow, and couldn't handle the information. So I just...”

Lilith folded her arms, spoke airily. “Just what?”

“I wiped her memory. So she wouldn't know about witches anymore.”

“Did you. But, Sabrina, if you don't know how she came upon the knowledge of your family's pedigree, then what would stop her from learning it all over again, and the pattern repeating itself?”

The girl faltered. “Well, I don't know, but I guess, I mean, now that the Pagans are gone, we'll have more time. We could find out, and then make sure that it doesn't happen again.”

“And you'll wipe her memory as many times as it takes?” She gave a sympathetic look. “Sabrina. You must know what happens to mortals whose minds endure too much surgical sorcery, don't you?” Sabrina's face revealed that she did not, and Lilith gave a gentle noise of concern. “They break. Sabrina. They crumble like stale bread.”

The shock registering on the girl's face as she surely remembered all the times she had lackadaisically used magic upon her mortal friends, it was almost comical, and Lilith's lips could not help but react, just a touch. But before Sabrina could say more, she gave a theatrical shrug and wave of the hand:

“Not that it matters now, does it? You made certain of that, by leaving her tied up and far away from the aid of her folk. A truly devilish solution to the problem, I'm sure your father will be very proud. Though I must admit a certain level of surprise that your sanctimonious aunts were on board with the plan. Oh,” she reacted to Sabrina's expression, “do they perhaps not know? Well. Again, your father would commend you. The keeping of secrets, especially from those closest to you, and especially in matters of life and death... truly, you are proving yourself a worthy Queen of Hell.” She made an insincere half-curtsy.

“Lilith, listen... you've got to bring her back.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Please, you... we can't let this happen, it was an accident, and--”

“I'm glad you're remembering to use the pluralis majestatis, my young queen. But I'm afraid this isn't within my purview to achieve.”

“But... you brought her back before.”

Chuckles came from Lilith's demurely-painted lips at that. “I did, didn't I? But then, that was a death wrought by me, upon her, thus putting her soul in my hands. To do with as I wish. But a natural death by dehydration or perhaps shock? It is not my place to interfere in such matters.”

“But you have to! She wasn't supposed to die, we have to get her back!”

With Sabrina's emotions piquing, Lilith realised that she had enjoyed the game to its fullest, and that fielding further questions would only become more effort than play. And so she let her face fall open in derision. “Relax. She's just fine. But let that be a lesson to you: even you, Sabrina, cannot wish away consequences. If you're to be a queen, you must respect the boundaries of life and death. You can not expect to toy with them for your own benefit.”

The information was slowly registering. “Wait, she's not dead? You lied to me?”

Lilith shrugged, spreading her arms to convey her disinterest in denying it.

Sabrina's dark brows furrowed, her eyes flashing white. “You lied to me! Where is she, Lilith? What did you do with Ms Wardwell?”

“I put her somewhere. Unconscious. She won't know any of this happened. So you're welcome to start thanking me at any time.”

“Thanking you! I'll...” the girl's eyes were burning, and Lilith couldn't help but see her father in the expression, couldn't help but feel her heart miss a beat with the familiarity of that rage. “Lilith, I'll...”

“You'll what, Sabrina? Punish me?” she laid a hand over her uterus. “I don't think that would be the best idea, do you?”

Sabrina's hands were twitching, itching to cast, but with a loud sigh she stuffed them in her pockets. “Fine. I won't tell him what you did... if you won't tell my aunties what I did.”

“I'm not certain that's a very balanced agreement, your Majesty. I suspect you fear the wrath of your aunts far more than I do the sort of scolding your father could administer to me, given my insurance.”

Which was, of course, the flimsiest lie she had told all night; if anyone could be called an artiste of cruelty, able to deliver the keenest brutality, the most rare and distilled forms of pain, while leaving not a blemish on the recipient's organs, it was Lucifer. But if Sabrina had the tiniest understanding of that, she would not have neglected to tell Lilith of his escape and so casually dismissed her terror.

“Then what do you want?”

“Well, for a start, I'd like you to rush back to Baxter High, and tell them that your beloved teacher has developed a migraine so debilitating that she was unable to make the phone call to excuse herself. You'll tell them that you've helped her to her bed and made her tea, and that she'll be back to work bright and early tomorrow.”

Sabrina nodded, hopeful that this was all the agreement would involve. “All right, I can do that. And you'll just put her back here and make sure she doesn't remember anything?”

“Of course. On my honour as your faithful subject.” The thick layer of sarcasm in her voice seemed, as usual, entirely irrelevant to Sabrina; not that Lilith expected anything else. “Oh, but there's one more thing.”

“Okay, what's that?”

Lilith regarded her with a look of dark severity which even Sabrina could not fail to understand. “You are to never use your magic on her again. Not under any circumstances. Not if you feel that the world hangs in the balance, and the wrath of the False God threatens every witch in creation.”

Sabrina's lips tightened, and she attempted to match Lilith's gaze. Instead of agreeing, she came back with renewed contentiousness. “Why do you care about Ms Wardwell? It's not like she's any use to you.”

Any use? You couldn't possibly understand, you cold child. You burgeoning Morningstar.

“Perhaps not. But the woman is a symbol. Of your agreement to follow the rules, and keep the witch and mortal worlds separate.”

Sabrina was having none of her explanation, however. “I don't believe you. It's something else.” The girl examined Lilith's face, attempting to read her motives through her flesh. “Why would you want to protect Ms Wardwell... unless she's worth something to you. Unless this is somehow... personal.”

Even though Sabrina was standing still, Lilith had the distinct feeling of being circled, as if by a wolverine. Alarmingly, she was uncertain how to answer. And so she covered herself with a smirk and a laugh, biding her time with habitual derisiveness. “Personal? Please.”

“No, it is personal. Lilith, you... do you care about Ms Wardwell?"

“Care? Come now, Sabrina. She's a mortal. I will admit to being rather enchanted with her face, it was quite the acquisition on my part. So perhaps that is the 'personal' involvement to which you're referring.”

Sabrina had a smirk on her face too now, a pouting look steeped in youthful arrogance. “You like her, and you want to protect her. It's not just her face, you can stop lying to me, Lilith.”

The tone of those words, the familiarity... her heart was racing again, memories of its compelled stillness long gone. She hoped to the depths of her that that weakness was not visible anywhere on her features, or between the self-assured notes of her voice.

“Lying, Sabrina?”

She wished she were wearing her more powerful clothes, her more commanding make-up.

“Yes. Lilith.”

“Well. If it's so important to you, I suppose I could let you in on the truth.”

Sabrina's face shone with victory and she leaned back on a hip, folded her arms. “Good. So what is it?”

“I... need her.” Her blade-sharp mind flashed, happening upon her new lie. “For a ritual. But she has to remain pure of the magicks of others, you see. Because I killed her before and, as I said, gained her soul to do with as I pleased, and because we now share a physical form, she'll be a very potent focus for my needs.”

This seemed to satisfy the girl's desire for an answer. To a point. “What sort of ritual?”

Lilith feigned embarrassment, averted her eyes in what she knew from centuries of practice looked like submissive feminine shame. “I'd... rather not say. If you'll forgive me, it's... private. To do with my... age.”

Some pity leaked into Sabrina's expression, as she knew it would. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. But, this ritual, will it hurt her? Ms Wardwell?”

“No. I won't harm a hair on her head. She won't even know it's happening.”

Sabrina nodded. “All right. Lilith. I'll accept your terms.” The girl clearly saw herself as the most magnanimous soul in town at this moment, reaching forward her hand to shake.

Lilith took it, found it warmer than she would have expected — his hands were always so cold, even as he stood cloaked in flames. “And I yours. Henceforth, not a squeak of this sordid affair will be sent to your precious kin.” And should Hilda eventually let slip? Then she would have to find some other way to protect Mary. And prolong their time together as long as she possibly could.

“So I'll see Ms Wardwell at school tomorrow?”

“Just as I'll see you in Hell, for your recitations, at moonrise.”

“Right. Moonrise. In the...”

“The Infernal Library. Behind the Great Hall. Of the Court of Pandemonium.” Honestly. Was it really Mary Wardwell whose memory was under siege? Or had Sabrina simply no powers of retention where boys were not concerned?

“Right. The Library, got it. Moonrise.”

“Well then, Sabrina, I expect you'd better teleport yourself back to school now, hadn't you? Before your little friends grow suspicious.”

“Oh don't worry, Lilith, my friends trust me.” She raised her eyebrows, smirked once more. “Maybe you should try getting one sometime.”

“The only friend I need is my intellect, your Majesty. I'll leave the social frivolities to you.”

Sabrina shrugged, a vile look of sympathy crossing her features. “Have it your way. I'll, uh... see you later.”

And she was gone. Leaving Lilith to deal with the bloody lacerations which had been cut into her heart, each ugly slash perpetrated with the indifference of a butcher.

Chapter Text

As though a switch had been flipped, Mary found herself awake, suddenly but, she realised, not at the behest of violent dreams; in fact, it would seem that she had not dreamt at all. Which was hard to believe, until she saw the indistinct figure at the foot of her bed and remembered what that person was able to achieve. She smiled, touched at the kindness of that empty sleep.

“Good morning,” she said, with the knowledge that it was unlikely to still be such. She reached over to the side table for her glasses, then blinked Lilith's shape into clarity.

“I trust you slept well?” Lilith asked with a tilt of her head, and Mary noticed that the woman's make-up had been re-applied — both mundane and magical — and felt a tiny sinking feeling in her gut.

Yes, it was fair and considerate that Lilith should choose to distinguish her face from Mary's once more, given how poorly Mary's exhausted heart had reacted to it the last time, and indeed Lilith herself seemed to feel far more composed when she wore that armour. The trouble was, however, that it seemed to Mary to have placed a little bit of distance between them, which she had thereto felt to be narrowing.

“I did, thanks to you, I think?”

Lilith nodded. “I couldn't risk you rolling out of bed while my back was turned, and stumbling out of here to your doom.”

Mary gave a small laugh at how transparently Lilith hid her concern behind mockery. “Well thank you. It was a wonderful change. Perhaps I could,” she felt a little presumptuous to ask, but continued nonetheless, “trouble you to do it again? Some time? I don't want to be a burden, of course, it would be fine if you don't want to. It's just... it's nice to feel rested. And not see things...”

Lurking around my room. Spectres. Jailers and machines of torture in the shadows of furniture.

Lilith made a noise which Mary couldn't quite read: “A burden? It would be only proper for me to do so for the rest of your mortal days. Considering that it was I who— “

Mary held up a hand, not wanting to hear the confession once more; it was too much for her to fight with, having just woken up. She preferred to forget as often as possible, and pretend that their friendship (as it seemed to be) was not based on one immortal's desire to atone for murder.

“Then thank you. Maybe it'll even,” she cracked a wry smile suddenly recalling Lilith's teasing remarks from earlier, “make me a better driver. If my head is clearer.” Then she remembered something else. “Oh... didn't you say that you, um, that there was something you wanted to tell me?”

“I did say that, didn't I?”

Lilith's face showed that she would rather Mary had not recalled it, but it was far too late for that now, and while Mary had been more than willing to hold back her questions when Lilith had been in distress, a promise was a promise. Still, she could afford to be patient. She hadn't even gotten out of bed yet.

“We can talk after we eat something, if you'd rather? I'm actually quite hungry.” She hadn't had anything but disappointing tea for the longest time.

The mention of food sparked something on Lilith's face, and she bade Mary wait just a moment, exiting the room and returning quickly with a tray, as though it had been waiting just outside the door. “I thought you might be. I've not had much cause to become proficient in the culinary arts, but perhaps this will pass muster.”

Mary met Lilith's tentative eyes, saw plainly how awkward the woman felt and so accepted it with as much gratitude as she could put onto her face.

“Oh, Lilith, you didn't have to do that!” She looked over the tray, finding that it was the spread of a hunter-gatherer: thin slices of chicken, fried quickly to crisped edges, slices of apple, and a handful of nuts. The gratitude on her face reached her heart, blended with the tightness of imagining Lilith's life in the wastes, where she took what she could, the barest that she needed. And she remembered what Lilith had told her, about the spells of reduced hunger and weariness. “Thank you, it's... it's perfect.”

Lilith waved away the praise. “It's nothing of the sort. But I trust you won't be poisoned by it, at least.”

Mary smiled down at the tray, but made no move to place it down onto the bedding, couldn't bring herself to do it.

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no, I... I just don't normally, um. Well, eating in bed, it's likely that I'll get crumbs on the sheets and I might not find them until I sleep again. Maybe it would be best if I take it to the table? Just to be sure?”

She looked for Lilith's reaction and found a light frown of confusion. “Oh. My mistake, I had thought that you...”

She trailed off, and through a quick series of deductions, Mary understood and shared in Lilith's surge of a warm memory wrapped in regret:

Adam.

He brought you breakfast in bed too, didn't he?

She finished the thought out loud for Lilith's benefit. “He was so sweet, wasn't he? But,” she kept the gentleness at the top of her voice, coating it over the layer that ached, “I always told him to take it to the table. It's not your fault, I just grew up with certain ways of thinking. But I appreciate it! Thank you! Can we...?” she held up the tray, for Lilith to take it while she got herself out of bed and fetched her robe, tied it firmly. “Shall we go to the table?”

Now understanding the situation, Lilith was no longer crest-fallen and nodded succinctly. “Of course. Forgive the whimsical gesture.”

Her tone held nothing troubling, only the usual haughtiness with which she held herself, and so Mary only smiled in response, letting Lilith lead the way to the table. Once seated, Mary's mind once more returned to the minutes before she had passed out.

“What did the school say? Were they angry?”

“I told them you were incapacitated with a migraine, and there were no questions asked.”

“So you didn't...” she allowed herself to voice the niggling worry, “you didn't go to school in my place. Pretend to be me?”

Lilith's face warmed with amusement, and she gave a little chuckle. “I'll admit, the thought did occur to me. After all, it can get very dull, sitting around here, guarding your body rather than passing the time elsewhere. But no. Your reputation as a well-behaved and respectful educator is quite safe.”

Mary breathed out in relief. “Good. I hate to doubt you, but, well, you've had a lot of practice. Like you said. You fooled them for months.”

“I did. The longest series of months in my millennia of existence.”

Mary laughed at the hyperbole. “That simply can't be true!” She paused to appreciate the sweetness of an apple slice, noted how neatly the pips had been cut out, as well as the hard fibres which would have surrounded them. “Lilith, I know you made an effort, or else you wouldn't have become principal. You must know that I have all the work you set out for my students. Why, your filing was exemplary!”

“Oh, no not at all,” she avoided Mary's eye, though a telling smile played on her lips.

“Well and truly! I could see the care with which you thought out the assignments, you didn't have to do that. You could have just re-used papers from the department's archives. Like most of the teachers do,” she added in a jokingly judgemental mutter.

“And restrict myself to such lazy, pedestrian thinking? All signed off by that dolt Hawthorne? No, I don't believe I could stoop to that.”

“That's part of what made you such a good teacher.”

Lilith looked back at her then, in surprise. “What?”

Mary took a bite of the chicken, which was dry and most definitely safe for consumption. She spent the time while chewing by watching as Lilith fought to keep delight from creeping onto her stern features. And eventually, she replied.

“You were an excellent teacher, Lilith. Even if you didn't intend to be. I'd say you're a natural. And I suppose that's to be expected, isn't it?”

Lilith's brow crinkled, her eyes downcast, which startled Mary until she realised why: the unforeseen praise had touched the First Woman, and she had had no scaffolds in place to disguise that.

Then Mary had a thought:

“Even though you got me booked off for today, I can't really afford to waste the time. Would you, perhaps... would you like to help me mark some papers?”

Her lunch eaten, Mary had brewed them coffee, and carried it through in mugs bearing the faces of a cartoon cat and dog, respectively.

“I don't know exactly why, but when I work on papers, coffee seems to be better fuel than tea,” she explained, passing the cat mug to Lilith. “Normally I try not to have too much of it, especially if it's black, but sometimes, well...”

“They have you working clear through the night, don't they?”

She nodded once. “Though perhaps if I managed my time better, I wouldn't get backed up like this.” She both believed and did not believe that, and wondered what Lilith's opinion would be on the matter; it soon came, in the form of a bitter humph.

“Or perhaps if schools could better manage the systems they've lumped together from raw coal and presumption, then humble educators would not have to sacrifice their every waking hour, in service of their incompetence.” She reached a hand into Mary's denim stationery pouch, where it sat in the middle of the table between them. Each pen she pulled out seemed to displease her more. “Have you perchance seen a black pen-case? With a slip-cover?”

“Oh! Yes, I know what you mean, just a moment.” Mary rummaged in her satchel, then handed Lilith a firm, padded case. “I thought perhaps it had been a gift. It's much too nice for me to use on grading, so I was saving it. In case I needed to,” she laughed in embarrassment, “write an important letter. To royalty perhaps.”

Lilith slipped off the case and withdrew the smooth silver object, streamlined like a jet and narrow as a porcupine's quill. She clicked the rollerball into sight and the crisp sound of it brought pleasure to her face. “The purpose of a fine pen is to use it, out of respect for one's hands. These are far too graceful to mar with cheap equipment.”

Mary looked at her own hands — the very same hands — and noted the large callous years of teaching had built upon the middle finger of her right hand. It had bothered her for a while, and she had been fastidious about carrying hand cream in her purse, applying it every few hours. But eventually the concern had left her, and she had allowed the thing to take over her knuckle, making clear her profession with every bill passed in payment, every cup of tea accepted.

She sighed inwardly and clicked open her own pen, prompting audible dismay from Lilith.

“What in the Nine Hells is that?”

Mary found herself hiding the bulky pen, before she caught herself. “It... it saves me time. I can change quickly from the red to black, for writing their grade on the spreadsheet. And if I need to moderate someone else's marking, I can easily get the green.”

“Mary.”

She met Lilith's stern gaze, felt herself shrinking under it. “Yes?”

The woman reached out her hand, the instruction explicit.

“But,” Mary protested, “it's efficient! You can't imagine the cumulative hours it's saved me.”

“Mary.”

Begrudgingly, she rolled the multipen across the table to Lilith. “I suppose I'll just use my psychic powers then.”

Lilith stood, evidently pleased at her victory in this particular battle of wills, and came over to Mary's side of the table. Then she took Mary's empty hand, and placed her expensive silver pen there. “Use this. I dare say you'll be doing most of the work anyway.”

Mary resettled it in her hand, discovering that the metal had already been partially warmed by Lilith's grip. The feel of the pen... it was weightless. Her hand barely had to place any pressure on it at all, and once she put it to paper, experimenting with a neat tick, she found that the ink flowed without bleed, as if quite happy to perform the task.

She hated to be proven wrong on an issue so connected to her life-long profession, but she had to admit, this opened up a whole other world of ease. Who cared if it could only hold one colour cartridge at a time?

“I suppose I could use it. Just for now.” Mary's terse words belied the affection on her face, and Lilith quickly broke away, returned to her side of the table.

“Please.” She took the least damaged of the red pens from the denim pouch. “Don't worry, I'm sure I'll encounter very limited disfigurement.”

Mary was already working with the pen as she smiled her response, finding that she was in fact moving more quickly, as she did not have to pause to redo uneven strokes or rub the pen back and forth on scrap paper in order to bring it back to life.

After a time, she heard Lilith's tongue tsk and looked up in query.

“I see Ms Walker still has not given up her beloved catchphrase. Pity.”

“Catchphrase?”

Lilith held up the essay, though there was no way Mary would be able to see the relevant text. “'In this day and age'. Honestly. That's twice in this piece alone.”

Mary pursed her lips in agreement. “Oh yes. She does seem rather taken with it. Perhaps somebody in her family says it often?”

“Hmm. Or one of her favourite authors used it once and she fell in love. I'd expect more from such a voracious reader.”

“Children do alight on the most unanticipated things, don't they? They're exposed to so many new ways of thinking, and sometimes... something will just strike the most resounding chord within them.”

To her optimistic tone, Lilith gave only reluctant assent. “It would be better if their education didn't do its damnedest to restrict their thoughts. But I suppose it can't be helped. Given the current hegemony.” Lilith's raised eyebrows made quite clear what she would like to do with said-hegemony.

“I once taught a young man who had a similar problem,” Mary chuckled into the memory. “An addiction to the phrase 'in layman's terms'. Only he would always get it wrong. Lilith, he...” she worked to contain her glee, smiling eyes reaching across the table. “He always wrote 'in layline's terms'. Isn't that wonderful?”

“In layline's terms...”

“He used it so often that, even now, sometimes I catch myself saying it. Or I'll read the original phrase and, in my head, I'll hear 'in layline's terms'.” She sighed fondly, held the pen lightly against her lips. “Sometimes I feel as if... as if they're the ones leaving marks on me.” She met Lilith's interested gaze, and felt the stirrings of melancholy in her breast. “But in the end, that's all that's left, isn't it? They always have to move on. That's the way of things.” She clicked the pen closed and open, returned it to the page and paused. “It does feel terribly like they're mine, though. Foolish as that is.”

Silence descended and Mary shifted to consult the memorandum, though she already knew every note off by heart. Then Lilith's haunted voice came from across the table.

“Mary, I'm... I'm pregnant.”

Chapter Text

Lilith's admission hung in the air, and she was too full of resolve to even consider taking it back. Mary had to know. It was only correct. The woman couldn't go on believing that there were only two people in the room, when she aired her optimistic words, suggested there was in fact the possibility of the two of them shaping a shared future for the better.

“Oh,” said Mary, her poised hand growing loose around Lilith's pen. She stared at Lilith searchingly, aware from the delivery of those words that this was no cause for celebration, but beyond that had no idea how to proceed. “Who... um, by whom?”

A flat 'You know by whom' sat on Lilith's tongue, but she would not speak to Mary that way. Even if it were true that the woman was entirely capable of drawing the conclusion. Instead, Lilith chose to backtrack the conversation, wishing that she had done so in the first place — and would have done had Mary's bitter-sweet nostalgia not toppled the words out of her mouth.

“I told you that he came here, didn't I?” For once it was not rhetorical, as, in the bewildered state following her nightmare of that morning, she had not entirely cemented their conversation in memory.

“You did,” Mary confirmed, her anxiety bitten back as she carefully laid Lilith's pen atop the essays.

“But I don't think I would have told you more than that. Partially I... prefer not to remember at all. But that is a privilege I can't really grant myself. And it is no longer viable to keep the knowledge from you.”

“All right?”

It was impressive how collected the mortal seemed, as she pulled her clasped hands into her lap. Lilith knew that the composure was for her sake, and she could not currently spare a moment to recognise the enormity of that, lest the feelings knock her off-course.

“He arrived here clothed in the skin of a Christian preacher. Literally, that is. He had been trapped in the man, you see. His body forced from the physical plane, somewhere out of reach, while his soul shared a space with that loathsome man, in his way a quite fitting bride for the Dark Lord.”

“A Christian?” Mary knitted her brows, tilting her head in confusion. “But how could that be? A man of the Church?”

“Yes, but not the church you're imagining. The host was a former high priest of the Church of Night, a devout sect of Satanic worshippers, by the name of Faustus Blackwood. He merely adopted the white collar of the— of your God. In order to gain your trust. He preyed on your superstition, your fear of the unseen world; he frightened you into acquiescence.”

Mary looked away then, and a hand slowly came up to press itself to her cheek. “Then it's my fault,” she whispered. “I let Satan into my home. How could I be so...”

Lilith knew that Mary would need a firm denial to that, rather than sympathy: “You're mortal. And his power over mortal minds is not something easily shrugged off; it was hardly through weakness of spirit that he was able to prey so easily on your fears. A traveller lost in the fog, on a featureless winding road which appears to stretch on forever: how easily might she not accept the wise words of one who seems to know the route by heart? Someone who claims to know what manner of beasts lurk within the fog?”

“Perhaps, but still, I... I would have hoped my intuition would have told me... something.”

There was no way for Lilith to comment on the shaky history of Mary's intuition without sounding cruel, and so she waved it away.

“Regardless. He was able to fox his way inside, and—“ she found herself suddenly short of breath, had to stop and slowly refill her lungs. “Found me. I tried to run, but it was... hopeless. In the end, coming here was a gross miscalculation. It trapped me and put you at risk.”

Seemingly having moved past blaming herself, Mary's eyes sorted through thoughts. “You came to hide here, because it was where you felt safe?”

“Well. Not exactly. I came, because those whose favour I had quite foolishly thought I held, turned me away. There are few places the Dark Lord avoids, and those containing a strong Christian energy fall into that category. By the hand of his Maker, he is unable to strike down directly the devout, while they are in such spaces. He must have others do so for him. Which is why he tempts men to evil, leads them to murder the good amongst them, rather than driving a dagger through their hearts himself. He tempts the pious with perversions, knowing just where their devotions leave them vulnerable. Like all children, men crave what they are told they cannot have, and Lucifer is all too happy to give them permission to take it.”

Mary was frowning, not certain how this applied to her. “So you hoped he wouldn't be able to come inside?”

Lilith found herself sheepish. “I was fairly far from hoping anything. It was... instinct. Mary, you shine with purity. With unspoiled human decency. And if I could rely on anyone to ward off the Dark Lord, I thought that perhaps it would be you. Not by choice, but by nature.”

“Did you ask me? When you came here.”

“No. No, I didn't.”

“We didn't meet before, you and I? That is, since that... that night when—”

“We did not. I came in without showing myself to you. You had no knowledge that I was here, and that I needed protection.”

Please stop asking questions. I can only lie by omission so often before I lose my resolve and make everything even worse.

Mary's brow had furrowed yet further, into a deep look of dismay, but she held it at a distance, remained analytical, gathering facts as a defence against the darkness. “And why? I know you've said he wants to control everything you do, and that he treats you horribly, but... this seems different. He truly intended to kill you?”

“Yes.” Lilith's voice dismayed her with its smallness. “Unlike his usual routine of punishing me for my failures or purely for his own enjoyment, this time it was his stated intention to bring my five thousand, seven hundred and thirty years to a close. To finally rid himself of me. Which, before this last time, I never thought he'd have the nerve to carry out. Much as he lambasted me, my service was a valuable one. I did the work he felt was beneath him. Touched the mortals that he could not. And though he would never admit it, I also possess powers which he does not.” A mirthless twitch of the lips. “His fury tends to erase foresight, however; if he had in fact killed me, I dare say a moment would occur a week later where he regretted it. When he needed someone to carve up for a summoning spell.”

Mary held up a hand, begging Lilith to censor her words just a little, and she realised how unfortunately candid she was being. But there was no way to make this all known without causing distress.

“I'm sorry. Mary. But I need you to understand what's brought me to where I am. And to understand the danger you're in.”

By way of agreement, Mary lowered her eyes and picked up her no-doubt icy coffee, sipped at it to fill the silence while she found her next question.

“Then, what changed? Why this time?”

Well. That is certainly a long story. How best to summarize?

“I made a stand. Took a chance to break his hold over me and claim what was mine: my freedom and... my crown.” Mary's perplexed look told her she needed to do better than that. “All of those years, hoping that he would fulfil his promise of lifting me up, making me his queen... it was not only a lie. He had in fact decided upon somebody else to grant that illustrious honour, at his side.” There would be no graceful way to explain all of this, and so she made peace with the necessity of an ugly summary. “Sabrina. She was apparently destined to be his queen, as a continuation of his bloodline.”

She acknowledged with a nod Mary's open mouth and aghast eyes.

“Yes, she is in fact the daughter of Lucifer, which I'm sure you'll agree explains an awful lot. I was not aware of this fact when the Dark Lord issued my mission statement in Greendale, but as it turns out, just over sixteen years ago, he had possessed the body of Edward Spellman, another High Priest of the Church of Night, in order to have a child of Destiny with Sabrina's mortal mother. Rather than a half-witch, half-mortal, the girl is a muddy soup of witch, mortal, celestial and demonic ancestry. A chaotic chimera. It's no wonder she lacks empathy for those around her, and is unable to make decisions without selfish motives.”

Mary's wide eyes had a lot to say, too much for her lips to translate, and so she merely stared at Lilith from over her empty coffee mug.

“I had been tasked with getting the girl to pledge herself to him, by signing the Book of the Beast. And once she fulfilled certain other prerequisites, I was to bring her before him, for a golden coronation, attended by the demon aristocracy. Instead, I chose to throw my lot in with the witches of Greendale in an attempt to keep Sabrina from a fate she claimed not to want...” she heard the rising anger in her voice, and forced it back down. “And to finally rid myself of his yoke around my neck. To seal him in a flesh prison and take his place. As ruler of Hell.”

Finally, placing down the coffee cup and folding her hands primly before her on the table, Mary found her voice. “Lilith, you... you took on the Devil? After being in his service for thousands of years?”

“I did.”

“After everything he put you through? You must have been so afraid!”

The reaction caught Lilith entirely by surprise, and she had no time to hide her honest response. “I was. But my fury allowed me to keep it at bay.”

Mary's eyes were filled with admiration. “You fought him... and you won?”

“Well. For a time. For just the briefest while I was indeed Queen. As I'd always wanted.”

“Queen of Hell...”

“Which is why, when he escaped, I was to be punished as never before.” Her lips twisted with bile. “There is no worse crime in his view than the uprising of those below him. The betrayal of the very dirt beneath his feet.”

“And yet... here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“How did you do it? That is, how did you survive?”

'Survive'. Yes, that is ever the goal, isn't it? There is no more one might hope for than that.

“As he no longer placed any value on my life, I had to find something he would value, in order to save my skin. And as a woman, there was always... that.”

“You slept with him, while he wanted to kill you?” Confusion and shock warred in that small voice.

“Not directly, no. My death was to come at the end of a ritual where I freed him from the flesh prison of Blackwood. After which the man too would likely have his head swiftly removed. Therefore, I made a deal: I would take Lucifer's seed via proxy, and in turn grant Blackwood a mark of protection. It was a gamble which could have easily come to nothing, but by playing on Lucifer's desire for a son, a true heir to the throne of Hell, I was able to gain for myself a stay of execution.”

“A stay...”

“Yes. While I carry his child, I have value. After that,” she cast her eyes to the floor, feeling her composure leave her as the words became real, “who can say what will happen.”

In her peripheral vision, she saw Mary rise and carefully approach her, as though not wanting her to bolt — not an altogether ridiculous concern, admittedly. Then the woman knelt down before her, barely-cushioned knees against wood where the rug failed to reach.

“What are you doing?”

An answer by way of question: “What can I do, Lilith? Is there a way I can protect you, perhaps if we cast some stronger magic on this house? Or by going somewhere? After the child is born?”

“There is no way. Whether Hell or Earth, he will find me. And if I am to be embarrassingly candid with you... my concern at this juncture is far more the ordeal of a witch pregnancy than the threat of death, nine or perhaps thirteen months from now.” Mary's gentle eyes gazed into hers, seeking clarity, and she sighed. “I've never done this before. In all my thousands of years.”

“But, you told me you've given birth to... to demons?”

Lilith raised her eyes to the ceiling, attempting to focus on the grain of the wooden sleepers rather than the countless visceral memories which waited at the gates of recall. “I have. To more than half of the infernal hoard, by current estimation. But the bringing forth of demons is not what a human being would recognize as birth. Your God created a simple yet effective system of reproduction for every species, predominantly a sexual one. But demons exist as an affront to nature, aberrations on every level. And I, as Mother of Demons, have experienced them, on every level.“

“What does that mean?”

Lilith gave her a dubious look, making it clear that Mary should drop the issue for her own sake, but the woman would not.

“Please tell me? I want to know what you've been through. So that I can perhaps understand you better.”

Oh Mary... nothing good can come of that.

“If that's what you truly want. Though I fear I'll have to spend many more hours soothing your sleep going forward.”

She ran her tongue over her upper lip, closed her eyes to admit just one memory, barely managing to push the rest back and throw the catch on their pen.

“Demons are formed out of the energies of the various planes which surround this one, sometimes seeping into Hell's outer reaches where the wilds have become most magically potent. But they cannot take form unassisted. They need a conduit and a means of birth.”

She paused, looked down at the kneeling woman for confirmation and was given the nod to continue.

“Well. As the oldest living woman, my body holds the blue-print of birth in its purest form. And as the oldest living witch, my blood remembers the magic at the dawn of creation, the raw power of the soil. And finally, as the first woman to have become a denizen of Hell, my spirit has learnt to withstand obscenities like no other could.” She wrinkled her brow, as the memory churned to be acknowledged and spoken. “And so I meet the requirements. Eminently.”

Mary's hands were firmly folded in her lap, presumably to control any potential fidgeting, but her distinguished face was open and calm, taking Lilith's words in stride. Her blue eyes, full of kind resolve, directed Lilith to continue.

“It's never the same, with demons. The way in which they... burst into being.” The first memory was set free, wriggling onto her tongue. “Sometimes my.... skin will break out in blisters, growing to cover me inch by inch until I scream with the need to scratch, but must not, before the time in which they all turn blue, and melt together, run down my body, and congeal upon the ground, to mix with the soil and take form into a beast. One of limited awareness and great loyalty to The Dark Lord.”

Mary's mouth twisted in disgust and she covered it with her hand, not wanting to slow Lilith with her reactions, and gestured with her other hand that Lilith could continue.

Though she felt it ill-advised, Lilith obeyed and loosened her hold on the gate, just enough for another memory to shoot out, lighting her eyes from behind with re-lived agony.

“Other times I have been strapped to a stone covered with burning symbols, as energies from the planes of fire lick my skin and take hold of my blood. After days of being burnt and bled, I will be untied, and the shape of my body seared into the floor will become a living shadow, gaining mass as it stands up and stares right through me.”

Mary's face was blanched and tears had begun to run down her cheeks, but she was determined to learn more and more, for what gain Lilith could not imagine. Surely just a little of this would have been enough? Why would any mortal...

Her thoughts momentarily distracted, a conjoined memory slithered out the gate, writhing, two-headed but one-tongued. She spoke without the ability to refuse.

“Once... I cast a spell on the heart of a rat and a guava seed, and swallowed them. Inside of me they intermingled, as I sang to them, and grew larger. I was forced to stop singing, when the creature began to claw its way back up my throat... tearing...” her voice grew hoarse, with the effort of keeping the memory impersonal, and she pressed her eyes closed, “tearing my... face open. As it burst out of me.”

The tail of the memory had been dipped in the blood of another, and it too tried to be known.

“Sometimes, my—“

“Stop! Please!” Mary's horrified spirit could take no more, and she bowed her head, rested her face upon Lilith's knee. “I'm sorry... I thought... I could... but...”

Lilith hushed her, placed a hand upon her head. “I know.” Her voice reflected once more the numbness she always felt when reflecting on her infernal traumas, the crucial distancing which kept her from losing her mind altogether.

“I'm sorry, Lilith.”

“Mary, it's all right. I expected you wouldn't—“

“No.” The woman's red, wet eyes rose to meet Lilith's, overflowing with so much compassion that Lilith gasped, felt her heart miss a beat. “I mean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything you've ever been through. There's nothing I can do for you, and I'm sorry. I never had a chance of helping you.”

“No. No, you didn't. But that's not your fault. You were never meant to know about that world. Your mind was intended for this one.”

“So I could be ignorant.”

“So you could live,” Lilith insisted, her own sudden passion catching her by surprise, “as any woman has the right to. As I... would have loved to.”

The catch in her voice was unmaskable; the memories had weakened her and there was nothing to hold her words in check.

“For my sake, every woman should live life to the fullest. So that what I go through...”

“Means something?”

“Yes.”

Mary rolled so that her cheekbone rested upon Lilith's thigh. “It means something to me.”

“Because you know the things you shouldn't.”

“I'm glad that you told me.”

Lilith raised her eyebrows at the sobs underlying those words. “You don't sound glad, my dear.”

To which Mary gave only an exhausted sniff that tried to seem amused. To dismal success. And Lilith knew that feigned levity was all for her. Which brought forth the true confession that trembled at the First Woman's core:

“Mary. I'm so afraid.” She licked her lip again, chewed on it. “Being a Mother to demons is... a trial to which I have become accustomed. It can take hours to days, but... it ends. Eventually it ends. And I can leave. I can limp off to a cave somewhere and lick my wounds.” Her voice had become very low, rough with the gravel of fear, misshapen as her mouth twisted down. “But now, there will be no escape. It will stay inside of me. And I will grow heavy. And slow. I will no longer be able to outrun... those who would hurt me.”

She flinched when Mary's hands unexpectedly enfolded hers: the resolute mortal was attempting to strengthen her, with those slender, shaking hands and pale, ill-seeing eyes. “I'll be beside you,” came the earnest whisper. “You don't have to face this alone.”

At which a solitary, baleful tear escaped, to run down Lilith's cheek. “But I do. Do you not finally understand? It's what the Dark Lord demands. He wants me to be alone. And he'll destroy anyone who gets in the way of that desire.”

And when I lose you, then I will have lost the last trace of gentleness that could ever exist inside of me.

Chapter Text

Her cheek still resting against Lilith's thigh, Mary stared at the undersides of the dining table, saw but did not register the over-zealous mending job her father had done on the central pillar, thick bolts securing it where the rest of the table was held with wood glue alone. The position of her head had displaced her glasses, and she weakly reached for them, pulled them down into her lap.

Her blood seemed scarcely able to move through her veins, as though turned gelatinous. Time had slowed and become cloud-like, and the air was thick and hard to breathe.

I'm going to die... again.

Within that dense air, the knowledge hung even heavier, impossible to miss: it was no vague danger which took steely hold of Lilith each time she warned Mary off; it was a known and absolute certainty.

She tilted her face to look up at Lilith's, though without her glasses their shared features were less distinct — a state which her mind took as the opportunity to self-harm, serving her the image of their face splitting horrendously apart, wrecked from within by a fledgling demon which burst forth with no more love for its mother than any parasite which latched onto and devoured the life-force of its host.

She barely managed to muffle her gasp by folding in her lips and biting down upon them, quickly shifting her eyes to the floorboards as she worked to replace her visions with familiar timber.

How can I possibly leave you now?

How could I abandon you to suffering like that, all alone?

Even if I die again... can I really compare my tiny life to the eternity of pain you live through?

Though much as she forced these thoughts through the syrupy mass of her awareness, she knew without question that she did not want to die. That her animal brain would take any option to avoid going back there.

Being sent to Hell and then returned to her mortal life had left her a broken woman, terrorized by ignorance. But now, having learnt so much, it would be far worse: she would know what to expect, and would be able to predict myriad tastes of torment before the flavour of the day even revealed itself.

To be damned to an infinity of that, through no ill deeds of her own, but in fact for every kindness she had granted a stranger, either now or the night she had first died...

'Died'. That sounds so passive.

As though it just... happened. As though she didn't murder me, and as though I wasn't just an empty life to take over.

The anger had snuck up to clutch at her chest, and she hated the sharp tang of it, the biliousness; it wasn't how she truly felt, or at least, it wasn't how she wanted to feel.

Lilith had done what she had to, Mary understood that. It was a case of survival. And it would be wrong to... (her thoughts were swimming again, feelings weakening her focus)... to wallow in resentment. It would be unkind.

She did not want to be unkind. Desperately so.

Lilith, I'm sorry.

It's just the fear making me feel this way. I need to put it aside and be there for you.

I don't have to forgive you — I haven't forgiven you — but I have to do something. I have to try to—

“It's all right,” came Lilith's resigned voice. “You don't owe me anything. If I'd taken more care, you wouldn't be in this situation. So please. Stop trying to fight for this. For me. It's all right to give up.”

While it seemed as though Lilith had read her mind — a possibility which sent Mary's weary heart racing anew — it was just as likely that she had witnessed her features reacting to the mental conflict, and guessed at the cause without too much effort.

Yet even as she teetered on the crumbling edge of that whirlpool of spiralling anxieties, Mary could not miss the deep sorrow which poured forth from Lilith.

'It's all right to give up.'

Mary wanted to say something to that, at the very least refute it with a shake of the head, but she seemed to have moved out of contact with her body, and to be directing it with an unreliable remote control.

Lilith's lips murmured one thing but craved another, Mary could tell that much, and it was behaviour she recognised within herself: Lilith wanted what she knew she should not; she longed to brace her limbs, shove herself apart from others, and then find herself tugged back and embraced.

Their intense time together, it had been a mere blink in the span of Mary's mortal life (and less than the 100th decimal point in Lilith's), yet had felt so much more enlivening than the span of many years past, even were Mary to strain out the most essential experiences. And the thought approached her, put a hand to her shoulder:

Everything is so much more vibrant now, with you here. I feel more purposeful.

How can I go back to how it was before, when I know more, and want more than I used to?

When I know you, and want to know you even more?

For all the good it would do, if waiting around too long resulted in her having no life at all.

“If he kills me...” she finally managed to whisper.

“When he kills you,” corrected Lilith's husky voice.

“I'll be sent back to Hell?” The question was needless, but was voiced even so.

“Yes. There is no doubt of that. Though this time, your suffering will likely be far more calculated. You'd be a...” she took a moment to swallow, threatened by a catch in her throat. “A guest of honour.”

Mary felt stinging behind her eyes which grew searing as visions burst forth once more, blending her own memories with Lilith's demonic tales.

“A guest of honour in Damnation... but why?”

“You harboured the infamous traitor, did you not? The vile usurper queen? Why, your crimes go even beyond that.”

Mary knew what Lilith would say next and reached to clasp her hand anew, squeezing it to try and prevent the words from coming and quickly filled the air with her own:

“I suppose it doesn't matter why, really. None of it makes sense. Evil... it seldom does.”

“Evil?” Lilith's tone conveyed a certain distaste for the word.

“Call it what you will. Thoughtless cruelty, sadism... gratification at the... expense of others. I call that evil.” She rolled off Lilith's leg, repositioned herself in a less graceful kneel than before, and met her eyes. “Anyone who has wilfully done those things to you, I call them evil.”

Her voice was an arrhythmic mess, but she did not stutter and she did not doubt a single word. For which Lilith gave her a pained look of gratitude.

“Well. As you say, there is no sense in it. But the Dark Lord will have his way, as he always does. And I shall weather it, as best I can.”

As you always do...

The discomfort in her knees was becoming too much to ignore, and so Mary carefully slipped onto one hip, slowly stretching her legs out to the side and grimacing at the screaming of the joints, rather than scolding them aloud as she usually did.

“I really don't like the sound of that. There has to be some other way, something that we... well, maybe some kind of magic? A spell we could use to protect us, or even just me? Or hide me? So that I could stay with you.”

The questions brought a scowl to Lilith's face, and she looked down at her hands, which she had clasped firmly, red-tipped fingers interlacing. “Why do you keep asking me that? Do you think I'll eventually give you a different answer?”

“I don't know, Lilith, I just...” she sighed, frustration rushing taut from her breast, “I suppose I can't help it. This is all so wrong, and I have to hope there's something we just haven't thought of yet. Some missing detail. I have to keep searching until I find it.”

“Strange. You speak as though you've never lost all hope before.”

“Do I?”

“Which can't possibly be true, can it? With everything you've been put through.”

Mary paused to consider the idea, rather than merely dismissing it as unhelpful. She cast her mind into those violent mists which were half-nightmare, half-memory.

“Perhaps I never had the chance. I was so confused all the time, that losing hope... why, I would have first had to understand something, to have some yardstick for hope, before I could lose it. Instead, my head always seemed to be spinning, and I could never catch up with the feeling, to be still and get my bearings.”

“You lost yourself.”

“Yes. I knew who I was at the beginning, each time the scenarios began at the dawn. But by the end... I would always find myself nameless and faceless. Uncertain of whether I'd ever had a life before that.”

“As if loss of self were part of the torture.”

Mary tore her eyes back from their Hellscapes, to meet Lilith's, and the blue soothed her red-sand abraded spirit just enough. “How did you know?”

“I... know Hell. And I know you. I believe. It is precisely the sort of torture the place would select for your soul.”

Of course Lilith knew Hell. She had, for a brief time, been queen of the place; a fact which brought forth many conflicting emotions within Mary.

Did Hell's queen observe the torture of the damned, actively prescribe it, or did she sit proud and removed, as any mortal monarch would?

Were you Queen when you found my soul and sent it back to Earth?

And why would you do that in the first place, unless somebody asked you to scoop me out of there?

You said you came here out of curiosity for my fate, but before that? If you brought me back, why have you never made yourself known to me until now?

There were so many things about Lilith's motivations that she did not know, and again she found herself slipping down that slope of distrust, whereas all she wanted was to be loving, to be kind.

The feelings were making her ill, and she needed to push them into an empty room and lock them behind a solid door. She spoke over their noise, unable to keep the irritation born from that difficulty from reflecting in her voice.

“That aside, you haven't answered my question: is there not some way to hide me from him? A magical trick, perhaps?”

“Attempting to deceive the Great Deceiver only ever leads to heartache, I can assure you. And if I should be caught indulging in any further scheming, I fear that not even carrying his heir will shield me.”

“But—“

“And certainly not you.”

The finality of those words pulled the air from her chest, and Mary slumped, bringing her legs around and raising her knees so that she could rest her face against them. “Then I suppose it really is hopeless.”

“It is. I'm sorry.”

“What do we do now?”

“We...” She closed her eyes, took a slow breath which Mary recognised as an attempt to hold desolation at bay, then opened them once more upon the table's cluttered surface. “We finish with these papers, and take it from there. I am loathe to leave a task half-done.”

Mary nodded, replaced her glasses, and gradually pulled herself upright, steadying herself with a hand on the table until she was certain the dizziness had passed. “All right. That seems sensible.”

She made her way back to her seat, at the end of the table which now seemed so much longer than it had any right to be. Her descent into the chair was unsteady, the hand which picked up Lilith's pen doubly so. Despite evidence to the contrary, her body felt as though she had just run a mile flat-out.

Without daring to look across the table just for the moment, she made a few final ticks on the essay, chose a mediocre grade, signed the page, and moved onto the next.

She looked at the name on the essay and recalled the usual writing style of that student, pre-loaded her mind with the sorts of errors they were likely to make so as to efficiently pick out and correct them.

She read the opening statement, made it to the end of the paragraph, then realised she remembered none of it, and read it again. Once more, before the final period, her mind stuttered off its tracks and her eyes flinched abruptly away from the words. She frowned and rubbed the heel of her hand across her eyelids, hoping to massage functionality back into them.

Again she began the essay, this time underlining a misspelling which had previously eluded her; even with the elegant ink-flow of Lilith's pen, the line was messy, unavoidably so given how badly her hand was trembling. She tightened the pen against her callous, and moved onto the second paragraph, telling herself she had properly comprehended the first.

By the third paragraph, another issue had presented itself: the child had somehow managed to get the page wet, one word melted and made illegible by a little water droplet. She set about trying to guess from context what it used to be, but then found that another word a few lines down had also been spotted into vagueness, though this one was easy enough to make out.

Wanting to remind herself of the student's initial intentions, she returned to the opening paragraph, only to discover to her confusion that it too contained water damage, on one — no, three separate words.

...Oh.

She moved the papers out of danger and stared through blurring vision at the silver sabre of a pen, as her face grew progressively hotter.

“Lilith...”

There was no answer, and Mary blinked until she had enough clarity to see that Lilith was deeply focussed on her papers — or at least appeared to be. She had moved through a number of them in the time Mary had spent labouring on just one.

She tried again, and this time Lilith responded, but without raising her head or pausing her hand.

“Yes?”

“What if I were to... if I just choose to... risk it? If I decide to t-t-take—" anxiety was fuelling her stutter she pushed past it, “to just take my chances?”

“Mary...” Lilith betrayed nothing more than prevailing weariness.

“No, I mean it! What if I just say que sera to the whole thing. A-and we can—“

“Then who will take care of your dear children, when you all of a sudden vanish without a trace?”

“There are more than enough substitute teachers, Lilith. I have an entire folder of contacts, listed by suitability.”

“And who will oversee the Banned Books Society?”

“I didn't even start that club, you can't expect—“

“And what about the troubled students you're counselling on their college applications? What about Theo Putnam, who is writing essay after essay just like this one,” she held up the relevant page, covered in high-speed script, “full of existential panic for his future, and the need for someone to refer him to the sort of literature that could make him feel less alone?”

“That's not my problem!” In exasperation, Mary had slammed her palms against the table, but immediately regretted it, both for the noise and the throb of her skin. “It's not my job to watch over every aspect of their lives! I'm just an educator, and perhaps I just... maybe I just don't care to devote myself to all of that any longer.“

“You really—”

“They don't deserve to get all of my energy, Lilith! I should have realised that long ago. There are more important things in my life, and I simply don't care.”

Lilith waited until the silence was certain, then placed down her own pen and folded her hands. Though still she did not raise her head.

“You're right, they don't deserve to get every last scrap of your soul. But we both know you want to give it to them regardless. You do care. You can't help yourself.”

Mary worked to take apart that tone: it was sympathetic, yes, deeply tired, as expected, but also, somehow...

Even now, you're making fun of me. Aren't you?

She wiped away another furtive tear, and felt her lips shape a pale shadow of a smile.

Affection brought with it an insistent need and though she knew it would be a further imposition on the woman's ancient spirit, Mary could not deny herself the request. She took a few moments to calm her breathing and steady her voice.

“Lilith... would you please promise me something?”

“A promise?” At last, the woman lifted her head, hair falling back to reveal a face that would have much rather remained hidden.

“Yes. Please.”

“Tell me. And I will consider it.” Every inch of the First Woman was dull with fatigue, and Mary found herself wishing more than anything that she could grant Lilith a deep and dreamless sleep. A sleep of the dead, for the undying.

We just need more time.

There are so may things I need to talk about with you, and if he robs us of this time, I'll die before ever understanding it all.

“Promise me that... you'll keep trying. I truly believe there are books you haven't read yet, avenues you've not considered. And... if you teach me how to look, I'll do it. I'll read in every available minute. I think it'll surprise you, how fast I can search through dusty old tomes.”

Lilith's eyes told her nothing, merely gazed into the request as though into a void.

“Please? You know so much, and you're so powerful. You fought him before, and you won. And this time, you'll have me, doing all the research I know you can't afford to spend your time on.”

“Mary, I wouldn't know where to start. Hell contains the entire library of Alexandria, every book that went up in flames, and more from every culture which Christianity turned to ash.”

“Alexandria? That's unbelievable! Can I—“ No, not now. Stay focussed, Wardwell. She's going to say yes. “Maybe we should start with, um, with children. With the unborn.”

A light flickered in Lilith's eyes, hints of blue flame. “A spell aimed at the babe itself? I will admit, I'm intrigued.”

“So... will you promise me?” Her heart clenched with expectation, virtually afraid to beat.

Lilith's eyes angled down and rightward, gazing into imagination, her jaw taking an active part in the pondering. At length, she sighed through her nose. “I'm a fool, but...” she pinched the bridge and shook her head, as though already regretting her words, “all right.”

Mary's heart beat again, in a quick fit of giddiness. “All right?”

“Yes.” She sighed once more, this time more for show than anything else, and picked up the pen, lowering her eyes to the page, though she could not conceal the tickle of a smile which teased her lips. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

The Infernal passages which led to the court of Pandemonium, by way of the lesser Circles, grew gradually more rigid, natural rock formations becoming lumpy pillars then sharper ones, the ground going from rough pebbles to tightly trampled clay, and finally to tiles of polished hornblende, across which Lilith's heels clacked unapologetically as she strode towards the library.

It was still a few minutes before moonrise by the measurement of Greendale, where her charge had most recently been seen, and Lilith had no doubt that she would easily arrive before the girl did. As such, she had taken this longer path to their shared destination, telling herself that it was to have more time to think without distraction, but knowing that her true motivation lay in avoiding the Throne Room. Not only because he would probably be there, and may try to engage her in crushingly lop-sided conversation, but because the girl might be there too, and at this moment, Lilith did not think she could stomach the possibility of seeing that cold-eyed, smirking child casually seated upon the Clawed Throne.

The throne which had been hers for all too brief a time. And as with so many things that she had striven for throughout the years, it too had brought her not just disappointment, but abject suffering.

She passed under yet another archway, this one held up with sculpted columns in the likeness of writhing human bodies, faces and limbs frozen in torment and obsidian. Movement at their uppermost reaches caught her eyes and she tilted her face to gaze, still on the move, at the flat, ruby-encrusted demons whose feet clung unnaturally to the roof, and who scuttled from pillar to pillar, licking reptilian tongues at the sculpted forms, to remove red sand from their crevices.

Not so long ago, the creatures would have stopped and raised their heads in stiff salute at her passage. Not that she cared for their attention, being as it had the tendency to send dust down upon her, which stuck to her lashes or sat on her lips until she could get to privacy later and clean it off (a queen must never be seen touching her face, lest it seem like weakness, nor adjusting her garments, lest it seem like insecurity).

The library had been built in a different time, when Lucifer had been interested in making Infernal versions of humanity's soaring odes to knowledge, during what was known on Earth as the Enlightenment. Back then, he had wanted to prove that his vision was not only as grand, but grander, and he had set demons of every description to the task of shaping arches, struts, stairways, balustrades, cubicles, alcoves, nooks, podia, bookshelves and ever-static furniture, from every mineral born of hell, the less malleable the better.

But those days were long gone, as Lucifer had lost interest in anything but portents and prophecies. It was not enough that Hell should have an iron grip on the souls of those who had broken their pact with the False God, but that a more exciting future awaited, a more gleaming reign for Lucifer Morningstar. And so, while he stood over his augurs in brooding frustration, the dust had settled on Pandemonium, leaving the library alone to speak of those centuries of creative fervour.

Stepping into that magnificent space, she immediately felt the air cool, the dirt kept out by a spell intended to protect the ancient pages of the books. No librarians came to guide her, if they even noticed her entrance, nor did she need their aid to find the centre of an easterly maze of shelves, which had been designated a classroom for the fledgling queen.

Having seated herself at the end of a long table of petrified wood, in a chair upholstered with leather of uncertain origin, it was suddenly more difficult to keep her mind from drifting back to the afternoon just passed, and she permitted herself just the briefest dip into that gentler realm:

It had taken another three hours to grade every last piece of student writing in the cottage, as Lilith had asked that she be permitted to lend a hand wherever possible, and so Mary had fetched a tote-bag of hefty research projects from her car, which she had initially intended to work on over the course of the next month. Between the two of them — Mary taking breaks at Lilith's insistence while she persisted tirelessly — they completed every last page. Mary could pretend to be grading at a mortal pace now for some time, without actually needing to.

While Mary had made herself a light tea, Lilith had written the grades onto the spreadsheets and checked her addition with a pocket calculator. After which, on Lilith's suggestion, they had poured glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon and sat in silence on the couch.

"You'll need to forget about me, for a little while," she had told her. Mary had protested and Lilith had assured her that it was only temporary. "I promised you I would keep searching, did I not? You'll have to exercise some patience, my dear. Rome wasn't burnt in a day, and if I appear to vanish into my duties in Hell, it is far more likely that this brief dalliance of ours will be overlooked. As long as I make no move to visit here, to... reach out to you, in any way... Lucifer might believe my obedience to be once again absolute."

Mary had been saddened by the necessity, but indicated that she understood and accepted it. Silence had reaffirmed itself, and Lilith had pretended not to notice when, from time to time, Mary would quietly dissolve into tears; though she had ultimately laid a cautious hand across Mary's shoulders when the woman eventually gave in and rested, shaking, against her. In the process, Lilith had narrowly prevented Mary's wine from toppling to the rug, and had downed it herself instead, just to be safe.

“I don't know when I'll be back,” she had admitted.

And it was a greater uncertainty than she had let on: time passed differently in Hell, the deeper one went. Once she had lain recuperating for ten days in some cove in the Seventh Circle, then stepped onto the mortal plane to find that three months had passed. Whereas in Pandemonium, she might spend a full day in court and be back on Earth before sundown.

If only she could find some pit in Hell where time would move in reverse; how long might it take to get back to who she once was?

“But you'll come back.” It was an acknowledgement of fact from Mary's lips, Lilith's nod scarcely needed.

Because empty words were a waste of both their time, she had shortly bade Mary farewell, leaving through the front door and stepping out behind the cottage before transporting herself in a swirling wreath of orange flame.

She came out of her reverie just as the shelves parted across the way, revealing a deeply-scowling Sabrina.

“Finally! These stupid shelves!”

Lilith raised her brows, feigning ignorance of what had clearly gone on. “Good of you to join me, my Liege.”

Sabrina cast a suspicious glance over her shoulder as she moved to her seat, as though expecting the fixtures to revolt once more. “Sorry I'm late,” she sighed, finally meeting Lilith's eyes. “I followed your directions, but the library wouldn't let me get here. It just kept leading me back to the beginning. This spider guy was watching me the whole time, and he kept saying I should remove all doubt and focus on my destination, but it didn't make any difference.”

“And then you grew angry.”

Another wary glance at the shelves all around them. “Yes. I told the library that if it didn't take me to you, I'd set all the books on fire.”

“The Library wouldn't have appreciated that.”

“Yeah, I guess I just have to show this place who's boss.” She shrugged off her annoyance as best she could, and the sequins on her red and black, matador-cut jacket caught the lamp light.

“Indeed,” breathed Lilith with a polite dip of the head, “that would be you. I see the court tailors have been busy.” She gestured and Sabrina looked down at her clothing, lifted the newly-fitted sleeves.

“It's a bit weird, but I could get used to this kind of thing. It's not half as bad as my coronation gown.”

Lilith's smile was brief, merely hinting at the amusement she had gained from making that gown as ungainly as possible, once the seamstresses had completed their measurements. A thick lining of wool here, an overly snug piece of wire-work there... it all added up. And on a day as devastating as that one, indulging in some spite and pettiness had been the least she could do, towards comforting herself.

She opened the thick folio before her, which would stay right there for the next few months, and read the first item of business: Regal Proclamations of a Monarch. Of course, Lucifer would put the appearance of authority ahead of any legitimate knowledge of courtly procedure. Which meant it would fall to her to rush after Sabrina with the information needed to excuse her every faux pas, or fill in the numerous blanks in her understanding of the true nature of Hell.

“I trust you've memorized the first page of proclamations?” She trusted no such thing, given the time the girl yet devoted to her mortal 'education'.

Sabrina nodded, solemnity coming to her features with unforeseen speed. “I have.”

“In English and Latin?”

“Yep. I mean, some of the Latin is kind of... tongue-twistery? But I think I've got it.”

Lilith did not bother to hide her genuine surprise. “And when did you have time for that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I had assumed Baxter High still preferred that students actually take part in lessons, but I suppose you do have the wherewithal to conceal your infernal study materials. Good of your mortal friends to suffer your split priorities.”

“Oh. Yeah, no, I totally glamoured my study notes. No big deal. And we, well, we had extra study hall today.”

“Ah, of course, you would do.” She pursed her lips, nodding along in approval. “And I trust you passed on my message verbatim?”

Sabrina broke off abruptly, seeming distracted by a note on her page which caused her to frown down and trace the line with her finger.

Lilith curled her lip; the pretence was too transparent to bear and she should by rights scold the girl for attempting to beguile someone like herself with cheap tactics. But more than annoyed, she was becoming worried.

“Sabrina,” she hissed, purposefully dropping all honorifics, “attention up here.” She lifted a stiff finger to rest against the tip of her nose, and waited until Sabrina's eyes alighted upon it. Then, slowly and with each word weighted, she continued: “Did you do as I said?”

Through the girl's dark, usually so bold eyes, Lilith saw lingering confusion, and it quickened her heartbeat, though she held back from asking again, not wishing to betray herself.

“Yeah, I did. Lilith. Geez, don't worry so much. It's just Baxter High.”

She wanted to exhale her tension, but was not yet able to. “And what did you tell Ms Glover?”

“Exactly what you told me to.”

She narrowed her eyes, feeling like they were playing some kind of game where straightforward answers were taboo. But getting worked up was doing her no good, and there was absolutely no need for her to play a single game with this girl. She interlaced her fingers and rested her hands upon the folio, put a thin smile on her red lips.

“I'm glad to hear it. And, not to question my young queen's mental faculties, but... you do recall, don't you, the exact boundaries of our agreement?”

Sabrina nodded as though offended that Lilith would even ask such a thing. “Of course. Don't worry, Lilith, I won't forget our deal.”

The more you tell me not to worry, the more my anxiety arches for the roof...

“Good. Not a single stray spell, or she'll be useless to my ritual.”

“She...?”

Lilith's eyes grew suddenly enormous and she leaned forward, fingers curling as they took her weight. “The Wardwell woman, Sabrina! Who in the Nine Circles do you think I'm talking about? Your precious teacher. The one you cast aside and who I have claimed for my own ritual purposes.”

Sabrina had involuntarily pulled back against her chair, drawing up one arm across her chest, which brought Lilith some pleasure at least.

“Wow, okay! Yeah, I thought you meant Ms Wardwell, I just wanted to check.”

“Why on earth would you need to check?” Lilith's voice was breathless with disbelief. Could there in fact be more wrong with this devil-begotten child than she had initially understood? Was she perhaps suffering from some kind of brain fever? It seemed a very real possibility and as such should be investigated.

Sabrina gave a slow and somewhat apologetic shrug, though her care was questionable.

Lilith pressed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “And of course, should you rescind on your side of the agreement, I will in fact be forced to expose you for what you did. I do not believe your family will be all that pleased when they learn how very full of contempt you are for keeping the proper balance of things.”

She saw to her satisfaction that Sabrina's face had turned pale at that quietly voiced threat, more so than Lilith would have expected; it was almost as if the girl were hearing the information for the first time. A brain fever was seeming more and more likely, or perhaps a parasite of some kind, picked up during Sabrina's adventures down in the Ninth Circle. Possibly off the decaying body of Vlad himself.

Sabrina licked her lips. “I won't break our agreement. But how did you even find out? I know you probably said, but...”

Lilith tilted her head, once more in disbelief. “It really does not take much to trace your psychic trail, literal or figurative, Sabrina. How you expected me not to notice is the truly insulting part of it all.”

The girl cast her eyes away from the table, mulling over her words. “I guess I underestimated you.”

“Most do, it would seem.” While she was no longer as concerned for Mary, her emotional reserves were being rapidly burnt up by aggravation, and if she was to make her way through an entire evening of recitations, she would need to put an end to it. And so she flourished graceful fingers, ran the back of her hand across the page as though smoothing it flat, and refreshed the air in her lungs as best she could. “Now then. My queen. Shall we begin?”

Chapter Text

Reared up on the hindmost of eight arachnoid legs, the librarian procured the final book, slowly lowered himself (eventually only reaching a third of the way up the shelves) and passed them to Lilith.

“Tagore of Kolkata's The Soul Untethered and the Circle of the Splinter's Anatomy of Accursed Infancy — unannotated, I'm afraid.” His eyes travelled to the pile of dust which had recently accumulated alongside the shelves. “Regretfully, Charodian's annotated version did not survive the journey.”

Lilith followed his gaze and curled her lip. “Of course. Why should anything be made any easier?”

The librarian bowed his balding grey head in further apology. “The barriers are not what they once were. I wish I could be of greater assistance.”

Lilith ignored the sentiment and leafed through the volumes before placing them too upon the already well-burdened library cart. She heard the old man clear his throat, a sound like lightly chafing sandpaper, and raised her eyebrows without turning to look at him. “Yes, Librarian?”

“If I may, Ma'am...” He pronounced the word mahm, and Lilith secretly appreciated the formality, the acknowledgement of her — albeit expired — station. “These volumes, on the nature of pre-infancy, the studies of the unborn soul... does Ma'am perhaps fear some difficulty in the birth of the future Lord?”

She side-eyed the cautious question. “In unprecedented situations like these, there is every reason to be as thoroughly informed as inhumanly possible. It would be short-sighted of me to leave any avenue of study unexplored.”

The librarian dipped his head again, revealing the prominent extra vertebra at the base of his neck. “Very wise, Ma'am. And may I say, a hearty congratulations on this miraculous conception.”

She scowled at this, remembering all too vividly the nature of that conception; of course, that was no business of this creature's ilk. “Indeed. This body has earned a great deal of prestige in its time. Fortunate mother that I am.”

The demon clicked his joints in a pattern which Lilith knew conveyed both the desire and reticence to ask a question.

“Oh spit it out,” she sighed.

“Ah, forgive me, but, I was only wondering... does Ma'am perhaps remember the birth of my brood?”

The memory shot across her skin, and she concealed her shiver beneath a cold chuckle. “How could I forget? Your hundreds of brothers and sisters left no inch of my flesh unpunctured and I bled until dawn of the next day.”

The demon bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and having apparently sensed her growing boredom, he extended an arm past Lilith to grip the cart's handle. “May I be of any further service this evening? Or shall I have these delivered to Ma'am's chambers?”

She conveyed her confirmation with a graceful movement of the hand and chin. “If you please, Librarian. There is nothing further for now.”

She began to leave, in the opposite direction to that which the librarian would travel to check out her books, when the light sandpapering noise sounded again and she paused. “Yes?”

The old voice was once more apologetic, yet sincere: “Your reign, Ma'am, it was... very agreeable. Those Who Scuttle Low were saddened, by what has transpired.”

Lilith allowed herself a hidden smile, though she kept it from colouring her speech. “That will be all, Librarian.”

Calling her new accommodation 'chambers' was nothing more than generous courtesy, suggesting that the place might contain more than one segmented room.

Though the entrance seemed stately enough, with bronze fixtures and blood-red vines which had taken to weaving around the doorframe, one glance inside the place revealed a cramped hallway, the end of which was largely taken up by a sturdy desk and hard wooden chair. A bed seemed entirely absent until one stepped fully inside, and it was revealed that a ladder ran over the room's single closet, leading to a landing. The narrow bed had been specifically chosen, Lilith knew, to emphasize the fact that there would be no one sharing the space with her. But the spite only amused her, as she had never found herself limited by the size of a bed.

And in truth, this smaller space suited her better. As queen, she had enjoyed a palatial set of chambers indeed — a bedroom within which three of Mary's cottages would have snugly fit — the centrepiece of which was a sprawling bed, piled high with fine golden silk and black linen, heavy drapes fitted to the four posters. Only the headboard touched the wall, all three other sides exposed horrendously to the yawning room. She had never once lain in it, instinctively repelled by the idea; for so many centuries, she had retreated to small spaces for safety, enclosed her body from all sides as would any wily beast. As would any soul who clung as tenaciously to life as she did.

Of course, that immense bed was a trap, and she knew far better than to nestle herself into a snare. A ruler of Hell must live in luxury, in order to show that she believes herself worthy of the position; she must have a bed large enough to host as many lovers as she might desire at once — or indeed, as many instances of lured prey; she must lie in the centre of the room, to show boldness, that she recognises no enemy, feels no need to fortify her skin; and, above all, she must sleep. For lying awake betrays fear, and a Queen must fear none.

Despite the nightmares which had ravaged her mind for as far back as she could presently remember, there were still times when the boon of unconsciousness was too great to resist. Therefore she had commissioned a day-bed, placed off to the far left corner of the room, partially-hidden behind an alcove's wall; in which to read, or simply to muse, she had told them. She had fitted the space with as many wards as she could without their interactions negating each other, as well as a decorative screen, ostensibly for privacy but more for potential ambush.

This new accommodation, on the edge of what could be considered the affluent portion of Pandemonium, had only one entrance to fortify, and afforded her all that she required from a place that was never going to feel like home anyway.

She removed her black blazer and arranged it on the back of the chair, her eyes pausing briefly on the hanging tote-bag of possessions that she had recovered from the cottage. The dust of the realm thick upon her body and spirit, she would have liked to step into the shower closet, but dared not, aware that at this hour it was entirely possible she would be summoned back to court, for some needless thing or other. And so instead she conjured a flame in the cooking pit, tucked behind one of the hallway compartments, and placed a kettle upon the metal grid above it; by some elegant enchantment, she was able to use bone china upon the open flame, and create for herself the illusion of civility.

No sooner had she sat down at the desk with her honey-sweetened juniper tea (both ingredients claimed from the cottage cupboards), than there was a rapping on the door, which she assumed to be the delivery of her abundant reading matter. Even so, she approached with light-footed caution, and observed the familiar shape through the spyhole before revealing herself.

The unassuming demon raised forlorn eyes to meet hers — far more boldly than perhaps he ought — his species' distinctive facial mottling giving him an even more bereft appearance, as though he had wept and violently smeared make-up across his face.

“Madam Lilith.”

“Minion.”

The coldness of her tone did not surprise him, but that didn't diminish its effect. “I'm... leaving Pandemonium. I wanted to say goodbye.”

She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms, moving to rest one shoulder against the doorframe. “It's not like you to be sentimental.”

“Nor you,” he said, eyes averted to reduce the audacity of his words. “But these have been trying times.”

She pursed her lips, inwardly experiencing a rush of shame at having allowed this lowly demon to see her emotions so raw, her dread so all-consuming, when she had unwrapped Lucifer's doll-shaped threat. It would not happen again. “Indeed. And you have done as expected by renouncing your loyalties to me, before the court, the Dark Lord and his fledgling heir.”

“It is a disgrace, Madam Lilith! The half-breed child has no place in Pandemonium, and the throne should—”

She shushed his rising passion with a swift gesture and a snarl of the lip. “Contain yourself, Minion. What's done is done. And it only weakens us to dwell upon past failures.” She straightened up with great dignity, spoke with slow deliberation. “One must always move forward. Or the ground will swallow us whole.”

“Yes, Madam Lilith...”

As intended, she had pulled the fight out of him. Which was ultimately for his own good.

Yet, much as she tried not to hear it, something within her, a gentleness which had no place in this Inferno, was urging her to say more. Worse, the voice sounded suspiciously like Mary. And so, propriety cast aside, she relented:

“You served me well, Minion. No matter what you must say publicly, I know that your loyalty will follow you to the grave. It will not be forgotten.”

The demon's inky face split with a white smile and, hands clasped behind his back, he bowed stiffly, parallel to the ground. Once his deceptively-youthful eyes again met hers, she could tell that further devotions sat waiting on his lips, but he only shook his head in resignation.

“It was an honour. Goodbye, and... good luck. Madam Lilith.”

She was not quick enough to hide the stirring of her emotions at that small well-wish, and tried to cover it by moving a hand across to her hair, as though separating strands from her lashes. “And to you. Kairheun.”

The demon's eyes lit up at the use of his name, but he was wise enough not to stand around, taking his parting gift with a final beam of kohl-ish cheeks, and jogging out of sight.

Once more alone, Lilith exhaled loudly and swung the door shut, leaned back against it.

“Get out of my head, Wardwell...” she muttered, clenching her eyes shut and resting her fingertips lightly upon her forehead. “This is no place for reckless empathy.”

To which she knew, were Mary somehow standing in this wretched realm, in this meagre stretch of corridor, the earnest mortal would be smiling.

Chapter Text

The sun had not yet committed to rising when Mary pulled into her parking space, and only gingerly began to do so, sending thin light through the staffroom windows, as she opened her locker and quickly deposited the sturdy heap of graded papers. She could not risk anybody seeing her with them, not only because it might lead to questions regarding when on earth she had found the time to get through so many, but because it was very likely to result in other members of staff begging her aid, complimenting her speed as part of transparent manipulations. And she wanted none of it. Her mind was far too full of more pressing matters. And anyway, Lilith's gift had been for her. Not them.

Hands free of incriminating evidence, she dropped her satchel on the usual grey, padded seat and made her way to the hot water dispenser, a hulking wartime relic which always left the water with a slightly off-putting taste and odour, and so was best used when it had recently been filled. The provided teabags came in packs of five hundred, and the acrid scent of tannin rose up when one opened the box as a warning: a half minute too long, and the tea would be sharp and bitter, which could only be marginally concealed with two sugars (and which, in the three-minute tea cups afforded the staff, made it almost too sickening to stomach anyway). The coffee suffered worse from the water quality, and Mary would not put herself through that unless she found herself stumbling into school, legs buckling with exhaustion, and needing caffeine more than respecting her taste-buds would allow.

She sometimes wondered whether the state of the refreshments were purposefully intended to keep the staff from relaxing too long, as having a cup of tea in hand was usually enough of an excuse to take a breather, and avoiding it only made one hover awkwardly before giving up and going to one's classroom. If that were true, then it would explain why so many teachers insisted on refilling their cups, attempting to hide their curled lips behind gossip, refusing to have the precious moments they could steal back being ruined by cheap psychological tactics.

...Twenty-nine... thirty.

She fished the teabag out with a spoon, careful not to squeeze the bag unduly, and deposited it in the intended bowl. She was pleased to note that hers was the first one there, as it was a further indicator that other staff members were not likely to burst out of the couch cushions and disrupt the almost unnatural quiet of the room.

Yet as she lingered in it, Mary found that the silence was not the only thing that felt unnatural. Carefully lowering herself into the chair, she realised that the whole place seemed to exist a little bit out of phase with her head. Everything which was commonplace — from the look of the furniture to the scent of pot-pourri and paperwork — felt strange. Not strange in the way that the world had seemed strange when she had first 'woken up' a month ago, suddenly solid once more, experiencing hunger once more, her senses confused by all the varied colours and sounds. But rather, strange because it was so mundane. It seemed flat. Almost insultingly so.

Someone had pulled back the curtain for her (multiple someones, as it happened, though she preferred not to think about that), and now that she had seen the bare bones of reality and the things that lay in the shadows, it felt like a lie to merely exist in this predictable place. What was the use of any of it, when suffering lurked just outside the frame, more terrible than anyone could imagine, and just as real as any waking day had been? Less than a week ago, a feeling like this would have sent her spinning, pleading for sanity, gasping for breath as she clutched onto whatever physical thing might offer to ground her. But this time, it only caused a deep furrow in her brow, as she stared down at the dull russet of the tea.

“How nice to see you, Mary.”

The words entered her consciousness from across the room, but took a moment to translate into action, such that the speaker had moved far too close, far too quickly before she lifted her head.

“Oh, Mr Simmons, good morning.”

The man smiled and Mary knew that it was amusement at her slow uptake. As though nothing could have been more important than acknowledging his entrance. He thought she was strange, and that was fine, most people seemed to. It meant that she wasn't forced to take part in every shallow conversation, and that, for the most part, she was not interrupted while reading or working. Or at least, that had been the case, back before... October. Before October. For the first week after she had returned to school, there had been far too many eyes upon her, people casually asking what her plans were for the weekend, or wondering whether she might give her opinion on some thing or other.

She used to think it was just their concern taking disparate forms, that they were just trying to be nice or supportive (whereas it had instead become very quickly stifling). But now, finally, she understood: it was because of who she had been. While she was not herself. And the sorts of things she had done, while her cold, unmoving body had done nothing at all.

The demands had faded away eventually, though, once they figured out that 'Principal Wardwell' was not coming back, that her abdication meant more than just a downgrade in responsibility.

“Did you enjoy your vacation yesterday?”

Of course he wasn't done with her yet. She raised her face again, trying to convey a desire for peace with her eyes, but expecting it to be ignored. She would just have to weather this exhausting game.

“I'm sorry?”

He sat down on the seat across from her, laid his briefcase on the low coffee table between them. “Yesterday. Or...”

Please don't say it.

“...do you not remember?”

She smiled tightly, the tea in her hands keeping her from hugging herself. “I remember. Forgive me, Mr Simmons, I was quite overcome with a migraine. I would have been very poor use to my students in such a state.”

“A migraine?” He raised an eyebrow, wanting her to know that he doubted her, despite the sympathy he put in his voice. “That must have been rough. My Penny suffers from those, you know, it's the stress of the advertising world, they're always,” he made a swift beeline of a gesture, "shooting around like rocketships.”

“That sounds very challenging indeed.” She raised the tea, noting how perilously close to empty the cup had become. Perhaps it would be possible to go over for a refill, and escape.

There were two more staff members coming over, drawn by the conversation and Mary's mere existence.

“Welcome back, Mary. Did you have a good holiday?” asked Mrs Peters, the mathematics teacher.

Simmons laughed at that, looking back at Mary as though they had both witnessed the birth of an in-joke — rather than, in fact, one of the oldest forms of barbed teasing known to staffrooms the world over. It was all in good fun, of course. If fun meant swallowing the need to defend oneself, and never allowing for the possibility that the problem lay not with the overworked individual, but the institution itself (she remembered Lilith's words on the subject, which quashed the tendency to doubt herself).

Still they stared at her, waiting to see whether she would deny them further, or capitulate and admit that she had defrauded the system to gain a long weekend. The air radiated with their expectation and it was becoming hard to breathe. She wasn't about to show them that, though.

“It was... a migraine,” Mary murmured, then placed her tea cup down on the table and pulled her satchel into her lap. “Please excuse me, I've, I've got so much to catch up on. I'm sorry.”

She would have to come back for the morning meeting, but by then the place would be fully staffed, and they would have their eyes on Ms Glover, or their papers, and would have long forgotten about the soft target of Mary's reputation.

Her reputations.

It did not take more than three dry-throated swallows before she reached her office and sat down hurriedly in the chair, resting her face in her hands before the anxiety could fully bloom and create worse problems. A few moments were all she needed to steady herself (it was fairly easy, if she could marshal her thoughts early enough), and she let her hands slide into her lap, braced them against her thighs and took a deep breath, exhaled as her eyes travelled across the book-strewn terrain of her desk.

To an outsider, it might seem like chaos, but she had clear divisions in her mind: some books merited more in-depth focus, others had proven largely worthless (but were kept just in case); some were written in their native English, others were translations (which had to be carefully combed through for nuance which might have been lost in translation); some were novels and verse, others occult collections written as histories or instruction. And then there were her notebooks, mostly packed away in drawers, but others exposed where she had left them, still in-use. She would have to neaten it all up now, on a Tuesday morning, as staff and students would be in and out all day; even if no one took an especially close look at the volumes themselves, projecting the image of someone lost feverishly in her research would not do her any favours.

Then the thought occurred which refreshed her lungs from bottom to top: while it could not be said that this endeavour was meaningless, it was no longer a crucial one, as she, Mary Wardwell, had gained access to a primary source. She did not need to confirm whether a given passage referred to a physical Hell or a figurative one, because she knew someone who could describe the place first-hand, and answer her questions directly. Of course, Lilith could not have catalogued each and every mortal journey into Hell (nor, Mary suspected, would she care to). But that hardly mattered. Because the knowledge she had been seeking most of all — what was real and what was derangement — had been delivered unto her. And not merely regarding her own fate (and fate-undone), but the existence of an entire veiled world of magic, which had thereto only been a topic of guilty curiosity.

She began to neaten the scene, closing volumes and piling them up, ready to be returned to their shelves, a distant giddiness growing in her chest, with every book she put aside. Then she saw that the bottom-most desk drawer on the right was open — which was not in itself unusual, as she recalled hastily shoving her dreams journal in there when she had been intruded upon the previous week, and also recalled that it had not been able to close, with the more attractive writing journal she kept in there, as well as the stack of student exam papers which had amassed over the past however many years. Except, the dream journal wasn't lodged, but rather neatly position in the drawer, and a couple of bent pages lay on the ground nearby. Her memory had never been photographic and she attempted to think nothing of it, but the chord of concern had been struck: in her absence, had someone gone through her things? Only the caretaker had keys to every room, and Mary was usually very good at keeping it locked when she was out and about the school. But if someone had gotten in, they could well have read a page bearing the phrase “things I think I've seen (possibly not dreams)”, and could well have felt compelled to speak of her delirium to Ms Glover, or at the very least add it to the already bountiful gossip amongst the staff. It was one thing to say she had been having nightmares (and nobody had cared to ask much about those, as most peoples' dreams are boring when heard but not experienced), but it was another thing altogether to believe herself a survivor of literal Damnation.

She could never ask, of course. That would give the game away. She could only pretend, and hope that this was merely something she herself had done and forgotten about. There was no more desirable answer than her own fallibility.

A space had been cleared in the centre of the desk, and she frowned her way through the unpacking of books from her satchel, working to clear a corresponding space within her mind. The unfamiliar volumes went on top, and she was about to start flipping through the first when a flat shape caught her eye, just inside the doorway. She had not noticed it during her hurried entrance, and may have kicked it a little further into the room. Before she even approached the envelope, however, she knew the general shape of what it would contain, with only the specifics undiscovered.

Within the plain, office-stock envelope (probably acquired from dear, accommodating Mrs Meeks), a sheet of A4 notepaper had been folded in three:

Dear Miss Wardwell,

I'm sorry to hear you were sick yesterday. We missed you a lot and hope you feel better.

Kind regards,
Brandon

(P.S. You look really pretty with your hair down, maybe you'll do it again some time?)

It was always post scriptum where they put it, as though it were an after-thought, rather than the main motivation for the letter. This time it was Brandon, but she recognised the handwriting from the Kayla of the previous week, the Tracy before that; the penmanship attempted to change, but the student was no professional counterfeiter. She very much doubted whether he had gotten permission to use his classmate's names — especially not in the case of the letter marked 'Susie', where the author had shown no interest in respecting Theo's identity when roping him into this campaign.

“You looked like a movie star in that red dress”,

“You were my favourite principal”,

“Could you maybe teach me how to intimidate bullies like you can?”

They wanted Lilith back, and it hurt. In a different way to how it had before. She tried not to place too much weight on the thoughts of one student, but the trouble was that there were likely many, many more with the same desire but without this one's flare for intrigue. They meant well, on some level at least. They were showing support for a version of her which had, from their perspectives, flourished and then vanished. And given that it was Lilith, given her overwhelming charisma and force of personality, there was no way a mere Mary could measure up.

She couldn't deny that it made her angry. She understood the situation Lilith had been put in by the Devil, how failing in this masquerade would have meant her destruction. But then why not simply play the role which she already embodied, rather than trying to improve upon it? She didn't have to use her thousands of years worth of experience to steal every heart and mind in Mary's small life. She didn't have to slip so adroitly into the suddenly vacant office of principal (and Mary was going to have to ask quite firmly how much Lilith truly knew about the unsolved matter of Hawthorne's total disappearance). She didn't have to take the humble legacy Mary had built up at Baxter High and reveal how unremarkable it had in fact been.

But then, how could you not? With everything that you are.

I shouldn't resent you for being extraordinary, no more than I should resent the moon for its beauty or the waves for their power. How could I expect the First Woman, the First Witch, to think and be so small?

She placed the letter back in its envelope and dropped it in the waste-paper basket. There was little point in keeping them, since they weren't really for her anyway, and if the relevant student ever saw them filed away, it would send the wrong signals.

No sooner had she returned to her seat and placed her fingertips lightly upon the graven leather cover of the book, than a knock came from the door, which she had not yet fully closed. She startled, pulling her hands back into her lap, and swallowed carefully before calling out for the visitor to enter.

As the platinum blonde head came into view, Mary's heart seized: it was inevitable that this would happen, but she was never going to be ready, and she had rather hoped it would not happen one-on-one. She coughed as her heart swung back into step, and hid it in a further clearing of her throat. The smile she shaped felt against her lips as though terror had to be writ large upon them, and she prayed that it was not so.

“Sabrina,” she said as gently, as affectionately as she could manage, while her fingers dug into the tweed at her thighs, “how nice to see you so early. Is there... is there something that you need?”

Chapter Text

Sabrina beamed berry-stained lips and moved towards the desk, casually but still far too quickly for Mary's nerves, and she found herself clasping her hands together tightly in her lap; certain that the tension must be showing in her shoulders, she forced herself to take a breath and relax them.

'Is there something that you need?'

It was what she always found herself saying, when a student stood in her office doorway. A foolish impulse, she had begun to realise.

“Oh, no, not at all, Ms Wardwell!” said Sabrina, still smiling in that carefree, youthful way that Mary used to find so warming. “Can I sit down for a sec?”

Mary gestured at the empty seat across from her, sure to return her hand to her lap as soon as possible. “Of course. Is something the matter?”

She could pick up the disturbance in her voice, but was fairly certain it was not obvious. During the moments since the girl's arrival, she had taken stock of the situation and of her own reactions, steadily moderating them; extreme circumstances notwithstanding, this was hardly the first time she had had to conceal her emotions in front of a student.

Back in the foreign land of the previous afternoon, she had mentioned her conversation with Hilda Spellman to Lilith, who had been of the opinion that Sabrina's aunt was unlikely to chastise her about what had occurred, if she even mentioned their meeting at all. The idea that Hilda could appear so apologetic yet merely pay lip-service to making amends, it was distressing to say the least, but Lilith had emphasised that bonds between witches were seen as far more sacred than those with mortals, and were to be protected at any cost. And with that in mind, the child may have no idea that Mary's memories had been, if not restored, at least synopsised for her. On the other hand, she could be fully aware and have arrived to erase any and all memories Mary may have gained over the past few days, memories so valuable that losing them would be akin to losing herself once more.

Sabrina slipped neatly into the chair, shaking her head. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

The phrase was so familiar. She was certain the girl had said it before, the last time she had been in here, asking about Mary's dreams and then exiting all of a sudden, just as soon as Mary had posited the possibility of a person physically journeying to Hell, metaphors aside. At the time, it had felt pleasant, that fleeting show of concern; brief as it was, it had given her some solace to express those thoughts. But rather than concern, the truth was presumably that it was merely another show of lip-service, an empty gesture towards somebody whose trauma was easily understood by a girl in Sabrina's position.

The Devil's Daughter. Of course she would be no stranger to the concept of Hell.

And yet she never told me. She never once tried to put my mind at ease. Even while she could not fail to notice me falling to pieces...

Mary put an appreciative smile on her face. “I'm just fine, Sabrina, really, but thank you for worrying about me. I expect it was merely the result of a busy weekend, and, as you know,” she briefly waved in the direction of her frontal lobe, “I'm still uncertain of what's truly wrong with me. With my thoughts.”

She knitted her brows, knowing that she should by rights be confronting the girl rather than misdirecting her, but well-aware that this was the wiser course of action, when sat across from someone who could manhandle minds with ease and evidently had no qualms about doing so. Alone and vulnerable, she could only feign ignorance and hope that Sabrina would take her at her word.

She met the girl's gaze, allowing the fatigue to show in the sag of her sizeable eyelids. “It is possible that I have sustained some damage that the doctors have not yet been able to identify, perhaps some kind of tumour, which may be causing me to tire more quickly.”

Sabrina nodded solemnly. “I'm sorry, that sounds really exhausting. Did you enjoy the carnival at least?”

She didn't remember much of it at all. It was not something that had seemed all that important, but if Sabrina was bringing it up, she had to wonder whether there was some noteworthiness to it after all. To have to retroactively doubt the intention of every word from a once-beloved student, that was the truly exhausting thing.

“It's always nice to have a distraction, I suppose.”

Sabrina leaned forward almost imperceptibly in the chair. “And your nightmares? Are they getting any better?”

“They... vacillate. Some nights are worse than others, and on occasion I have found myself waking up in places I did not fall asleep.” She lifted a finger, as though just then remembering an example. “My sofa, for instance. Just this past weekend.”

Sabrina's expression revealed that this had put something at ease for her, though she couched it in further concern: “You're sleepwalking?”

“Yes, I... I had the most dreadful nightmare that I was,” she slowed, pretending to have some difficulty recalling, “restrained... perhaps trapped. Physically bound somehow. And I expect it led my body to take matters into its own hands and,” she gave a nervous laugh, "try to escape.”

“Oh my gosh, that's awful,” Sabrina frowned in sympathy then glanced away, towards the door, and Mary wondered whether the girl was in fact capable of feeling guilt.

“Forgive me, Sabrina, but do you mind if we continue this another time? It's just that I have a few things to get in order before the staff meeting, and...”

Given the prompt, Sabrina wasted no time in acquiescing.

“Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry Ms Wardwell, I'll leave you to get on with your work. I'm really glad you're feeling better, though.”

The smile looked so genuine, that for a moment Mary believed it, before she caught herself and felt the darkness in her chest. It soon lifted, though, once the source of her dread had made its swift exit, and she turned her attention back to the books, in particular that venerable leather-bound volume which stood out so distinctly beside the more modern publications.

'Oure Gratius Ladye of Dispayre and her Propereste Worship'

She traced the letters that were hand-carved into the tanned hide, just as she had around nine hours ago, sitting in her car outside the occult book-store, unable to open it and examine the swirling script within, for fear that she might not be able to stop reading and end up falling asleep on this strange road, half an hour outside of Riverdale, in an area with no clear designation.

After Lilith had departed, Mary had spent some benumbed minutes staring into the hearth, before contemplation resumed and quickly gave way to action: if she was to be as helpful to Lilith as she claimed she could, there was no reason to wait for another weekend, or even another day; nor was there any cause for hesitation when she picked up the receiver and dialled the only other person she knew with as much interest in supernatural literature as she.

The place, when she came to it, appeared to be a cottage much like her own, and was marked by a brass sign, partially obscured by ornamental poplars:

Tabula Arcana
(knock & enter)

Mary had obeyed and found that the door gave way silently, wondered whether such lax security reflected more upon the area or the proprietor. Unlike Cerberus Books, the store was a cramped maze of shelves, with no inch wasted on frivolities like lamps or tables — the most she found had been a step-ladder, upon which she had tentatively put a foot, intending to access a promising volume that lay just out of reach.

“What are you looking for?” a husky female voice had called from nowhere, and Mary spun around, seeking its source.

She had not seen the proprietor upon entry; understandably, so, as the woman was tucked into a dark corner, draped in a shawl, and with only an amber desk-lamp to illuminate her stolid features; she seemed to have been carved out of the same oak as her desk, just as rooted and smoothly oiled. Her solid body bent forward in the manner of a football player, and her thick grey dreadlocks were pulled back from her face and bound at the nape. Past small round glasses that sat low on her nose, she had raised the skin where eyebrows had once been, awaiting Mary's reply.

Struck with embarrassment, she had faltered. “Oh, well, um, that is I...”

“Take your time.” Gruffness notwithstanding, the sentiment was genuine.

“My... my friend told me about your store. Um, Richard— that is, Doctor Cerberus. He said you were open all night so it wouldn't be a problem if I—“

“I am. And it is not. So, tell me, what are you looking for?” Her face barely moved, but Mary had seen in it a wealth of patience, which gave her the courage to take a breath and admit her purpose:

“I'm looking for, um, I want to learn more about a certain figure, anything you might have about, about.... Lilith.” It had felt awkward to say the name out loud, though why she could not have said.

The owner hadn't seemed to mind, only replied with a hint of interest. “You came here, to my shop, at this time of night, to read up on the so-called 'first witch'?”

“Yes? Why, is that... should I not have?”

“I just want to be clear. What sort of literature are you looking for?”

“Something that will help me understand her better. Her, um, history, that is. Her stories.”

“From which perspective?”

“Hers.” The answer had come immediately, without consideration, which brought a further twinkle of interest to the old woman's eyes, and sent her searching Mary's face for so long that she had to avert her eyes, feeling as though her soul had become far too visible.

“Then you'd better come with me.”

In the back room, where the shelves were just as full but the books clearly older, the woman had handed Mary the same graven leather volume which now sat on her office desk, beneath her poised fingertips. For some time, though, she would not let go of the book, merely continued to bore her deep brown eyes into Mary's anxious blues.

“You know, don't you?” she had said at length.

“Know?” she had queried, though the implications were clear.

“You know things. And you've been places. I can tell just by looking at you. You've been starved for knowledge,” her eyes moved down to Mary's hands where they gripped the book, knuckles whitened, “and now you can't get enough of it.”

Mary's face turned away in shame, unsettled that the woman had been able to read so much; she hadn't bothered to question how it was possible.

“Now, don't misunderstand me,” she had continued, finally releasing the book into Mary's care, “I'm not giving this to you. I'm not selling it to you either, no way you could afford it. But I believe you'll bring it back to me when you've found what you need.”

“Then... by when do you need it back?”

She had reached over a broad hand and patted Mary on the upper arm. “This isn't a library. It's a collection. And it's mine to curate. You just bring it back here before these bones turn to dust, and I'll call it a fair agreement.”

Mary's heart had leapt in gratitude as she pulled the book against her chest. “I'll bring it back as soon as I can. Thank you so much, you're far too kind. That is, for someone who's never even met me.”

The woman had shrugged, a relaxed, rolling motion. “Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how you look at it.”

She had sent Mary on her way with an additional couple of books from the front of the store, whose price amounted to a week's worth of groceries between them — not that the expenditure meant anything when compared to the wealth she might glean from their pages.

Back at the cottage, she had placed them on the coffee table, beside her and Lilith's empty wine glasses; juxtaposed against books detailing that mercurial, mythic figure, that sensual creature of countless allegories, it had felt more crucial than ever to have mundane evidence of Lilith's existence in her life. Which the traces of lipstick upon both their glasses — a deep red that Mary had never worn in her life — had been concrete enough to yield.

From where it was mounted, just above her office door, the first bell assaulted her reverie and Mary jolted back from the book. A hushed curse slipped from her lips at making herself late for the staff meeting, despite having arrived so early. She laid the book and its mates on her chair, out of sight, lest she have company on returning. Then she grabbed a pile of examination papers, with which to suggest that she had been held up in the copy room, double-checked that the door was locked behind her, and set off down the corridor as quickly as was sensible, for both her shoes and her dignity.

Chapter Text

'The soul untethered is nonetheless driven to its intended vessel by the call of its mother, a form of psychomancy which comes naturally to witch and mortal alike (although witches call similarly gifted souls)...'

Lilith fought to keep her eyes on the words, much as they preferred to dance anywhere but.

It was so quiet here, in her snug lair with its raised sleeping area that provided an easy ambush for any who might enter unannounced. Only the most essential sounds were there. Barely even breath.

'In this form, the soul knows only trust and is highly susceptible to suggestion. It does not understand the concept of refusal, merely seeks out the smoothest route to comfort...'

She had been at court for so unreasonably long — absurdly so, even by Lucifer's demanding standards. He was notoriously disinterested in paperwork, beyond the fine-print of his Deals with mortals, but this time he was deeply invested, having Lilith check footnote after footnote, so that his precious Sabrina would have the ironclad documentation she required to both rule and not rule, to dictate law but not stand by it (Lilith knew that he recognised himself in Sabrina and knew where her whims might take her). And above all else, the text must cement that, due to Sabrina's trifling time on both planet and throne, Lucifer Morningstar, the Dark Lord Satan Himself, would still, for all practical purposes, be ruler of Hell. Within the two-tiered rule of Morningstars, what role could fall to Lilith but that of wicked step-mother to the child queen? To the child bride...

Her eyelashes fluttered, for a few instants vanishing both book and room into pulsing shadows.

'It is lured into the cage of flesh unwittingly, by the siren song of the woman, and then trapped in her womb, the cage door swung shut to confine it until mortal doom or magical exhaustion again frees it into the Ethereal Plane.'

Her lips had grown dry at the behest of her tempered breaths and she folded them inward, nibbling on the lower before it slipped loose. There was a rising tremor in her hands, and steadying the book became her new priority.

'In this way, the soul learns resentment, though it does not pass that knowledge onto its conscious mind, once it is developed...”

She repositioned herself on the bed, shifting her bent limbs to regain their feeling just a little. By necessity, she propped herself upon an elbow, holding the book close to her face, with just two trembling fingers curled over the top of its spine.

'...Rather it stews in the sinews, and rages against each loving touch...”

Her supporting hand took tight hold of the black cotton pillow and a frown cut deep between her eyes, which again lost their purchase on the words, over and over.

'...for love shares a taste with that initial, pre-life entrapment, which was absolutely unforgivable.'

With only the briefest of warnings, she arched roughly, her chin piercing the air above a tight, high-pitched gasp. Her eyes finally, blessedly, shut, she took some calming breaths, refreshing her lungs just as the sweet chemicals flooded her brain, pouring honeyed ambrosia over her frayed nerve endings. She felt rather than saw the shifting of the form between her legs, and allowed her knees to soften, her calves to slide smoothly down onto the coolness of the thin sheets.

A quick quirk of amusement came to one half of her face, and she brought up her fingers, sans book, to touch her parched lips, the sensation escorting her reason back from the void.

Blinking the room back into view, she saw the golden face of the succubus tilting up at her, dark sclera and yellow slit pupils gleaming with newly-acquired energy. Lilith swallowed a few times to prevent her voice from cracking, and replied, in tones deep and breathy.

“Did you get what you came for?”

Smooth in a way which was not quite snake, not quite velvet, the creature's body brushed against hers, and Lilith could not yet contain the shiver it brought to her flesh. And the answering voice, which was half hiss, half purr, came brimming with satisfaction. “It's an honour as always, Mistress. Yours is an essence most rare.”

Another twitch of a smirk passed Lilith's lips; not that she would admit it out loud, but the praise, the acknowledgement of who and what she was, and the implicit value therein... it made her blood sing. It was fortunate that she could still find those who would remind her of that value, when millennium after millennium he had denied it, attempted to diminish and debase it.

The succubus stood, her unclothed form — dull brass when she had snuck into the apartment, the wards remembering their prior agreement — now shining a lustrous copper, and her thin, barbed tail flicked deftly as it steadied her vertical balance. Her focus shifted to the edge of the landing, where Lilith's book had, in the commotion, been flung and now teetered. She picked it up with nimble hands and read the cover, blinking far more often than would most creatures.

“The pregnancy, Mistress Lilith... I can taste it.”

All traces of a smile left Lilith's lips at that; it was absolutely the last thing she wanted to think about in this post-coital glow.

Spurred on by stolen energy, the succubus took her silence as an invitation to speak further.

“Why are you reading these sorts of books? Do you mean to—”

“My choice of study is my own affair and I expect you to remember that.” Queenly timbre had taken over her voice and the succubus quickly dipped her head in apology.

“Of course! I do not wish to anger you, but...” Black and golden eyes sought out hers, bright with chemical devotion, “if you do not wish to bear... I could remove it for you. There would be no pain.”

Lilith knew very well how enriching a treat that would be for the creature, and indeed, while the thought of having her womb licked clean by that talented tongue was far from unpleasant, it would not do to fantasize about freedom from the bane. Not when she had made herself so vulnerable in an attempt to accept it. Not when... the Wardwell woman had accepted it. And striven with all her mortal might to bolster Lilith's spirit.

'The Wardwell woman.'

That was how she must stay: for both their sakes, Lilith could not risk slipping up.

She fixed the succubus with her piercing blue gaze, relaxing back in a manner which was far more dominant than standing could ever be. “That will not be necessary. Thank you.”

'Thank you'?

Yes, it had surprised the creature too.

Lilith raised her chin. “I will thank you to not speak of this again. Should you wish to continue making these unscheduled visits.”

“Of course. I understand.”

Good. All was as it should be.

“You may take your leave of me now. Even in my... reduced capacity within the ruling classes, I still have a wealth of issues to attend to.”

The succubus dipped her head, a movement which fluidly became a mounting of the ladder and the beginnings of a descent.

Watching the disappearance of that hairless crown, Lilith sighed, already annoyed with herself:

“Wait.”

When the face reappeared, tilting in curiosity, Lilith motioned one hand towards the wall across from her, sending a coil of darkness to splash against it and leaving a depth of shade upon the smooth surface. “Leave this way. The wraiths will be drifting outside by now, and I'd hate for my life-force to be swallowed down such unworthy throats.”

Both her life-force and the succubus's soul, Lilith knew, though she would not acknowledge any of that protectiveness.

With quick agility, the creature was back, peering on her haunches into the inky gateway. She did not pause to question the aid, merely slipped one foot through then the other, golden tail whipping as she picked up speed and vanished.

Lilith's fingers shaped a pulling and closing gesture, and the darkness dried up and faded into the floor, ensuring that she was alone once more — alone, that was, aside from the small city of books which surrounded the bed, decorated in places with the belongings she wished to keep close by.

With only the lightest of grumbles, she rose and resettled herself cross-legged on the bed, reaching over to soothe her throat with the cold tea she had prepared for her studies, before the admittedly pleasurable interruption. Then she recovered her notebook and stationery from behind the bed, opened it to the page where she had left off, and clicked the callous-causing multipen's ink to green.

Across multiple authors and ages, the books had emphasised the brutal and inescapable depletion of spirit which a magically potent babe would inflict upon its mother, a circle of suffering whereby the more powerful the witch, the more the child would seek to take. Lilith's experiences in birthing demons, torturous as they had been, seemed ever more palatable in comparison; what terrible strain this hybrid baby would place upon both her body and her mind, she did not wish to imagine.

And yet, running her fingers lightly across the yellowed scritta paper, she found her tactile memories of some hours previous returning: a succubus having her ravenous way with a mortal would cripple his spirit within minutes, leaving nothing but a shivering husk who, for the rest of his days, could only stare empty-eyed at mortal companions, and yearn for that which he could not name.

But for Lilith? The corps-à-corps had been akin to an ocean's dance with the tide, where no matter the pull, there was always another wave ready to roll in. It seemed her spirit would never run dry, and perhaps that was to be expected: her life begun as an exploration of the human animal by her fickle Creator, to continue for as long as He willed it. The pair of them had been expected to run around in their little walled paradise, building their relationships with the pristine world around them, and with each other, all for his curiosity. He would not have wanted the test subjects to expire before he could grow bored with them, and indeed, in her case, Lilith thought bitterly, she would have to be able to withstand whatever her 'betrothed' cared to mete out.

Which was, of course, largely to thank for her stellar success as Mother of Demons. For what other woman could survive such perversions with her spirit intact (much as it often seemed that she had not)?

Realising she had taken to staring blankly at the featureless wall, she returned her attention to the book:

'It is a foible often made that the mother's energy may be misdirected, dooming her unborn young by her own frivolity of spirit. By temptation or folly, she might channel that vital source of life towards a vampire (literal or figurative), betraying her young and tarnishing her duty. It is a foolishness doubly hazardous to the Witch, upon whom His Dark Wrath may descend for the neglect of His herd.”

She shut the book in annoyance, having heard quite enough of her responsibilities to Lucifer and his hypothetical offspring for one day. There was only one responsibility which mattered, and it was that which she held towards herself.

Not to anybody else.

(No matter how the feelings tugged at her arm, beckoned her in a small voice.)

Mortality was fleeting, and there was no mending that; not without destroying its essential precious nature...

Then time stopped for an instant, the notion frozen before she could wander off into hopelessness once more.

She stared past the book, tapping a regular rhythm out upon its cover and chewing lightly on her lower lip, as strands of thought began to materialise in the silence of the room, growing moment by moment more complex, until they hung in the air like spider's silk.

With dreamy movements, she sought out a book from her own small but ancient collection, and flipped through it with the merest spark of a memory directing her hand. The previous book's mention of energy 'misdirected', the possibility of its wilful re-direction, itched at her mind.

Re-direction...

Re-allocation...

Channeling...

Sharing.

These were not concepts known to Hell.

They were older. Ideas of the soil.

The very soil which she had felt between her fingers and toes, down on all fours, as she gained an understanding of the Wastes and found them to be not so perilous after all.

Then her eyes alighted on the page her mind had remembered from a thousand years past, and her heartbeat quickened: if the spell — the ritual — was as she thought, it could be what they needed, it could grant—

'...and lo, being witches both, their hands may align, and move as the minutes and seconds of sacred time itself.'

She clenched her eyes at the weight of her disappointment, and at the humiliation she had wrought upon herself by hoping.

'Being witches both.'

Useless.

She cast the book aside and turned her back on the lot of them, nauseated at the thought of spending another moment in pointless study. She needed to leave it all behind, and swung herself onto the ladder, dropped down to ground level.

She hungered for a distraction of some opposite kind, where she could replace intellectual absorption with creativity.

She was sick to death of the old. She needed to make something new.

Across the top of her work desk, above the little drawers and vertical compartments, clear jars and small tins were laid out. She chose one and emptied some of its colourful contents into her palm, opened another and claimed various squares of fabric, a needle, multiple threads. Spreading the items out in front of her, she experienced a growing calm; she could almost hear it, the crackling of the fireplace, the gentle chime of glass against glass.

It was unclear what she was making, and that was just fine, it felt good to let her hands move of their own accord and watch it take form from some distant vantage point inside her own head. Some of the fabrics would not readily join, and she had to exchange her needle for a thicker one. Others were so delicate that the sewing holes began to fray the fibres and risk pulling the whole thing apart. She re-enforced edges and added linings, sewed eyelets which could hold ribbons should she later desire.

Whatever it was that she pieced together with her skilful artisan's hands, it would be made to last, she knew that without question. She never created anything with the intention of letting it fall apart. The stronger the fabric, after all, the stronger the magic. The more precise the stitching, the more nuanced the spell. And because casting with the aid of material components often involved a fair bit of scavenging, it was vital that the witch be able to make allowances for changes in the design.

She positioned the little creature, newly stuffed with almond-scented cotton-wool, on its irregular legs: a patchwork poppet, absurd but stronger than the sum of its parts. Then her eyes widened, her mind informing her of something which should have been obvious, but which rigidity of thought had kept her from seeing.

“You forgot, didn't you?” she murmured. “The strange and beautiful things we can do... you forgot why we call it witchcraft.”

Chapter Text

Once again it was Friday, and that meant that Mary didn't have to stop if she didn't want to, not even when the sun traded places with the moon; until this task was done, one heavenly body was as good as the next. She had taken to beginning her nightly sessions with a tot of brandy, which she would nurse as slowly as she could, before her left hand became lonely again, while the right busied itself with the rhythmic turning of pages, interrupted only by the time it took for Mary to blink accuracy back into her eyes.

For the past two and a half weeks, evening after evening, she had sat before the hearth with the leather-bound tome, accompanied by a Latin dictionary and linguistic guides to Aramaic for when it cropped up from time to time; she had hoped that her academic pedigree would have been enough to carry her through whatever deviations in grammar the archaic English might throw her way, and for the most part she had managed it, as the differences were usually phonetically congruent.

This night marked the third in which she attempted to re-read the volume without consulting her reference materials, believing that increased comprehension would allow her to experience the hand-written passages more organically, to more fully immerse herself in its surging emotions. And indeed, for the third consecutive night, she read with tears streaming down her face, so habitually that she barely even noticed. The catalyst varied, but tended to rotate at frequent intervals, making the experience even more exhausting: she shed tears of awe at the beauty of description; tears of horror at violent acts of retribution; and tears of sorrow, for Lilith's sake, at the loss of those days.

'Again did Lady Lilith visit us this November eve,' Mary read, her mind automatically modernising the words, 'Her Hands stained with the blood of the Christian priest who had ordered stones hurled upon Agnes and Lucretia. Once we stood cleansed by burdock leaf, She allowed us to lick the stain from Her fingers and pour for Her the clareit, with which to sweeten Her mouth of that man's bitter taste. Again I, Magnolia, was honoured, by the taking of my breath in the Dark Lady's embrace. Were I to have died, it would have been a beautiful gift, but alas, I live on, only to yearn for Her continued favour.'

Mary removed her glasses, which had misted up, and took the time spent cleaning them to calm her many anxious thoughts. She had learned far more than she had expected from the newer volumes purchased at Tabula Arcana, and indeed she had corrected a number of her own misconceptions around Lilith's stories. But none of those accounts came from any direct engagement with the First Witch, being as they approached their subject through the lens of discourse.

Whereas this wizened volume, which catalogued the lived experience of a coven of witches that had sprung up in some unclear location in the English-speaking world, was so deeply personal that even the most jaded of atheists might consider the truth of its words. They spoke of Lilith as many things: a Dark Lady or Night Mother, a patron goddess of womanly pain (most associated with the menstrual and natal), of self-reliance and isolation, a bloodthirsty demon who would take vengeance on behalf of her devotees, or indeed, as a purveyor of mingled pleasures and agonies so profound that merely contemplating them brought Mary considerable discomfort.

She returned to the text, with some brief hesitance, landing on an entry from Lilith's next visitation:

'We danced for Her Regal Favour this night, in the Clearing. Each of us, drunk so on wine and love that we took our lives in our hands with every twirl, did offer ourselves at Her feet, and did kiss the places that She permitted. When our devotions reached fever pitch, She hastened us off to tend to each other, and made of our pyre an Infernal Conflagration, stepping within it to dance most gracefully and making mockery of the loud men who would seek to burn our kind. Lady Lilith does not fear men, for She may tear out their hearts to sup and drain their blood to quench Her boundless thirst. Like Our Lady of Despair, we strive to make maid's meat of the ignorant, who would trap our minds and bodies with their self-serving rules. For as long as She bares her teeth and sharpens Her claws on the bones of Her prey, so shall we follow Her, and so shall we drink deep of vengeance.

'Hail to Our Lady of Despair. Hail to Lilith.'

“Our Lady of Despair...” Mary whispered, unblinking eyes lingering on the reddish-black of those final words, written with such adoration that each letter stood alone as fine art. Her fingers wanted to touch the ink, as if doing so could transport her back to that mythical time and place, where witches spun and laughed and loved, but she dared not, both for fear of that very thing, and for the sake of the delicate, centuries old script.

Her throat felt parched in the warmth of the room

(“and drain their blood to quench her boundless thirst”),

the flickering of the firelight beginning to sting her eyes

(“and made of our pyre an Infernal Conflagration”),

so she reached for her brandy, but found that it had somehow been depleted. With rallying blinks, her eyes lifted to the mantel, where pride of place had been given to the wine-glasses, within which the Cabernet's residue, dark like crushed bougainvillea, still lingered as proof of Lilith's manifestation. As did her kiss, preserved against glass. The shape was identical to that which Mary's own lips would render, and every time the thought occurred, she made herself remember that afternoon, to clearly picture their time together and hear the purr of Lilith's voice. To remember a physical body which had been here and lived here, and left its mark on Mary's life.

It would not do to let the knowledge slip through the many fissures in her human mind and become a private mythology. She must remember. Just as those ardent women had vowed to remember, their devotions penned tirelessly across hundreds of pages.

She closed the book and stood slowly, holding it against her middle as though the warmth of feeling within might be transferred to her organs. But when she turned towards the drinks cabinet, tenderness turned to shock and a gasp seized her throat.

A person!

That was all her mind would tell her, as it grew frantic and dizzied.

In her house. Uninvited.

Just an outline. Details were for the firm of spirit. It may as well have been a child's scribble. She could not say.

But a body.

A living, moving body in her house.

Not herself, and not invited through the doorway.

A terrible eternity lived in three seconds had her teetering on jellied legs, and the room lurched about her as her hearing was reduced to high-pitched whining out of numbed ears.

'No!'

was all she was able to process. An angry denial of something she didn't know.

It didn't matter what, because she couldn't see anymore anyway. And not just because her glasses had slipped off her dipping face.

Before she could hit the floor — close to a distressing stain which she had never been able to remove — she was halted by a determined force, and lowered with more dignity than she could have expected.

Her heart was either beating far too quickly or not at all.

White flashes pulsed behind her blind eyes.

But of her every stricken sense, one remained responsive.

'...Jasmine?' it queried.

Yes. Jasmine.

And a particular feminine musk.

Independent of thought, her heartbeat was slowing, and gradually the screaming in her ears lessened, until she could distinguish a voice, close to her head. It wasn't speaking, though.

It was humming, though faint and breathy.

And in response, the fog that had gathered all around her thinned and lifted. Her skin again understood the meaning of differing weights in different places. Her eyes rejoined the room, and found most of it obscured by autumnal colours, printed on fabric, pulled taut across a human form.

It's you.

The thought constricted her chest with such relief that she almost swooned once more, and she begged her tongue to behave so that she might express herself, and begin by apologising for her mortifying weakness of constitution.

When she attempted to improve her posture, the humming stopped and hands cautiously left her shoulders. Then she felt her glasses being placed in her hand, and she took them, brought them up to her face.

With righted vision, she raised sheepish eyes to meet their kin, and found them just as shamefaced as her own.

“Well. That was hardly the sort of welcome I had anticipated.”

“Lilith, I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me.”

The First Witch stretched her mouth ruefully. “I'd say a quite predictable panic came over you. It was perhaps imprudent of me, to forego the mortal courtesy of knocking.“

Still working on the process of standing up, Mary was about to lay the blame once more at her own feet, but then stopped herself: this was her house, after all. And 'leaving a space just big enough' notwithstanding, maybe it was correct that Lilith be made to follow the polite behaviour of regular folk, at least where it most impacted the home-owner's undeniably fragile nerves.

“I'll agree with that,” she said, still sounding a little bleary to her own ears. “But, Lilith, I'm...” Pressure was mounting within her lips, and she fought to hide the outburst of feeling behind a further straightening of her glasses. Even so, the glee was plain in her voice. “I'm really so glad to see you! I knew you'd come back, but I just couldn't guess when it might be, I thought... I worried I might wait months without hearing from you again.”

Lilith tipped her head in acknowledgement. “Some mortal months from now, I expect you'd see some unfortunate changes in my presentation. Best not to wait that long. But Mary, listen,” Her eyes had grown quickly more intense. “I may have uncovered the possibility of... a method. By which I might be able to ameliorate my situation. And yours.”

'And yours'.

The multiple qualifiers propping up Lilith's hope brought a sympathetic smile to Mary's face. “That's wonderful! Will you tell me?”

“I will tell you... some of it.” All of a sudden, she was hedgy.

“Why not all?” Mary didn't want to be irritated. Not when Lilith was finally back, standing here, in the flesh. Real and wildly beautiful. She didn't want to be weak of temperament like that.

Lilith raised a hand to ask for patience. “I do not wish to inspire unwarranted hope. You'll have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Mary replied, finding the swift certainty of it unsettling.

Lilith too betrayed some surprise, in her quick eyes and expressive jaw, but did not speak on it, rather lowering her gaze to the floor. When she began to bend, Mary realised what was happening and leapt forward to intercept — “It, it's fine, let me!“ — grabbing the book (which was blessedly face-down) and holding it to her chest. She could not say why she had been so frantic to keep its existence a secret, but her heart was beating fast again now, and it was not physiologically helpful.

She made a pointed trip to the bookshelf and slotted the volume into a place which seemed appropriate, as though it were just another piece from her eclectic collection. As though she would not have protected it above any other book at this hour. Lilith had only raised brows for the speedy errand, and made her own unhurried journey to the drinks cupboard.

“Before I scared you half out of your skin, I believe you were intending some further libations, were you not?” Not that she waited for Mary's reply before helping herself, and carrying the fresh tumblers to their fireside seats. Mary realised too late that her other books were laid bare on the side table, and her face wrinkled up as Lilith's gaze descended upon them. Against the dancing light, her profile gained some mischievous pleasure, and Mary tried to think of something to say, to defend herself, but nothing at all seemed useful and she merely slumped, waited for Lilith to make fun of her curiosity.

But Lilith had moved on, silently, and Mary noticed the other embarrassing quirk on display, one she could perhaps justify.

“I... had to make sure,” she started, crossing the room to stand beside Lilith, whose inscrutable face regarded the wine glasses, “that I, um, wouldn't forget. I just didn't want it to h-happen again. I couldn't know, but I just thought that if I saw them every day, I wouldn't start to doubt it. The things that happened to me. And that you exist.”

She gazed at her twin, waiting anxiously for some acknowledgement, and eventually Lilith took a deep, slow breath, sighed it out through her nose.

“Yes. Against all odds.”

Mary's eyes drifted down her body, drawn to Lilith's hand, and saw that it held a small, square book, though Mary had not seen her pick it up.

“Um, what's that?”

Lilith glanced down as well, observing the book as though she too had only just discovered it. She lifted it up, and Mary observed that the binding seemed about as old as her hastily-stashed volume, though this one was at most a quarter as big.

“This is 'some of it'.” Without further preamble, she passed it to Mary, who accepted it in both hands.

'The Fledgling Witch's Golden Guide'.

Indeed, there were traces of gold leaf still surviving along the spine, and, in the centre, some abstract figure which may have been a frolicking child, once.

“A children's book?” She met Lilith's eyes and sought some meaning there; if Lilith wanted her to learn about witches, surely there were less patronising ways to go about it.

“Think of it as the sort of book you might give a mortal child, to teach her skills and recipes, which can be learnt through play.”

“Yes, I had something like that, my grandparents gave it to me, when I stayed with them for a summer. I learnt how to make flapjacks. And daisy-chains.” She briefly remembered the prickle of sun on bare shoulders, the sound of cicadas, the itch of the grass; the smell of tobacco, the creaking old stairs, the cellar-spiders behind every door.

She opened the book, made for children's hands, and recognised the style easily, found that the book was divided up into intellectual, creative and active pursuits. Flipping to a random page, she was greeted by a guide to knots; they were not for the purposes of securing tents or docking boats, however, but rather tethering spirits to an object or binding a heart against feeling.

A knot formed in her chest too, as she imagined the simple lives of children being overlaid with such unnatural practice. She very much did not want to cast judgement on a culture which was not her own, but children... it all seemed too complex, too soon, and too dark. And if her own scriptures were to be believed, each child who followed this book of pastimes was fit for immediate damnation.

But having been to Damnation, she did not know what to believe any longer. She had come close, many times, to fetching the Bible from her bedside drawer, to lay it beside her Lilith studies; she had wanted to see whether she could find the touchstone, to tell her how to feel, one way or the other, about the Truths which had quietly accompanied her life, as much a given as the bricks within walls, the floorboards beneath carpet. But to place that book alongside Lilith, even in written form, seemed disrespectful. And the more time she spent in study, the stronger that feeling grew.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, and immediately worried that the phrasing had sounded rude, though being direct had seemed the best option. Unfortunately, that directness put Lilith on the back foot, if only momentarily.

“I'd like you to... learn something. From this book. And be able to perform it.”

“From... to learn a spell? You want me to...” Confusion had struck hard and her tongue couldn't get around it.

“Yes. Anything. It doesn't matter how simple.”

“But I couldn't! This, this is a book for witches, I'm not a witch!”

“Well, a book for fledgling witches. Of witch blood but still with very underdeveloped powers.”

“Even so! Didn't both you and Ms Spellman insist that I'm not a witch? That without your magic, I'm nothing?”

The final word sent a frown to Lilith's face. “I said no such thing.”

“Perhaps not. But, magically speaking, I'm not. Anything. There's not a drop of it in my veins.”

“No. Not in the way of a witch.”

“Then,” a frustrated note had crept into her voice, as she battled mounting incredulity, “how do you expect me to do that?”

Lilith gestured that she should open the book again and moved so that they were shoulder to shoulder, sharing a perspective.

“Look below this picture, the spell is divided into Beginner and Advanced versions.”

Mary observed the two columns, the first of which contained far more words and physical components. “What does it mean?”

Lilith paused as she formulated an answer, then delivered it slowly, as if to a child, though a child whose intellect she respected.

“There are many aspects to casting a spell. And having the blood of a witch is only the beginning of the process. The ability to affect reality, to shape it to one's desire, relies on courting the appropriate energies. Appealing to invisible forces. One manner in which to do this involves a spoken incantation, often delivered in rhyme. The more poetic the verse, the more likely the caster will be to charm the magicks they wish to harness. Material components such as herbs or feathers or...”

“Sacrifices?” Anxiety had delivered a brief stab to Mary's gut, and Lilith bowed her head in response, acknowledging her discomfort.

“For instance. An appropriate gift. To the raw forces themselves, or to a more powerful magical being. A... demon. For example. Or even a god.”

Mary's eyes drifted to the Advanced column, under which there were only a few words, and a suggested mental image upon which to focus. “What about the advanced spell?”

“That would be for a caster who has attuned their magic to the energies which most favour them. A speciality, if you will. They operate on a sort of... muscle memory. A few words, or perhaps none at all, are required to bring forth the desired effect.”

“Like you.”

“To a point. Yes. The spells which I perform most often, the arcane disciplines I have internalised, they do tend to come as naturally to me as common speech.”

Mary nodded, grasping the logic of the division, and finding herself filling up with general awe once more, at this strange world which had been existing in her blind-spot for her entire life. Just outside of view and comprehension. This sparkling world of intuitive creation, where desire could mould the concrete, and where clans of strange women drank and danced and loved, in mysterious, shaded dells.

Surely it would be impossible to be lonely, if one could always, with gleaming certainty, call upon someone across the ether. On something. Even if that thing were only a spark of flame, to light the stove. Or a song pulled from the air, which could calm a rushing mind.

“All right. I think I understand. But, Lilith... why? Even if I could make one of these spells... happen... why do you want me to? Can you tell me that? Please?”

Yes, she was prepared to be patient, on yet another matter. But she dearly hoped that patience wouldn't be pulled too thin.

Lilith pursed her lips, then stepped away, went over to her chair and sat down, picked up her drink, all before she would say anything. When she did, Mary felt that she could hear a river of apology running beneath her words, at how obviously vague she was being.

“You were not born into magic, it's true. But throughout the ages, mortals have made pacts with us, called on our aid through rituals and meditation. Even today, mortals who dare call themselves witches practice their watered-down craft, with some success due to determination alone. And there is no reason that I can think of, why you could not do the same.”

Mary placed down the book and went to take her seat across from Lilith, picking up her drink too, as if mirroring the First Witch might make her more willing to divulge information.

“But why, Lilith? I still don't understand. What could be achieved by it?”

Lilith closed her eyes with a pained expression, and the muscles of her throat tightened. “If you could do just a single spell, then the rules which govern the use of magic... they might allow it.”

“It?” She was getting so achingly close to an answer, she could feel it, as one might feel static from aggravated nylon.

Lilith folded her lower lip inward, staring into the hearth. “Yes. I'm sorry, I can't explain any further.”

“Lilith, you must!” It had exploded out of her, a half-swallowed desperation. “I'm not... I can't just take this on faith.”

The First Witch's eyes turned to her sorrowfully then, and her lips fell open, as if strength had left them. “Funny. I had thought faith was a driving force in your life.”

Mary leaned back in her chair, likewise feeling her strength depart. “Maybe it was. But... I don't think I'm in that space anymore. If you want me to try something which... frankly, frightens me, and if I think too hard about it, makes me want to run away, because I... I don't believe that I am capable of it. I truly do not. But, if you do, if you believe in me like that,” her hand had crept up to cover her heart, “then you have to respect me enough to tell me why. In a way which makes sense to me.”

Lilith's eyes were baleful as she stared back, barely blinking, and with a neutrality into which Mary could read anything from disappointment to reverence. Yet she seemed mired in indecision, and Mary knew she would gain no more ground at this rate, and so she took the only action she could to make the intensity of her request known: she slipped from her seat, down onto the ground, to kneel before Lilith, just as she had two Mondays ago, and covered Lilith's free hand with her own. As always, a perfect fit.

“Please,” she said softly, and nothing more.

A sharp intake of breath took to Lilith's chest, and she cut off the exhalation before it could reveal more than a single shudder. Her hand balled up under Mary's, as her sharp features struggled for serenity. At length, and breathily, she relented.

“If you can do a single spell, and your heart yearns for more... then you might call yourself an apprentice. My apprentice. And in that role, there is the possibility that we might craft for ourselves a safe haven.”

Chapter Text

Lilith focussed on the predictable kitchen noises, hoping the calm domesticity of them would soon put an end to the tremors in her blood. She had pointedly avoided imagining what Mary's response to her plan might be, and yet when it had come, of all things, Lilith would not have expected such a lack of engagement. Mary had silently gazed back at her, kneeling already in the manner of an acolyte, and Lilith saw that the knowledge had landed and pooled in the mortal's eyes, yet she neither accepted nor rejected the proposition. She had merely sat there, mulling, until Lilith felt within herself the very disquieting urge to pick Mary up and shake an answer out of her. When her response finally came, it took the form of a gentle smile and squeeze of Lilith's hand.

“I'm really happy you're here, Lilith. Let's talk more about this later, all right? I hope you can stay, there's something I've been wanting to make for you.”

It had left her perplexed, and a creeping chill waited close-by to take hold of her.

She supposed she should have known how it looked, handing a fully-grown woman a book for children and asking her to do something that Lilith would usually be the first to say was not for mortal practice. It had probably felt both demeaning and perverse, a horrid combination that soured Lilith's face just to contemplate. But she had returned so full of hope, she hadn't even thought to temper the manner of her arrival, let alone introduce the concept of the book with any sort of finesse.

A recent memory of the cottage coming to her, she had to wonder whether Mary was quietly dissolving, under cover of clinking objects and running water. She had no intention of investigating however; Mary was owed her privacy and Lilith had a use for hers.

The woman's speedy setting aside of the aged volume had piqued Lilith's curiosity, and once she had noted the other reference material on the table, it grew even more so. Though she had hidden it behind a smile of amusement, the sight of those books had sent a surge of warmth into her breast, of a sort she had only occasionally experienced, for it was the warmth borne out of devotion, of sincere interest in knowing her, with an implicit desire to build a deeper bond. Moreover, the books were not the usual fare she had encountered over the centuries, which were largely centred around how best to guard a mortal — and most especially mortal infants — from her murderous intent. And if the nature of these books had caused Mary to become bashful, Lilith absolutely had to know what the other contained.

Once she was certain, from the sound of rhythmic mixing, that Mary was unlikely to return for some time, she stepped lightly to the bookshelf and pulled out the tome with one graceful finger, letting it tip into her waiting palm.

'Oure Gratius Ladye of Dispayre and her Propereste Worship'

She frowned, a faint memory calling out from a corridor she preferred not to tread; 'Lady of Despair' was not a title by which she had been addressed for at least two hundred years, and even then by very few. The English and quality of the binding fit with her assessment, and once she opened it to see that the text was hand-written, recognised that the ink had been mixed with blood, she found herself assaulted by a gust of emotion, as though she had opened the door and let a blizzard into her house.

Able to offer no resistance, she remembered them: their faces lit by the warm glow of bonfires, their bodies encircled by fragrant smoke, their hands raised in worship or caked in the sediment of their rites. They were so young, some barely thirty years old, just beginning their journey as witches, and they delighted in nothing more than her pleasure.

They hung on her every word. Swooned at her rare touch.

They adored her with an abandon that feared no pain, no death.

(She became aware that she had gone down onto her haunches, alerted by the cooling at her knees.)

Covens like these would take form every century or so, somewhere in the world, and this one had lasted longer than most. It had been a passionate fifty years before he had cut them down, in a single evening's indifferent slaughter.

It was not the execution of her worshippers' enemies that drew his attention to any given coven, as such was expected behaviour from the Demoness Lilith; whatever swathes of destruction she cut into the mortal realm were, to his mind, a satisfactory display of Hell's fury, a gory feather in his cap. It pleased him that she should spend her time circling the False God's sheep, baring her teeth and snarling from the shadows.

No. Rather, it was her smiles that inevitably doomed them. Too often and too genuinely did they adorn her face, easily distinguished from her habitual reserved aspect. Each time, she had attempted to keep her distance, but it was so difficult when their prayers called out to her from dusk 'til dawn, begging for recognition and violent justice, when their offerings were so lovingly curated, their songs and dances so breathlessly ardent. As each day in Hell seemed to harden her heart further towards granite, how could she resist? With such devotion as theirs — though she would not let it be known — there was not a wish she would not grant.

Much as it ached, she allowed herself to read a passage near the end of the book, before the pages became abruptly blank:

'The frost has lain too long, and the potatoes have not survived. In the sight of all, Magnolia, knowing our Lady's Will, cut her throat atop the kiln and we cupped her blood in gratitude. We will survive, just as Dark Mother Lilith survives, though the Earth turns barren around us. I, Amity, have taken up the quill, and I hope to honour our worship in writing, as my sister before me. I believe the Spring will return, as it always must. It befits us to wait.

'Praise Lilith, we will endure.'

If nothing else, the gape of the woman's lifeless countenance had endured, tucked away in Lilith's ancient recall, speared and mounted. A slap on the wrist, a reminder of her station. He always did have a flair for the dramatic in these matters.

She rose on uncertain ankles and replaced the book, mentally throwing the catch on the jewellery box which held these tarnished memories. There was no harm in placing the thing underwater as well, she supposed, and revisited the drinks cabinet, with no intention of carrying the beverage to her seat. With luck, Mary would notice nothing untoward, either in the placement of the book, or in Lilith's eyes.

Only then, decanter in hand, did she begin to wonder where Mary had come by the coven's journal; what sort of places had she dove into, in an effort to unearth such an unlikely document, what manner of creatures bartered with? What, already, had been the cost of their acquaintance, upon Mary Wardwell's spirit?

Such imaginings stranded her at the cabinet for more time than had seemed to pass, because Mary was suddenly there, sipping on a glass of water, traces of flour whitening the strands of hair that had been absent-mindedly tucked behind her ear while working.

“I hope that didn't take too long. I had to start over, the dough I left in the fridge didn't inspire much optimism.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“Did you... find anything interesting to read?”

That nervous tone, it was as yet uncertain; she had only suspicions, and for both their sakes, Lilith would silence them.

“I attempted to, but,“ she rolled her eyes in the direction of the shelves, “the works of your modern authors have so far failed to hold my interest. They're altogether too direct. As though it would kill them to inject a little poetry into the affair.”

“Oh, I have some actual poetry if you'd prefer,” the relieved woman offered, kneeling to peruse a shelf that was piled horizontally with pocket-sized books. “Do you perhaps enjoy the Romantics?”

“You'll have to remind me of what exactly they constitute.”

Mary thought a moment then chose an anthology, flipped through its pages and began to read:

“'When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind.
Then, unembodied, doth it trace
By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey?

'Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,
A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth or skies display'd,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
Each fainter trace that memory holds
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
And all, that was, at once appears.'“

She paused, though Lilith could see from her vantage point that there were still verses remaining, and closed her eyes. “To be honest, I've always wondered. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to know what happens when we leave our bodies. I used to make up all manner of possibilities, even though I was told that the Bible had all the answers. It was always too vague, and I wanted to see for myself.”

Lilith did not think to de-claw the words before they left her mouth. “I suppose it was quite the disappointment, to find out the truth of it all.”

Mary looked up at her, unashamed of her sorrow. “It would have been nice to fly through space and see the stars. I think I would have enjoyed that more than an unchanging Paradise.”

“Would you indeed?”

“I... believe so. To be free and bodiless... I could go on and on, to the depths of the universe, like... like my soul was a comet. And then, maybe once I'd seen everything there was to see, I could just burn out. And not exist anymore. At all.”

“Mary...“

“I thought about what you said.” She closed the book of poetry and folded her hands over it, in her lap. “I'm sorry I didn't give you an answer right away, it was a lot to take in.”

“Of course. That was to be expected. But I don't want you to misunderstand my expectations, there is no need for you to,” worship me, offer up your life to me, “engage in undue devotions. The apprenticeship is a means to an end. An... avoidance of an end.”

“And I don't want you to misunderstand my reaction. Lilith, I'm... I'll absolutely try anything that you can think of.” Her smile broke open with heartening enthusiasm. “I'm truly relieved that you kept looking, even when you said it was hopeless. You promised me you would, and you did. How could I refuse when I was the one who insisted?”

Lilith found that she was steadying herself against the cabinet, so taken aback by the support where she had been expecting an apologetic denial.

“You'll do it, then?”

“It's the sort of thing a mere child could do, right?” Her face revealed some good-natured self-deprecation. “I won't pretend to have faith in myself, but... you obviously do, or you wouldn't have come back here, and entrusted me with your future.”

While Mary's foreign compassion was always a little overwhelming, Lilith was struggling far more than usual to neutralise the leaping in her breast.

“If you're certain, then... perhaps I should let you in on a little more. Rather than stringing out your tasks piecemeal.”

Mary tilted her head questioningly. “There's more? Oh, well,” she laughed at herself, “of, of course there would be. If pressing flowers were enough to vanquish Satan, then we would have done it centuries ago.”

“Yes. I have considered the path somewhat further along than that, and as it happens, when you achieve your solitary spell, the task to follow may be time-consuming, but it will not be difficult. It is decidedly mundane.”

“So... will you perhaps leave some of my drinks unpillaged and join me in the kitchen?” Softly but definitively, she reclaimed the decanter. “Money probably doesn't mean much to you, but... these leave quite a dent in my salary. I've been working my way through that one for the past five years.”

Lilith surrendered it with a nod of apology. “Indeed, I can't say financial matters cause me much distress. Perhaps I can offer you some worthy replacements in time.”

“I'd appreciate that. Only...” she delivered a wry yet genuinely concerned look, “please don't steal any sacramental wine from the Vatican for me, all right?”

Somehow, the little joke — however much of a joke it was — forced the last of Lilith's anxiety out of her chest. “Well, if you insist. Though I feel the caper would have offered me quite the diversion.”

“To the kitchen, then? The baking will still be a while, but I have the makings of a salad at least. If that's something you eat?”

Given all Mary had recently learned, both from books and Lilith's own retelling, it stood to reason that she should wonder.

“I think I could be persuaded.” She caught the encroaching affection in her voice, and hoped (though doubted) that it had not been perceived.

Whatever is becoming of me?

If she did not know better, she would have pondered whether solid marble might in fact be capable of melting.

Chapter Text

Mary turned the square of cardboard over in her hand, appreciating the fact of the different measurement standards Lilith had included along the edges, as well as examining the shape of her handwriting; it was not especially dissimilar to her own, small with neat serifs, which was both fascinating and, she now realised, the reason why, when reviewing the papers she had supposedly graded during her period of amnesia, she had not noticed anything untoward.

The sound of Lilith placing the salad fork to rest on her bowl brought Mary back to the issue at hand, and she repeated what she had just had explained, to show that she had indeed been paying attention.

“So... one for each element.”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure how to translate 'void' into fabric, though. Wouldn't that be an absence of material?”

“You'll need to make sense of that on your own, I'm afraid. The aspiring apprentice needs to do the bulk of the work, it's part of showing respect to the senior witch, of earning the apprenticeship.” She shifted her jaw, spoke with averted eyes. “Though it might prove helpful to think of a void as less an absence, and more of a space of possibility.”

“Possibility...” She stared through the square. “Potentiality?”

Lilith barely nodded, as though a silent gesture was permissible where spoken confirmation was not. “And there's one more.”

“Another element?” She hoped the next would not be even more abstract, she wasn't sure her mind could take further lateral thinking this late into the evening.

“Another square. Arguably the most crucial for our purposes.”

“Lilith, if you want me to translate some kind of quantum singularity into a fabric swatch, I might just throw myself off a cliff.”

Her humour-filtered desperation gained her a sardonic look from Lilith. “No sense doing the Devil's work for him, my dear. Don't worry, this one will be simple.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, full of dubious anticipation. “Will it?”

“A mere trifle. You'll need to choose a square to represent your mentor.”

So she had been correct.

“Which... would be you.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh. So nothing difficult, then. I just have to find a way to reduce everything that you are into a single square of fabric.”

“Merely that, yes.”

“Just,” her voice heightened with irony, “symbolise your entire life's journey, your personality—”

“My essence.”

“—Into a five by five inch swatch.”

“Thirteen centimetres, to be precise.”

“Every aspect of you.”

“Yes.”

“Into a single piece of material.”

“That is correct.”

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, lifting her hands in pantomimed relief. “That's so much easier than the others, thank you.”

Lilith played her game gladly. “You're welcome. Fortunately, when you get down to it, there's really not that much of me to consider.”

“Barely anything, yes.”

Lilith's lips twitched in amusement and, despite her anxiety, Mary experienced some satisfaction. Pride, in fact. At being able to tickle the first woman ever created with her affectionate sarcasm.

“Speaking of which,” Lilith segued, turning her head in the direction of the lounge. "Do you want to talk about them?"

"Them?"

"The books. Your research project on me."

Mary was immediately awkward, felt the blush starting at the base of her neck; Lilith had been kind enough not to bring them up before, but she should have known that she couldn't get away with it long-term. "Oh. No, I...” then her curiosity bloomed and smothered the embarrassment, as it was often wont to do, “well, actually... maybe. If that's all right?"

"I would prefer if you didn't get an inaccurate sense of who I am. It might affect your ability to choose the fabric, and that would not sit well with your mentor."

“Oh, agreed. That would certainly be best avoided.”

She was quelling her rising excitement as well as she could, trying to tug back her grin at being able to interview a primary source about books concerning an ancient, mystical figure, but she soon gave up on the attempt; after all, at this point Lilith was fully aware of what sort of things stimulated her giddiness — and the fact that she nonetheless continued to indulge Mary in such matters was wonderfully unexpected. In Mary's experience, people tended to be put off by excessive enthusiasm about bookish things, be they histories or fantasies. She had gotten into the habit of carefully monitoring their faces, to see at which point she was boring them and quickly change the subject to something more palatable, like the local weather or whatever dessert was currently en vogue at Dr Cerberus's.

The next she knew, her plate had been scooped up in front of her, as she had managed to miss Lilith's standing and heading towards the sink. Mary wondered whether Lilith was perhaps in some hurry to get things over with, as she now fully comprehended the risks involved in her spending too long at the cottage. She hated the idea that the two of them couldn't allow time to freely stream past them as they wished, a simple human pleasure which Mary had taken entirely for granted. Lilith was always on borrowed time. Always like a prisoner under the supervision of an ankle monitor, making certain she attended the funeral of a loved one and nothing more, before heading right back to her cell.

Only Lilith wasn't permitted to have loved ones. So there should be no reason for her to wander.

But perhaps she was mistaken, as Lilith was returning to the table, having taken the plastic-wrapped batter from the fridge. “Weren't you supposed to put these in the oven by now?” Unlike her neutral reaction to the salad, Lilith was betraying some eagerness for the baking to continue, whether she realised it or not, which lightened Mary's thoughts once more.

“You're right, thank you! I'll get them laid out on the tray, it shouldn't take more than ten minutes.”

Lilith opened her mouth, started to shape something, then thought better of it, pulling her lips straight as she placed the bowl on the table.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I had a stray thought, pay no attention, it's... the age of me, sometimes my thoughts leap off into whimsy.”

Mary frowned at her, face askew. “I'm afraid to say that I've already paid attention. So now you'll have no choice but to tell me.”

Lilith tensed her face into lines of reticence. “It's nothing. Really.”

“All right.” A possibility had occurred to Mary and she sweetened her voice. “Then maybe you should just go wait for me? I'll try and be quick, you're welcome to go through more of the poetry if you liked it.”

Another tightening of the lips and Lilith nodded, but did not in fact leave, and Mary became sure enough of her suspicions that she played her hand.

“On second thought, Lilith, would you maybe help me, and then we can get them done sooner? If you could grease the tray and spoon the batter while I wash up the bowls? That way you don't have to sit around being bored for too long. I know how precious your time is.”

Watching Lilith's face intently, Mary caught the fleeting delight which crossed her eyes, saw the tiny intake of air move her throat, before she spoke, in tones of warm grey.

“I can do that. As you say, time is, as always, of the essence. Though you will have to forgive me if I'm rather inept in such matters.”

“That's okay, I'm not really much of a baker myself.” Or rather, she seldom spent much time doing so, as making a full batch for herself would only lead to half of it going stale. “At the very least, between us we should be able to manage something edible.”

Despite what Lilith had led her to believe, Mary had been unsurprised when the cookie batter had been shaped with attractive uniformity upon the tray, revealing a steady hand that had seen more than a few recipes in its time. In addition, as the tray had filled up and the bowl of batter dwindled, Lilith had hand-shaped little flowers in the empty spaces, and requested nutmeg and brown sugar to lightly sprinkle over them.

Mary could not initially fathom why Lilith would want to deny her obvious proficiency, but given the time between washing up the last of the utensils and moving to sit beside her research materials, she wondered whether it came from the same place as Lilith's anxiety around the practicing of her elemental magicks in Hell, under Lucifer's critical gaze. Which was not a thought she relished.

Faced with her pages of notes and multicoloured bookmarks, Mary was unsure of where to begin, and she looked to Lilith for direction. The First Witch was leant back in her chair, and though her features were set in calm neutrality, Mary felt that she could still see pleasure resting there, in the lines around her eyes and lips.

Careful not to lose herself in inspecting that serene beauty, Mary returned her eyes to her notes, and chose a list at random, where she had written various points that had given her pause.

“Um,” she began, the sound almost being lost in the crackle of the fire, “in the epic of Gilgamesh, it is said that the young goddess Inanna wished to carve a certain willow tree into a throne and a bed.” She paused to check whether Lilith would say anything, and was only gestured onwards with a slight movement of her jaw. “But once the tree had matured sufficiently, she was unable to do so, because three monstrous creatures had made the tree their home. The Serpent of the Earth wrapped around its roots, the lion-headed stormbird made its nest in the branches, and within its trunk, the...”

“The demon, Lilith.”

“Um, had hollowed out her home. And when Inanna wept for them to leave, they refused. And so she called upon Gilgamesh, who put on his heaviest armour and carried an enormous bronze axe.”

“Striding into a peaceful garden, dressed for war. Truly an heroic figure.” Lilith's mockery showed no particular emotional engagement.

“He... struck the Serpent—“

“Separated its head from its body, one might say.”

“—Frightened the Anzu until it fled with its chicks.”

“Some of its chicks.”

“And...” she once again paused, this time because even this brief symbolic tale had put a stone in her throat, “drove Lilith from the tree trunk, so that she tore the bark apart with her bare hands and escaped into the wilderness. After which Inanna rejoiced, and used the leftover wood from the tree to carve for Gilgamesh a mallet, with which to play war-games with his friends.”

“Truly a romantic tale for the ages. There's nothing I enjoy more than stories of men thrusting their might through the balance of Nature.”

Mary looked up from the page. “So, I assume none of that... really happened?”

“You are correct. There was never a Gilgamesh. But there were tribes of Man, learning that Nature would easily yield to blunt force. Inanna was a convenient instigator for the tale, so that the destruction might be at the behest of a woman's yearning heart. What could be more selfless and noble?”

“I see.” Mary wished that she had chosen something else, but looking down at her list, it did not seem like anything would have yielded lighter results. Perhaps there was a better way to do this, rather than waste Lilith's time with stories she doubtless already knew. Perhaps she ought to be more to the point.

Lilith's right hand was fidgeting languidly, fingertips rolling over each other, nails glancing across her downward palm, while the left had taken up residence against her chin. But otherwise, she barely moved. Nor did she appear moved.

And so Mary resolved to approach her questions head-on, much as it terrified her to do so, both for how they might sound out loud, and for what answers they might reap.

“Um. Many of the texts, they... they say you preyed on pregnant women and infants."

"Of course they do."

“They say you hated to see successful mothers, out of your own, um...”

“Childless bitterness?”

“Yes. And so you... attempted to devour them where they were left unprotected. Particularly male children.”

“Because what else might a woman do, when her body is as barren as the Wastes, but consume the spawn of others, in jealousy?”

The deep frown was coming from both above and below Mary's eyes, shifting her glasses as she persisted, attempting to ignore the feelings Lilith's words were stirring up. “They... let the hair of the boys grow long, for the first few weeks of their lives, so that you would perhaps mistake them for girls and pass by.”

Lilith laughed at that, a more twinkling sound than Mary would have expected. “Funny how they believed me fiendish enough to slip beneath doors, one with the shadows, yet foolish enough to be blind-sided by a baby with feminine hair. As though I can't merely smell the sex of a body, without needing to see it. As though a demon who dines on the flesh of infants might spare even a moment considering their hairdos.”

It sounded far too much like a confirmation to Mary, and her gut was twisting about itself. But she made herself believe the bile was coming from a place of injury, rather than as an admission of guilt.

“They... um, mothers, pregnant women, they hung plaques in their houses,” every word hurt more, as she pictured Lilith's existence during these times, and she swallowed hard in order to continue,“put amulets around their babies' necks, and laid out incantation bowls on the surfaces in nurseries, with spells to... frighten you away. Um. A common incantation read: 'O you who fly in darkened rooms, begone right now, right now, thief—'“

“'Thief',” intoned Lilith, completing the incantation in time with Mary, “'breaker of bones.'”

Mary looked up from the page with beseeching eyes, but not a word to go with them.

"Thief. Breaker of bones,” Lilith repeated, after a slow and thoughtful breath. “Yes, I have been those things and more. Thief of bones, breaker of bones. And both are far easier to achieve in the dark."

A small voice found itself: "Easier... in what sense, though?"

Lilith sniffed, smiled without mirth. "Touché."

Mary tried to move on, but the question of children still clutched at her gut, like an immense clawed fist, and she folded her lips inward, seeking strength.

"But... their superstitions aside... have you ever really," her fingers began to warp the paper, "h-have you eaten a child?"

"A human child?"

"Yes."

The thing that Lilith's mouth did resembled a smile only to the degree that both blood and water are compelled to follow gravity. "If I said that, in my nearly six thousand years of life, as the leader of Hell's armies, as a devout follower of Lucifer, and as one who has time and time again been known as only the most vicious type of demon...” she refilled her lungs before her voice could dry up, “if I told you that I never once ate a human child... would you believe me?"

Mary slowly felt her skin growing colder and forced her eyes to meet Lilith's, to extend her willing faith in a gaze.

"If you want me to."

Lilith did not stay the contact, though, separated them with weariness. "I'll ask no such thing."

Mary's hands had lost purchase on the page, and she relented, clasped them in her lap as she pushed onward from memory, her voice far too breathy for her own liking. “There are... conflicting stories about... your name. Some say it—”

"I named myself,” Lilith said with firm dignity. “The voices that spoke to me in my sleep, as I wandered the Wastes, they showed me images of strange creatures from other planes of being. Creatures which would later break through into this world and do with men as they pleased. Including wind demons, known as Lilitu, whose breasts hung heavy with poison. And in my bitterness... I took the name of Lilith. For what was I but a demoness of the endless desert? Fit only for desolation.” Her thumb ran over her fingers, teased at her nails. “Perhaps it was my name which taught me how to sprout wings of my own."

“You... can fly?”

“I have been known to.”

“W-with wings? Like... a harpy?” She hated the example the moment her brain sent it.

“Possibly. But bringing forth wings from a human body is needlessly complicated when I could simply become an owl.”

“You can become an owl?”

“I have been known to.”

“And...” Mary's throat was closing up, but there were only a few points left to cover, “when they called you... a succubus.... and said that all deviant sexual behaviour was your invention...”

Lilith smirked at that. “Cowards,” was all she wished to grant the topic, but it did not satisfy Mary.

"But what they said, about... accosting men, in their sleep, um, t-taking their...”

The embarrassing cracks in Mary's vocal integrity caught Lilith's attention, and a quick apology flashed in her eyes.

“It's all right. And yes. At the Dark Lord's behest, I have done many unsavoury things. He had led me to believe there was a greater purpose to my actions, and thus I, at least for a time, felt no regret. If in the service of my liege,” her mouth pulled taut at the word, extending it into the tendons of her neck, “there was no act that I would consciously question. And... I have tried not to remember every single one of those acts. But believe me, Mary, mounting the bodies of sleeping kings to drain their vitality before they ride off to holy battle, that is mere child's play. And I would beg of you not to ask me to describe all the crimes your scriptures and apocrypha have neglected to mention."

The same roughness that Mary felt in her own throat, she could hear it in Lilith's, and could hear also that all the sweet pleasure had been drained from the First Witch's body by these questions. For which Mary felt deep shame, but which she had to push aside, just a little longer. Just... one more. And then she would leave it. She would let the both of them rest.

“I won't ask you to do that. Lilith, I'm... I'm sorry to keep asking you these things.”

An intake of air which trembled made its way into Lilith's lungs, and she spoke into its exit. “I offered you this opportunity. You may ask as you wish.”

Mary pressed her lips together hard, such that her teeth could virtually touch through them. “It is said, in myth and poetry, that you... married Lucifer. That you were his wife, in all things. And bred together all the evils which plague humanity.”

"Marriage. With Lucifer.” It was plain on Lilith's face that, of all things mentioned, this was what inspired the most profound of hurts. “I suppose one might have called it that once, though it resembled nothing of the sort in the mortal sense. I've told you my story, the tale of 'The First Woman and the Fallen Angel'. I've told you what became of us.”

"So you... didn't love him. You couldn't have, after that."

Lilith dropped her eyes, stared at the books upon the table top, did not appear to breathe at all until one small, frustrated sigh made it out; her eyes were searching through memories, trying to find the answer to that deceptively simple question. Eventually, she gave up, defeated. "I don't know. I thought I did. For centuries upon centuries, I thought I loved him. I was sure of it, in fact. But I... really don't know."

“Lilith...”

She shook her head, lifted a palm for Mary to still her concern, though for a few moments was unable to speak a reply. “I... prefer to think myself immune. To the fragility of human emotion. I have learnt to disguise it as many things. And yet, in your presence... I have found the façade... difficult to maintain.”

Just as she was struggling to maintain her preferred tone, and Mary recognised that struggle from every other time Lilith had been cut to the quick, by external or internal forces. “Lilith, you don't have to—“

Another gesture for silence. “I do not make a habit of exposing my weaknesses. As you know, that sort of thing does not win battles Down Below. And time and time again, I have been reminded of that fact. By losing my freedom... my power... my self, and those that I have come... to love.” The word had fallen from her lips in abandon, and at its admittance Lilith brought up a fist to cover her traitor of a mouth.

Mary's fingers dug into her palms as she made herself respect Lilith's gestured commands; for once, she wasn't going to let her desire to give comfort override Lilith's need for space. If she disobeyed, she knew she would more than deserve being flung across the room with the full force of whatever Lilith possessed. And so she waited, as Lilith pressed her knuckles against her lips and blinked gleaming eyes into the immeasurable distance.

Eventually she removed the fist just enough to speak past it, hushed but with gruff reserves of strength rising up through her breast.

“But I don't wish to lie to myself any longer. I know who I want to be. And I also know... who I want to have beside me.”

Though Lilith would not look at her, Mary felt herself entirely seen, and her heart forgot how to beat, for the entire aeon that passed before Lilith spoke again.

“You have reminded me of those things, Mary. You've reminded me of myself. And I have not forgotten what you told me, as we walked beneath the moon, and I intended to go my separate way.”

“What I told you?” she whispered.

“Yes. You told me that... we need not be tied to the actions of our past selves. You said that people are allowed to grow. To change. And...” She pulled her clenched fist down into her lap, and covered it, calmed it, with her other, “I think I'm ready...”

Mary waited, and waited, ran through all the options until her thoughts were run ragged. And when nothing came, she uttered a tiny prompt, light as a butterfly:

“Ready for what?”

“To be... a person.”

Chapter Text

Lilith had watched as Mary, initially suspended in sandstone, gradually lifted her hands to her face, palms rested over her mouth, and fingers spread against the bridge of her nose and the arch of her cheeks. She had watched as an indiscernible depth took over Mary's pale eyes, reflecting some subterranean truth that Lilith could not yet reach.

She began to grow anxious, wondering whether she had perhaps miscalculated, misread Mary's attachment somehow; whether her words had come out sounding childish or foolish; Whether she had, in her earnestness, sounded ridiculous. Truly, she had not expected where her own tongue had taken her, but every syllable had felt right, and saying it had hit her with a rush of relief so powerful that it would surely have knocked her down had she been standing.

To be a person.

Clarity at last.

It was all she'd ever wanted.

Not a crown. Not absolute rule. Not even blood-soaked revenge.

But to be a whole and entire person.

And to have a home, as would a person.

And, if she dared to hope, even—

"Um, forgive me, but, would you mind terribly if..." Mary still hadn't moved her hands, spoke through them as her gleaming eyes remained steadfast. And something in her voice, a slight catch, troubled Lilith even more than had her silence.

“Yes?” She managed to say in a tone sufficiently neutral to her own ears.

"Would it be all right, I mean, if I were to..."

What could be causing her such a struggle, when she had so boldly asked after Lilith's most sinister histories? Mary had barely flinched at infant cannibalism, so what fiendish weight could be dragging down her words now? Lilith could not help but run through the options.

'Would it be all right if I were to... ask you to leave? I'm afraid I can't stomach all of this after all. Forgive me, Lilith, but you're... honestly you're a monster, I had no idea.'

Not that she hadn't given Mary every opportunity to understand that fact.

'Would you mind terribly if... I simply forgot any of this ever happened and went back to my normal life? My human life.'

Mary was still battling on, restarting once more with a heavy sigh, and Lilith found herself snared between sympathy and exasperation.

"What I mean to say is, Lilith, would you..." Wipe your memories once more, but better this time? More skilfully than an undisciplined whelp of a witch? Well enough to put down your brief insanity to a fury of grief? "Um. Could I h-hug you?"

Lilith blinked, then furrowed her arched brows, tilted her head as though surely mishearing. “What?”

Having finally said it, Mary was prepared to repeat herself, placing her palms firmly on her thighs and holding herself up with dignity. “Yes. I'd... I'd rather like permission to hug you. Lilith. If that's not too much of a bother?”

What was this? In Lilith's experience, Mary did not make a habit of asking for permission, when her need to surge forward in affection took hold; full to the brim with compassion, she would wrap arms, join hands or lay her head as desired. Which, charming as it was, could admittedly be emotionally taxing.

Yet, at the same time, her thoughts were returning once more to the night of the warding, to that moment where she had stood at the verge of the newly-sanctified cottage — this home where she had somehow managed to return — and refused to give an inch. As chasms had opened up in her heart.

You're getting another chance.

To not reject this.

To take part in the expulsion of your own darkness.

“Hug me?” she replied, heightened scepticism plain in the curl of her lip.

"Yes? If it's not an imposition?"

An imposition? Mary, you strange creature...

Lilith could not seem to shape an answer, and that reticence was being quickly and intently assessed by Mary, who soon raised a hand in apology.

"Oh, it's all right, you don't have to! I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Lilith's face reorganised itself alongside her thoughts, both trying to put together something coherent. She flexed her fingers, extended her arms backwards, then stoically pulled herself upright and stood before the chair. Acutely awkward, she cocked a hip and positioned a hand upon it. “Why should I be uncomfortable? After everything you've learnt about me, if that is still something you desire, then I could hardly refuse.”

As additional confirmation, she shaped the most conservative of nods, locking her eyes onto Mary because she dared not look away. As though at any moment the mortal might transmogrify or dissolve.

But instead, the entirely resolute Mary paced through the space between them, and immediately brought firm hands to clutch at Lilith's back, rested her face on Lilith's shoulder.

Without giving herself the chance to weaken, Lilith answered the touch, feeling their identical bodies lock into place so easily, as though it were more than just petty wizardry that had brought them there. She placed one hand upon Mary's shoulder blade, the other in the small of her back.

And for just a few instants, it was paradise.

But then came the vision and it almost broke her at the knees: within this human embrace, full of trust, she was afflicted by the image of her demonic countenance, attaching itself by rows of jagged teeth to Mary's shoulder, its deep eye sockets gaping with bony outgrowths, its skin like a carapace. A frantic dizziness overtook her and she steadied her feet, tried not to put too much sudden weight on Mary, who knew nothing of what she saw.

But know it she must.

"Mary, I, I have another face,” she breathed, her shame laid bare, “a truly horrific one. Nightmarish, in fact."

"I don't care," came the soft reply.

"If you should ever see it, if I accidentally let out that part of myself in anger, or in, in predation, I—"

"I don't care." She was so certain. But she mustn't be.

"You may say that now, but if you ever... if you ever really saw me that way..."

"Lilith!" Mary braced her arms against Lilith's waist, leant backwards with an expression that was likely reserved for students. "Listen to me: I know you've been distorted by millennia in Hell, and it tears at me to think about it. But that wasn't your fault. Even if you chose it, to punish yourself, it's not who you are. And I'm interested in who you are, not the marks that suffering has left on you. Only you."

“Me?” The earnest outpouring had separated Lilith's will from her mouth.

“Just like, for some reason,” Mary broke her eyes away to chuckle at the thought, “you seem to be so interested in me. And my life. And survival.” She loosed a hand to gesture at the list. “And anyway, it's not like you can take back what you said. I may be getting old, and... my eyes might not be as sharp as they, well, never really were. And I might have lost some of my reason to sleep-deprivation. But I don't think I could ever forget what you just told me. What you entrusted me with.”

Lilith found herself sitting down again, slowly hinging at her elbows until she was separate and fully seated. The vision had not left her mind's eye; indeed it seemed to have been burnt there, no matter where she looked in the room.

Casting off this demonic self... no matter the force of my will...

Is it even possible?

She thinks so.

In all her recklessness.

“What if you die?” Lilith whispered, entirely without volition.

Mary had followed her down, sitting on the arm-rest. “Then I suppose... we'll have to reassess the situation. And take that as it comes. But you have a plan. Don't you?”

“I do.”

“You need me to do a spell. Just one.”

“That's correct.”

“And then, I have to visit a fabric store and collect some little squares to represent the elements, and you.”

“And I, you.” Lilith tilted her head up, meeting Mary's questioning gaze. “It is my role, in the particular rite, to come bearing a piece representative of my acolyte. To show my approval of her. As proof of my esteem.”

“Oh,” Mary's voice betrayed her immediate excitement, ”do you know what you'll bring?”

Lilith stared into her terrible private vision, then sought out Mary's hand, barely touched it with her fingertips before the hand answered hers, at which point her sight showed mercy and she was able to see her own human flesh, with her own human eyes.

“I believe that I do.”

“Oh no,” Mary sighed, her face twisting with disappointment at the darkened sugar and spice cookies. “Lilith, I'm so sorry, I entirely lost track of time.” She placed the baking tray on the counter and stepped back, unwilling the break her rueful gaze from the failure. “I wanted to bake these for you for so long, and now they're ruined.”

Still hovering in the kitchen doorway, Lilith found her lingering encumbrance of spirit lifted by Mary's focus on the baking; being the centre of attention was all good and well, and entirely appropriate, but preferably it should not involve such mortifying amounts of vulnerability. And with Mary's thoughts on a much more mundane cause of stress, Lilith would be able to offer some concrete aid, that of an especially rare sort.

“Not necessarily,” she said simply.

Mary's wrinkled brow tore itself away at last. “What do you mean?”

Lilith raised her chin at the square little book on the kitchen table, and would say no more until Mary removed her oven mitts and picked it up, stared into the cover as though puzzling at an optical illusion.

“This book can un-burn cookies?” Doubt and hope intermingled in her tired throat.

Lilith's reply was a demure smile, and she entered the room, headed not for Mary but for the windows which were open onto the night, airing out the smell of burnt starch.

“Left unsupervised, children of every sort are led by their curiosity, their need to explore and experiment. For a human child, that might lead to crayons scrawled on the wall or a slick of muddy water across the carpet.”

“But for a witch child...”

Lilith nodded. “A parent might return to find their drapes transformed into tropical leafage, to walls charred by salamander's breath...” she idly traced a finger over the still-hot baking tray, while her eyes sought out the moon between the clouds. “Or to a family of sea-monkeys living out of the bathtub.”

“Oh, Lilith, sea-monkeys are just brine shrimp, we... we only tell children they're intelligent to entertain them.”

Lilith looked over her shoulder, an eyebrow wryly cocked. “Witch children, remember?”

“Oh! My goodness...”

The wonderment upon Mary's face, Lilith could not deny how fond she had become of its sudden appearances; it was like watching Evening Primrose blooming beyond the dusk, unreliant on the sun.

“And so,” Lilith continued, turning her body to rest with braced arms against the counter, “each section of the Fledgling Witch's Golden Guide contains a list of mending cantrips, to save the child from whatever fate their parent may wish to mete out.”

“I... don't suppose that would mean withholding their allowance?”

“If by 'allowance' you mean their ability to freely spend their powers, then yes.”

Mary turned her eyes to the book, opened to the table of contents, and began scanning. “So somewhere in here, there's a spell to fix burnt cookies.”

“To a fashion. Spells are adaptable, and work upon certain central principles. In this case, the problem is one of imbalance.”

Lilith heard in her voice a slowness and patience that she seldom encountered, one which she had found herself using more and more during her sojourn at Baxter High. At first, having to take over classes was an annoying distraction from her mission, and she gave it only the amount of effort needed to mark her as humanly competent. But before very long, she had been surprised to find that she relished it, to see her words change the look on a child's face, revealing to them thoughts they hadn't considered. Steadily, and despite herself, she had begun to look forward to their questions; being treated as the undisputed leader of the room, the final authority on the framing of knowledge, it had felt...

Nice.

“Imbalance. Of the elements?”

“Precisely.” She had reached the table and moved in close to place a finger on the relevant page number. “Wheat is derived from the Earth, and in a delicate balance with Fire, it is cooked to perfection. But when excessive heat is applied, the Earth is charred, over-taken by Fire.”

Shoulder to shoulder with her, Mary flipped to the suggested page. “And so one must simply re-balance the elements? That is,” she caught herself with a small laugh, “not simply, I'm sure, it must be very complicated magic, to be able to turn back the clock on material degradation.”

“Actually, it is very simple,” Lilith corrected, feeling as airy in mood as in voice. A water colour illustration having been revealed, she ran her finger across the representations of the various levels of harm done to an Earth element, and their remedy: “If lightly cooked: cool air; if singed: water; if burnt...”

She watched Mary, waited for her quick mind to complete the pattern.

“Ice?”

“Ice.”

Eyes glinting in fascination, Mary passed the book to Lilith, picked up a glass from the counter, then went over to her freezer compartment and cracked three ice-blocks into the glass. “Will this do?”

Lilith's heart was skipping in that old way, her pulse fleet of foot. “It will.”

Mary nodded and brought the glass over, whereupon Lilith traded it for the guide, and tipped two of the cubes into her bare palm, clutched them with only momentary discomfort before her magical instincts came alive and neutralised the sensation. She moved to the tray of cookies, and Mary followed, the book open once more, as she read aloud:

“'The char must be drawn out, through the conduit of you, young witch. A ring of witches is always better than one, but with determination, you will learn to command each element on your own!'”

Lilith laid her right hand upon the middle of the tray, palm pressed flat on its surface, and in her left, tightened her grip upon the ice. “Would you like to say the incantation?” she asked, her smile hidden from Mary's view but unmistakable in her voice. It was needless for any words at all to be uttered, as, had she wished it, Lilith would have completed the task already. But for Mary's confidence, this was better.

“Um, yes, of course.” She cleared her throat, as though about to orate to a crowd. “'Excessus ignis, audite me, quaeso! Manducare glacies, aufero vestri ardere. Da retro mollis terra. Vos sunt liberum ire.'”

As she spoke, Lilith closed her eyes and did the delicate work of untying the knotted elements, pulling carefully at the strands so as not to tear them, and soon the ice in her hand began to steam, pushing out between the folds of her fist. A moment longer and she opened her hand, the water vapour hissing its last into the atmosphere.

Tip-toed exhilaration was stirring in her chest and she bit it back, because why should she feel thus off some tiny mending spell, made for witchlings fresh out of the cradle?

Well. Perhaps because it had been hundreds of years since she had dared.

A trifle, indeed, but a forbidden one.

And yet she felt no fear, here in her witch's house. Fool-hardy as it was, she did not.

“Did it work?” asked Mary, craning to look over her shoulder.

Lilith stepped back, wiped the condensation off her hand with a dish towel. “See for yourself.”

Not only did Mary look, but was quick to test with her other senses too, holding the warm, unblemished piece in cautious fingers, sniffing it while it misted her glasses, then tentatively bringing it to her teeth. She paused to glance at Lilith for approval and received it in the form of a little wave.

Watching the pleasure spread across Mary's face, the relief at having her mistake undone, it coaxed night-blooming jasmine to life in Lilith's breast, and its sweet and powerful perfume rose up to fill the spaces in her face.

“This is amazing!” Mary murmured through the screen of her hand.

“Yes,” Lilith affirmed, feeling a glow from within.

It truly is.

Chapter Text

'I did not doubt his words, for why should he lie? He had not yet claimed the sobriquet of Great Deceiver. And unlike the False God and my Intended, he had never sought to mislead me — at least, not in any of the ways my malleable, resin-raw mind could recognise.'

The feint-ruled moleskin journal was not especially elegant, but there would be time enough for elegance later. Once her story had been penned by her own hand, free of the filters of men with their multifarious agendas using it, misshaping it and making it even more grotesque than it had already been. Even within the Satanic Churches, whatever proud history she had once been granted had been steadily degraded, as she was given a more and more minor role, with the result of becoming, at best, a pantomime damsel entranced by Lucifer, and at worst a poorly cited footnote.

Her modern legacy had been detailed in the journals of her briefly blazing covens, and it was by some mysterious hand that Mary had ended up with such a text (Lilith being unable to discover the means without admitting her trespass); the chances of other readers, even witches, coming across such texts were minuscule however, and thus her stories were doomed to the fringe. Just as Lucifer preferred it.

Well. No longer.

Even with all the fires of Hell at his disposal, he could not burn every single book.

'So often had we lain together since his Fall, I could no longer name each location or mode, and therefore when he said “Dear Lilith, it pains me, but it seems that you have been affected to the core by these barren lands; no fruit may flourish in the grove of your womb, as all the trees have shrivelled from neglect”, I took him at his word, and mourned, not for myself, but for my failure as his wife. For finally, in Lucifer, with his gentleness and encouragement, I had accepted what might be called a husband. And yet I could not carry out the appropriate husbandry. I, the First, she who had been created as the Mother of Humanity, found myself defective in that regard, deeply wanting.'

She paused for the bonds to loosen in her chest, pulled taut at thoughts of that ancient injury wrought against her purpose and her self; such a potent lie, it had perhaps played the biggest part in convincing her to take the dreadful path he would lay out soon thereafter. For what could be more precious to a prospective mother than her womb?

'As a witch, I had grown powerful and could bring forth life with a touch, with a song, but none of that life brought him pleasure, and so, after a time, it ceased to bring me joy as well.

'“How can I serve you, Sweet Lucifer, if my prime purpose is lost?”

'And he was kind in his reply, soothing my brow with a kiss: “Your purpose is Love; in that, you serve me well.”

'“But I must do more than love!” I protested. “As you have told me many times of your yearning, to breed a tribe in your image, rather than that of our Betrayer.”

'“Yes, I do yearn for that, my Lilith. And my sorrow is great, I shall not deny it. But perhaps your fault might be moulded to another purpose, and we may yet spit in the eye of Heaven with our sacrilegious offspring.”

'”Pray tell me how this might be, my lord!” I begged, hope blooming in my devastation. “How might this failed womb bring you thence?”

'He paused to ponder, staring off at the crags which protruded through the distant mists, and I swooned at the sight of his wise and beautiful countenance, ever willing to include me in his future, no matter how unworthy I continued to prove myself.'

Again she halted her pen, waiting for the scowl to leave her face, for her spirit to untwist, before she might again find that naïve voice.

Thoughts dripping with bile had broken free in her mind, insisting to be written, too fast to separate into phrases or hiss out loud into the small, silent room, on the outskirts of Pandemonium.

Were she to send spite into the enclosed air, it would only coat the walls and, in so snug a setting, that would be best avoided; a neutral energy was ideal for this place, between the Fury of the Infernal Court and the Solace of the Cottage. It must continue to be a personal limbo, a bench between worlds, wherein to separate intellect and passion. As best she could.

She bowed her head once more, bolstered by a determined breath.

'”If your womb was the False God's instrument to bring forth the legions of Man, then if anything, it should be rejected entirely, in his denial. No, Lilith, we shall use your body in the ways he did not intend, and harness your creative energies to spawn our own unholy legion.”

'”A legion, my lord?” I faltered, frightened of the word, of its quaking size.

'He lowered himself to my height and took my hands in his: “A legacy, dear witch. A family.”

'Wrought weak by the word, I crumpled into his arms, all acquiescence and tears and promises.

'And so began the process of my degradation, as I learned to become a conduit for the violent energies swirling on the edges of the physical world. Of course, Lucifer was clever as always, and started with the smallest demonings: a slice out of my palm to impregnate a sigil drawn in the dirt, the tears of my pain upon which it should sup, and, as I plunged my hand into the soil, a thing took hold around it, a triple-tailed scorpion which scuttled up my arm once it tired of stinging.

'”Behold your unholy offspring!” Lucifer complimented me, each time some part of me was lost and some member of the Hoards gained. And for a time, it did bring pride to my breast. For all that I was physically and magically exhausted, it seemed that I was somehow heroic; humble Lilith, useless as a natural mother, but eminently fruitful as an infernal breeder. With every further debasement I was able to survive, he engineered for me a worse one, so that I might produce ever more powerful foot-soldiers.

'Unfortunately, much of that exhaustion seemed for naught, as Heaven's champions cut down hundreds in a fell swoop, weeks of my bloodshed negated in moments. And, more than the destructive power of creation itself upon my body, it was that which steadily eroded my mind: loss upon loss, reflected back at me in Lucifer's ever-darkening eyes, left me daily more unhinged. Even when a single drop of blood further spent could have ended me, I shrieked for the athame, to produce a stronger opponent against Heaven, and in time I lost all concept of myself as distinct from a tool of demon gestation. I cared not for food or water, wandered naked and filthy through the lower Circles which had hollowed out without my noticing. I became a ranting fool, and of many years beyond that time, I have no memory. It is possible, out of necessity, that Lucifer allowed me to rest, and that it brought me back from my madness.

'Whereupon I descended into a further desolation: I could barely recognise myself, as my body had changed around me, both within and without. Lucifer, also bereft of beauty since many years, was no longer able to soothe the terrors from my heart. I loved him and served him, because those were the feelings I remembered most strongly, from before my mind had left me. I clung to them, as the only solid truths in a world that was ever caving in on itself.'

“You tell me that I'm not a demon, Mary,” she spoke to the empty air, predictably hoarse, “and I would like for that to be the case. But you must understand that, for a time, it was easier. Only a demon could have done those things. And I now believe that... locking away my humanity, within the abomination I had become... has allowed me to preserve it. Just enough of it.” She rested forward onto an elbow, mouth against her palm as she stared into the distance, into the cottage, into those boundless blue eyes. “And, if you are patient with me, I will try to rebuild it.”

Another bolstering breath, and she lowered the fountain pen (for this was not the hour for a sentimental yet ultimately cumbersome tool):

'How many centuries passed, I wonder, before I learnt that the flaw had always been with Lucifer's body, and not my own? For the Heavenly Choir had never been intended to grow: it was, no more, no less, exactly as the False God intended. Every seraph had its place in the congregation, its own glittering note to sing. And turning that vibration into the clash of swords did not alter the essential fact that angels are not a race, but, in fact, a Collection: each handsome beyond words, perfected by his hand, but nonetheless entirely without the power to propagate. Sexless and ornamental.

'Indeed, how could I have known? And by that time, whenever it was, the knowledge was meaningless.'

The bitter taste in her mouth had become overwhelming, so she put aside the pen and stretched her arms above her head, stood to elongate her spine. Even in this halfway-house of a place, she had her small comforts, and she would begin with a brew of rose-hip tea, a plant which grew more flavourful after it had survived multiple winters.

She had been waiting for some hours to unwrap the little parcel that sat at the far left of her desk, for a point at which she felt she had earned the pleasure it would surely bring.

The spiced cookies — they of a second batch, dutifully monitored — were folded into patterned napkins (orange and yellow blossoms amidst deep red), inside a re-purposed margarine container. Upon removing the lid, the subtle scent immediately took Lilith back some merry hours previous, where, sitting at the kitchen table, she had no longer been able to reasonably deny her skills as a confectioner, and so had regaled Mary with tales of her most ambitious pieces.

She had not revealed the fiendish purpose behind her highly-detailed gingerbread model of the Spellman mortuary, but rather described her thought process in building her solitary Yuletide's decoration: she spoke of how she had preferred using ginger nut to the currently popular dough, and gum paste over fondant for details; how she had brushed ginger-infused syrup onto the walls for firmness, used ganache to give a pleasant texture to the roof, and hidden skewers beneath the tallest of the chimneys for stability. She described also her pleasure in, at the stroke of midnight, consuming many a gable and wall, dipping them in a generous glass of full-bodied sherry.

In return, Mary had fetched her plastic flip-file of recipes, an assortment of hand-written notes, magazine clippings and photocopied library book pages, amassed over the past three decades, and pointed out her successes and favourites. Born to a woman who was extremely territorial around her kitchen, unwilling to share preparation space with even her own daughter, Mary had not had the benefit of learning from her mother, and so had been forced to wait until she had a kitchen of her own to become a competent cook and baker. She claimed to harbour no ill-will towards her mother for this, until Lilith had poked fun at her for long enough to break her composure and led Mary to a series of comically prim impersonations of the late Mildred Wardwell.

Lost in their sharing, the time had passed all too quickly, and it was as the weekend sun began to tickle the horizon that Lilith stumbled out of the cottage, drunk not on red wine, but on companionship. And it had remained in her blood, all through her descent, lingered as she diverged her route to avoid a lumbering toad of a beast, and glimmered still as she drove the wights from her door.

Transferring all but three of the cookies to a porcelain jar of her own, Lilith placed the plastic container and its napkin on the display space above her desk, alongside Mary's multipen, and a ribboned posy of lavender, sourced from the cottage garden. Some day soon, these and sundry other trinkets might be the only remaining proof of Mary Wardwell, mundane objects enchanted by memory; but, at the very least, those memories must be decisive, formed with purpose and passion, rather than limp passivity.

It was Lilith's right to rage against everything, and most especially to rage against Mary's eventual loss, but that rage must be the fuel for forward motion, not merely an indulgent inferno whose aftermath could only be ash.

And, she reminded herself, that loss could be a long while yet. If she could only weave her multi-coloured ideas into a cohesive tapestry, could only convince those disparate fibres to interlock despite not being intended for such crafting. With enough will, and enough skill, between them, she would risk believing that their hands stood a chance.

She finished her snack and returned to the page, the sweetness on her tongue offering some protection against the further bitterness her story would inevitably bring forth:

'Lucifer's immense loathing and resentment of humanity kept him from the realisation of what they could provide him, beyond the worship he had already managed to gain by his infamous trickery. It was only in relatively recent days that he began to possess the bodies of mortals for more than just the sowing of dissent: his wickedness would wind its tendrils through their spirits and twist their minds, such that they could no longer be guided by the moral compass that most mortals naturally hold. Furthermore, the possession of witch and warlock bodies gave him the ability to achieve his grandest goal yet: the creation of hybrid beings, his children in all the invisible ways, without the necessity of an infernal seed.'

Her hair reacted first to the static in the air, then her nostrils picked up the smell of iron filings and the flesh on her left forearm rose in precisely shaped welts:

'SOLII'

She rolled her eyes as the stinging of her flesh subsided and the word faded, lifted her gaze to the keepsakes, and sighed into her words: “Would it kill him, I wonder, to sear a little more of my skin for the sake of 'si tibi placere'?”

She paused a while to smile at the imaginary Mary's witty rejoinder, then stood and pulled on her blazer, rendering herself even more angular. After making certain that any suspicious pleasure had left her face, she translocated to the court in a whirl of blue flame. Immediately upon arrival she lowered her chin, veiled her eyes and drawled some empty obsequience in the general direction of the throne.

Inwardly, however, she continued to compose her memoir, seeing the words take form in elegant flourishes of ink, which gleamed with the anticipation of change:

'After one such impregnation-by-proxy, using the High Priest of one of his beloved Churches of Night, he co-sired a girl intended to fulfill a prophecy that would bring about Hell on Earth, and with it the destruction of both witch and mankind. And on the eve of the child's sixteenth birthday, I was sent to oversee her journey upon that path. Though I could have never predicted it, the assignment was to lead me down an epiphany-strewn path of my own...'

Chapter Text

Once the house had fallen silent around her, feeling somehow both exhausted and enlivened, Mary debated whether she should try to sleep at all, or rather pass the hours until the stores opened by reading the Golden Guide, thereby getting a head start on her task. The decision was soon taken away from her, however, when the book's illustrations began to sway and curve in on themselves, and she eventually felt the cold surface of the table against the tip of her nose.

Admitting her mortal limitations was never easy, and with Lilith now an ever-waking presence in her life, it became even less so; she resolved to only sleep the most necessary of hours, expecting that either the sun would wake her in short order, or the nightmares, whichever came first.

But the nightmares did not come and it was to soft afternoon light through lace curtains that she slowly woke. Not that it was all that unusual, she had certainly had nights when her subconscious had chosen to show mercy, yet she could not help but wonder whether there might be more to it.

Could it be witchcraft?

Or rather, the acceptance of witchcraft into her life?

Fearlessly pledging to follow the First Witch into unknown depths, where she was helpless to predict the destination?

Not that she felt fearless, of course. Invigorated, yes. Emboldened, by her own decisiveness and Lilith's confidence in her. She might even be willing to call herself 'brave'. But that lingering terror was ever in the background, humming like a powerline just outside of the window, where only the cessation of it would call attention to the noise.

Which was just as well. Because, witch's apprentice or not, she was human, mortal and brittle, and it would not do to forget that. Having thrown her lot in with Lilith, the only way to protect her very breakable self would be to follow her instructions to the letter, as thoughtfully and intelligently as she could. Only then was there a chance of, as Lilith had put it, creating a safe haven. For both of them.

It took some time for her eyes to travel across to her little clock, and another few moments for her to connect the indistinct numbers to her concerns of the day. The connection made, however, it was with some stumbling haste that she left bed and bedroom behind, by-passing the kitchen entirely, to strip naked and shift impatiently from foot to foot on the mint green mat, as the shower water took its dear time heating up.

Three hours was plenty of time, surely. The fabric store was just a few blocks from Baxter High, and in the worst case, she could even postpone it until Monday and go after work. That is, were she not dead set on riding this wave of motivation to its limit. Each moment was precious when her life had split down the middle, with every day containing the exact number of hours it always had; the hands of the clock did not care that she now tentatively navigated both the mundane and magical worlds. That was a Mary Wardwell problem alone.

Too late she realised that she had wet her hair, darting eyes lost in timetabling, and sighed into the steam, reached for her anti-frizz conditioner. Perhaps she would risk an air-dry for today; as long as she didn't lower the windows while driving, the result couldn't be all that bad. Especially if she loosely braided it before leaving. She couldn't afford to be slowed by vanity.

She reached for her facial scrub and touched nothing, blinked against dripping eyelids and groped about until she found it, in an area where water had the tendency to pool and mix with soap residue, leading to eventual slime. She would never have left it there, and so it must have been Lilith, taking over her bathroom again even now, presumably when she had last stayed the night.

With a sniff of amusement at Lilith's carefree pilfering of her toiletries, she picked up the tube and attempted to thumb the cap loose, tried thrice before realising that the problem lay not with her co-ordination but with the cap itself: it had not been manufactured to flip, but rather to unscrew.

Indeed, on closer examination, it was not her pomegranate scrub at all, but in fact a thinner, greener container, with the descriptor 'Gently Cleansing Cucumber' in iridescent lettering.

She had most definitely not purchased this, even with her memory lapses she knew that; the brand was altogether too expensive.

“Lilith, why?”

In disbelief, she had spoken the words aloud, and the dismay in them brought her quickly to laughter.

All right, have it your way, O Lady of Despair...

The face wash produced a refreshingly crisp scent when she rubbed it between her palms, and, in accordance with Lilith's obvious intentions, lightly massaged it around with her fingertips.

'Lady of Despair'.

Why that of all names? Why would a coven who worshipped Lilith for all that she was, all the power and passion that she embodied, call her by a name so deeply sad? The meaning of 'despair' had not sufficiently shifted in the past few centuries that there was some other way to interpret it.

Perhaps it was more towards what could be accomplished once one accepted a state of despair, the freedom of that knowledge, of the certainty of desolation.

The ubiquitous Wastes, which had moved within.

And the desire to flourish regardless.

Some of the passages in the journal had so intrigued her — both tugged at her heart and unsettled her mind — that she had found herself returning to them again and again, and amidst the heat and the scent of cucumber, fragments came to her like echoes of a song:

'Lady Lilith dressed in carnage, strides through blue flame...'

'Her gaze devours, Her lips compel, Her smile tears through the night...'

Even though Mary knew in her intellect that Lilith would have had a different body then, worn a different face then, she had no way of knowing what those might be, and so she could not help but imagine Lilith in the only way she had concretely known her: a counterfeit of herself, existing in ways she never, in her wildest nightmares, ever could.

'She pursues the Chosen through the forest, until their blood throbs fit to burst their necks, their eyes shining with every need known to witch and beast. She slips in and out of moon-shadow, Her stalking laughter everywhere at once, impossible to place for babes such as we. Until lo, She grabs and pins Her selected to a tree...'

The tale was far too intense, as it always was, yet closing her eyes could do nothing to still Mary's well-trained imagination.

'...rending, ravishing, in reward.'

She set about removing the conditioner from her hair more roughly than was necessary, as though to also rub the images clear, and with them the prickling feeling that had spread out from face to fingers.

To keep revisiting a topic while baulking at the effect thereof, it was surely irrational, and yet there was something with which she could draw parallels (and chose to, as an additional distraction): her fascination with the horror genre of fiction had led her through a similar journey of repulsion and delight, where she intentionally stimulated the parts of her mind left untouched by daily life, and then stepped effortlessly back into that life.

The grotesque shapes into which the human mind might mould its fear, passing animalistic terror through its advanced creative capacity... it had been so interesting to her, once. Before it had merged with memory and lost all value as a pastime. She had shut her abstract paintings — pieces privately commissioned to evoke a specific mood — away behind the stored furniture, draped them in old bedsheets. If only she could do the same for her mental scarring.

The Lilith of the coven's journal... was it Lilith the Nightmare? The Demon? That thing she had become while living up to Hell's expectations of her? Was that feral, bloodied Lilith a part of her from which she had craved separation, when she had declared to Mary her will to grow, as a human person?

Across the pages, Lilith did not seem to be suffering, but instead revelling, in a manner which enlivened those around her; how could such a thing be negative, even if to Mary it seemed at times dreadful? If both Lilith and her coven gained something so powerful, so sublime, from the relationship, could it fairly be judged demonic?

Her instincts told her no. But could it be human, and would Lilith yet see it as human?

There was no choice but to ask her. Mary would have to put aside her bashfulness at holding the book — a feeling caused, she had eventually reasoned, by the shame of voyeurism, of witnessing something so primal and personal.

And the thought would not be denied: if Mary was herself on the path of an acolyte, was this perhaps what dwelt in her future as well?

Another vigorous working of the fingers, against hair and imagination, and she was rinsing off her body.

Lilith had told her that the task ahead — the selection of fabrics — would not be difficult. 'Decidedly mundane' she had called it.

But there was nothing easy or simple about any of this, because there was nothing simple about Lilith.

Perhaps at the beginning, she had been a singular, wonderful idea: the first human woman in Creation. Yet soon her descriptors had multiplied: the first woman to reject domination by a man, the first to flee Paradise, the first human survivalist, soon thereafter the first witch, and presently the first woman to meet a fallen angel and...

Mary's mouth twisted beneath the gentle patting of her towel.

The first woman to have become a denizen of Hell. And Lucifer's First Lady, inasmuch as he had led her to believe.

By then, all simplicity had been lost. Lilith by her very nature was endlessly complicated, and as a woman, her psyche had woven itself into something so complex that perhaps even she couldn't tell one thread from another; it certainly seemed that way to Mary, though she did not presume that her limited, layman experience could give her all that much insight.

And so how exactly was she to do this thing?

A single piece of fabric?

The mere notion of it was insulting to one as Lilith (and there were none as Lilith).

Perhaps for some other senior witch it was possible, and someone in Mary's position might find a bold square of purple velvet and call it a day. But the textures and shades of Lilith? The more Mary thought about them, the more her mind began to spin and panic, at the implausibility of the task.

Although it was cruel to her bare skin, she made herself sit down upon the side of the bathtub, to finish dabbing at her hair and pretend vertigo hadn't been about to overtake her.

She would have to start over, from the most basic of thoughts: Lilith was formed from the earth itself, and thus no synthetic fibres could be allowed; the complexity of Lilith had been slowly overlaid, changing her tone by tone, a gradual dyeing process...

All right.

Stop there.

Stop before you get overwhelmed again.

“A fabric from the earth,” she murmured, writing her thoughts on the air in the absence of a blackboard, “it would have to be pure, and pure cotton would seem the most obvious answer, but cotton...”

It doesn't feel right.

It's too plain.

“No, perhaps not a plant. Perhaps...”

Of course!

She stood up definitively, wrapped firmly in towelling, and paced towards the bedroom.

“Wool.”

Her feet gratefully met carpet.

“But not just any wool.”

First-sheared wool.

Lamb's wool. The softest and most pristine.

She pulled on underwear blindly, her eyes inwardly occupied.

“But then dyed, in the colours of Lilith. Which are,” she frowned into her research, “red and black.”

Dark red like wine.

Intoxicating.

But also—

“There has to be gold.“

'Nature's first green is gold,' the poet reminded her.

“...Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour....”

She had a blouse now, and stockings were in progress, garments taken out of order as thought monopolised all the order available to her.

“Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.“

Perhaps not everything.

But something.

Because when I look at her, I feel it.

“It's in her voice.”

Not gold leaf, like on the Fledgling Witch's guide, but gold thread, spun by the earth.

“Silk.”

Gold, and red and black.

Her glasses were on now, a necessary part of plaiting her still-damp hair; under the circumstances, she did not trust herself to work on touch alone.

“But how?”

Lamb's wool textiles were rare, especially if one didn't want something with an obvious pile, and Mary absolutely did not.

There was no pile in her sense memories of Lilith.

It was more than likely that she would need to alter her eventual purchase, to unearth the sewing supplies from the gathering dust in the corner of her bedroom. She should bring her upholstery shears along for sharpening — a dull blade could be ruinous — and it would be good sense to buy a new variety-pack of needles, in preparation for the unpredictable. Would her sewing machine be a permissible tool in this project? That was assuming the squares were to be joined at all, and assumption could very well make a fool of her.

She felt as though she should slow down, and contemplate the other required squares for a moment, having gained this insight, but her mind already took corners like an overburdened cart and she could not risk adding more weight to it.

“You know, you haven't eaten, don't you?”

Who has time for eating?

“You'll pass out behind the wheel and drive off the road. And die.”

Excuse me?

Her cadence had shifted, the impersonation coming with uncanny ease.

“Eat something. Better now than after they drag your body onto a gurney.”

Lilith, how dare you. I'm a grown woman, I can decide whether I have time to eat or not.

But she knew the phantom Lilith was right and steered herself to the kitchen, and to cereal, allowing a small cup of very hot tea as a further concession, though her leg bounced the entire time.

The clock on the wall agreed with her Lilith approximation: Mary had made excellent time between now and waking, and with some sensible speed behind the wheel, she could easily consult the woman at the fabric store, and be home in time to open up the witches' book and start work on her single, simple, unassisted spell.

(The less thought about that the better, for her bouncing nerves.)

She placed her bowl and tea-cup in the sink, and tilted her head to the empty air.

“Is that good enough, Lilith, can I go now?”

Of course the air gave no reply, which was just as well; Lilith receiving her heartfelt, dreaming plea was one thing, but Mary conveying some casual petulance through the ether was perhaps not the best use of whatever psychic connection they might be developing.

(The less thought about that the better, for her bouncing sense of reality.)

All right. I'll do my best not to let you down.

I'll try to have the same trust you've bestowed upon me, in myself.

Just reduce everything that was Lilith, into a single square of fabric.

Nothing difficult.

And, by some miracle, it was already underway.

Chapter Text

“Anne, hello!” the woman behind the counter called, and inwardly Mary cringed, though nonetheless raised her arm to return the greeting.

“Good afternoon, Joyce. Are you well?”

She had been coming here far too long to do anything about the issue now.

“Oh very well, thank you! And yourself?”

For a moment she reflected on the question, as recently-uttered responses suggested themselves and seemed no longer fitting.

“I'm actually doing better than I have for some time, thank you. Even if the year did start out on a rather strange foot.

“Well I'm certainly glad to hear that.” The fabric store's owner was gentle and ebullient, with permed auburn hair which framed her face and neck, and tanned arms which were bared to the elbows, covered in thin silver bracelets which tinkled when she gestured in speech.

“I'm sorry I haven't come in for a while,” said Mary, though she knew it unnecessary.

“It has been a while, hasn't it?” Joyce smiled, pausing her hands to cast her mind back through the months. “Surely since...”

“September,” offered Mary. When she had come to purchase lining for the vest, which still sat unfinished, pinned together on her mannequin.

“No, I... believe it was November. Near the end of November, in fact. Just after we got in the shipment from Singapore. You were the first one to buy from it, as I recall!”

“I'm sorry?” That old sinking feeling was in her gut again, one she had assumed banished.

“Yes, Charlene served you. I remember, because you immediately gravitated towards the red brocade.”

“I did?” She knew the answer to this, of course. There was no reason to allow panic to get its claws in over such confusion any longer. “Do you remember which one I chose?”

“I do, as a matter of fact! I ended up making some throw pillows out of it for my living room, they looked absolutely stunning next to the wood lilies my daughter brought for Christmas.”

She escorted Mary across the store, past a multitude of textures and colours in which Mary knew she would soon be elbow-deep, searching for the most important purchase she had ever made at Joyce's Fabric Emporium.

They reached the imported brocade and the woman pulled out a bolt of fabric instantly recognisable to Mary: how could she forget it, when that pattern had been front-and-centre on the night where she had almost certainly been rescued from an ungainly death?

“How much would you like?”

Oh, no, I don't intend to buy any of it today.

“Just two yards, please.”

And what on earth are you planning to do with that?

She avoided contemplating the embarrassing possibilities.

Joyce nodded and pulled the bolt onto the measuring table, unholstered her shears, the silver gleam of which reminded Mary to withdraw her own.

“Oh, could you perhaps sharpen these for me?”

“Busy night ahead?” Joyce smiled up at her, then yelled, barely over her shoulder, for an assistant to rush over and take Mary's shears.

"Yes, I think so, I'm... actually looking for quite a number of things. A variety of... of samples, I suppose.”

“That sounds mysterious.” She folded up the sectioned brocade and returned the bolt to its shelf. “Where would you like to start?”

The question, much as it should not have done so, caught Mary quite by surprise, and she worked for a sensible answer as her heart stumbled into racing. “Well, maybe if I, um, I should probably start with the... off-cuts bin? To just... get my mind working?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Joyce gestured back towards the front of the store, where a raised glass tank sat, full of various shapes and sizes of fabric, all intermingled, each piece gazing out hopefully in the manner of a stray, yearning to be taken home (Mary recognised that anthropomorphising scraps of fabric was perhaps not the wisest use of her imagination at this point, but she had never truly been able to switch it off).

Faced with so many hundreds of options, she attempted to push back the anxiety by working through the numbered list she had scribbled before leaving; absent-mindedly digging through the bin would only result in her missing appropriate pieces, as her thoughts drifted to other things.

Earth. Fire. Water. Air. Void. Mind.

And Lilith.

The last of which would certainly not be found within this miscellanea, nor would Mary want it to. The mere idea seemed disrespectful.

She set about with her hands and eyes vigilant, moving the mountains of materials first to one side, digging to the depths of one corner where stray packaging pieces and loose thread collected, then shifting them over once more, feeling mole-like in her focus. She pulled out piece after piece, to drape over the edge for later contemplation, and eventually resorted to seeking out ideas by touch alone, when her eye-strain threatened to bring on a headache.

In this place where natural light would never reach, it was unclear how much time had passed once she gestured the assistant over, asking for larger cuts of some of the fabrics and enquiring about different colour options for others. But it hardly mattered, when she could sense the culmination of her efforts approaching.

She had been unable to fulfil the requirement of 'void', just as she had feared, and resolved to put it to the back of her mind as she sought out the smaller items she required on the wire turntables. As it happened, just that small piece of emotional restraint was immediately rewarded as, having located the gold, red and black embroidery thread — silk bella to allow for delicate detailing — her eyes alighted on potentiality made solid:

Needlepoint canvas. A void awaiting creativity. Unlimited potential, unbiased and neutral.

The poetry of it was felt against her ribs and in her unexpected grin, as she brought her selection to the counter, to join the fabrics which had already been parcelled up.

And now the most important thing...

“Do you perhaps have any lamb's wool textiles?” She attempted to keep the weight of the question out of her voice, to seem casual about the need to embody all that was Lilith into five by five inches.

Joyce tilted her head in thought. “Lamb's wool... for lining? Or decorative purposes?”

“Well... decorative, I suppose.”

“There's a lovely faux that's been quite popular for bathmats recently—“

“No. Thank you, but... it has to be natural.”

Joyce raised her brows, in mock-concern: “That's going to set you back a bit.”

“I know. But it's unavoidable. Tell me, what's... do you have something with a very low pile? A fine knit of some kind? It mustn't look fluffy.”

“Gosh, Anne, I don't think I have anything that specific on the shelves.”

“Are you sure? It doesn't have to be very big. Even, ” her heart was sinking and she attempted to keep it above water by lightening her request, “even just a scarf, or, or a handkerchief.”

Her anxiety had reached the woman, despite her efforts, and Joyce leaned forward onto the counter with a sympathetic frown. “Well, if something small like that would do, perhaps Vincenzo's across town? They carry all sorts of formal menswear items, so chances are you'll find a pocket square at least. I'm afraid you'll end up paying far too much for it, though.”

Mary wished she could say that there was no such thing as 'too much' given the extraordinary circumstances. But the meagre remaining contents of her wallet after settling up left her with no illusions on the matter: if Lilith's tasks continued to be so costly, a public school educator might need to start moonlighting, on the path to her witch apprenticeship.

Having first indulged in another shower, to cleanse herself of the combined sweat of haste and the anxiety of communicating with the rather snobbish store clerk at Vincenzo's (who seemed somehow disapproving of her presence), Mary sat at the coffee table, her day's purchases spread out to be admired.

One by one, she ran through the elements, entering them in the journal which she had been gifted by a student many years back, and was finally willing to use.

'For Earth, undyed hemp, tight-weave, pragmatic and durable.

'For Fire, bergamot crushed velvet, warm and shaped like crackling flame.

'For Water, cool blue charmeuse satin, frictionless and never still.

'For Air, white silk gossamer, weightless and ethereal.

'For Void, needlepoint canvas, empty in expectation, its potential unknown.

'For Mind, intricate floral lace, like the complexity of human thought.'

She drew little symbols next to each element, their designs based on nothing but her own whimsy, and then turned the page with a satisfied smile.

Putting aside the ballpoint pen, she reached for a pen-case, opened it on stiff brass hinges, revealing a red-felted inside, and the fountain pen her grandmother had bought her on her 18^th birthday (“To enter your adult life with the tools befitting your passage”), and had only used a handful of times before placing it reverently on a high shelf.

With freshly decanted ink, she brought pen to paper, and lovingly formed each letter of Lilith's name, the quality of the nib keeping her from the heartache of blotting.

'For Lilith, deepest crimson lamb's wool, finely knit for elegance, embroidered with the black of night and the womb, the red of blood and wine, and a gold which is eternal and ever-gleaming.'

She underlined it all with a multi-level flourish that she had learnt in school, back when such things were still taught, and watched as the ink turned gradually matte.

The pocket square was larger than necessary, and the wool's knit was smoother and softer than she had dared hope. Which was, she supposed, to be expected, given the price of it: an item manufactured for men with the means to pay so much for a piece that would only ever be scarcely visible and never touched nor used. Without a doubt, she was putting it to far better use than was intended.

The embroidery would take some time, partially because it had been years since she had done any, but also because the design had not yet cemented itself in her mind. With the aid of her research materials, she had learnt an arcane sigil oft associated with Lilith, and intended to sketch out potential patterns with that as her starting point, but beyond that the shape of it was vague.

As she leaned back in the chair and took the breath she didn't know she had so badly needed, Mary allowed sweet relief to float down and drape itself over her head and shoulders: perhaps this was the mundane part of the challenge, a very mortal puzzle of creativity and intellect, but it had, for a time, seemed insurmountable. And yet she had surmounted it, for which she was willing to congratulate herself.

The high of that achievement allowed her to open the Golden Guide without excessive anxiety, and buoyed her through many hours of perusal and note-taking, until a hunger she could no longer ignore tore through her studies, one that yet another swiftly-brewed cup of tea stood no chance of assuaging.

Aware that eating poorly would steadily wear down her attention-span, she spent precious minutes creating a tuna-salad sandwich, all the while running through possible spells she might already attempt, right there in the kitchen. She was not about to purposefully burn cookies with an eye to de-burning them; even though Lilith had made it look easy, Mary had little reason to believe that her reading of the Latin verse had had much to do with the spell's success.

Her eyes sought across the various surfaces for inspiration, and paused on the stove: could she possibly do what Lilith had done, and 'charm the elements' into lighting the gas? She recalled finding one such spell in an early chapter of the guide, for young witches who had gathered in the woods and wished to light candles for prayer or torches for midnight exploration. (Mary had been highly apprehensive at the thought of children playing alone in the woods at night, particularly when she pictured the woods around Greendale, but she had with some effort convinced herself that, for young witches, such adventures were far less hazardous.)

In accordance with the stated material components, she fetched finely-ground cayenne pepper from the spice-rack, opened the kitchen windows to their full extent, then spent a while memorizing the short spell, knowing that, once her hands were covered in spice, it would be impossible to return to the book.

As ready as she could realistically be, she switched on the gas for the smallest burner, and then spat into her left hand, necessary both to somewhat bind the powder and as a means of including her DNA in the spell. Stretching her hands as far from her face as she could, she shook three doses of pepper into the same palm, and then rubbed her hands together, leaving them with matching stains of red spice.

To better focus and protect herself from ocular irritation, she shut her eyes, and placed her palms on either side of the escaping gas.

“Fire-spice and burning heart,
These I offer for my part.
Spirits of the Ember'd feet
Pray pass through here and
leave thine heat.”

She moved her hands in the manner of the diagram, and visualised as hard as she could the possibility of a flame bursting forth between them. She did not open her eyes, certain that she would both hear and feel such a result.

(Her nose was beginning to itch, and the knowledge of so much gas escaping balled in her throat.)

Taking a breath from over her shoulder, she recited the rhyme again, this time picturing how she imagined the bright-footed forest sprites would appear, how their tiny toes would dance over flammable material and set it alight, skip by tiny skip.

“Fire-spice and burning heart,
These I offer for my part.
Spirits of the Ember'd feet
Pray pass through here and
leave thine heat.”

Nothing.

She considered trying a third time, but the thought of flooding the house with fumes and having it reach the hearth was enough to kill the urge, and the gas. Her hand smeared the dial red, and loosed enough particles that her nostrils lost the battle, and she was lost in fits of sneezing, bracing herself against the counter until they lessened enough that she was able to acquire a paper towel and unburden her nose.

Disappointing. But she had not truly expected her first attempt to be that which blazed the trail to apprenticeship. Or to a means-to-an-end apprenticeship, whatever Lilith had meant by that. Whatever she had meant by saying that the two of them must convince the laws which govern magic to be lenient in their favour.

For the first time in many hours, she looked at the clock, expecting it to be late on a Saturday night, but finding that it was early into Sunday.

Then why sleep at all? she wondered for the second time in as many days.

She washed her hands thoroughly and wiped the smudges off her glasses, made her next warm brew a coffee — a very sweet one at that — and returned to the text, determined to keep her spirit from flagging.

I'll give you until midnight tonight, Mary Wardwell.

The self-imposed limit gave her a surprising thrill, in a way which marking deadlines never had. It was an unrealistic expectation, but realistic expectations had earned her nothing but boredom of late.

Use the time wisely. In the manner of a witch.

Chapter Text

“Why's it so cold down here?” Sabrina curled her lip at the grotesque tableaux of suffering carved into the cavern walls as they continued to descend.

Lilith walked some paces behind, both to herd the girl onward and to make certain that each environmental development would be met by Hell's child queen first; it would not do to diminish the novelty of the experience.

“That would be the effect of the fog. Your Majesty. You'll not see it until we get outside, but you'll feel it more and more in your bones, if you don't steel your will against it.”

“How do I do that?”

Lilith enjoyed a private smile before replying. “That will be up to you to discover, my queen. A monarch must build her own armour, from the inside out. Not even I can do that for you.”

Nor do I have any interest in doing so. Not when I spent millennia hammering ill-fitting sheets of every description across my soul, just to barely hold it intact.

If you think you'll grasp everything I worked for with nary a care, you've an entirely other thing coming.

Eventually the tunnel ended, the exit ringed in scales of frost that would never melt, and a whistling noise keened through the air, resembling nothing earthly comparable.

As predicted, the land which stretched out before them, bordered on all sides by soaring cliffs, was submerged in a sea of fog, such that it immediately set about dampening their clothing and cooling their skin.

Ahead of them lay a haunted vineyard, where grapevines were replaced by mortal souls, each tied to their own tiny plot of land by some tether or other, their terror-stricken eyes seeing not the fog but their own private damnation.

A deep grey, sharp-stoned path led between the souls, as though laid out for Hell's farmers to easily navigate them, and Lilith trod it briefly before lifting an arm in the manner of a tour guide:

“These are the Fields of Abimelech. The men you see before you spent their lives profiting off the suffering of others, wilfully ignoring the tragic outcomes of their actions. They gorged themselves on the finest pleasures the material world has to offer, and died without consequence.”

“They never got their hands dirty,” Sabrina nodded, drawing up her arms; with no experience in such matters, the fog was already penetrating her defences.

“No. Men like these always have somebody beneath them to take the fall. All the way down the proverbial ladder. But as it turns out, having the wherewithal to keep mortal blood from directly tainting one's hands is not sufficient to save one's immortal soul.” She lifted her jaw, peering off into the steadily more obscured distance as she chose their route. “Come along. As a monarch-in-training, you'll want to see their punishments up close.”

“I'm... not so sure about that.”

“Oh,” Lilith paused, a hand upon her hip as a smirk tugged her red lips apart, “my mistake. I meant I'll want you to see them up close.”

Sabrina scowled, but did not resist. For which Lilith was grateful: to have traipsed all the way down here only for the girl to dig in her heels in that infuriating way, it would have been a great temptation to simply abandon her to her own navigations. But given that Hell’s tumultuous bowels were unlikely to recognise any authority in the already-shivering child, Sabrina would be halted long before reaching Pandemonium, and who would be held accountable but Lilith herself? It would be far from worth the passing satisfaction.

Lilith halted them opposite a man with his ankle chained to a stake in the ground, who lurched his way along his limited circumference and occasionally dropped to his knees to cup at nothing, drawing the hollowness up to his face and then dropping his arms in misery, only to force himself upright and move elsewhere on the plot.

“What is he doing?” Sabrina asked, her voice hushed by fog and confusion.

“Oh, of course, you can't see, can you?” Which she had known from the beginning, but she relished being asked for her aid, no matter how small it might be. “Allow me to open your eyes.”

She passed her palm across Sabrina's face, unblessed her eyelids with a brush of her fingertips. And then the girl saw what the damned soul could see, in his infernal fish tank of a world: fields coated in ash which drifted down without end, and diseased rivers which cut through them, whose oily sheen reflected the colours of an accursed rainbow. The man staggered, desperate with thirst, and whenever he collapsed at another water source, he found it thick with poison, and lost hope, time after time after time.

“He was a governor, once,” Lilith narrated, “responsible for the health of tens of thousands of people. But when it came time to choose between their lives and the prospect of lining his pockets... well, what do you think he chose?”

Sabrina followed the man's tortured passage with furrowed brows. “The water supply was polluted?”

“Tainted, beyond repair. By the cutting of cost on an industrial level. A clean-up on the necessary scale would have meant admitting blame and redirecting funds which were best spent on more pleasurable pursuits.”

“But couldn't everyone tell that something was wrong? Why didn't they run tests?”

Lilith's face gave a moment's sympathy for her naïveté. “Samples were taken. Data was gathered. And findings were presented.”

“But he lied?”

“'The water is fine', he told them. 'The problem is purely cosmetic. Ignore it and season your cooking more lavishly to dull the bitterness'.”

The girl's gaze hardened and she looked away. “I'm glad he's down here.”

Lilith recognised the look in her eyes, she had seen it many times, and knew exactly where it led. And how easily manipulated it made the bearer.

“It feels good, doesn't it? That rage. That schadenfreude.”

“The what?”

“The pleasure gained by witnessing the misfortune of another.” It was a pleasure in which she had indulged more than most who ever lived. It was her solace, for her own suffering. Her small scrap of recompense.

“That's not what I'm feeling, Lilith.”

“Oh? Then how would you describe it?”

Do you perhaps still find the truth of your own heart too uncomfortable to acknowledge?

You'll see it eventually.

And when you do, how will you judge yourself?

Will you, like him, live entirely free of self-reproach?

Sabrina avoided the question, opting instead to set off towards the next plot, where a woman was strapped and bolted to a rickety wooden structure, seemingly on the edge of falling apart with every anxious movement of her tousled head.

On the dusty ground surrounding her, colourless, faceless beings, shaped like human children but with stumps for hands, shambled about, at times tripping over tools which could easily take apart the mechanism. With bare, toeless feet, they blindly trod across trays of succulent foodstuffs, no matter how much the woman's emaciated hands and chapped lips begged for them to stop, to bring her succour.

Lilith arrived in leisurely time and clasped her hands behind her back. “And what did this poor soul do, I wonder?”

Sabrina waited, as yet uncertain, and watched as the woman took a deep breath and began to issue agonisingly measured instructions to any of the creatures who might hear her. She told them when they were stepping up to a useful tool, but they did not respond, merely followed their endless rotation. She beckoned them to her wrists and feet, explained the ease with which they might unstrap her, just as simply as loosening any belt. But they would not and could not react.

“Why are they like that?” Sabrina's voice jittered, disturbed at this punishment that seemed only arbitrary cruelty.

“Why indeed. When she had every opportunity to instead make of them wise and dexterous citizens.”

Lilith watched the gears turning, observed the slow widening of Sabrina's eyes.

“She was a teacher? What did she do to them? Did—“

“Not quite a teacher, no. Someone with far more power: another politician, as it happens. With significant influence over her nation’s educational budgeting.”

Lilith crossed her arms, cocked her hip, and took in the suffering of someone who had been entrusted with the futures of children, and who chose instead to curry favour with those who favoured military spending.

Sabrina had balled up her fists, and her stance betrayed her desire to hurl herself violently into the woman's nightmare.

“Now now, my queen, let us not be overcome by our passions. Striking down humanity's worst with grand, theatrical vengeance is the way of the False God, and far too quick an end for one such as she. You would do well to learn the difference between vengeance and retribution.”

Sabrina shut her burning eyes and gradually removed the tension from her body, some of it trickling down her cheeks and over her tightened lips. “Fine. Let's just... just show me what I need to be a good queen.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow, admitting some surprise: perhaps the girl was beginning to take this seriously after all; such a statement uttered in their current circumstances revealed far more dedication than could the rote-memorisation of dusty court rituals and proclamations.

“If that is your wish, then there is someone I need to locate. For your continued elucidation.”

She set off again and Sabrina trotted to catch up. “Who?”

There was an eagerness in the girl's curiosity that she could not help but enjoy. “Not any specific person, but rather a soul in a certain state of repair. A soul on the cusp.”

Sabrina's silence indicated her patience, which was a further relief to Lilith, as patience had never been a great virtue of the girl's, in any of their dealings; she was usually far more prone to unthinking indignation.

As Lilith's keen eyes sought a fitting target, Sabrina's voice returned, and Lilith could hear the frown in her focus.

“Why do these people have bodies? I mean, I know they don't, they must have been buried or cremated or something. But if they're all just souls, then... why can they feel physical pain from this torture?”

Again Lilith was pleased, a smile creeping onto her face. “They don't. Not really. It's rather like a phantom limb: what was once there — be it spleen, tongue, eyes or skin — has long been removed; yet the spirit remembers, and suffers.”

“So... if they just forget that they ever had a body, their suffering would stop?”

Lilith laughed, more brightly than she expected to hear from herself.

“What a quaint thought, Sabrina. That humanity might possess such supreme force of will as to cast off the ravages of damnation.”

“Then no one's ever done it? Just... come to terms with being dead and freed themselves from the pain?”

Lilith did not reply, instead craning her neck towards a nearby plot.

“Ah look, that one over there... I think he's about to feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“Regret. True regret. Not the feeling that so quickly springs forth upon their damnation, which is only the selfish regret that they themselves should suffer, but an all-encompassing sorrow at the things they have done.”

The man, on his hands and knees at the bottom of a pit of his own making, little trowels where each of his fingers should be, had frozen, eyes staring off at something terrible, within himself. He no longer mimicked the breathing of which a spirit had no need, no longer blinked nor swallowed. He trembled in the manner of hypothermia, his mouth moving just enough to indicate the utter failure of language.

Sabrina hugged herself. “What happens now?”

“Wait,” Lilith instructed, then turned to gaze back the way they had come, the path disappearing into fog.

And soon there came a chorus of baying, first echoing in the distance then growing ever closer, bouncing off the water vapour so that the number of bestial throats involved was impossible to measure. One particularly high-pitched yelp heralded their arrival, bounding through the mists, gleaming black and obscenely robust. Their tongues hung out as they galloped on unsounding paws, their sharp ears erect and crimson eyes aglow.

Sabrina seemed as though she might bolt, then checked Lilith's posture and instead raised her hands, murmuring to herself.

A protection spell?

From the Prohibitum Praesidio?

Well, haven't you been a busy bee.

The troubling possibility that Sabrina had taken such a potent volume on a tour of Baxter High notwithstanding, Lilith was once again pleasantly surprised.

Not that she had time to dwell on it, as the Hounds drew ever closer.

“Don't move,” she warned Sabrina, “and don't look them in the eye. Even though they can smell your precious Morningstar blood from leagues away, it is not wise to antagonise them; they might just take the smallest nip out of your soul, to be sure.”

Sabrina obeyed, made no further move to cast, though was unwilling to come fully upright. “What are they going to do?” she asked through barely parted lips, through barely bitten-back panic.

“Now why in the Nine Circles,” Lilith chuckled, as the Hounds were upon them, their feet not quite touching the ground and their hungry cries making even the hair on the First Witch’s neck stand up, bringing a rush of excitement to her breast, “would I ruin such a surprise?”

She turned to continue tracking the demon dogs' passage as the bulging musculature of their hind legs launched them through the shifting film of reality, down into the man's personal hell.

Lilith moved her attention to Sabrina's face, far more interested in the journey it might take than the sight of the Hounds rending a man's soul into a million pieces.

And what she saw made her eyes grow large, her lips fall apart in brief dismay, before she lifted her chin proudly and sighed into an approving nod.

“Well, my young queen. I think it is quite fair to say that the lesson endeth here.”

It took far longer than Lilith would have liked for Sabrina's usual demeanour to reassert itself, and when it did, so too did the cold seem to return to the girl's bones, and she slowly lowered herself to sit on the path, her back to the now-silent carnage.

Lilith watched without expectation, shifting her weight only once from her left heel to the right. She was curious, of course, where the child's mind had travelled; equally, though, she worried what souvenirs it may have brought back.

Eventually, from beyond the narrow, rounded shoulders clad in Lucifer's favoured gold, a small voice emerged:

“I miss them, Lilith.”

“And who would that be?”

“My family.”

“You've made very clear your decision to embrace your Morningstar heritage. And so he should be the only family you require.”

She did not even try to keep the disdain from her tone, would not pretend that the choice had been on any level acceptable to her.

“I know, but... I miss my aunties. And Ambrose.”

“You gad about that mortal school of yours so often, I find it hard to believe you don't stop by your ex-homestead from time to time.”

“I can't.”

Interesting.

“And why would that be?”

“I just... can't. They can't see me.” Her tone conveyed that the chill of the fields had fully penetrated the girl, left her heart defenseless. And Lilith could not avoid a swell of pity.

“Do you fear their judgement? For walking out on them, despite their sixteen years of nourishing and protecting you?”

“No. I don't... no, not really. I just...” she sighed, unwilling to share what was truly on her mind, which made something itch within Lilith's intuition. “I just can't bring myself to go there anymore. But I miss them. And I miss Salem.”

The cat-goblin. Of course.

An unexpectedly powerful familiar that had given Lilith no small amount of bother.

“Ah yes, I had wondered why you would choose to abandon your familiar, rather than bring him with you, as a royal pet. Not that I'm in a position to cast judgement, but you had seemed rather fond of him. You were even willing to burn down your beloved school for his sake.”

“I know. But... he would have hated it here. He loves the Greendale woods, so I... I set him free.”

Again Lilith’s instinct narrowed its eyes, and she knew she would have to ponder on this further; between the girl’s apparent forgetfulness when confronted about recent happenings in the mortal realm, and this quite uncharacteristic denial of both familiar and family, something didn’t add up.

“Did you indeed? That must have been very difficult. But I suppose it’s for the best as, now that you are Queen of Hell, you will outlive all of them.”

Sabrina raised bleary eyes, indicating that she had never considered this outcome of her coronation.

You’ll have much to think about tonight, won’t you? As you discover more and more how complicated is the web within which you so willingly became entangled.

As for myself...

She examined the shapes of the surrounding mountains and identified a specific entry point, located at the top of a sheer, rough-hewn ramp.

...while I’m here, I may as well indulge myself in a detour.

“Gather yourself together, my young queen,” she told the girl, firmly enough that her eyes cleared, “you must not appear in the Infernal Court with so vulnerable a countenance. You must slip on your mask, and know that those repulsive men will take even a moment’s weakness as an opportunity to rip out your throat.”

“But my father...”

“You must not rely on him, Sabrina. Lucifer serves himself most of all. And no woman will ever be worth more than her immediate value to him. Why,” she dropped her gaze down her body, brought a hand to her abdomen in horrid allusion, “even after all my service, my loyalty through thick and thick...”

Sabrina had followed her hand and appeared genuinely rueful in her grimace.

“...It was not enough to guarantee a reward. Any refusal, any contradiction of his desires, may bring you to the brink of death. And while your callous betrayal of my trust has only hastened my doom,” she quickly collected herself, insisted the tremors leave her voice, “I would not wish the same upon you. When your greatest cruelty has been ignorance.”

And I have slaughtered men for less. For pleasure, diversion or nothing at all.

And I will do so again.

But if I cast my mind back to what might be described as a girlhood, to who I was in that green state of being, then I cannot bring myself to will such suffering as I have endured upon you. For the crime of innocence. When you have lived but sixteen years to the hundred of mine when I first met Lucifer. And bright-eyed placed my foot in the snare.

She stepped off the path and knelt down, feeling Sabrina’s gaze on her back as she drew a complex geometry in the dirt. Then she pulled three strands of hair from her crown and twisted them together, looped one end and knotted it a neck, knotted it again at the middle and tail. The weightless creation was placed in the center of the sigil and she straightened up, placing her left forefinger and thumb at specific points on her face and beginning a low, hissing chant.

The ground beneath the hairs dipped, in the way of a sink hole, and she took a cautious step back. Eventually the piece was swallowed up, and soon the sands were pushed aside by a scaly muzzle, a horned forehead, eyes like faceted citrine, and a jasper-armoured body that went on and on until it was coiled many heavy loops deep over where the sigil had once been.

Lilith locked eyes with the demon: “To the Gates of Pandemonium,” she commanded in a whisper.

The creature swayed its head from side to side in compliance and uncoiled, rolled on its gleaming belly up to Sabrina and beyond her.

“Go,” Lilith told the girl. “And don’t stray from her side. For any reason.”

In her prevailing melancholy, Sabrina had no cause to resist, and thus nodded her understanding. Then her eyes drifted to Lilith’s body, to the site of conception, and it seemed that she might say something.

“Go,” Lilith repeated, to silence the impulse, “Now. And when you arrive, do so with a bold and dignified bearing. As befits your station.”

Another nod, and Sabrina chased after the serpent, not turning back and thus not seeing the balling up of Lilith’s fists and the pained curling of her lip; brief as the reaction would be, it was not for sharing. Nor to be lingered within, as she set her sights on the cliff-face and made her unhurried way upon the most direct path through the damned.

In the centralmost area of the cavern, stalactites and stalagmites looming from all sides in frozen vigil, the mess of shrieking colours swirled in their prison of winds.

Lilith stood so close that the rushing of spirits had her hair whipping around, and she was forced to narrow her eyes in order to continue staring into the tornado. Into the souls which screamed, forever lost and livid, in their torment of separation. Into the Gyrus Daemonion.

“'Turning and turning in the widening gyre,” she recited in stony cadence, “the falcon can not hear the falconer'...”

Fighting sensory overload, she sought some recognisable flavour in the soup.

“But you can hear me. Can't you, Stolas? You weren't just some lowly goblin, scurrying out of a badger's set in the woods to lap at my heels. You were the first. You pledged your soul to me, as a companion, when there was only Us and the World. You acknowledged my power and respected my intellect. And the girl that I was... trusted you. And for five thousand years, I had no reason to doubt that trust.”

She paused and waited, and eventually an amorphous smear of purple undulated its way towards her, slipping like quicksilver through the chaos.

For a while she merely stared back at it, her chest having grown tight with memory.

“But then you put him before me, didn't you?”

The formless colour had no beak and could offer no squawks of argument, though Lilith knew very well what it might say.

“Yes, I did snap your feeble neck in an instant of rage. You prodded me once too many times in a wound you had seen deepening. You doubted that I could do what had to be done. And for that, I removed you from the game. With the knowledge that you might one day be pardoned and restored. But for you to turn against me so fully... to allow him to decide what became of me, to allow him to claim the tiny speck of happiness that I had permitted myself...” she broke off to prevent her throat from closing up, and blinked her eyes clear while observing the ceiling. “That I will not forgive.”

“However,” she sent her vision away from the shrieking spiral, took it some place quiet and calm, “it has come to my attention that forgiveness is not a pre-requisite for mercy. And while mercy has not been a concept of much use to me within reliable recall... I am beginning to consider its merits anew. I am in the midst of a reinvention, you see. A reclamation, in fact.”

Her erstwhile familiar hovered and listened, its comparative vitality forcing lesser spirits to make their way around it.

“I had intended for you to suffer for all eternity, Stolas. A fate which you well deserve, as a familiar who betrayed their bond. So consider yourself lucky beyond the blessings of Tyche.”

With unwavering determination, she reached an arm into the turmoil, and immediately found herself lashed and burnt from every angle, as the unhinged spirits frenzied around her living flesh.

“Come to me,” she told the familiar purple.

It swam obediently closer, first cautiously, then with greater trust, until it touched her fingers and performed that which, in a more solid creature, would have been a nuzzle.

“There you are, Stolas.” Ancient affection tugged at her, the ethereal touch calling to mind millennia of loyal service. She passed her fingertips through the essence of her once-faithful factotum, then whispered an incantation known by none but Lucifer and herself.

Within her fingers, the intangible grew viscous, then firm enough to grasp. And grasp it she did, tightly wrapping her fingers around a protuberance until her nails sank in.

Then, with one steadying inhalation, she brought a surge of Hellfire to her fist, enveloping in a heartbeat the gelatinous mass, and dissolving everything that was and would ever be Stolas out of existence.

On exhalation, she withdrew her hand, surveying dispassionately the damage done to her forearm by the lashings of spirits.

“'The ceremony of innocence is drowned', Stolas. You of all creatures should have known that.”

Chapter Text

Midnight came and went, unobserved by the room's sole occupant, who lay sprawled on the rug before the dimming hearth, surrounded by scraps of paper, posies of herbs, bowls of spice or dirt, precious stones in salt water, twists and snippets of fabric, a half-eaten bowl of cereal, and the Fledgling Witch's Golden Guide, filled cover to cover with makeshift bookmarks.

As the beginnings of sunrise brightened the room, Mary's head shifted upon the couch cushion, which she had dragged to the floor in a minor concession to comfort, and came awake to find her neck so painfully rigid that any attempts at mobility brought her to the edge of tears. She rolled onto her hands and knees, and stood with agonising slowness, lurched like the dead reanimated towards the bathroom, and somehow managed to wrestle herself free of her clothing without lifting her chin.

Paralysed by poor choices and despondency, she stood weeping under the hottest water the skin on her neck could handle. She had once again failed to grab her shower cap, but felt it a non-issue: any additional time spent straightening her hair before work was nothing compared to the loss of those critical pre-midnight hours — wasted on napping like the old woman she had become and would only ever further become — which should have been spent further refining her list of possible spells, eliminating one-by-one those which had at first seemed promising.

But now there would be no more time to discover whether even the tiniest spark of magic might be lurking in her fingers, as the mundane world's responsibilities loomed; it was a world with which she was quickly growing more and more impatient.

Sitting at her dressing table, groaning and grimacing against her own touch, she massaged the comfrey salve into her neck, rolling her head from shoulder to shoulder and trying to increase its flexibility before she found herself behind the wheel, unable to check her blindspot. Within her current gloom, however, it did not feel all that important, and no Phantom Lilith arrived to contradict her assessment; little wonder, given how barren a landscape seemed to reside within.

Of course I can't work even the simplest of magicks.

How ridiculous of me, to think for a moment that someone with such greyness of spirit could charm the forces of nature.

They probably took one look at my colourless soul and fled in disgust...

Distantly, she was aware of the unfairness of her thoughts: she had, after all, been given the task — dropped into her lap like so much unfolded laundry — and then abandoned, with neither innate gifts nor a mentor to guide her. Knowing that did nothing to improve her mood, however, and she continued through heavy fog; it was only the scent of singed hair which cued the movement of her hand upon the flat iron once more.

She dreaded the prospect of seeing children whilst feeling this way, knew how it would play out: every little thing would irritate her beyond belief, and even innocent laughter would sound like jeering at her expense; she would struggle to focus on what she was writing, pause embarrassingly, chalk raised, as she attempted to recapture her thought process, all the while feeling the eyes of the class boring into her back.

Not that she had any choice in the matter, and so she would do her utmost to conceal her mental afflictions, as she always had, even long before...

...Even long before October...

She stopped and stared at her reflection, drawing her brows together in criticism of her own euphemising.

“Before you died,” she told herself firmly, shaping the words so that she could read her own lips above rising tinnitus. “Before you were resurrected for motivations yet unknown. Before you had any good reason to feel this way.”

When it was stated so clearly, there was no room for argument. And it dawned on her that she had not felt this furious for a very long time, at worlds both without and within.

At the very last minute, having pulled on her coat and lingered at the door, she surged for the guide, slipped it against her better judgement into her satchel; no one would notice it, she told herself. And even if they did, would it even strike anyone as remarkable, that strange Mary Wardwell was carrying around yet another strange book? All considered, perhaps she needn't have worried at all about the stacks of Infernal literature that had piled up on her desk.

She had not stopped frowning for more than a few moments since waking, and it had led to a muscular headache which fed on itself as she drove, making the glare of the overcast sky even harsher on her already over-sensitive, pale blue eyes.

Seeing on arrival that there were a significant number of cars in the parking lot, she avoided the staffroom and its lacklustre tea, rather heading straight to her office and locking the door behind her. She surveyed the room, seeking anything which might serve as a spell-focus; although despair was nipping at her ankles, she could not allow it to pull her off her feet; she could never know how much time she truly had left.

Indeed, the Devil himself — whatever form he might take — could at any moment be heading her way; by Lilith's own admission, it was so. And if the First Witch herself could have no certainty, with all her power and intuition, then what hope was there for a mere mortal woman, ill-rested and raw of nerve?

Eventually, her gaze alighted on the row of bisque dolls arranged along the window sill, overlapping each other in their number: their pursed, rosy lips and thickly-lashed eyes purported innocence; their frills and lace marked them as the children of well-to-do parents; and their proliferation had been entirely outside of Mary's control.

Chanced upon at a flea market, she had bought the very first of them on a whim: dressed in a grey and black frock, with multiple black taffeta underskirts, waves of lush, dark chestnut hair, and eyes which were just on the red side of russet, the piece had reminded her of the haunted doll from a recent horror film, and it had seemed an amusingly stealthy way to bring a taste of her occult hobbies to the work-place.

Unfortunately, in a school full of unassuming people, her reason was entirely misconstrued, and before she knew it, she had received doll after doll from students and staff alike, on her birthday or as year-end tokens. She simply had not had the heart to correct the issue, given the honesty that would have entailed.

Her mind absorbed the characteristics of the dolls and flipped through the pages of the guide, until one possibility — a rather exciting one — presented itself; she would have to stop by the art room at the next available opportunity, and save the experiment for mid-day. She resolved not to remove the book from her satchel unless absolutely necessary, in order to keep her anxieties at bay and focus on the classes ahead. The first of which, seguing immediately from home-room, would soon be upon her.

She kept her head bowed as the students funnelled into the classroom, trying to conceal the irritation of her headache, but the straining muscles behind her eyes quickly informed her that she was in fact glaring at them, over the rims of her spectacles. Quickly she softened her expression, so as not to prompt distrust from the herd; the adjustment had come too late, however, as four sets of eyes lay fixed upon her, monitoring her movements carefully, with the lack of subtlety expected from teenagers who very much thought they were being subtle.

Rosalind Walker, Harvey Kinkle, Theo Putnam... and Sabrina.

The group had been palling around together for far longer than Mary had been teaching them, and, sans Sabrina, they had recently formed a band, calling themselves 'The Fright Club', though without much thematic reason from what she could—

The single punch her heart threw against her ribcage resulted in an involuntary cough and she brought her hand to her chest before she could stop herself.

Even given her valid distraction over the past few weeks, she should surely have drawn the connection before: Sabrina's tight-knit group had to have known, if not exactly the grisly details of her death and subsequent mistreatment, then certainly of the existence of magic, of witches in their town.

Gentle and creative Harvey Kinkle, too kind for the legacy of his family,

strong-willed Theo Putnam, who would always rage against injustice,

deeply passionate Rosalind Walker, the daughter of a reverend and herself a great seeker of truth,

their motives too had doubt cast upon them.

Any one of them could have taken her aside, put her mind at ease, even without revealing their full knowledge to her. Any one of them could have shown the kindness she had always assumed them to possess.

The ache had spread from her head to her breast, and it was only by bowing to rummage through her desk drawers that she was able to hide the desolation before it took over her face.

The English lesson she had in mind would keep her interactions with the class at a minimum: in preparation for finals — still a way off, but always arriving sooner than anticipated — the class would work through examination papers which Mary had set in the past, and assess each others work using the marker's memorandum. The same trick could be used for each lesson of the day if needed, and while it felt somewhat lazy to do so, it could not be said that the exercise was without benefit for all concerned.

In the back of her mind, Mary finally encountered Lilith, and found her nodding at the pragmatism; the approval, even if manufactured by her imagination, was enough to convince her, and allow her to ease through the period, bothered only by her stubbornly unremitting headache.

As the students filed out, leaving their pages on her desk on their way, one lingered, standing beside her seat until the room was otherwise empty.

“Is there something you need, Ms Walker?” Her expected, materteral tone was there, as hoped, but she could still hear traces of irritation.

“Actually, Ms Wardwell,” the girl said cautiously, coming forward at last, “I wanted to ask if there was something wrong. I mean, with you. Your health.”

Immediately her suspicion arched, more so at the semblance of concern, and most especially whence it came. “I'm just fine. Thank you. A little distracted, perhaps, I've rather a lot on my plate right now.”

She forced a smile which must have looked very tight, judging by Rosalind's frown. “Not to be rude, Ms Wardwell, but... you don't look fine.”

Mary's hand went involuntarily to her cheek, as though that hand were at all capable of masking her anxieties. “Then I apologise for making you worry. Sadly, appearances can't be helped at my age.”

The girl observed her from under raised brows, searching her face with keen, dark eyes, and Mary was hit with another realisation.

She had already learned from the staff that, after a few days off school, Rosalind had abruptly ceased wearing her spectacles, and it was assumed that her family had been able to raise the money for her surgery, that it had been more successful than they could have hoped. But no specific details had ever come to light, and no one had directly asked.

But assumptions of worldly medicine had almost certainly concealed the truth of the matter: Rosalind Walker's eyes had been magically mended, unquestionably by Sabrina, in a move which Mary once would have seen as sacrilegious, but which now merely refuelled her melancholy.

She has the potential for such kindness towards a friend, and yet...

“Um, all right, but... you kinda look like you're in pain.”

Mary's smile was fleeting, and she took off her spectacles, cleaned them unnecessarily to bide her time. “I'll admit I'm not quite at my best.”

“You were off from school with a migraine a few weeks ago, right?”

Mary could not hide her surprise that anyone should remember, if not for the purpose of teasing her. “Why yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

“I used to get migraines all the time, so, if you want, I've got something in my bag that might help you? I promise, they're not like, laced or anything.” She laughed with the sort of nervousness one would expect, when offering informal care to a superior.

Mary's first impulse was to further deny it, but the tension headache had been aggravated by present stress, and the prolonged stiffness in her neck was causing her vision to blur at the edges. And so, with what was surely a perceptible sag of the shoulders, she relented.

“Thank you, Ms Walker. Rosalind. I think perhaps I will take you up on the offer. Considering the long day ahead.”

“Yeah... not all classes are as well-behaved as we are. Wouldn't want you to be driven to manslaughter!”

The joke seemed awkward in more ways than one, though Mary was currently in no state to assess the girl's tone in much detail.

“That would certainly be preferable, yes. Thank you.”

She waited while Rosalind riffled through her backpack, then opened a little metal pill case and withdrew a vertically-trimmed sheet of pills. “You're supposed to take them at eight hour intervals since they're, like, super heavy duty. But sometimes I took an extra half at the six hour mark, if I couldn't make it through all the way.”

“Thank you,” Mary repeated, and waited for Rosalind to extend her hand, but strangely, she seemed to be waiting as well. Sighing inwardly, Mary put out her palm, closing her fingers over the pills once they were placed; the girl did not remove her hand, hovering it above Mary's, and then Mary saw it descending, as though to take hers, and pulled quickly away; she did not know exactly why she should fear the contact, but something in her intuition had insisted, and now more than ever, she would not question those instincts.

“Thank you,” she said one final time, hoping that it would rid her of the company; as genuinely kind as Rosalind seemed to be, Mary's time was precious and she itched to return to her office, if only briefly.

“You're welcome. Really!” The girl's bright eyes smiled at her, and Mary felt shame at her impatience. “I hope the pills help you get through today. And maybe... take tomorrow off? If it's still so bad?”

“A lovely thought, but I fear that would put quite undue strain on the rest of the staff.”

“Okay, but... maybe don't push yourself too hard? Like, don't take this the wrong way, Ms Wardwell, but,” she moved in, lowered her voice, “some of the teachers are kind of, um, well really misogynistic? And I don't think you should care so much about burdening them.”

Mary couldn't help but smile at that, remembering with some embarrassment that Rosalind Walker was more than just Sabrina's tag-along best friend, but was in fact an activist in her own right.

“I'll try to keep that in mind, Rosalind. Thank you for the support.” And she well and truly meant it.

Once alone, she used the glass of water that always sat on her desk to take the migraine pill, which was uncomfortably tight going down, her throat feeling much narrower than usual.

Unexpectedly, Lilith's voice was back in her head — a memory of speech — with such clarity that she almost dropped the glass:

I'd say a quite predictable panic came over you.

“Maybe you're right,” she whispered. The signs were certainly there, though obscured by circumstance. She would have to work on breathing her way out of it, much as the air, now that she thought about it, seemed far thicker than it ought.

She gathered up the students' pages, pressed the heft against her chest with one arm while pulling her satchel over her shoulder with the other. In turning, the back of her weighted hand nudged the almost-empty glass of water, and she stared in dismay at its toppling, helpless to do anything about it.

With a great sigh, she replaced the bag and papers, and set about with the roll of toilet paper she kept in her desk, cautiously collecting the pieces of glass and dabbing up the water.

“Wonderful,” she hissed, dizziness blooming from the frequent changes in her neck's position. She could only hope that Rosalind's medication had some kind of effect soon, or she would end up retiring to the infirmary.

Barely able to make the trip to her office and back in time for the next class, she gave over command of the papers to the class monitor, and waited with her forehead in her hands for some improvement. She no longer cared what onlookers might think, the inescapability of her limitations becoming so clearly a bull that would not be wrestled.

Eventually, gleaming like the cavalry, lunchtime arrived, and she was able to return to her office, by way of the art room. The door securely locked, she located the relevant page in the Golden Guide and ran her index finger down the spell's requirements.

A dagger of silver...

With luck, her substitution would do.

Midnight ink...

'Basic black' the pot said, but she trusted that nomenclature played no part in it.

And a poppet fair of filament.

She fetched the palest of the blonde dolls from the window sill, a peach-frilled blushing piece which deserved the transformation more than any of its sisters.

The items laid out on her desk, she placed the guide atop a pile of books, to keep it safe from incident. Then she picked up the sterling silver letter opener — a gift from three principals ago, on the event of her 40^th birthday — and spent some time admiring the embossed design at its handle. In doing so, she recognised a bothersome trembling of the hand and placed it against the desk, closed her eyes to try once more to gather herself. Her nerves were still on edge, and she knew full well that such a mood was not conducive to the task at hand.

“Lilith, give me strength,” she uttered without forethought, and her eyes snapped open in consternation at how much like a prayer it had sounded.

Immediately she wanted to beg forgiveness to the appropriate powers, but found that she could not: the components of witchery before her, the First Woman's guiding influence foremost in her thoughts, and, quite unexpectedly, Rosalind's reminder of institutional misogyny springing to mind, it felt utterly impossible to shape her energies thence.

She had strayed too far. And there was no sense in feigning regret.

Give yourself strength, Mary, she thought, in her own solitary voice.

With a steadier hand, she dipped the tip of the letter opener into the ink and held it vertical while reciting the incantation.

“Child of summer sun on high,
Poppet of the fairest stock,
with this smoothest silver I
gift to you the raven lock.”

Gingerly, she touched the inked silver to the crown of the doll.

“Kissed by gentle, loving black,
beauty rendered all in shade
Richer now, forgetting lack,
Child of Midnight now re-made.”

She held the implement as steady as she could, keeping contact with the doll-hair, and time slipped away as, without volition, her vision dipped to the desk. She felt as though a great deal of her remaining energy had just been sapped, felt as though it would be the simplest thing in the world to lay down her head and fall asleep on the desk.

The letter opener and doll were lowering, the dark pigment stubbornly clinging to the silver, just as physics would insist. Then, with one final sag, the doll left her grip, toppling fully against the inkpot, and spilling its remaining contents across the desk.

A curse left Mary's lips, and then an intrusive piece of superstition:

“Things happen in threes.”

She shook her bleary head at that.

Don't be foolish. I'm tired and clumsy, there's no more to it than that.

Though, at this point, could she really be so certain?

Kept from bemoaning her failure by a far more pressing focus on staying awake, she called the janitor over the intercom — herself ill-equipped to prevent the ink from staining her desk — and made certain that all evidence of amateur sorcery was removed by the time he arrived.

The rest of the day passed in a haze, her mind unable to ponder further magical possibilities. Finally she was fastening her satchel, ready to leave the classroom behind and take her chances on the road, when a pale, red-lipped face, bordered by tightly-bound blonde hair, poked around the door.

“Ms Wardwell?”

Mary did her best to seem welcoming, even as the muscles on her face felt heavy and unresponsive. “Yes, Mrs Meeks?”

She too had failed to notice Mary's replacement, though in her case, it was unsurprising: Tabitha Meeks had a fine head for schedules, but took cognisance of very little else; if Mary showing up at work a few years ago with a swollen bruise across much of her chin (due to a very unfortunate shoe-and-staircase incident) had not drawn the woman's attention, then a new approach to her hair and make-up, however sudden, was unlikely to do so.

“The district representative and visiting teachers are already in the library, would you like me to organise you a tea? It's just that they're quite set on starting the meeting by three-fifteen, and...”

Mary cast her eyes to the wall-clock: 15h11

Then she waded through her mental mire to ask a very important question:

What meeting? Had it slipped her mind, or had she not been told in the first place? Had this information been tragically circulated on her single recent sick-day?

She couldn't ask, of course. For the humiliation of it, she had not the energy. And so there was no choice but to gratefully accept the administrator's offer of tea delivery, and traipse her way to the library, hoping to think on her weary feet and discover her context before she was called upon to do some unknowable thing.

Again.

Chapter Text

In all the years they had been together, even with firm agreements made over the course of months, Mary could never know for certain when he would arrive home. There would be no tell-tale sign of a second vehicle out front and, knowing her busy schedule, it was a rare thing that he would contact her at school, and even more so that he might try to intercept her.

Sporadic long-distance phone calls and personal inklings were all she had with which to anticipate his existence in the cottage upon her return, and it was not until she reached the door that she could confirm it, by a note taped to the door-handle or a bunch of flowers laid upon the mat; then she would step inside and feel his warmth glowing just as richly as the hearth.

‘Mary!’

He always said it as though she was the one who had been away, that she had finally come home to him, and by the immediately domestic look of him, anyone could be forgiven for thinking so: perhaps his sleeves would be rolled up, having gotten himself involved in some household handiwork, or perhaps he would stand in a miasma of herbs and spices, fresh from preparing another exotic recipe he had brought back to share with her.

He was always trying to bring the world home to her, while she stayed right where she always would, both trusting that their pattern could and would continue indefinitely.

If she arrived home from a day like this — a day which seemed to have chewed her up and spat her out — he would know it from how she stood, from the movements of her hands and eyes, from the way the very breath left her body.

And he would be upon her, with a hug that she could still feel throughout her entire body: his hands would support her spine in its weakest places, would carefully check her neck for inflammation and question her balance, all before she was allowed to leave the doorway. He was not only a physician, but also a field medic, with a gentle pragmatism that inspired total confidence; if the day had an ailment, he would treat it, given enough time and the right form of care.

Every problem could be mended, or at least soothed while it healed itself, he believed it absolutely, and she would regularly find herself swept up by that optimism, even with her natural tendency towards melancholia. His being there made it possible for her to sink to dangerous depths, with the confidence that there would always be a way back up; he was a lighthouse, on the edge of an endless black sea upon which she so often found herself floating, on her back, staring up at distant worlds and wondering whether they were still there at all, or whether only stardust remained.

But the lighthouse had been destroyed, a wave from Tartarus had risen up to rend it brick from sturdy brick, leaving only a gutted tomb on the shore, an eye-sore to the gulls, who were high up enough and free enough to cry about it.

In the dull present, she hooked her coat on the stand, whispered “I’m home” to nobody, and made the long journey across the room to the dining table, which would soon be strewn with school papers.

The meeting with the district official and visiting teachers had quickly shown its true colours, and while Mary could not deny the value of confirming their grading standards (especially when given the opportunity to do so across districts) her spirit was far too tapped to give it the proper attention. It was only by the grace of something unnameable that they had been given leeway to take the students’ papers home to moderate, rather than sit in the library for the next three or four hours doing so; there would not have been enough tea in the tri-state area to keep her afloat under such circumstances.

She unpacked the moderation folder and the Guide, laid them side-by-side with the intention of moving swiftly from one to the other, when a sharp twinge shot through her tender neck at the most innocent of movements. She hissed and pressed her fingers into the deep knot, sagging with the knowledge that no sort of progress would be viable until after a hot shower, at the very least.

Where normally the white noise would have allowed her thoughts free-reign, she found that — like the bodywash she frothed between her palms — any substantial imaginings would quickly dissolve and slip through her mind's ever-multiplying fissures.

And so she was forced to let it be, that her head should fill up with broadcast snow, and stumble through her activities, from the shower to another round with the comfrey salve, to the re-heating of a bowl of minestrone in an attempt to stave off any sub-vocalised criticisms.

The various forms of heat and care having brought her a little closer to herself, she returned to the table with purpose, as well as red wine; the latter would make focussing on the pages slightly more difficult in time, but she was happy with the trade-off should it keep her nerves at bay.

The marking memorandum was as deeply troubling as usual in its rigid absolutism; while she could, of course, see the need for streamlining in this manner, she also knew how many students would be disadvantaged by it. To her mind, if a student’s answer differed to the memorandum but showed insight and justification, they should be awarded the point; otherwise, an educator risked discouraging lateral reasoning and stamping out creativity.

Unfortunately, in this particular exercise, being anything but a slave to the memorandum would be wilfully stymieing the process, and she could not allow intrusive empathy to inconvenience her equally over-worked peers. Even if her stomach clenched at the harm that obedience might inflict.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friend,” she quoted past a sigh, and flipped open the folder, to begin skimming through the first assignment.

Feeling that she had gathered sufficient expectation for what the students might put down, she opened her denim pencil pouch: not yet in possession of a green cartridge to load into Lilith’s pen, she reluctantly chose between the old and chipped options available to her, wondered briefly whether the First Witch’s luxurious taste was perhaps spoiling her.

She had achieved precious little work, however, before her eyes began drifting from the pages, entirely of their own volition; be it the influence of drink, boredom or weariness, the essays were becoming steadily more difficult to grade. She read sentences over and over, and could not be certain whether they were truly as dense and disjointed as they appeared, or whether the fault lay within her own fractured spirit.

The drudgery of it was maddening and she needed so badly to push the papers aside and move on to what really mattered, while she still had the energy to do so. The fact that she had, over the course of an entire day, tried but one single spell was unacceptable; if she had any hope of fulfilling her promise to Lilith, she would simply have to do better. Which meant willing her focus upright and girding herself with her years of experience, to plough through this necessary toil.

But before long, determination notwithstanding, her eyes darted off again, this time to the far left, where they tracked nothing but motes on her retina; in the meantime, her right hand had kept on with its duties, the left reaching for the ghosted image of her glass of Cabernet, fingers lax and inattentive.

Through the filter of her flagging awareness, it all happened in slow motion.

As if on the other side of a screen.

And with absolute certainty.

“Things happen in threes,” she murmured, her tongue thick and heavy.

The deep red slash across the page was lifting the ink, spreading bruises and varicose veins throughout the essay's body.

She should right the glass, surely, and set about cleaning up the mess. But why hurry, when the full extent of the damage was already done? To the work of a child she would never meet, nor have the opportunity to beg forgiveness.

Instead, she lowered her face to rest against clasped hands, breathed deeply to resist the heat prickling behind her eyelids and the crushing tide of futility.

It made no sense to care this much about a spill, she knew that; it was hardly a rare thing for educators. Yet, in her exhaustion, the feeling grew stronger and stronger.

A large part of the work was now illegible, meaning that she would not be able to assess its current grade, could not complete her spreadsheet, and would be letting down not just the child but also her department. It would reflect badly upon Baxter High, which was not a thought she could currently abide.

Her eyes drifted over to the Guide and she curled her lip: what immense whimsy, to think she might redeem herself magically, when so far she had had not a scrap of success. But if there was even a slim possibility, she had no choice but to pursue it, and in the moment felt grim amusement at how her responsibility to both Lilith and her employer had suddenly merged.

She leafed through the Guide’s sections on mending, but nothing quite seemed to fit: making torn paper whole again... returning the hue to faded illustrations... repairing the outrage of dog-eared pages...

Drying up spilt liquids before a surface could be damaged was as close as the section came, but that would do nothing for the wine damage to the text. Therefore perhaps she should focus on the words themselves, on deciphering them from beneath the spill.

She located the Divinations section, and paged until she found the intricate graphite illustration of a mirror reflecting itself, titled ‘Clarity’:

‘To see that which is obscured, by improper care or malicious hand, use thrice-blessed mirror shards, ground fine as a dune. With the aid of otherwordly sight, you may reveal the knowledge being kept from you.’

While there was no shortage of mirrors in the cottage, the majority were family keepsakes, and Mary would never consider breaking any of them: shattering a hand mirror was wasteful and risked injury, and even if an act of destruction did have to be traded for creation, there was always the niggling anxiety that mirror breaking, no matter how controlled the circumstances, should not be pursued.

Yet the spell demanded shards, and they had to be many and finely ground; could she really be so arrogant as to think she might re-write a spell around her cowardice?

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, trying to find an alternative that would not negate the wording.

What was a mirror, at its most basic? Crushed and melted minerals, rendered smooth and reflective. Silica was most common, but might something else be just as reflective, something which she could grasp without too much risk?

'It’s like walking through clouds, Mary!'

The painful immediacy of his voice shook her already fragile spirit, feeling so near, so close at hand, perhaps just out of eye-shot in this very room.

‘There’s nothing like it, just stretching out flat for thousands of miles: the largest natural mirror in the world. You've got to see it with your own eyes, won't you let me take you? To Bolivia and...’

...Salar de Uyuni.

“Salt,” she murmured, staring right through the pages of the Guide, into a time where he still existed, and right through that in turn.

Could it possibly work, as a re-imagining of the request? Instead of taking that which was a mirror and splintering it, feeding its sight to the spell, perhaps she could put forth a potential mirror, one contained within the salt's crystals.

Even if she couldn’t exactly mimic the science of natural salt flats, it might do to ‘convince the forces’, if her intention was firm enough, her visualisation clear enough. If she could hold that mental image of a smooth and gleaming desert, where ground and sky came together in cloud, while she fed mere kitchen salt to the spell, then perhaps it would be acceptable.

For so uncertain an apprentice as herself, potentials, possibilities and perhapses were the most she could hope for.

Her denim-clad knees sank into the soft soil behind the cottage, and just as quickly the evening’s chill descended through cotton. Ahead of her she placed the rectangular plastic container — the ruined essay already sat within — and beside her, protected from the ground by a kitchen tray, she set the Guide. The horizon was gathering indigo and there was no cause to wait for further darkness before beginning — though, in truth, she had been waiting for her energy to return, which, given the anxiety whirring about her head, was almost certainly in vain.

She turned to the spell’s bookmark and cleared her throat:

“Veracity upon the page
misshapen by confusion’s phage,
the knowledge by yon scriv’ner penned
no mortal method yet can mend.”

She poured many months’ worth of rock salt, ground down as finely as she could manage, up and down the paper, until it was fully covered.

“With mind sedate and conscience clean,
I pour forth shards which cut and gleam;
these fragments once reflection’s dust,
again unite as vision must.”

Carefully she lifted the glass pitcher that was filled with water from a nearby gully, more thoroughly blessed by the moon than anything that might flow from her cottage. Gently, she drizzled the water in at a corner, gradually enough that it barely disturbed the salt. 

She had to stifle her alarm as the paper increasingly softened and warped beneath the granules, knowing that there was no turning back now — that was, not unless she intended to spin a lie around grading in the bathtub.

“With flowing waters, moonlight kissed,
I wash away the doubt and mist;
for Clarity I work this rite:
may ruin be banished from my sight.”

She paused, stared unblinking into the container, as something tingled, deep in the halls of her awareness.

It grew louder as she listened, and then suddenly was upon her: the locked-up agony all along her spine, the ceaseless screaming of her neck, sensations that she had shoved by necessity into a sound-proof room but which would no longer be silenced.

It was crucial that she retain stillness, but her knees and ankles too were raising their voices in pitiable protestation. Scowling, she tipped her head back in an attempt to reduce the strain upon her neck, and took in the blackened sky.

‘You once told me that, ever since you were a little girl, you’ve fantasised about walking among the stars’, came the echoes of his voice, and she used the memory, painful as it was, to drown out the complaints of her body.

When night fell over Salar de Uyuni, he had told her, the clouds would become galaxies, the desert a twinkling void, and perhaps, he had suggested with a bashfulness unusual for a man his age, they might even dance upon it.

‘Travelogues call it Heaven on Earth, and it really is accurate! Won’t you go with me? Just once?’

The picture he painted of the place was scintillating, and she truly had wanted to see it, and so she had forgone her usual hedging and let him think they might travel to Bolivia together some day, that his journal might finally tell their shared story, rather than his alone. 

The stars had become smears, and she had to remove her glasses to wipe them away. 

If she could have collected all the tears she had shed since coming back — since having lost both Adam and herself, knowing that he was gone without being told, knowing that there was so very much that she was not being told, feeling that the apparent ground beneath her feet might itself be nothing but a vast optical illusion — then surely she could have built a desert-spanning mirror of salts herself.

A Salar de María.

She did not know what she had expected from the submerged paper, but her heart continued to sink with each moment that the spell delivered naught, and so she rubbed her eyes once more and consulted the Guide, which offered a consoling footnote:

‘There may be times when advanced spells are beyond your powers, young witch, and in such cases, there is no shame in summoning a helping hand (or claw or wing). Tempt a helper of your choice, or use the suggested sigil provided below, alongside the following incantation...’

“‘My will is strong yet flesh is weak’,” Mary read, and the truth of it stung; if this spell was likely to prove challenging for a born magic user, then there was every possibility that, even had she followed the instructions to the letter, it may have been doomed from the outset. And so there was really nothing for it.

She dug her index finger into the dirt and held it rigid, against the inconvenient tremors that ran through both her hands, and traced the shape of the sigil with grimacing focus.

“My will is strong yet flesh is weak,” she recited through a jaw which was seizing up,
“the rarest patron do I seek,
whose tongue tastes truth, whose eyes see far;
drink deep of me and fuel thy pow’r.”

The strength left her limbs and her equilibrium capsized, her cheekbone and temple meeting cold soil, and some measure of time passed independent of her.

Then, with a gasp and a groan, she returned, and dragged a hand limply across the ground to her face, to move her glasses from where they dug into her eyelid. Her lips tried to scold but could only hang open, while her eyes craved only darkness, her lungs largely indifferent as to whether they should continue breathing.

She could spare no thought to the spell’s failure, because it took everything she had to coax her body onto all fours and eventually into a slouch, in which she made her laboured way back indoors. The part of her brain responsible for decorum piloted her slack form to the bathroom, insisting she rid herself of dirt-covered clothing and wash her face.

The cold water against her skin granted her just enough alertness to reach the bedroom, but after brushing numbed fingers along the wall until the light switched off, and aiming herself at the probable location of the bed, her senses detached and her consciousness flickered out.

She was walking down the long, dark road, one with no detours, the town thinning alongside her until eventually only half-built or half-broken structures remained, their bones on display. Some seemed to have been burnt out, though she had no memories of such a fire — nor of anything else, if she tried to think upon it.

Jarringly, the sound of a child's voice — a young girl — came from somewhere between the houses, as though at play amidst the wreckage. It was incorrect that a child should be out at this time of night, all alone; even she herself should not be, though she could not exactly say why.

Onward she trudged, her solitary low heels sounding upon the tarmac, and soon, from the opposite side of the road, the young voice came again, but this time the girl was singing. The tone was sweet, but it was altogether the wrong sort of song to come out of an honest young throat. The lyrics were akin to a nursery rhyme, like those sung by children in horror films to put an audience on edge. The sort of song no real living child would choose, unless they were being wilfully horrid.

Then the voice fell silent, as though aware that Mary had been thinking about it, and the night was still again, as the road became the only remaining sign of man, and all else was weed and brush.

She worked to control her nerves, pulled her coat tighter against the cold, tried not to think about how full her bladder suddenly felt; she would be home soon anyway, even if this wasn't normally the way home. Even if she was certain she had never trod this route before. She could see, in the middle distance, that civilisation would soon return, and she should just be sensible and—

Trip! Trip trap trip trap!

Trip trip trip trap trip trap trap!

She swung around at the sound of the light-footed scurry, her mouth gaping, eyes round and strained as she struggled to track the presence.

The nearly-full moon illuminated the road in silver, yet there was nothing and no one to be seen, only the half-houses in the distance, back the way she had come.

And so she turned again, feeling increasing pressure from her bladder, and telling herself to be logical, that she was imagining things; real life wasn't a horror movie — not like this anyway — there were no creepy, demonic, nursery rhyme-chanting children in real, actual life.

The moon at her back, she followed her own silhouette; it kept her company, just enough of a human figure to focus upon and feel ever so slightly less exposed.

Then her shadow's outline changed, a long, thin, tapering shape lifting above her, and she turned far too slowly, folding into paralytic fear, as the unknown figure – too tall, too solid for a youthful voice or nimble steps – swung the baseball bat full force at her head.

Her moan of dismay turned into a yell, and at the moment of expected skull-shattering, she came awake, blinked into the darkness of another space, another time.

Not a road, but an indoors.

A room and a bed.

A bedroom, in fact.

Her mind flipped through locations, offered up her childhood bedroom — no — her apartment in the city — no, no, not that, that was years ago — and then the furniture finally asserted itself, the book shelf, the wardrobe, the location of the window, and she knew it was her cottage, just past the forest, on the outskirts of Greendale, where she had lived, mostly alone, for the past few decades of her life.

She was most likely safe now, but her heart remained unconvinced, her nerves still on edge, and the tightness in her chest told her that she was on the brink of tears.

You're fine. Stop panicking, you're at home. There's nobody here but you.

Probably.

No, there's no one. There's never anyone.

Except sometimes.

But now isn't one of those times, and so you need to calm down.

She breathed to still herself, though her eyes continued to dart about as best they could, distrustful of the darkness.

She needed another human being to be lying next to her, to gently place a hand to her shoulder and soothe her, to push back the terror from her thoughts with their warm, solid body.

But it was not to be, and she was all at once agonisingly aware that she would never feel the firm assurance of his touch again, because he had vanished without a trace — or at least, no trace in which she might seek solace.

Not a trace.

Not a body.

Nobody.

And the night closed in around her, as the hot tears finally slipped out, running down cheeks that seemed deathly cold to her own fingertips. So cold that perhaps she had in fact died, and all of this was just some new, more sinister Hell.

The silence made a mockery of her sobs, and she covered her mouth, almost suffocating as her throat constricted against the vacuum of a clammy palm.

Please come back.

I need you.

I'm so afraid.

Afraid and exhausted, to a degree she had never encountered.

It went deeper than musculature, deeper than a full day's hike up into the mountains, deeper than the thin-stretched wakefulness needed to organise funeral arrangements and contact those who should be informed.

Pulling free from her hand, her voice choked out desperation that she could no longer censor, a name dredged up from her heart that — in a room that seemed to be ever-shrinking — felt like her last hope for salvation.

“Lilith... Please...”

Sleep was tugging at her, trying to pull her back into the nightmare, and her entire body quaked for resisting.

There was only so long she could fight it off, and she could not bear to go back there, only to die once again.

For however many times that would make it.

Please...

I don't want to go back...

She may as well get up, in as much as she was capable of standing, to try shake off the terrible gravity of it all. Just managing to sit up would be a start, with the hope that she might trick her brain into righting itself too.

Her whimpering prayer had brought forth nothing, just as her spell-casting had not achieved and would not achieve a single wretched thing.

“Silly of me to think you'd come,” she chided herself.

That you'd come all this way, up from the Underworld, just for me.

Then she felt the weight on the bed behind her and went rigid, her every instinct warring for dominion. Quickly enough, though, the needed stimuli reached her body, and with it sanctuary:

“Silly or not, I heard you. And I'm here.”

Chapter Text

Noting neither the smell of sulphur on the First Witch’s suit, nor the arcane symbols finger-painted across her face, Mary had collapsed bonelessly onto Lilith’s kneeling lap, assuring her that she had made the right decision in leaving Hell as abruptly as she had. It had taken no effort to convince Sabrina that she could manage the ritual magicks on her own, and even if the task was on the advanced side, there was no great danger to the girl should she fail – only the indignity of some malodorous (and likely permanent) stains upon her ceremonial garb.

Under different circumstances, Lilith might have been concerned how her sudden exodus would appear – especially when the Dark Lord could elect to see through the eyes of many minor demons, as they crept through crevices or floated just under the surface of ashy waters.

But the depth of Mary’s fear and yearning, presented in the cadence of prayer, had pushed aside such thoughts: she had felt the pull of it across her skin, felt it reaching beneath to tug at her skeleton. Being needed so intensely was not new, but it was rare, and even more rare in its expectation of comfort, rather than the bringing of ruin.

It was not a winged demoness for whom the prayer cried out, nor an ancient hag of the shadows, a bringer of bloody vengeance, nor indeed a Queen of Hell.

But for ‘Lilith’.

The woman beneath the masks and the tales of mankind.

Summoned by name, by the heart of someone she had begun to hold dear, there was no way in all the realms that she could have refused.

Whatever it was that had so shaken Mary, left her raw and pleading with the darkness, Lilith knew that the specifics were immaterial; Mary had told her, in what seemed like the distant past, of her torment via helplessness: whatever the situation, her agency would somehow be taken away, and she would find herself inadequate, despite all the knowledge and skill she supposedly possessed.

And Lilith knew helplessness.

If only she could remain here and hum, every single night, a song of empty slumbers to cushion Mary’s head as she fell.

Given her culpability in the matter of Mary’s nightmares, it truly behoved her to attempt it...

Yes, spend all your time here, before your insurance is fully formed.

Draw his attention so that he can stand outside the bedroom window, staring in at her until he finds a way back in.

Lead him here, to take it all away again.

Everything you've allowed yourself to have, and to feel.

The self-reproach stung with precision and she shook her head, lowered her gaze to Mary: the mortal’s face partially obscured by what the nightmare had done to her loosely braided hair, hands clasped together at her throat, knees drawn up so that they met with Lilith's, she seemed far more delicate than usual. Hollow-boned and wintered.

“I'm here,” Lilith whispered, for the fourth or perhaps fifth time since her arrival, amidst many other soft words which had slipped from her lips as her thoughts folded in on themselves. “And I can be there too, if you would like me to be.”

She caught herself off-guard with the offer, and as Mary rolled her head to gaze bleary-eyed in the general direction of Lilith’s face, she wondered whether she should take it back, obscure its meaning under something else.

You don't belong in there.

You don't know what she'll see.

What you’ll show her.

“Where?” asked Mary in a small, exhausted voice, and Lilith said nothing, as though waiting might make the question dissolve away, into the night.

Instead, it was the faint curiosity upon Mary's face which dissolved, her eyes leaving for the distance. “I'm so tired,” she murmured, the jittering muscles in her limbs confirming it where their bodies met.

“Then you must sleep.”

“I won't.” She glared past Lilith, at the shadows, dread nesting in her dilated pupils. “I can’t bear to... to die again.”

Again.

It struck Lilith in the chest and she knew she could not leave Mary to that, no matter the risk to her image.

“Then perhaps I can...”

“What?”

“Remove the teeth from that which preys upon you.”

“How?” Mary’s eyes had gone glossy and she was clearly not long for this world.

“It is within my power to traverse the dreams of others. As a psychic projection into your mind, I could appear beside you. And protect you.”

“You would do that for me?” Her voice was hoarse and Lilith felt it in her own throat.

In a heartbeat.

And so would you, I believe, had you only the ability.

“I will. If you will allow my passage. I can force my way into sleeping minds without much trouble, but my power to intervene is greater if I am invited.”

“Invite you... into my head...”

Lilith heard the doubt and made her assumptions about its source, felt the twist of shame in her gut. “Yes. If you would trust me to.”

“I do trust you.” Mary’s voice was a slurred whisper, but an earnest one, and Lilith dug her fingers into the bedding.

“All right. Then, give me your hand.”

An attempt was made, but Mary’s body was alarmingly lacklustre and Lilith questioned what could have so drained the woman, who was by no means frail.

“Mary?”

The prone hand rolled to expose its palm, and fingers bade Lilith meet them, which she did, firmly, and was again disturbed by the state of the tendons within.

“Please walk... into my head.” The slurring had worsened, her eyes already fallen shut.

“Thank you. Sleep. And when you dream, be patient, and know I will find you, as quickly as I can.”

Given the assurance, the last of Mary’s vigour fled, and she was gone. Placing two fingers to her sleeping forehead, Lilith made the sounds which would ensure a repetition of the dream’s narrative, so that she might go back to the beginning, and neutralize it.

She would have liked to re-position herself into something more meditative, but hadn’t the heart to move Mary’s head from her lap. And so she shifted her bare feet as subtly as she could,

took a deep,

slow,

centring breath,

allowed her eyes to roll back,

her lips to fall open,

her consciousness to begin drifting out of her body,

and took the plunge, into Mary Wardwell’s subconscious mind.

The road was nowhere in Greendale, the decrepit architecture told her that much. And nowhere were there people, familiar or otherwise, to offer the dreamer companionship, or safety in numbers. It was a place open to the sky, an exposed chest cavity, whose moon was as stark and white as a pathologist’s lamp.

Still, it was not Hell. Nor was there anything Hellish to be seen. Which was surprising, given how bereft Mary had been on her previous awakening.

Lilith scanned the dreamscape, and eventually found its originator in the distance, making her determined way towards the edge of the buildings.

Before following, Lilith took a moment to admire how concrete the world seemed where she stood, despite its creator's gaze having moved on. Most dream environments displayed practical Solipsism, fading and crumbling as the dreamer’s focus went elsewhere. But even as Mary trod the long road ahead of her, Lilith could still clearly make out the conjured ground left behind.

And more than that, she could also make out the sound of other feet upon that ground.

She tracked the sound – noting that Mary had stopped to do the same – and judged the source to be somewhere between the two of them, obscured by echoes within the masonry.

Then the feet were paired with a voice, sweet and young, that sang a simple song which to Lilith smacked of a curse: it was a sweetness based in rot, and not a sound that had any business being here.

Given more clues to follow, she moved on the shortest vector, her ethereal form phasing through rubble as she paid it no mind.

There was no certainty of a locatable origin: within dreams, stimuli were more often phantom, unbound to anything but whim. And yet, there it was: frozen mid-step, a young girl with olive skin, doe-eyes and dark hair which fell halfway down the back of her torn and muddied white dress.

The girl was shorter than she should be, her face slightly rounder, her nose just a little inaccurate, but there was no question as to her identity, and Lilith dropped into a crouch as the feelings assaulted her.

I’m sorry. I was only doing what I was told.

A cheap excuse for such violent crimes as she had wrought.

But I brought you back.

As if that negated anything but the existence of a corpse.

Lilith swiped at the figment, attempting to rid herself of it, and her hand moved as if through smoke which had ceased to rise.

Then her head whipped up, in Mary’s direction, as she again heard footsteps, this time quicker and heavier. And so she left the embodiment of her guilt behind and gave chase, keeping to the bushes alongside the road.

Just as in tangible life, she was shoeless, and her passage went unnoticed by Mary, who was anxiously checking all around for the threat, before forcing herself back into step.

Moonlight-footed, Lilith caught up, and was about to gently make her presence known, when, out of the threads of which dreams are woven, a tall figure took shape and began to lumber after Mary, some manner of pendulous weapon dangling from its arm.

Rather than alert the dreamer, Lilith leapt into the fray, bounding off the tarmac much as she would a sprung floor. She put herself between the two bodies and took in Mary’s would-be assailant: it was shaped like a robust, broad-shouldered man, with clothing that would not have been out of place amongst the senior boys of Baxter High, but where a face should have been, it possessed only a blurring void.

It was every man and no man.

And here on this deserted road, Mary had found herself all alone and at its mercy.

But Lilith would not allow it, and the figure was stopped in its tracks, its arm only beginning to raise as Lilith’s splayed palm thwarted its plans.

Her back to Mary, she waited to be acknowledged, thanked and welcomed, and for them to walk side-by-side to whatever destination Mary had been attempting to reach.

But instead of greeting her, Mary’s voice rang out in fright, followed by breathless stuttering and warnings off.

Of course. She doesn’t know it’s me. She isn’t lucid.

Lilith turned cautiously, her other palm raised in friendship and with what she hoped was a calming look upon her face.

“Mary, it’s me. You’re dreaming. I walked into your dream, as we discussed. You’ve nothing more to fear.”

And yet the opposite was insisted upon by the further warping of Mary’s features, by the clutching of her chest and the backward stepping of unsteady feet.

Don't you recognise me? Surely I--

Then Lilith caught sight of her raised hand and, back in the cottage, her body was struck cold with terror.

No.

Please no.

Mary was backing away faster, only her prey-animal instincts keeping her from bolting; her eyes were riveted to whatever gaping atrocities she saw on Lilith’s face, to however many rows of needle-sharp teeth were on display as Lilith had attempted to speak in soothing tones.

I never wanted you to see me like this.

And yet I’ve done it anyway.

She did not know what to do, how to make the demon fall away, and despite the millennia of control she had built up, there was unmistakable panic rising through her shadow-cloaked breast.

“Mary,” she tried again, and this time encountered a second voice overlaying her words, a guttural, infernal thing, thick with brimstone and bane.

“No!” the mortal denied her. “Leave me alone! I just want to go home, why won’t you let me?” She made as if to run at last, but her feet wouldn’t move, were suddenly one with the road. She jerked and whimpered, then dropped to wrench at her ankles.

The chill bleeding its way into her heart, Lilith lowered her monstrous face, kept it bowed as she knelt down and placed her hands flat on the tarmac ahead of her, kept it bowed even as Mary’s choked-back sobs let her know that their heads were aligned.

“I told you,” Lilith whispered, the knowledge that she had been right all along pooling like mercury in her gut, “I said I had another face. And I knew you’d want to run away when you saw it.”

Of course you would.

You’re human.

And humans fear demons, it is the natural way of things.

And I am the unnatural way of things.

“Who are you? Why?” Mary coughed through her desperation, working to unlace her shoes in the hopes that they alone had her welded to the road.

Even when you’re this afraid, you’re curious. Even in the midst of a nightmare.

“I am...”

She paused to appreciate the feeling of her heart coming untethered and sinking through her appalling flesh and bone, phasing through the ground and into the unreality below. Her voices, one harshly laid over the despairing other, had almost merged. “I am the demon Lilith.” Her elbows bent and her face descended until her nose brushed the road. “The Dawn of Doom. Satan’s...”

“Lilith?”

Her spirit’s disintegration was halted by the puzzled note in Mary’s voice, which had momentarily overtaken her fear.

She froze, wanting to reduce any menace she might be radiating, and her mind raced to think of the best way to leave without causing further distress.

“You’re,” Mary was struggling for clarity, reigning in her fear, “y-you’re Lilith? The one w-who--”

“Who killed you. Yes.”

“No, I... I mean, the one who...”

Lilith raised her eyes, and found that Mary was shaking her head, frowning as she grasped at things she knew in waking life, which lay just out of reach.

Perhaps now was the time to withdraw, while the dreamer was distracted, and hope the ghastly image of her face would fade by daylight.

Then Mary fell back, her feet coming loose from the road as her subconscious worked on other things, and she was free to escape.

“Go,” Lilith urged her.

And I’ll be gone too.

Not from your life. Not for some time anyway. I owe you far, far more than that. But from your mind, where I am grossly trespassing.

“Wait,” Mary replied, her fear melting into pensiveness. “You told me about this? You... you warned me?”

Amazing. You’re building lucidity with force of will.

“I did.”

“What... did I say?”

Lilith cast her mind back, and when the answer came, she bit down hard on her lip.

“You said you didn’t care.”

“That’s,” she resat herself, crossed her legs, “that sounds true. I think I believe you. That I said that.”

But you were wrong.

“I’m sorry to have invaded your dream, Mary. I’ll be leaving now.”

“Wait. Lilith...”

That tone.

It was the same which had so often beckoned her closer and taken her hand, which had urged her indoors, out of the blizzard.

“Yes?”

She strained against the foolishness of hoping, but her heart was doing so regardless.

“I know you. I know who you really are.”

“Do you?” She barely knew that herself, time, madness and splintered self-esteem all considered. And she was ashamed at how much yearning had slipped out in those two words.

“You came here to save me. And this isn’t the first time.”

“This is a dream. Mary. None of this is real.”

Her eyes had grown large with understanding, the constructed world around her making sense in its strangeness. “A dream. Of course. I’m dreaming.”

“And I will leave you to it.”

“You’re not part of my nightmare, Lilith.”

Some part of you knows that I am.

“I... exist outside of your mind. Both of our bodies are in the safety of your bedroom, where I will now be returning. But you must continue to sleep, to regain your vitality.”

“All right,” Mary replied without resistance

“Thank you.”

“Will you be there when I wake up?”

“If... that is what you desire.”

“Oh! You’re back.”

“What?”

“You’re back! You look like... well, you look like me.”

You see me...

Your mind sees this horror and reflects your own face back at you.

Rather than the face of that murderous girl in the rubble.

But why such a mercy?

“I will be there when you wake up, I promise you that. But for now I must leave. I insist upon it.”

Mary nodded, forehead wrinkling kindly. “Thank you for… making me aware. I want to see what I’m capable of, now that I know I’m dreaming. Then maybe I’ll be able to do it again, on my own.”

“Maybe so.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“You will.”

And with no further preamble, she withdrew, experiencing the usual cacophonous rush of sensations.

Then her face contorted and she pressed a hand against her mouth, so as not to wake the woman whose head still lay on her lap, brought up the other to intercept her tears before they could smear too far down the ritual face-paint.

Mary was sleeping soundly, that was what mattered.

Her aim had been achieved.

Whatever unfortunate impulses and emotions had been woken within herself, they too would be lulled back to slumber soon enough.

She cupped her hands under Mary’s head and held it up, slowly shifted her legs out of the way, nudged a pillow over with her foot, and laid Mary down upon it.

The ground was unexpectedly solid for a while, as she padded out of the bedroom and onto the wooden floorboards, onto the cold tile of the bathroom, where she could retouch her appearance, out the front door onto the sharpness of brick, and finally into the give of damp earth and grass, which filled the space between her toes.

Under the three a.m. moon, she drew crisp air into her lungs, and imagined it forcing out the swirling black fog which had gathered therein. Her mind tried to return to Mary’s dream and she growled, ran her hands through her hair and over her face roughly enough to redirect her senses.

It was a nightmare, and she’s used to those.

She’ll think nothing of it.

Though, worse would be if Mary merely said nothing of it, and kept the terrible memory to herself.

If she adventures back through the dream, she might encounter my young spectre and--

“Will you cease this foolishness?” she snarled, exposing her gums to the cold air. “What do you hope to achieve by endlessly gnawing at your own tail?”

Then her skin prickled as a presence made itself known, somewhere nearby.

A presence that was inhuman and unwelcome.

She circled round the cottage to its rear, where grass gradually became forest, magic instinctively gathering in her fingers.

The creature was no larger than a house-cat, its slender body milky-cerulean and nearly translucent under the moon. Its brow was lowered to a square container, as it lapped at something silver and viscous.

“Priskakkish,” Lilith hissed in the demon’s tongue, and it turned a flat face towards her, six round, glassy eyes blinking in rotation, its whiskered beak falling open and ears shaped like banana-plant leaves shooting up stiffly to the top of its head.

‘Demon Mother’, its voice trilled in her head, so high-pitched that her jaw locked up. It showed no intention of leaving.

“What are you doing here?” She would not communicate telepathically with such a creature.

‘I was summoned. It is my right to be here.’

“Who summoned you?”

Her heart tripped into a brisk jog, as she considered what use he could possibly have for sending such a minor demon here. For what reason should a creature with Priskakkish’s abilities be lurking around the sanctified Wardwell cottage?

‘The one who lives here, Demon Mother. I do not trespass. You have no cause to banish me from my offering.’

“What is your offering?”

‘The woman’s tears, and her memories.’

“Memories?” Rage surged up from Lilith’s core and she crossed the final space between them in a striding instant. “What of her memories? Answer me, demon!”

Staring down past the creature’s blue-spined back and white-feathered tail, she saw that the container held a piece of lined paper filled with writing, by the looks of it a child’s schoolwork.

Mary... what is this?

Priskakkish was still licking at it, and with each pass of its little pink tongue, the text became more vivid, until every last ink smudge was gone. Then the creature shook its beak and sprung back, putting a safe distance between the two of them with an effortless flex of its tri-jointed legs.

‘Why do you fear for her?’ Its head rotated almost entirely in its curiosity.

“That’s none of your affair.”

‘She is a mortal.’

“I see you’re putting your clairvoyance to extravagant use.”

‘Yet you ask her to cast all on her own. She is ill-prepared. Her spirit was almost depleted when she summoned me.’

“What do you mean?” Fear gripped her, mirrored by the hand at her breast.

‘She uses herself as the sole source of power. She does not know how to share the burden. Soon she will run dry.’ A sound in Lilith's head chimed: a laugh. ‘Demon Mother, your mortal is only a child. Why do you leave her to suffer so?’

There was no true concern from the demon, only a pantomime for mockery, but its words contained no deceit. And with a sense of great collapse, as of a cliff-side disintegrating beneath her, Lilith understood what she had done.

“Mary,” she mouthed, as the demon cocked its head one final time, then scurried off towards the woods, “I’ve been so blind.”

She grimaced, imagining each time Mary must have depleted herself, trying again and again to satisfy Lilith’s selfish request, with no way of limiting that depletion.

Of course Lilith hadn’t thought to mention it; for her — for every witch — it was akin to breathing. But Mary was not a witch, but a mortal. And thanks to Lilith’s negligence, she might not even be that for much longer.

Sparing no time for footfalls, she translocated to the bedside and took Mary’s hand in her own – cold, much too cold – checked her pulse – far too weak – and fought back panic.

How could you be so thoughtless?

A mortal!

Not even a fledging witch, but a guileless mortal!

She took off her blazer and pulled her dress over her head, tossing both to the foot of the bed. Then, with nimble yet shaking fingers, she unbuttoned Mary’s shirt and pulled it off her – a set of movements that, under normal circumstances, absolutely would have roused her.

Positioning herself behind Mary’s naked shoulder blades, Lilith wrapped an arm around the ever-cooling body, from which only faint shivers rolled, and again she cursed herself for not drawing the connection.

Her chest pressed tightly against Mary’s back, her scowl nestled into Mary’s neck, she half-whispered, half-thought the spell:

“A corpore meo ad tuum,
a spiritu meo ad tuum,
ab anima mea ad tuam,
a vita mea ad tuam.”

Eyes shut tight beneath her frown, she struggled to feel whether there was any change, listened to Mary’s breathing and hoped that it really was growing stronger, and that it was not only in her imagination.

I’m sorry.

If I’ve failed you, I’ll bring you back. Again.

I promise.

He won’t stop me from bringing you back. Even if I have to tear through all of Hell to find you.

Her fingers tightened against Mary’s ribs.

So don’t think I’ll let you drift away.

Not when they were so close. Not when she finally had something to believe in.

Please. Stay with me.

Chapter Text

It had seemed so easy at first.

She had walked just a little bit further down the road, and decided that she ought to be at her home by now, and then she was.

It was not the home she felt was correctly hers, but for now it would suffice and she approached the door, noting the rose bushes which grew alongside the pebbled path, having thought about how much she liked rose bushes and wished           examined one, with its purple edges and soft pink centre, and bent to sniff at the sweetness but found to her disappointment that there was no scent. She tried harder, and for a moment there seemed like there might be something, but the possibility faded and she gave up.

She grasped the door handle — which was brass and carved with patterns of rose vines, a beautiful detail that she may have seen in an antique store somewhere — and pushed, knowing that it was unlocked.

There were dogs barking from somewhere in the house – beagles, Fiddles and Banjo, her grandmother had had them for years, and they had tried to leap on her even after they were far too old to safely do so. They had probably gotten themselves trapped in the bathroom again, so she                  weren’t there either and she began to grow concerned. “Where are the dogs?” she asked her grandfather, as he sandpapered out the damage to his walking cane. She wondered if he had noticed that her

                                   really didn’t seem to be any other way out of the room and so she went down onto her hands and knees and began to crawl, feeling the brush of hanging plants atop her head, and hoped that there weren’t any insects that were going to get caught in her hair as

                                        
            wasn’t exactly the right fit, but it would do in a pinch, if she was ever going to get back up to the ledge and reclaim her half of the 

                              couldn’t seem to catch sight of the landscape, every time she tried to focus it would move again, and the room wasn’t where she’d left it. If she could only stop the high-pitched whining that filled                        

             was not correct. Could not be allowed. It was happening far too often and she was growing exhausted with the effort of shaping some thin reality for
                             

                                                                    didn’t have the right colour – or any colour at all, for that matter, and she worried that it had never

                        

                                               only one corner remaining, and she had to stay there, as the floor melted away, because otherwise

                        knew that she didn’t have a choice but to accept the inevitable and

              certain she used to have a

                                            wasn’t there anymo

                                                                                didn’t even kn

                                                                                        too tired to

     Lil

                                                                                                                                                                                              I

The colour of plums.

It wasn’t so much that she could see it, but that she was inside of it.

Or maybe it was inside of her.

Inside of her self.

Without touching or tasting, she knew that its flavour would be tart, until she could break through to the sweetness within.

The colour of it was holding her aloft, though, so it was best not to try biting it for the moment. Otherwise she might fall and keep on falling.

Her thoughts were tingling like pins and needles, as though she had been sitting on them for far too long. And as she tried to remember what had gotten her there, she groaned, at the ache of muscles that were slowly regaining their bloodflow.

Her teeth were on edge and she realised that they had been for a while, that she had been scraping tooth across tooth as her thoughts re-acclimatised to… something. To being?

The plum colour was definitely inside of her, but she was also definitely inside of it, which didn’t seem all that strange. The atmosphere was growing sugary, and a horizon which she hadn’t noticed before showed the beginnings of gold.

Its first gold.

The sweetness was on her tongue, and there were fading stars now; the dawn was too strong for them, but both were eternal and they would only be hidden, never destroyed.

Diffused gold crept across the ground until it met with her feet, and her jaw released its tension. She found that she could stare directly into the sun, and saw that its centre rolled like brandy before a flame, flowed like honey off a yellow-wood dipper.

Flowed directly into her breast, as though it had always belonged there.

I’m ready to wake up now.

Her limbs made the transition, and air was in her lungs; not fresh enough, but it was a start.

She felt pressure against her ribs, and in the crook of her neck. Her front was cool, but her back was warm, under the influence of another body.

Somebody.

Struck through with emotion, she gripped the hand which rested against her breastbone, pulled it to her lips and held it there, as the gold continued to light up her mind, close to blinding her.

A gasp from behind, then a tight sequence of inhalations and one shakily tempered breath out.

“Mary?” The voice teetered on the edge of a rocky descent, desperate for confirmation, and Mary gave it quickly, pushing past the glowing haze to exist in the moment.

“Lilith? What—”

The pressure at her neck increased as Lilith’s forehead nestled closer, the hand within hers scrambling to be on top and pulling her even closer.

She laughed at the intensity of it. “I’m sorry, did I sleep too long?”

The sensation of skin-upon-skin finally registered and she saw her own breasts, positioned on either side of their clasped hands.

“What, what’s going on? Why is my shirt gone?”

A tight whisper of her name was the only reply, and she rolled over, coming face to face with Lilith, their hands pressed between them. This close, even without her glasses, she could make out the ravages of distress on Lilith’s face, the creases which spoke on the First Witch’s behalf.

“Lilith, what’s happened? Are you all right? Am I all right?”

Lilith’s eyes searched her, skipping around Mary’s face, until her lips fell open and she pulled a lifetime of oxygen down into her lungs.

“Do you feel all right?”

Mary consulted the various parts of her body, encountered the faint strains of tinnitus, the ache in her limbs, the dryness of her throat… and something she couldn’t quite describe, but which suggested that the vibration of her cells had somehow changed their pitch.

“I think so. I’m really thirsty, though.”

“Oh, of course,” breathed Lilith, immediately pushing herself upright and reaching for her dress. “I’ll just—”

“Lilith, it’s fine, I can get my own water!”

“No, please. Let me.”

Mary eyed her curiously, but nodded. “All right. Thank you, but...”

Something had unquestionably happened to her, Mary knew it from the way Lilith’s eyes kept darting across her body. And the only thing keeping her anxiety at bay was the fact that, all told, she felt surprisingly well, and more rested than she would have expected, having been struck by nightmares after already being completely wrecked by the day.

Moving drew her attention back to her nudity, and she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Um, I suppose there’s some very logical reason for my being topless, and you being… less than that.”

Humor crossed Lilith’s face, but it was short-lived:

“There is. And I will tell you, shortly. Forgive me, Mary, I just...” she paused in the doorway, rested a stiff arm against the frame and let her head hang, as though lightheaded. “Give me a little time.”

Mary cocked her head. “Of course, but, did something happen when you were in my dream? Because I don’t remember any of it.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. She remembered some of it, more with each second, while also less.

You were on your hands and knees.

You were beside yourself and so was I.

But why?

The space in the footage where Lilith’s body should have been was in constant shadowy flux, impossible to clearly define, but Mary could recall Lilith’s emotions as if they were her own, rolling off the witch in thick, midnight blue waves.

The despair. The contrition.

Did I hurt you?

The thought clawed at her heart, and she focussed her straining eyes on Lilith, who had still not answered. Then, at length and unsteadily:

“There were things that I did not expect to find. But it’s not your fault, so please think nothing of it.”

“You must know me better than that by now.”

“Well.”

“It was my mind, I must have some culpability in it.” She reached for her glasses on the bedside table, to sharpen Lilith’s downcast profile.

“Mortal minds are fragile things. They keep truths from themselves. Lie and pretend to themselves.”

“I can’t imagine that’s exclusive to us fragile mortals.”

Something in Mary’s words made Lilith flinch. “Perhaps not. But...” The thought dried up, and she shook her head: “Let me get you that water.”

And she was already gone.

Wait.

Carefully Mary took the first few steps across the carpet, then picked up her pace, buttoning up her reclaimed shirt on the way.

This house is small, you can’t outrun me for long.

And yet to her surprise, she found the door to the kitchen closed, almost didn’t realise it in time. Had it merely swung closed on its own, despite never having done so before?

She heard the sound of the pipes, indicating that running water had just been shut off.

Even though it felt ridiculous, she raised a hand to knock upon her own kitchen door, yet before she could follow through, it opened on its own, and she was able to see all the way to the sink.

“Sorry,” said Lilith quietly, “force of habit.”

Habit? You’ve never closed a door in my face before.

“That’s all right. I’m definitely more awake now.” The attempted levity went unacknowledged and she sighed, moved to intercept Lilith on the way to the table, and exchanged the glass of water she held for a dip into troubled blue eyes.

Lilith didn’t allow her long to swim, however, turning back to the window and the silent darkness beyond.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said throatily.

“It was going to happen eventually.” The sound of Mary's smile was beginning to feel less than genuine.

“Of course,” said Lilith.

So why do you sound so doubtful?

She frowned, replaying Lilith’s words and behaviour since she’d woken up, reaching further back into emotional memory.

Why do you sound like you’re in mourning?

Slowly she sipped the water, then learnt the full extent of her thirst and kept on with gusto until the glass was tipped empty. It wasn’t quite enough, and she joined Lilith at the sink.

“Lilith. Tell me what happened.” The sternness in her voice surprised them both, and gained her an acquiescent nod.

“I’m sorry. I must seem very coy.”

“Coy isn’t the word I’d use.”

Lilith’s lips pressed together and she took the glass from Mary’s hands to refill it, so smoothly that Mary had to wonder whether she’d been holding it at all.

“Is there anything else you need?” Lilith’s eyes remained on the water.

Mary allowed this further procrastination and considered the question, posed it to her body.

“I suppose I am a little hungry.” Having said it, the feeling grew, and a very specific craving glimmered in her mind.

“What would you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Though she did.“Something sweet maybe.”

“What sort of sweet?” Lilith was already poised by the fridge, and it was disquieting how attentive she was being.

“Fruit, I think.” She downed the water and placed the glass upside down to drain. “But I don’t believe there is any. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the grocery store. It doesn’t speak well of me, but I’ll admit I haven’t been eating as wisely as I should of late.”

Lilith grimaced as though the admission wounded her. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

Instead of replying, Lilith investigated the fridge, soon stuck staring into its obvious lack. Not to be thwarted, she moved to the cupboards, a new determination in her stance. “I know it’s still here,” she murmured.

“What is?”

A sigh of victory and Lilith stepped back, into a history lesson:

“Many thousands of years ago, in what you now call the Middle East, humanity learnt that by sweetening fresh fruit, heating and cooling it, and storing it in sealed containers, they could keep it for many months, safe from rot.”

“Preserves.”

“Indeed.” She revealed the tall jam jar with its handwritten label, penned by a local confectionery woman. “I acquired a taste for it, and once that information became known by occultists,” she smirked into ancient memory, “they began to use it to sway my attention from whatever atrocities they assumed I was plotting.”

Mary recalled her studies and, with some weight on her heart, their fireside conversation around Lilith’s notoriety. “They tried to distract you with jam?”

Another twitch of a smirk. “Charming, really. They left baskets of it in trees, to lure me away from their infants.”

“And you didn’t get bored, eating it so often?”

“You’d be surprised how long a simple pleasure like that can keep…” She stopped, short of revealing anything. “Well. No, I’ve never lost my taste for it. And their offerings ceased before too long, returning to less pleasant methods of dissuading me.”

Mary fetched two long dessert spoons from the cutlery drawer; picking away at jam directly from the jar was not a meal, and would surely prove overwhelming soon, but for the moment, it felt fitting, and even strangely exciting.

Once they were seated at the table, Lilith unscrewed the lid and let the aroma greet her nostrils, eyes gently shut, and Mary was touched by her quiet contentedness. But it was not long before concern again crept across her features.

“Will you tell me now?” asked Mary, hoping it would be the final time.

She took a spoonful of jam to her tongue, and immediately the humming glow in the back of her mind surged in hearty approval.

The feeling tasted older than she was.

Lilith was tracking the unrestrained movements of her face with wary eyes.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” she stated definitively.

Mary shrugged through the colour that only she could see. “Maybe, but… it’s just my way. I tend to get a little impatient where important things are concerned. I want to get them done as soon as possible, and as best I can.”

“I know.”

“Yesterday was unusually difficult, I was operating on very little sleep and my neck was in spasm all throughout the day. It didn’t seem as though I could get a single thing right, I kept… knocking things over and...” Her face fell, the flavour in her mouth insufficient to buoy her up. “It was just a bad day. But they’re not often that bad, so please don’t be overly worried. I’ll be fine. Really.”

Lilith continued to read her face, took another slow spoonful as an excuse for silence.

“And, Lilith? Thank you. For coming when I needed you. I was feeling so alone and the nightmare hit me far harder than it should have. But I also don’t want to always be tearing you away from your responsibilities, I’m sure you weren’t just sitting around twiddling your thumbs.”

Lilith raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to confirm that unfortunate fact.

“I suppose I’m... still trying to find my way. Since I’ve been back.” Unspoken things grew heavy in her chest. Questions for which there never seemed an appropriate time.

Why am I back?

What motivated you to do it?

Lilith mulled around her spoon a while longer, fingers fidgeting along its length, then exhaled pointedly and laid it upon the table, licked clean. “I’ll fetch your things from outside.”

“My things?” The memory crept back awkwardly. “Oh, the— Lilith, I’m sorry, I forgot your book out on the grass.”

Lilith waved it off: “The Guide was bound to withstand trial by child, one night under the stars won’t destroy it.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

“The loose piece of writing paper, though, is more of a concern.”

She felt herself deflating, becoming smaller. “No, it isn’t.”

Lilith was waiting to hear more, her head cocked, suggesting that she hadn’t properly taken in the state of the paper.

“It’s already ruined. I spilt wine all over the page and then,” she shook her head in vexation, “I tried to fix it with a spell. But I just... I failed again. No matter what I try — and I swear, I have been trying! Whenever I can, I try something new. But I don’t think,” her eyes were welling up with shame, “I don’t think I’m capable of it. I’m so sorry.”

Her last words were but a whisper and she lowered her blurring vision to her fingers, tightly gripping the poised spoon. Then she blinked, and Lilith’s hand was covering hers, elegant and cleanly painted.

“But you didn’t fail.”

“What do you mean?”

Lilith squeezed her hand once then slid her chair back to stand. “Wait.”

And wait Mary did, barely blinking until the spoon was nothing but a smear of silver with a dollop of magenta at its end.

When at last the page was placed just ahead of her, it took a while to recognise, given its completely pristine appearance.

“This can’t be.”

She could not tell whether her eyes or her lungs grew the larger, but both were strained to their limit and she could no longer bear to sit, circling the table to stand next to Lilith.

“It’s mended?” Her gaze was locked upon the page, willing it to persist. “It really worked?”

“It did.”

She freed her eyes to regard Lilith, whose tone showed nowhere near the amount of joy she felt the victory deserved. Hadn’t this been just what she wanted? Wasn’t the task now complete?

‘One single spell.’

“Lilith, I did it. I really did it!” Her heart was racing and she had to lean on the table to stave off vertigo.

“You did. Well done, Mary, you’ve… you’ve succeeded. Thank you.”

This time she couldn’t shrug off the underwhelming reply.

“Why do you sound so disappointed?”

Examining the First Witch’s expression — the tight smile that had been put there for Mary’s benefit, the secrets lingering behind her eyes — Mary’s doubts sprang anew.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question broke open Lilith’s mask, her brows knitting in regret. “No. Please don’t think that.”

“Then—”

“I did. I’ve greatly wronged you.”

“How?”

Lilith once more avoided answering and moved her struggling eyes to the page. “When you cast the spell, what thoughts were filling your head? What drove you to succeed where before you had not?”

“I suppose I was desperate? I told myself that it was my last chance, before I admitted that I’d… let you down.”

“Was there anything else? Were you remembering anything precious to you?”

“I don’t know.” A chill crept up her throat as the phrase she had hoped to never say again found its way to her lips. “I can’t remember.”

Lilith did not miss the effect of it upon her, and with a pained smile bade Mary sit.

“The spell you were using calls for shards of mirror glass, for gaining clarity. But there was no sign of glass, neither now nor earlier when I observed the spell in its final stages.”

“No, there wasn’t any glass. I didn’t use any.”

“Mary, did you… did you change the spell?” Lilith’s voice straddled the space between aghast and impressed. “To make it more personal?”

“I did. It was foolish of me, I know, it just… didn’t feel right to break any of my mirrors!”

“What did you use instead?”

“Salt.”

“Salt?”

“Yes, rock salt from my kitchen.”

“Why?”

The question took her down a path which vanished into blankness and her heart began to quiver. “I don’t know. I don’t recall. It just made sense.”

“The notion spontaneously came to you? Like an epiphany?” There was beleaguered hope in Lilith’s voice, and Mary wished she could answer that hope.

“I don’t think so. I’m nowhere near that intuitive.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not in my experience, no. I’m… Lilith, I’m sorry, but I can’t remember why I did it! Barely even the ceremony itself. I must have been so tired, my mind just couldn’t keep hold of anything.”

“Mary, it’s all right.” Lilith reached down towards her face and she flinched back in her chair.

“What are you—”

With the softest of touches, Lilith thumbed the area beneath one eye then the other. “You don’t have to remember. Maybe, just once, it’s permissible to forget.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

Lilith's hand hovered before her face a little longer, as if unsure of what to do with itself. Then it returned to Lilith’s side and the First Witch straightened up, her gaze having departed for somewhere other than the room.

“Magic,” she spoke from some way away, “always has consequences.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that before.”

“But nobody told me. I had to learn it on my own.”

Mary folded her hands in her lap and focussed on them, because the look in Lilith’s eyes was too unsettling an option. “You mean back in the wilderness. After you were driven out.”

A slow breath entered and exited Lilith before she would reply. “Yes, soon after that time. Long before I had grown disciplined in my abilities. When I was,” she made an amused sound in her throat and Mary knew the wry face she was wearing, “but a babe.”

With Lilith’s every tale of the Wastes, Mary’s mind had built a more detailed image of the wretched environment. Yet now, for the first time, she was able to imagine how the dry winds would have left Lilith with cracked lips and burning eyes, how the dust had felt stuck up against the back of her tongue where she could never get at it, and even further up inside her head. She could imagine the crushing size of the place, for one so young and untrained.

All at once, she wanted to cross the paces between them and embrace the forsaken girl from that time, that child without a childhood who had grown into a woman ever drifting. But even though she did not expect Lilith to baulk at the affection, she was kept in her chair by the knowledge that, should she interrupt Lilith’s flow now, she may as well give up on getting her answers any time soon.

“What happened to you? That taught you about those consequences?”

Lilith moved further away from the both of them, bringing a finger to her lower lip and gently stroking it as she recalled. “The voices which visited my dreaming mind, they were scant on the details. They gave me images of plants and places, suggested words for my rites, but the practical assembly of spells was for me to do. They did not and could not take my hand, on the Path of the Witch.”

“Is that why you left me on my own?”

Lilith shook her mane, frowning for patience.

“I took what I had been given and began to weave my amateur magic, trying ritual after ritual, spell after spell, pushing harder with my every success and even harder should I fail. When I slept, it was fitful, and when I ate, it was rare, yet when I engaged with the magicks, it was with every ounce of my being. I held nothing back, because there was nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

Mary’s gaze had lifted as Lilith’s movements became slow pacing, and on a turn their eyes met, and Lilith smiled with rue.

“Might that sound at all familiar to you?”

Mary resisted the urge to look away in embarrassment, merely set her jaw.

“But what I did not yet understand was that every spell cast was a negotiation, an offering of will, words and a witch’s energy, to the purpose of the magicks. Even if the spell was unsuccessful, I had still offered up some part of myself, and there was no getting it back.”

“And so you… gave too much away?”

“I did. And with every attempt made, I achieved less, as there was less and less of me to give.” Her lip curled, and so did her tone. “In time, it was all I could do to charm a spark for kindling.”

It was all beginning to make sense.

“But you survived.”

“Because I was built to survive. Any other witch who carried on as recklessly as I did would have expired, in precious little time. Because their energy is, ultimately, finite. They can prolong their lives with pacts and potions, but there is no escaping their end. Whereas I,” she drew herself up with mock-pride that was closer to self-mockery, “I am eternal. My spirit can be ground under boot, it can be burnt and chipped and malnourished, but it will nonetheless refill itself from the endless spring of my creation.”

Gold sparkled behind Mary’s eyes at the bitter beauty of Lilith’s words.

“Then, if you can’t die...”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me, my dear. I can most certainly die. In any number of torturous ways. But it will never be from an exhaustion of life-force. How else could I have—”

Her face turned from bitter to apologetic and Mary realised that she had begun to tear up again. “Please go on,” she urged, wiping her eyes determinedly.

Lilith pulled back her sagging shoulders, nodded. “How else could I have been the catalyst for the birth of hundreds of thousands of demons, if not for possessing a limitless life force for their consumption?”

“Of course.”

Lilith observed her cautiously. “Of course.”

“But not me. I’m weak already. I didn’t even start with all that much.”

Lilith only angled her head in acknowledgment.

“What about other witches? How do they do it? How do they keep from…”

“They share the burden. Sometimes with a more powerful creature, or with each other, but most often, they draw from the earth itself. The ground beneath their feet. By putting down roots of spirit and drawing up the energy they need, channelling it and growing stronger, rather than weaker, with every spell crafted.”

There was real pride on Lilith’s face now, even something approaching love.

“That is the true way of the witch: power shared, and by sharing, increased.”

Mary wondered whether she had perhaps read about such a thing — not in the Guide, but at some point in her mundane studies of the occult. But her intrigue soon faded to gloom, as the truth of her situation became clear.

“And you never told me that. You never taught me how.”

Lilith did not break eye contact, taking the blame with a raised jaw and tense lips; she looked like a noblewoman waiting to be hanged, the rope already slack around her neck.

“The process is innate for me now. And I was too short-sighted, too thoughtless, to consider that I would need to approach your apprenticeship from the… ground up.” Crevices cut deeper between her eyes. “I failed you, Mary. I failed us both.”

And all the while I thought I was the one failing you.

“Maybe you did.”

Lilith’s demeanour remained the same, but that the skin around her jaw grew tighter.

“And I appreciate you acknowledging that,” Mary continued. “As much as I want to give my all to help you — and I really do — I hadn’t intended to just... bleed out from a wound I didn’t even know was there. I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted in my life, and now I know why.”

“There’s nothing I can do or say to change what I have done, in my negligence. But please know that I’m— ”

“I do know.”

“But it’s meaningless. Isn’t it?”

A cloud of despair surrounded Lilith’s words, and no matter how rightfully angry Mary understood herself to be, she could not prevent her tone from softening.

“It’s not meaningless. It could never be meaningless. You made a mistake, but… after just a little sleep, I’m honestly feeling a lot better. And if you’d like to teach me how to share the burden of spellcasting, I’m sure I can do it more effectively.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I… I can’t allow it.”

“Lilith, you can’t just expect me to give up on this. I committed to it with all my heart, that’s not something done lightly.”

“You did, and it was unconscionably kind of you; the sort of kindness I could never have anticipated, especially in the wake of my crimes against you.”

“Then why forbid me?”

“You did what was asked of you,” the composure was steadily slipping from her voice, “you were the one who took the journey to restore that page, even though you had to summon a demon to achieve the metaphysical bulk of it.”

“Next time I’ll do better, I know I can if you teach me.”

“There will not be a next time. I’m sorry, Mary, but the practical apprenticeship ends here. It was enough that you could technically be called a spellcaster, my plans do not require you to endanger yourself any further.”

“But what if I want to?”

“Then I apologise for disappointing you.”

“Lilith, please.” Being a witch, even a failed witch, had made her feel special; the staff at Baxter High, men who so often thought themselves superior to her, they had no idea what was happening right under their noses, every single day. But she did, and she was gleefully becoming a part of it. “I want to keep learning!”

Suddenly far closer than she had been, Lilith took hold of Mary’s shoulders with what was surely her full preternatural strength, while fault-lines tore open behind her eyes:

“You almost died, Mary. The demon drank you down to your last drop. And you would have—“ her voice caught and she swallowed, intent on finishing. “You would have faded away in your sleep, had the creature not alerted me to what I had done. Your soul would have been flung to the Hounds of Hell, or worse. And I...”

Finally she was forced to avert her eyes, if only to blink them clear, and Mary, caught between horror and empathy, lifted her hands to wrap around Lilith’s wrists.

“What? And what?”

Lilith’s fingertips dug into her shoulders, and while Mary knew it was involuntary, it didn’t lessen the pain of bruising.

And when Lilith’s voice returned to her, it shook with far greater distress than when speaking of her horrific demon births, greater even than when she warned of the terrible threat of Lucifer.

“And... I don’t know that I could have found you.”

Chapter Text

Scandalised by the unrestrained dismay in her own voice, Lilith had to hold herself back from fleeing, the lights in the kitchen flickering with her impulse to plunge the room into darkness and become one with the shadows.

The two of them remained mutually seized, Lilith’s fingers firm at Mary’s shoulders and Mary’s hands clasped around her rigid wrists. The mortal was taking in her words over and over, the immense weight of them piled upon her gaze, which nevertheless refused to fall.

I should never have agreed to this. Hope made me reckless.

And your strength made me forget your fragility.

“You don’t know that you could have found me and brought me back to life again,” Mary whispered, her eyes delivering what her grey tone could not.

“No,” Lilith replied, in shape alone.

Mary’s grip on her wrists tightened, then pulled down with enough determination that Lilith’s hands slipped loose, and were held stiffly to either side of Mary’s body.

“How did you find me the first time, Lilith? And why did you care to? You didn’t even know me.”

It was a question which had often thrust itself upon her, in moments of weariness, and one for which she had no satisfactory answer. But she owed it to Mary to try, and her mind sorted frantically through flashcards.

“You were wandering the Forest of Keres, a place for those who die violently at the hands of supernatural creatures, who perish in confusion, faced with that which they cannot hope to understand. Most often they are the prey of bored ghosts or demons, prowling the mortal realm and looking for easy blood.”

"But you didn’t come across me at random and just... end my life on a whim. I was marked.” The matter-of-factness was a flimsy cover and Lilith cringed at what lay beneath it.

“Yes, but like the rest, your spirit fled in terror, hurled into damnation by the force of Lucifer’s will and my fealty to him.” Already her voice was drying up, and she feared for her resilience should she continue feeling so strongly about every uttered word. Some distance was needed, and with urgency, but the negligible space between them seemed to grow ever smaller, and she felt the kitchen walls closing in.

“And my body?”

“I disposed of it. Immediately.”

“How?”

“I burnt it. It was over in moments.”

“Creatures who kill for fun probably don’t let a body go that easily.” Mary’s eyes had left Lilith’s and gone to a place of troubled imagination, her lips slack and scarcely moving.

“No. No, they don’t. Mary, please don’t—“

“Then I suppose I should thank you for that. For not making my death more obscene than it had to be.”

“Mary, I beg of you.”

The unexpected phrase gave them both pause and Mary’s eyes found hers again, in the too small, too solid room, yielded to her plea.

“So, you went to that forest, and you found me somehow.”

“Not personally. You were under the supervision of certain underlings, and I gave them your description.”

“'Underlings.' You mean the ones who tortured me for months, and... fed on my misery. The ones who oversaw all that suffering, as if it was nothing. Because that was simply the job they had? Those are the ones you mean?”

The chilly timbre to her voice settled wet on Lilith’s skin, and the sibilance of a 'yes' evaporated in response.

“And you told them to find someone with your face...with my face. Someone who just happened to look like—”

The anger the woman had kept neatly folded within her core was collapsing open, and while Lilith knew it was entirely her duty to receive it, she was nonetheless fearful of smothering.

“Someone with a face to match that which I wore when I crowned myself queen,” Lilith offered. She went slack at the shoulders and tried to free her hands, but Mary wasn’t willing to let her go just yet. “A regal face, one which could not be mistaken.”

“You don’t get to flatter me right now, Lilith.”

A cold knife tipped with resentment slid between her ribs.

“No, I’m,” she shook her head against the sensation, “that’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“Then what?”

The blade paused, lodged in ligament.

“To answer your questions. For both our sakes.” She rotated her wrists to grasp Mary’s hands across the knuckles. “I returned to Hell a queen, where before I had been little more than a footsoldier, fooled into thinking myself a general. And from that moment, mortal souls were mine to direct wherever I wished, by decree of the Infernal Crown.”

“Which means you could have sent me to Heaven. If you’d wanted to.”

“It does.”

“You could have kept me from all of this.”

If I’d only known that you would have preferred the stars; I would have liked to give them to you.

“I could have. Yes.”

“But instead you returned me to Greendale, to a life that wasn’t mine anymore. You changed its shape while I was away, but only enough that I thought I was the problem. That I was the reason it didn’t fit.”

Drought and void laid their hands upon Lilith’s throat, and dared her to reply.

“It was not in my… when I altered your life to meet my needs, I never expected that you would be coming back to it. And, the changes, the, my becoming principal of Baxter High, I had thought that you would find it valuable, and... be happy of the advantages brought by the office. That I... I had lifted up your station. For the better.”

“You didn’t know me at all. Even after wearing my life for months.”

Lilith frowned her eyes shut and bowed her dizzied head. “No, I didn’t.”

“You wanted to be in charge of the school. I only ever wanted to teach.”

“I understand that now.”

She felt Mary’s hands flex, felt thumbs move to cover her own, their pressure increasing with the earnestness of the questions.

“Why didn’t I remember?”

“Mortal souls are not intended to return from Hell. They are warped by it, misshapen. It always leaves its mark, as some form of madness. And even as its queen, I could not do much to mitigate that.”

“Madness…” Mary’s eyes traced back through the maze of it all. “It left me wandering my own life, just like that forest in Hell. Nothing here made sense either, so I may as well have just... never come back.”

From where it stuck between Lilith’s ribs, the icy blade twisted and angled up. “I had thought you would have found your way. Eventually.”

Mary’s face was pulled tight at the centre, drawn in by hurt and disbelief. “Did you really, Lilith?”

Did you? Did you give it that much thought? Much premeditation at all? Or were you too preoccupied by vanity and self-congratulation?

By her own volition, she buckled the blade against bone, sharding it in perpetuity.

“No. I didn’t.”

The hoarse admission felt like the last she would be able to make, and she hoped against hope that another would not be required.

Something in Mary’s grip intuited that, and softened, at odds with her still steely countenance.

“You just flung me back. And when I didn’t roll to my feet, like some kind of... metaphysical gymnast, you didn’t notice, because you weren’t watching. It was really only luck that brought you here to find me, wasn't it? Luck and Sabrina Spellman.”

Speech seeming of scant value, Lilith gave only the slightest of nods.

“But… you did come.” Mary’s words travelled slowly, fetched up one by one from the unknown depths within her. “Eventually, you came, and you saw me. And ever since then you’ve been here when I’ve needed you.”

“It’s not enough.”

Behind Mary’s eyes, a weary kindness glimmered, though Lilith saw no reason that it should. “But it’s what you can afford to give. And I believe that you mean all of it.”

Ragged sinew wept. “I truly do.”

“Then tell me, Lilith, please: why did you bring me back?”

“I don’t have a singular answer to that.”

“Then just tell me everything that’s there, and we can make sense of it afterwards.”

It was too generous an offer by far, and Lilith closed her eyes, tried to free her thoughts, with neither censure nor censorship.

“I told myself that it was a gift — that you were a gift — for Sabrina. For helping me, in my rebellion against Lucifer, despite the twisted nature of our alliance. She was... furious that I had taken you away — stolen you from her — and as it was within my power to do so, I returned you. To be a part of her life once more.

“Doing so, it— it allowed me to see myself as noble, as a proud leader of my realm.” She sighed into the sour tang of it. “I wooed myself with that image, and I was so easily seduced when, for so long I had been... convinced to see myself as unworthy. Always clawing my way up as the dirt rolled into my mouth.”

She swallowed against the clog of words, and pushed back the image of cloven feet, the memory of their roughness upon lips which trembled with penitence.

“But now — then — I could show everyone — Hell, witches, warlocks, and myself — that I need not bow, ever again. That I could be the one who decides who should die and who should live. Who suffers and who is set free. I could put everything back where it belonged, before he had knocked it all about like a petulant child, never satisfied no matter how much he... I... I could finally fix it all. And put myself where I thought I had always belonged.”

“The throne.”

“Seated so high that they could not possibly look down upon me. And I could prove that this Lilith, at whom they had sneered and made endless mockery... bore a pedigree all her own. That the, the arbitrary suffering of a woman would not be ignored, would always be punished. And then, with that prestige, I could...”

She broke off, light-headed and reaching for the table top, as thoughts like swarms of angry butterflies fluttered against the walls of her mind.

And all the while Mary waited, patiently but with total absorption, until Lilith’s voice was again assured.

“After fighting for so long, I could finally stand my ground, and know without a doubt that Lucifer’s will no longer held any sway over me. I could erase the stains of his influence on Greendale. And so by putting you back in your place—“

“Back in my dollhouse.”

Lilith flinched at the unanticipated sharpness upon her raw nerve endings, but judging by the mortal’s abstracted expression, the tone had not intended to cut. Rather, Mary too was allowing herself a censure-free flow of associations.

A passive doll, in a quaint little cottage. Of course you would feel that way.

Whether it be god or demon, mortals are always playthings. My playthings too, when cruelty takes hold of me.

But this is not a game, and I am not toying with you, Mary, I swear it.

“No, not a dollhouse...”

She sank backward into thoughts of the Wardwell cottage: those months of sweet solitude and bustling creativity, of burgeoning agency and even the beginnings of belonging; she saw it all fall apart, and herself come stumbling back to the one place which still offered peace; saw herself finding someone — the place's rightful someone — falling just as apart as she, and righting them, in order to right and re-write herself; to write the rites against their wrongs.

“A witch house. Your witch house.”

Mary’s startled eyes dipped to the floor. “My witch house?” she whispered, trying the words on for size.

“It’s never been anything but. I felt it, the moment I first intruded here.”

Away from the noise of people, but not too far away. Rooms filled with imagination, within books and painted and hung on the walls. With a witch’s garden, a witch’s kitchen, and a witch’s hearth.

And even with mortal blood, how could you be anything but?

Mary whispered imperceptible things, and her fingers worked their way up Lilith’s forearms, her hands so warm where not half an hour ago they had been deathly cold; they were warm with borrowed eternity, and the prevailing glow of it was there when Lilith met her eyes, beneath furrowed brows.

“Lilith?”

It was like looking into whom she had once been, into her essential depths, before the wilderness; and it was bewildering.

“Yes?”

Mary’s lips folded in, then released a face that was sheepish, but not too sheepish to speak.

“This is probably going to sound stupidly sentimental of me, and perhaps it’s just the result of whatever you did to pull me back, from my,” she stole a necessary breath, “from the edge. Back there. But if what you say is true, that this really is a home for witches and always has been, if that’s why it was so easy for you to live here, and obviously still is… then, I think, with everything that’s taken place, here, in this cottage, between the two of us, don’t you think, well... it makes sense to call it our witch house. Doesn’t it?”

Lilith could only blink, rapidly against the glare.

‘Us’. ‘Our’. Were those words ever not strange? Were they ever more than a tool for my manipulation?

She felt the deep creases forming across her face, felt her lips flinching back from the suggestion. “I’ve no right to say such a thing.”

“You didn’t say it. I did.”

Lilith searched every inch of her face and found no guile, and amid her reticence, Mary continued:

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

How can you see so easily into my soul, Mary Wardwell?

Though perhaps it was not so unreasonable: 'a spiritu meo ad tuum, ab anima mea ad tuam’', 'from my spirit and my soul to yours', she had uttered the words herself, without hesitation.

“It... is more than I would risk wanting.”

“You said real witchcraft is about sharing the burden, as well as sharing the power. I’ve already agreed to do the former, so wouldn’t it be balanced? To do the latter as well?”

“You can’t possibly—“

“I’ll be more careful! I swear, Lilith, just teach me how to do it properly. We both know you’ve spent far too long doing it on your own.”

“No, I mean—“

“Please.”

Lilith lifted an eyebrow and a palm, to be allowed to finish.

“You can not possibly imagine what that means to me. And how perfectly you’ve articulated the underlying principles of what I intended, before I lost my nerve,” (she was too weak to fight off the honesty), “at the possibility of losing you.”

Mary’s hands gripped her tighter, and Lilith could feel through them the excitement growing within. “So you’ll let me keep learning?”

The knife shards were still there, but Lilith’s flesh had absorbed them, walled them off, as reminders. She ran a thoughtful tongue over her upper lip. “Only if you’ll promise me that you will not attempt any further casting without my presence.”

“But we’ll do it together?”

“Yes. But I must take the lead.”

“Always?”

That ancient resonance again rang out in her voice.

“Well,” Lilith sighed, smiling past their hands at the cottage floor, “for now.”

Each time she shifted in the cold, rigid seat — far too deep and wide for her narrow body — Lilith could feel the pressure of it, firmly around her ankle: Not a shackle, not this time, but the proof that they were partners in a three-legged race, woven of satin thread.

Neither Lucifer to her right, nor Sabrina beyond him, knew how fast she was running, and how fast her mortal companion raced to keep up, despite her limitations. All they saw was her impassive profile regarding the carnage below: a blood-soaked spectacle for the amusement of the ruling classes.

Once the task was done and its twin untied and placed in the onyx bowl at Mary’s bedside, Lilith’s own braided trinket would rush to be re-united, the sudden absence of it a far less distressing call to action than would be another desperate howl from Mary’s subconscious. Especially at times such as these, where any suspicious behaviour could easily earn a far tighter grip on her freedoms.

Upon an unusual impulse, Lucifer had taken on Sabrina’s tutelage for the day, explaining to her the nature of the tournament below, and how the mortal souls were chosen, that would be installed within demonic hosts and made to fight for their continued existence. And so Lilith had enjoyed the relative silence of it, only responding when called upon to echo his words back to him in affirmation.

When the next challenger fell, its inky, cuttlefish head torn off and held aloft by the shrieking victor, Lilith assessed Lucifer’s demeanour: his brows were drawn together in keen focus, his lips turned up ever so slightly; his chin rested atop thumb and forefinger, lightly stroking his jaw; he was the very picture of fascination, intrigued by the multifarious flavours of mutilation which might be seen from his lofty perspective.

The moment had its potential.

“A shame the wretched thing could not master its flesh-suit’s defences,” she sighed with a shrug and a flourish. “Vashitrals can be so very entertaining when cornered.”

“Indeed, Lilith.” He nestled his chin further into his cupped palm, monitoring the creature’s body as it was dragged belowground.

“So… what happens to him now?” came the young voice and Lilith leant back to catch sight of Sabrina’s equally focussed gaze; she mirrored her father’s facial expression to a degree which Lilith had long ceased to find alarming. And when Lucifer did not deign to answer, she picked up the slack.

“The soul returns to its prison, and if it is not too tattered to be useful, it will be put back in line for a new body.”

“And just keep fighting? Forever?”

“The fun lies in watching them adapt, my queen. Or indeed, fail to do so. They have some brief minutes to learn what their new bodies are capable of, and depending on their strength of will...”

She turned her eyes to Lucifer, who gestured at the still-squawking champion, its complex natural weapons having been utilised to their fullest.

Sabrina frowned, attempting to draw logical conclusions from a sadism which had none. “And the champion gets a reward? If he wins enough?”

“A reward?” said Lucifer with performative disbelief. “Their reward is the security of a body, where they would otherwise live from confusion to confusion. I will grant them nothing more generous than that.”

“But that’s not fair! If someone fights for so long, even with everyone against them, then they should get something for it!”

Lilith would not contain her bitter chuckle. “A noble sentiment, my queen. But this is not Purgatory; this is Hell. And there will be no higher reward for those who have put as much effort as these into their damnation.”

While Lucifer had lost interest and turned his attention back to the arena, Sabrina was unwilling to yield. “Okay, but what about the demon whose body he's using? What did he do to deserve this?”

“They’re demons.”

“So what?”

Lilith raised her eyebrows, again amused at the girl’s fair weather empathy. “Demons are denizens of Hell, they exist to torment mortal souls, and no more than that.”

It was not her honest answer, but it was that which Lucifer would want to hear, his ears still pricked up, despite his apparent disinterest. He desired stolid cruelty to live in the girl’s heart, one to match his own, and for her to never question the workings of the Clawed Throne. Given Sabrina’s aggressive rejection thereof, when she had so quickly and arrogantly demanded the crown be hers, Lilith found it disturbing how easily swayed she had become: gone was the girl who demanded a reformation of Hell from its jeering little kings, and in her place a willing participant in her father’s pageantry.

Even so, there was still a touch of mortal in the Morningstar, and the child had her limits for suffering, at least for the moment.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she stated sullenly. “There is one, right?”

“Of course, my queen. One for the upper echelons alone.” She indicated a staircase off to the right.

The girl nodded and was about to leave, when Lilith recalled her ignorance of the realm. “Oh, and Sabrina?”

“Yes?” She had grown even more sullen in the interim.

“Don’t make eye contact with the attendants.”

“Why not?”

“Do as she says,” came Lucifer’s haughty sigh. "If you grant them your time, they will think less of you. You are my daughter, and you will not show yourself vulnerable. Especially not where you might be taken by surprise."

Sabrina didn't like that, but had no stomach to argue, and once she had stumbled off, Lilith stood, making as if to monitor her safe passage over Lucifer’s head.

“Dark Lord, if I may speak candidly?” She clasped her hands behind her back and turned to face the arena.

“When do you not, Lilith?”

Though her stare was steadfast, she could hear his eyes rolling in that pompous, long-suffering way. It was a habit they had developed together, once upon a time, before they began turning it on each other.

Her tight smile was deferential. “It is on the matter of your unborn son, he who shall be king.”

“Speak, then, but tread carefully.”

As with my every breath.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I am in high spirits. It would be regrettable should my mood be spoiled by any pettiness on your part.”

“There is nothing petty on my mind, I assure you. Rather, I have been reflecting upon the true scope of the boon given unto my undeserving womb.”

“And undeserving it is. You have never been as close to death as you were that eve, Lilith, do not forget how much undue mercy I have shown you.”

“Never could I, Dark Lord. Though I'm sure you can appreciate the necessity of my actions. Could you really begrudge a woman her desire to live?”

“To live and to thrive are natural desires, but they are not freely granted to all. Especially those who would cross me, and so brazenly, daring to think yourself my equal.”

“The lesson has been thoroughly absorbed, I promise you that.”

I rarely make the same mistake twice. And this time, that which you see as weakness will be revealed as my strength.

She paused to take in the fight: the new combatant was holding its own, a muscular, spiny tail twisted thrice around the throat of its opponent, even as it was held down and raked by the latter's hindquarters; it was clear from the way its head swayed that the defending champion would have to disengage soon or risk passing out.

She wondered which half of each fighter was more afraid: the soul trapped in the demon, or the demon steered by a mortal's desperate soul. Neither of them had any choice in the matter.

Waiting until an amused chuckle came from Lucifer, in response to a particularly vicious goring, Lilith continued: “Have you not always enjoyed perverting the creations of the False God, my Lord? Satanic Churches with all the rites of the Catholics, through your glass, darkly; practical cannibalism where they dare only symbols; sensuality without divisions into respectful and corrupt.”

“I will not deny that it brings me pleasure to make a mockery of these things. He who fancies Himself sole arbiter of all realms, and who dared dictate what I and my celestial brethren were to think and do, He who then grew obsessed with humanity and demanded that we cater to them, like winged nursemaids, where we are as gods ourselves. How could I not do my utmost to raise this reviled kingdom until I might laugh and spit in his face?”

Then his voice blackened and Lilith fought back the fright which swept her skin.

“But why speak of this now, Lilith? Have you truly been laid so low as to warble empty obsequence towards me?”

She swallowed, dug her fingernails into her palms. “Only as low as pleases you, my Lord.”

You knock me to the ground then accuse me of craving the dirt. How long did I humiliate myself for the dim possibility of your favour?

How long did I convince myself that the slightest lessening of pressure upon my neck was akin to a kiss?

“Then say what is on your mind, and I would advise brevity.”

“It is on the matter of an Unholy Trinity.”

A raised brow indicated his interest, and her spirit bared its teeth in anticipation.

“You always assumed Sabrina would be your counterpart to the Nazarene, to be wed and sit at your side in perversion of the False God’s chaste image of a father and son.”

“And so she is.”

“I would argue that she is not, my Lord. I have been reading, researching with a view to understanding my—”

“Do you think it escaped my notice? All your vanishing off, wasting your hours in books when you should be tutoring your queen.”

She lowered her head, shoulders rounding reflexively. “Forgive me, it was not my intention to act in deception. And I believe the reading was done on my own time.”

“You don’t have your own time, Lilith. Your every hour belongs to me, as it is by my hand that you live on.”

“Of course.” Her voice was shaking and she loathed it. “But, it was in your service, Dark Lord. For your child. For the glory of Hell.”

“And what did you learn in the course of your erudition?”

“From my readings and a great deal of meditation, it would seem that your daughter fulfills a different role in the Trinity.”

“The False Prophet.”

A cautious smile of agreement. “She wields a sizeable ego, despite her lowly upbringing, and has a history of galvanizing her peers, even those antagonistic towards her. At times murderously so. And no matter how self-serving her actions, she somehow gains sympathy and good will from all sides. She ‘looks the Lamb—'”

“’Yet acts the dragon’.”

“Indeed, my Lord. Furthermore she has proven herself capable of performing signs and wonders to astound even experienced spellcasters, including the impassioned summoning of Hellfire against the False God's servants.”

Lucifer’s jaw was again in his palm and his eyes had left the arena entirely, utterly absorbed in matters of lineage. “These are points well made, Lilith. But if not Sabrina, then am I to assume you believe yourself to be carrying the Unholy Son?”

She lowered herself to a mollifying kneel. “I do. And if you will indulge me, I believe I can convince you that that is the case.”

“Then convince me.”

Lilith gathered her thoughts and refreshed her lungs with equal care, aware that she was unlikely to have a second chance at the manipulation.

“The False Prophet is said to come from the earth, and so was Sabrina birthed from a mortal woman, without a drop of either Divine or Infernal in her blood. But the true Antichrist is prophesied to rise from the water, and my Lord, humbly, I carry within me the water of the First Womb. I quenched my thirst in the rivers of Eden and its eternal fount flows through me to this day.”

“In some sullied form.”

“Yet it persists.” Her face ached with control, but the woundedness in her voice would not be restrained, and neither did Lucifer conceal his enjoyment of it.

“And what else, beyond your origin in the False God’s terrarium?”

Having scented pain upon her, his tone sought out more, and Lilith resigned herself to revealing it shade by shade, as an additional feint.

“I would draw your attention to the present day, and my recent mission in Greendale, at your behest. And to the shape which I assumed for that purpose.”

“One which you have retained, despite its woeful indignity.”

The hurt pressed taut between her brows was not his to understand, and that was some small consolation. But she would say nothing to support his slander of her chosen face, which stood for rebellion and self-determination. As well as something unspeakably more.

“It is the way of signs that they often pass us by, if we do not anticipate them; we assume co-incidence in the face of portent.”

“You speak of your own ignorance, Lilith, and the blindness of man.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Your lack of omniscience is nothing to your complete dearth of self-awareness, O Great Satan.

“The sign which I, in my foolishness, did not grasp, was in the matter of names. The Nazarene’s mother, you see, was known as Mary — or at least, to the modern Christian she is — and likewise is this stolen form named. What more perverse mockery of the Christ’s parentage than a demoness posing as a pious mortal Mary?”

Each word cut deeper than she anticipated, her detachment no longer as sturdy as that of centuries past.

Forgive me, Mary, for using you so roughly.

But he must be convinced, or else everything you and I have gone through might be in vain.

A screech from a hollow, gurgling throat reached their seats from the pit below, very nearly accompanied by sprays of emerald blood, but for gravity's intervention.

Lucifer grinned in satisfaction and leaned back, crossing a leg and offering languid applause.

“Have it your way, Lilith. Perhaps the child is indeed the prophesied Pseudokristos, and you will have proven your worth to me once more. You will be permitted to guard his life with your own, until the boy's adolescence. But,” his grin lessened almost imperceptibly, and Lilith felt the spaces within her grow tight, “should you fail to deliver him unto me, for any reason, then rest assured: no further scrap of mercy will await you.”

She lowered her chin fully, losing sight of all but her own chestnut waves. “Thy will be done, Dark Lord. I will make use of every volume I have collected, to ensure proper care comes to this body, and bring the pregnancy to fruition, in your terrible name.”

And with it, a snare of blood that you will find far thicker than water.

Chapter Text

There had been a certain thrill to it, creating something so powerful and significant, right under their noses.

The eightieth anniversary of the school's founding had snuck up on all of them, and within the extended home-room period, the students had pushed their desks together to create a combined work space, and covered the surfaces with coloured cardboard, pens, paint tins and declarations of cheer, entirely free of scholarly concerns. At the same time, within the journal concealed in her lap, Mary had sketched out line after loose, freehand line, allowing the last glimmers of that taste of eternity to guide her hand.

From what she could tell, Sabrina and her friends had lost interest in monitoring her, perhaps believing their teacher to have quietly returned to her pre-October normalcy; how very like the Devil's Daughter, Mary had mused, to trust that sufficient neglect would produce such convenient outcomes.

Having brought along her sewing supplies in a moment of optimism, she had been able to secret herself away in her office for a full two hours, while further celebratory matters were rehearsed, and begin committing the design to fabric. And after the brief interruption of the drive home, she had quickly settled in at the hearth, so deeply focussed that her eyes had grown tight and aching before she realised that the light outside had faded away.

Something which had not faded, however, was the memory of her recent neck-trauma, and she forced herself to be sensible, breaking for a hot shower and herbal tea; exhausting herself would only lead to shoddy work and an unstable mood, and she had no interest in greeting Lilith with either.

The colours were coming together just as she had envisaged, and when the last necessary stitch was pulled through, she knew it unquestionably, and hooked the needle back into its reel of golden thread. She ran her thumb over the precise satin stitch, checking for uniformity of height, and a sudden light-headedness alerted her that her heart had broken into a sprint.

She took measured breaths to calm it, coaxed it back with a sip of lukewarm tea.

It's done.

The thought nearly undid her composure once more, and she bit her lip, bit back the feeling that was beginning to expand inside of her chest like a weather balloon, telling her that a beautiful summer storm was coming.

She extended a leg and folded over to reach her ankle, the braided softness tied there having been a consistent motivation throughout the day. Now it was about to come off, so that the signal could be sent to its pair, and Lilith would know what she knew: that it was time to begin.

Going into the bedroom, up to the bedside table, and depositing the bracelet in its onyx bowl, that was all it would take, to bring her back.

And so she did, watching with hands clasped against her middle, as the air around the bracelet pulsed with shadow, and the twin unshrouded into being, the two becoming interlocked.

She hoped Lilith would not rush on her account, since the purpose of the spell was for her to return at her leisure, whether that be in half an hour or half a week. The bedroom air was alive with expectation, and Mary had to leave, to escape the sparkings of impatience.

Take your time.

Do what you must, down in the Inferno.

Mary didn't need to know what such things might be, what Lucifer might still require of Lilith, pregnancy or no pregnancy.

Even so, her imagination was cruel enough to offer suggestions of a vivid sort, and she paced to the bookshelf, to find some equally vivid distraction. Once there, she could not help but stare at the faded leather spine of the coven's memoirs, nor prevent her fingers from caressing along its length, their tips vibrating with the power of its stories. Its immortal records.

But it was not an immersion for this night, and so she reached for the works of another woman, from just twenty years previous:

'Green Snake, when I hung you round my neck
and stroked your cold, pulsing throat
as you hissed to me, glinting
arrowy gold scales, and I felt
the weight of you on my shoulders,
and the whispering silver of your dryness
sounded close at my ears —

'Green Snake — I swore to my companions that certainly
you were harmless! But truly
I had no certainty, and no hope, only desiring
to hold you, for that joy,
which left
a long wake of pleasure, as the leaves moved
and you faded into the pattern
of grass and shadows, and I returned
smiling and haunted, to a dark morning.'

“How have you infiltrated my books this much?” she whispered, the smooth corner of the page beneath her fingers feeling instead like scales pressed flat.

Harmless wasn't something she could ever be, and should never be, but she deserved to be held, that notwithstanding.

Then Mary spun, the closed book dropping to her side, as a knock sounded on the door, through the peace and darkness of nine forty-five. After the moment's dishevelment, though, that special awareness came alive, and she moved across the room to grasp the handle; she pictured herself greeting Lilith with a warm and meaningful 'welcome home', but something still felt too unreal, and unready.

And she supposed there were more than enough reasons for that.

Lilith stood in the doorway, her face neutral but her eyes bright with anticipation.

“Do you have it? Is it done?”

Though she held the feeling on a stiff leash, Mary could hear how dearly Lilith needed an affirmative, as though she would run out of air if made to wait too much longer.

“It is.”

I did it. And, Lilith, I'm so pleased with it I could shout! I hope you'll like it, I don't think I could bear it if you don't.

Lilith invited herself in with two purposeful strides, scanning the surfaces of the room for evidence. When she spoke, it was through a throat constricted. “Show it to me.” Then she scowled at her own terseness and raised a palm in apology. “Please, may I see it?”

“Of course!” Mary closed the door, smiling at Lilith's remembered courtesy, around the matter of spontaneous manifestation. “But can I offer you something first? A drink?”

Lilith's eyes darted away and back again, her face fidgeting. “A drink. Yes, that seems agreeable.”

Mary moved in and put a hand to Lilith's elbow. “And maybe dinner? I went grocery shopping, you'd be proud of me, I've been very responsible about my health since last we spoke.”

The touch prompted some of the tension to leave Lilith's posture, though still she blinked more than was surely necessary. “I'm certainly glad to hear that. But is there really time? Don't you have things to see to? School things?”

“It's Friday, Lilith. There's only weekend ahead of me.”

“Is it?” She processed the knowledge, and Mary wondered how long it had been from her perspective, and what sort of time keeping they could possibly use in Hell.

“So, unless you need to be somewhere urgently...” She frowned her concern, taking in Lilith's still tense jaw. “Do you have something urgent?”

I'll not keep you from it. That's not the sort of presence I want to be in your life.

Lilith shook a little more tension loose, flexed her jaw as if aware it was being assessed. “No. There's nowhere else I need to be. At least, not for a while.”

“Then can you... would it be possible for you to,” she sniffed in self-mockery, aware she was about to sound like a child, “to stay the night? If you have the luxury of not rushing off.”

I just want us to have time. Unallocated time, where there doesn't need to be a purpose to every moment's breath. I've had enough of living that way, and I can't imagine how exhausted you must be of it.

Even if it's seldom more than one night, I want to be able to waste time with you.

Lilith was contemplating the request against the backdrop of a scuffed floorboard. “There are quite a few things I should explain about my intentions, going forward. If you have all the fabric pieces together, then we could perhaps begin tonight, and— ”

“Or we could wait a little while. And you could eat with me.”

Lilith's gaze lifted at the gentle insistence and she smiled awkwardly, admitting once more her impatience.

“You really don't want me to explain myself? I had thought you were ardent to continue.”

“Oh, I do want to know, everything, believe me! I just think it will be more pleasant if we're both fed and rested first.”

“I suppose it has been a while since I've eaten.”

“How long?” Mary asked, expecting in the order of hours.

“Leaving aside your preserves,” Lilith searched the upper corners of her memory, right to left, “two weeks. Give or take a day.”

“Two weeks! How is that possible?”

Lilith smirked at her disbelief, shifted onto one hip. “Of all the things this body is capable of, that is the one that surprises you?”

“Surprise is perhaps an understatement. But... aren't you terribly hungry?”

A brief shadow passed over the smile. “Always.”

Please don't.

“Then it's settled. I've already decided what I'm making, so if you want to get started—”

“You go on without me. I'll join you in a little while.”

Mary shook her head, perplexed. “What'll you do instead?”

“I thought I might freshen up,” Lilith patted her hair, scrunching up her nose at some unknown contamination. “The Pit does tend to leave one rather less than fragrant.”

Mary could pick up only the slightest hint of charcoal, now that she focussed on it, but there was nothing especially offensive about it. Still, it was for Lilith to decide how comfortable she felt in her own skin, from moment to moment.

“All right, I suppose I'll see you shortly.” Then she remembered something about the shower. “Oh, and thank you, for the face wash.”

Lilith's questioning gaze morphed into embarrassment at having her actions named. “Oh, that? Please think nothing of it.”

Did you think I wouldn't notice the difference? You've not slipped yourself that nimbly into my subconscious, First Witch. And I can tell when I'm being taken care of.

She didn't fight Lilith on it, tried with her face alone to convey how much the small things touched her; having someone visible, even in their absence, meant far more to her than Lilith might suspect.

Once she had the main ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter, Mary fetched her flip-file of recipes from its drawer, turning to the end of it where a mixture of small pages all shared a sleeve, some as little as post-it notes. She tipped them out on the emptiest part of the table and began to sort, eventually finding and gently touching a recipe written not in her hand, but one which formed small, square letters and visibly strained against habitual scrawling.

You really did try to bring the world home to me, in whichever ways you could.

Did you ever make this for her, when you thought she was me?

Did you tell her stories, as though she'd never ranged at all?

The questions threatened to embitter her mood, against food and company, and she sliced open the lemon which sat among the ingredients, bit into it to short-circuit her intrusive thoughts — a trick she had recently read about, and which blessedly had the desired effect.

Sucking on her tongue, she focussed on the words of the recipe: the first step was to thickly coat the pan in olive oil, then thoroughly brown the already-seasoned chicken pieces; next, a cup of water would replace the chicken, soaking up the residue and also being put aside for later.

Carrots, leek, celery and parsnips were chopped and set to simmer, while she stirred together the spices and chilli paste, and she had just begun to cook the mixture in with the vegetables, when Lilith made her satin-clad entrance.

“Harissa,” she stated, raising her chin to scent the air.

“Harira,” Mary replied. “I've been wanting to make it for some time, but it seemed like a lot of to-do for just myself.”

“Then I'm glad to have leant you the impetus.”

Mary took in the look of her: hair drawn up into a bountiful ponytail, fresh from the shower-cap, dressed in another robe she had left behind — brassy-brown and more demure of cut — her face dewy and clear of make-up. Though for a fleeting moment she thought it might, the sight caused Mary no distress; Lilith's body language was all her own, and each deep angle and prominent arch mirrored Mary's in only the most superficial of ways.

“Pass me the tomatoes and lentils please,” Mary directed, daring Lilith to not get involved, “now that you're available.”

Her cheeky smile earned another in kind, as well as Lilith's obedience, and she accepted the laden chopping board. Lilith fell into the process with wordless ease, claiming the chicken and beginning to thinly shred it with a fork.

“Oh, that's supposed to be after I stew it again,” Mary objected, and Lilith replied without looking up from her work, amusement lilting in her voice.

“Perhaps this century. Most of my habits tend to be old ones, you know.”

“You've made this before, then?”

The First Woman nodded. “It has been some time, since I last wandered the street markets of al-Mamlakah al-Maghribiyyah, but certain flavours will always rush eagerly to one's tongue.”

“Al...Mamlakah?”

“Morocco. 'The Kingdom of the West', they call themselves.”

“Every nation has its own geographic centre, I suppose. Or at least, used to.”

“I have found that to be the case, yes.”

Mary paused, struck by the realisation that Lilith was just as well-travelled as Adam — likely far more so — and therefore would have made for him a much more fitting partner, in line with his adventurous spirit. She had to wonder how Lilith saw that lack of worldliness in her, whether it made her seem smaller, more limited in her thinking.

“I've never really gone that far outside of Greendale,” she admitted, reintroducing the chicken-stock water to the pan.

“I know,” said Lilith, and she seemed quite unbothered by it.

“I'm really quite dull, in that way.” She sighed and placed a lid over the soup. Then Lilith appeared beside her, opening it again to slide in the shredded chicken.

“Not at all. You're young, there's plenty of time for that.”

“Maybe in your terms, but...” she blinked a few times in the steam, took off foggy glasses to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “Not to be maudlin, but, realistically, my life is at best half-over.”

It stuck in her throat, and swallowing took a few attempts to dislodge the fear of that great inevitability.

Lilith's lips pressed together as she too grew misty from the rising humidity.

“So soon,” she whispered.

“I'll be fifty-four before too long.”

“A blink in the passage of time.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“Let's... put a pin in this. Mary.” Her thoughts veiled by dark lashes, Lilith picked up the chopping board and transported it to the sink. “There's no need to dwell on such petty things.”

What's so petty about mortality? Or is it speaking about it that is so?

“It'll be half an hour before the harira is done.”

“Then, why not entertain me,” Lilith said, moving aside the ingredients and recipe file before seating herself at the table, “and tell me about your day.”

“You'll be bored to tears within minutes.”

“Is the art-room fully renovated at last?”

“It is. There's a whole kiln in a backroom now.”

“And was Higgins finally persuaded to accept his transfer?”

“He... put up some resistance. But in the end, the leap in salary was too much to refuse. Lilith, you really paid attention.”

“I was principal, wasn't I? One can't be head administrator without keeping an eye on every aspect of one's domain.”

“I can't imagine staying on top of so many responsibilities.”

“It was rather like training wheels, I suppose.”

“Training wheels?”

A tight smile and an open-palmed gesture. “Towards my crowning achievement.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Lilith leaned forward onto the heel of her hand. “And now that I've proven my ability to absorb the day-to-day trivialities of Baxter High, will you indulge me?”

“You really want to hear about my day?”

Adam would ask her about it, and she had always kept the telling as brief as possible, far more interested in what he might bring to the conversation; but Lilith was right, she had been in that milieu and thrived in it, drudgery and all.

“Nothing would please me more.”

And then the reason dawned: Lilith had found great success as principal, and none had dared try to usurp that title, to snatch it from her and hurl her back down to her foundations; she had retained it until she was ready to cast it off for a far higher (or indeed, far Lower) office. There had been no ugly end to that reign, no sullying sheen to the memories.

You miss it. Don't you?

“All right. Well, the whole school is setting up for the eightieth anniversary of the founding, and my register class spent most of the morning painting banners for the sports events.”

“Every last one of them?”

“Yes? I don't recall any absentees.”

“Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“It is.” Lilith leaned back in her chair, a red dab of harissa stuck to her index finger, which soon made its way to her lips. “Please, go on.”

Chapter Text

Once the harira had gained its final touches and was served in rough-hewn, wooden soup bowls, all unrelated conversation ceased: Mary had told her fill of the week's irritations and discoveries, and Lilith had dipped into explaining just a little more about the geography of Hell, once it became clear that Mary's interest came from curiosity rather than bitterness; but the creation that sat steaming between them took precedent, and they bowed their heads to an aroma which was exotic to one and nostalgic to the other.

Distracted by the colours and textures of the soup, the sensation culminating on Mary's tongue and the roof of her mouth was a gradual thing, and for a time she tried to ignore it, not wanting to appear silly for cooking something beyond her taste-buds' capabilities. Adam's hand-drawn chilli peppers and note of 'take care, Mare!' had left her smiling but had not prompted any alterations to the recipe — on the contrary, getting carried away in conversation with Lilith had perhaps led her to be a little too casual about the spices going into the soup. Lilith whereas had no need of instructions, her choices coming from past experience and preference, neither of which tended towards the mild.

Before too much longer, however, the effects of it reached Mary's eyes and became impossible to hide, as each blink pressed the sheen closer to tears.

“You're suffering terribly, aren't you?” smiled Lilith, without looking up from her bowl.

“Not so terribly. It just takes some getting used to.”

“You don't have to eat it.” For her part, Lilith was savouring each spoonful, showing more enjoyment of the food than anything else they had eaten together, sweet preserves aside.

“I want to. It's good. It's just new, and sometimes you've got to...”

Her mouth was filling up with spittle as it attempted to save her from meltdown, and she had to pause to swallow, massaging the roof of her mouth with her abraded tongue-tip.

“Drink some milk,” Lilith advised, the amusement in her voice pitched peacefully low, as though Mary's small crisis was very much on the periphery of her awareness.

Mary did not pause to query the logic and went obediently to the fridge, almost drinking directly from the carton before her scandalised sense of decorum caught her by the wrist and led her to the glass left draining by the sink. She kept her back to Lilith and tried not to gulp, then waited a moment while imagining the colour inside her mouth slowly returning to a more comfortable pink.

“You enjoy strong spices, though, don't you?” she said, once her voice seemed unlikely to husk.

“I do.”

“Is it because of where you grew up?”

She heard Lilith's spoon pause and politely come to rest against the bowl. “I didn't grow up.”

“Well, you know what I mean.” The burn in her mouth only just abating, her patience for Lilith's insistent technicalities was more scant than usual. “Where you spent a lot of time, before travelling further afield.”

Lilith's inhalation led Mary to predict more corrections ahead, but a murmured little laugh came instead. “As you wish. And no, it's not so much that. Rather, it's just...”

The conclusion took too long for Mary's tingling tongue. “Just what?”

Another sniff of a laugh. “It's about the experience, about... well. Feeling something. Something where my senses can't fully predict nor control the outcome, but which I know cannot ultimately hurt me.”

Mary turned at the unexpected wistfulness of her tone and saw that Lilith was watching her intently, as though the act of looking was itself an experience to be savoured.

“It's somewhat like magic, in that way.”

“Magic.”

The sensation of the word on her mouth's tender tissue eclipsed what was already there.

Magic.

How does it taste?

Will it burn this much?

“Magic,” Lilith confirmed, and picked up her spoon again. “And it also, quite inevitably, takes some getting used to.”

Mary swallowed again, then filled her glass with water that turned cloudy with residue, and returned to the table. “What sort of milk will help with that,” she wondered aloud, eyeing her spoon hesitantly.

Lilith did not answer for a while, stirring and searching in the soup in tandem with her thoughts.

“I can't say I have much experience in the soothing of spiritual tongues, but... perhaps learning to understand the flavours would be a useful starting point.”

Mary nodded, and picked up the spoon once more, frowning with determination.

Feeling something where my senses can't fully predict nor control the outcome, but which I know cannot ultimately hurt me.

With you in all your knowledge, watching over me,

I can handle a little burning.

Mary kept her eyes pointedly off the re-purposed biscuit tin and the journal beside it, both of which lingered on a stool off to the side of the couch. Something within her insisted upon delaying the reveal, wanting to prolong as much as possible this in-between time, before the flurry of activity which would undoubtedly follow.

She genuinely did want to find out the reasoning behind everything and to be pulled deeper into Lilith's still mysterious plans, but just for now, as the fire crackled and the clock on the mantel ticked to some inconsequential hour, it was fine to remain oblivious. Especially when obliviousness provided such elegant company.

She refilled her snifter, then passed the bottle of port to Lilith's waiting hand, noting how light the vessel had become. “And you're certain he'll go along with it? You said yourself there's no point trying to deceive the Great Deceiver.”

Lilith spoke as her eyes scanned the label, apparently learning about the vineyard of origin.

“Yes, I did say that. And, therefore, I did not tell a lie; it is far easier to sway a fool with the truth.”

“But then, does that mean you really believe the things you told him? That you're... you're carrying the Antichrist?”

She had never spent much time reading the Book of Revelation – largely because her church had thought it needlessly complicated for children and far too inflammatory for meditative study – but she knew enough to have some notion of what such a birth would herald. And the idea that Lilith might hold within her a creature intended to bring the world to its knees, readying it for total domination by Satan, sent a chill through her – a feeling which she kept at bay by nearly emptying her glass in a single swallow.

Lilith watched her with some concern, placed the bottle down and out of reach. “It is possible, as are many things. The child is, after all, the spawn of Lucifer.”

“And Sabrina?” She cast her eyes over at the bottle, dimly grateful for Lilith's intervention. “She's really the False Prophet? I've been–”

Words deserted her for a moment and the once-comfortable heat of the fire hung heavy in her throat.

“I've been teaching the False Prophet civics?” She placed a hand to her forehead and laughed with faltering humour.

“The things I told Lucifer about the girl were accurate, through a certain lens. Again, they are possibilities, but...”

She lifted the wine to red lips and sipped with an unhurriedness that could only be intentional. Then, with the tip of her tongue, she drew the last of the sweetness from her upper lip, paused upon the sharpness of a bared canine.

Bathed in hearth-glow, she was a hazy blend of ethereal and severe – though Mary admitted that the port might be at least partly responsible.

“But?” she echoed, hoping to gain some relief.

Lilith dipped her head in acquiescence. “But, the usefulness of signs lies in their malleability: they hold whatever meaning is desired, depending on the soothsayer's needs. And as it would happen, with the right words, the prophecy of the Antichrist fits snugly to mine.”

“So it might not be true?”

“You're awfully stuck on that word, Mary.”

“Only because it's so terrifying, if it is true. It means the End of Days.”

“You still believe in such a thing? Even now?”

“What do you mean, 'even now'?”

“Even having met me, having learned the hidden ways of the world, you still cling to the stories in that book, written and rewritten by centuries of mortal men?”

“It seems to have value for Lucifer,” she retorted, and caught some slurred petulance in her words, which Lilith permitted as much as she might any child.

“Lucifer is vain, above all else, and hates your God to distraction. The stories in the Revelations speak of a potential final victory over the forces of,” she chuckled, peered up at the sleepers, “'good'. So it's predictable that he would give credence to them.”

“But you don't, you don't think it'll happen that way?”

Lilith took her time answering, formulated her words with care.

“When you have nothing to gain from either outcome, it becomes meaningless. An End of Days in the Biblical sense is an end of nothing for me. Were I to continue at Lucifer's heel or be taken prisoner by warring angels, there can be no personal victory. And so I prefer to forget that such calamities might come to pass. The only reality is that which I breathe. That which I can feel.” And judging by her voice, what she could feel was encroaching dryness.

“You prefer to live in the moment.”

“As much as is possible. Though some things are unavoidably carved in stone.” Her eyes flickered only briefly down her body, but Mary did not miss it and felt her own gut tighten.

“Then... let's focus on the end of just one day. That does seem far less terrifying.”

Lilith's smile was warm with gratitude. “It does.”

“And I suppose I should,” she took a breath that was as deep as she could manage, “just stop putting it off, and show you what I brought. For my assignment.”

Lilith laughed, a gasp of anxiety. “If you're quite done torturing me with procrastination, yes. I would very much appreciate that.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know why I've been so reticent.”

With a twitch of sympathy, Lilith passed the bottle of port back Mary's way. “I think I do.”

“Oh?” She wrinkled her brow, frowned into the snifter as it filled up.

“You stand on the brink, do you not?”

The brink. Looking over the edge, but I can't see more than clouds. I don't even know how far up I am. I don't even know if there's ground.

“I suppose so.”

“You've left behind the simple mortal truths of your townsfolk, but you're not–”

“I'm not a witch,” she said, definitively but without sadness. “And I'm not going to be.”

“Not in our traditional sense,” Lilith agreed slowly, her eyes tracing upwards into the logic of her plan. “But if you truly wish to continue, to throw yourself into what I have in mind...”

“I do.” She didn't pause to think about it; there was no more time for that, and the greatest thrill lay in pushing aside contemplation, embracing that inexplicable certainty of the heart.

Lilith's smile held increasing disbelief, yet also so much pleasure that Mary's pulse skipped and dove for cover.

“Then you will find yourself surrounded by magic. Clothed in it. Wrapped up in it so completely that you may fear yourself becoming lost in it.” Unexpectedly she extended her legs and leaned forward so that she could reach Mary's knee across the divide. “And if you feel yourself becoming lost in it,” her eyes flashed with urgency and firelight, “you must tell me. At any point in the journey. If you are silent–”

“I'll tell you,” she confirmed quickly, tightly covering Lilith's hand with her own. “I promise.”

I must be insane. Or I'm going insane. But even standing on this precipice, I know I'll follow you.

There's no reason to turn around.

All her life, she had longed to learn more than she was offered, to be jolted out of complacency by something which defied all expectation. She wanted something to challenge her. And what greater challenge could there be, than walking into a new world, naked and unprepared?

But not alone. Never again alone.

After one more bolstering sip, she placed the glass down and leant over to claim her sacred objects, sat down with them on the rug. And before she noticed her moving, Lilith had descended as well, kneeling with such an intense look of gravity that Mary had to fight back a chuckle, lest it be misinterpreted.

Is that what I look like? So terribly sincere.

And yet she felt honoured by that sincerity; it made what she had to offer seem legitimately worthwhile, rather than just another minor task to cross off her list. Without further delay, she pulled out all but the most precious of her choices, and laid them like a tarot spread between herself and Lilith, then picked up the journal, ready to share her justifications.

Still with that earnest cast to her features, Lilith ran her fingertips across each piece, nodding slowly as she assessed them.

“Yes,” she murmured, “yes, I see.”

Once she got to the embroidery canvas, she picked it up, slowly worked it between thumb and forefinger while staring through its fibres, then lifted fervent eyes to Mary:

“Potential,” she stated. “The Void.”

Excitement leapt in Mary's breast that her reasoning could be so easily known, and her confirmation burst out more enthusiastically than expected. She saw that enthusiasm reach and twinkle in Lilith's eyes, though the witch remained sober in expression.

Moving on to the lace, she took far longer, staring and touching, as though guessing Mary's motivations were a vital part of the exercise — and perhaps it was.

“Intricately shaped and delicate... complex in its... it's...” Again she met Mary's eyes. “This is Mind.”

Mary let out her constricted breath. “Yes, it is. It's Mind. Do you want to...?” She tilted the journal forward, so that Lilith could see all the work she had put in.

Lilith accepted it graciously and absorbed each notation, eyes tracking red fingernails. Her face responded little by little, and Mary felt like one of her younger students, standing next to her desk and having their essay looked over; had she not been cross-legged, she would have been bouncing on her heels.

Finally, Lilith closed the journal and rested it on her lap. “You've done well, Mary. I can see how much meditation you've put into evoking each element.”

“Oh, it's... thank you, they're not that good, surely, but thank you.” She could not keep the pride from rounding her cheeks, while her chest decompressed.

“And thank you, for all of your efforts. Now, if I may,” she passed the journal back to Mary, a crinkle of the eyes admitting her trepidation, “I would like to inquire on the,” she reached forward to gather up the spread squares, patting them into a neat pile and keeping her gaze to herself, “the final portion of the exercise.” She had become breathier, quieter. “The final part of my request.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mary replied, her slight quavering inevitable.

She dipped into the tin once more and took out the final piece, which had been folded specifically to conceal its design.

Lilith's eyes moved across the rug to fix upon it, the pointed neutrality of her facial muscles even more pronounced than before.

For some time, they remained locked in limbo, both mid-unfolding. Mary imagined she could hear the floorboards shifting beneath them.

I want to show you. I want you to know how I've come to see you.

But what if it's wrong? Can it be wrong?

Just tell me to do it. Take it out of my hands.

“Um, I took the liberty of... expanding, on the request, just a little. I hope that's not going to be a problem, only, I couldn't find any one idea that properly fit. There's not...” Her fingertips were distorting the soft fibres and she forced them to loosen. “There's just no easy way to describe how I feel.”

“That's unsurprising,” Lilith murmured, and Mary knew her words had been taken the wrong way.

“What I mean is, even though the task, that is, even though you said I should choose a single piece – which I did – there wasn't enough depth in just one square of material to describe you. Maybe some other witch,” she shrugged, in moments picturing easy options for Sabrina or her aunt Hilda, “but you're not like anyone else. You're older and wiser, and—”

“That, I think, is up for debate.”

“And more complicated,” Mary continued, unswayed. “There's so much more to you, it's obvious even to someone like me.”

“Someone like you.”

She nodded. “The uninitiated. The illiterate. All I have is my...” She trailed off, the thought evaporating into crackling hush.

Tinnitus arrived in the distance, and edged closer and closer, until Lilith's voice broke through it, with a decisiveness that was greatly needed.

“Show me.”

Thank you.

She opened the fabric and laid it open across her thighs, the design oriented towards Lilith. Staring down at it, Mary confirmed once again that there were no loose threads, that she had fully covered the satin-stitched regions, that the swirls were equidistant and the colours attractively balanced. Everything was as she had wished it, and would convey, she hoped, the depths of her thoughts and feelings.

Lilith's posture did not change, but her eyes moved across every inch of the piece, now following a black thread, now a gold, across the burgundy landscape.

“Could you perhaps explain your rationale?”

“I can, it's, it's in the book, just let me...” She tried to reach without disturbing the fabric, which involved an awkward bit of twisting, and returned to meet an expectant pair of eyes, very likely more on edge than Lilith would have preferred.

Please don't do that, you're making it worse.

Mary lifted the journal to her face and opened her mouth, managing to shape exactly one syllable before she found her throat paralysed, and sent Lilith a pained look of apology.

Silently, the book changed hands, and as Lilith began to read, Mary recited each heartfelt word in her mind:

'For Lilith,
deepest crimson lamb's wool,
finely knit for elegance,
embroidered with the black of night and the womb,
the red of blood and wine,
and a gold which is eternal and ever-gleaming.

For Lilith,
colours that race through dreams,
sheared at dawn and dyed by dusk, 
woven to breathless intricacy,
by rough mechanisms,
and her own quick hands at the loom

For Lilith,
the utter black of the New Moon,
and her own vanishing shadow,
the crimson of lips freshly wet,
and the gold which burns
in the hearts of all who adore her.'

The First Witch stared for longer than it could have possibly taken to read the words, many times over, and Mary saw that her thumb, pressed across the book's inner-spine, had grown pale with pressure.

“Lilith?”

Her brows merely raised in acknowledgement.

“Did I do it wrong? Because I can try again if—”

“There's nothing wrong with it.”

“Are you sure?”

“It's...” Lilith's other hand came in to offer support, thumb overlaying thumb, then slowly placed the book down beside her “...more than I expected.”

She gestured that Mary should pass her the embroidery and accepted it with both hands, laying it upon her own kneeling thighs and smoothing it with care.

“No one has ever–” She cut herself off, scowling at the unspoken. Then, straightening her spine and lifting her eyes from the piece, she started over. “It has not often been my experience, that someone should so poignantly consider the entirety of me. And with such...” She fought the insistent knitting of her brows, and did not elaborate further.

Mary's chest re-tightened, at the excessive stopping and starting.

What are you this afraid of?

Even if it felt foolish to say so obvious a thing, she had to shift the air pressure somehow.

“So you like it.”

The First Witch's voice was rough with restraint. “I do. I really do.” She loosely folded the square in two and two again, eventually cradling it between her resting palms. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“No,” Lilith shook her head, brows again straining. “There's no 'of course' here. You've done so much, without ever being compelled. All of it by your own volition,” she glanced off to the side, dropping to a pensive whisper, “when I could so easily have manipulated you into it.”

“Well, there was no need.” The words were a shrug, another 'of course' that Mary avoided voicing.

“And that too is lamentably new to me. I've not survived this long by dint of my honesty.”

“I know.” In other circumstances, it would have been cruel to agree so quickly, but Mary had read what she had read, and heard all of Lilith's stories; those centuries of guile had been a necessity and there was no point denying it. “But really, I don't think you would have. You've tried to keep me out of all this many times. Insistently.”

“Hmm. That is a point. You do have an unsettling tendency to latch on and dig in your heels.” Lilith allowed herself a smile at the image.

“I do,” Mary sighed. “It's one of my flaws. But I'm afraid I've no real motivation to work on the issue.”

“We do have to prioritise our growth points.”

“Oh, we really do. For instance, right now, maybe you could practice, um, accepting what I've made for you?”

Lilith tilted her head questioningly. “But I have. I even said thank you, multiple times.”

“I know.”

“Then what more do you wish of me? Is there a local custom where I am to,” she rolled a hand to spur on imagination, “engage in some ritual display or other?”

Mary laughed at the exaggerated fluster. “No, I mean... just accept it. Don't try to explain to me how undeserving you are.”

Lilith grimaced at her, gratitude plain within it. “You really don't have much time for my self-loathing, do you?”

“Not much at all, I'm afraid. Do you think that's something I should work on?”

Lilith lifted her gaze and pretended to consider the question. “No... no, I don't believe so. You do have so very many others, it's best you not get distracted by less pressing character flaws.”

“Noted.”

At last, the room had regained its previous airiness, her lungs their full capacity to breathe.

Which made it possible to voice her request.

“Do you have your side of the task?” She cast her eyes around Lilith's brassy satin, seeking out signs of pockets. “The piece that's for me? About me?” She felt her cheeks colouring and quickly drew her lips in, moistening them while she worked to rein in her eagerness.

Lilith lifted her jaw towards the bathroom. “I do. It's in my blazer. Would you... should I fetch it right now?” Quite suddenly, her anxiety had returned.

“Of course? Or... are we supposed to do it at a different time to each other?”

I don't know the rules, Lilith.

If you want to stall for time, until you've gotten past whatever is holding you back, I'll forgive you for lying to me.

Lilith shook her head, the ponytail (whose weight had steadily pulled it down throughout the course of the evening, and whose ends had dried to tiny ringlets) lightly thrashing both sides of her neck.

“No, now is the correct time. I'll get it.”

The rate at which she stood would have caused Mary a dizzied collapse within instants, but she supposed Lilith's blood pressure was quite tragically used to speedy departures.

The First Witch's bare footsteps were untraceable, silent as smoke, and Mary could not guess how long she had taken to reach the bathroom, nor for how long she hesitated there; she knew only that, in this unassuming cottage, no single-purposed journey should last this many heartbeats.

She rose, learning immediately that the well-bred port was still very much in her bloodstream, and made her stockinged way down the passage.

“Can you not find it?” she asked, confronted by the sight of Lilith frozen in the doorway, staring at the black blazer hangered to the door handle.

Lilith's gaze did not waver. “I can't do it.”

“What do you mean?”

A deep inhalation was needed before Lilith could fetch up the necessary words. “I can't give you this measly thing. Not after you put so much thought and toil into mine.”

“That's... that's ridiculous, you knew right away what you were going to bring me, I remember you saying so.”

Lilith's lips drew taut for a moment, then fell open into another sigh. “I hadn't anticipated that you would labour upon yours so deeply. Not that I don't appreciate it,” she added quickly, eyes crossing the distance between them. “But I fear I made a knee-jerk decision.”

Incredible. You're just as nervous about getting this wrong as I was.

But Lilith, I can't possibly tell you to do it.

“Well, maybe that's one of your strengths? I mean, I don't think it's controversial to say that your instincts are far more incisive than mine.”

That earned her a chuckle couched in memories, and Lilith reached into the blazer's inner pocket.

“I will grant you that much. However, I will ask you to bear with me, and...” Her hand yet lingered within the lining, her eyes intent on something just past Mary's existence.

“Yes?”

The blazer shifted as Lilith gripped its contents. “Close your eyes.”

Mary laughed, at how like a childhood gift-giving it seemed. “Really?”

“If you would. It's actually part of the process.”

Part of the ritual's, or part of yours? Not that it makes any difference.

“Then I suppose I must!” She shut them, and reached out a hand to brace herself against the wall, her loss of vision giving the alcohol an advantage.

Before long, her free hand was taken, and that anxiety-inducing item placed in her grasp. Right away her eyelids tried to open, and she dropped her chin to avoid accidentally seeing anything, wanting to be true to her word and Lilith's needs.

“Are you all right?” came the voice from the darkness.

“Oh, fine, just... a little unsteady.”

Though Lilith had first spoken from ahead, now she was at Mary's back, placing stabilising hands at her waist and prompting a jerk of alarm that ran all the way up her spine.

“Now?”

Lilith's unnaturally strong hands were easily outclassing her intoxication, but they were their own form of distraction, so intent on steadying her that Lilith's very tendons seemed anxious.

“Th-thank you.” Mary slid her supporting hand from the wall and began to examine the piece, placing it display-side up (for indeed one was immediately smoother than the other) on one palm, and lightly stroking it with the other.

So soft.

And still a little bit warm from living within the blazer's innermost pocket while Lilith went about her active duties.

It retains the warmth it's given, shares it.

(She curled up her knuckles, and ran them up and down the length of the fibres.)

Very regular texture,

raised pile, brushed until smooth,

worked free of pilling and lint.

(She tugged at it, testing the weave.)

Durable.

Very unlikely to tear,

to just keep stretching gradually thinner,

unless some severing force is introduced,

from the outside in.

( Finally, she consulted her fingertips, caressing up and down from index to pinky.)

Not felt, far too smooth for that. And not velvet, that would be too luxurious for someone like me.

There's only one thing it can be, really.

“Brushed cotton,” she whispered, then flinched inward as the firm fingers at her waist reacted to her words, albeit briefly.

She opened her eyes without permission, opened her mind to receive Lilith's choice of hue: not quite lilac, not quite periwinkle, but a summer meadow somewhere in-between. She imagined what such a place would smell like, and how gently the sun would kiss her skin.

“Do you understand?” came the barest trace of voice, mere inches from her nape.

She pressed her eyes shut again, to contain her shiver, and after she had stood still and silent for a while, she felt Lilith slowly withdraw; when she spoke again, it was from the door's distance ahead.

“Mary?” Lilith queried, and Mary gave way at the tight consternation, opened her eyes as she pulled the fabric to her chest.

“Yes, I think so.” Heat was prickling behind her eyes, her heart too overwhelmed to choose a single rhythm.

Lilith's chest rose and fell, and it seemed she too could have used a steadying pair of hands. 'Are you sure?' implored every straining muscle on the First Woman's face.

What do you need?

The question wrapped around Mary's ribcage and began to tighten.

Do I stay over here? Or...

But then she knew: by the movements of Lilith's brows she knew, from the way her lower lip had begun to hide behind her teeth.

The door was against Lilith's spine, and Mary's hands found their way past it into the small of her back, one hand still holding the dear token. She pressed her cheek against the satiny dip of Lilith's shoulder and felt the fretful heartbeat vibrating in her ear.

“I understand,” she vowed, and centuries buckled beneath her.

Chapter Text

「"It's all right. You're safe."

"Safe... wouldn't that be nice." * 」

It would be foolish to imagine herself thus – sitting with her back pressed to the doorframe, the inscrutable mortal resting against her, so neatly interlocked that their hearts had normalised to each other's rhythms – yet foolish as it was, Lilith allowed herself to sink into the delusion, as though into a steaming, mountain spring. It pulled the tension out of her body and lifted millennia from her brow.

Just for the duration of this time spent in-between rooms, in-between lives, she would permit herself to be Safe.

'...and lo, being witches both, their hands may align, and move as the minutes and seconds of sacred time itself.'

Mary's hands were still trapped between Lilith and the doorframe – having stayed there as Lilith's knees had given out, in a way her immortal knees seldom did – the knuckles which held the square of brushed cotton jabbing into muscle. And so, for the sake of comfort, Lilith arched her spine and reached back to fetch Mary's fist, held it loosely at the base of her drawn-up thigh.

In response, Mary silently repositioned herself, taking some of her weight off of Lilith and rotating her shoulder inwards. The pressure of her head against Lilith's clavicle was a heavy blanket, keeping her spirit from drifting away.

“'To each element a trial, and each trial a lesson',” she recited.

“What?” Mary whispered, her jaw barely shifting.

Lilith paused, recapturing the passage from that ancient volume, which still sat at the foot of her bed in Pandemonium.

“'The wisdom of the Witch must be honed with patience, hewn by time. An ill-prepared soul may not have the stamina for such a lengthly journey, and may well perish ere its fruition.'”

Shades given to the line by recent events briefly twisted Lilith's lips, amid the focus of recall.

“'Such may it be that the burden is assumed by her Elder, and merrily, under whose patronage the deserving Prospective will gain more than the mere fruits of her labours. A buoyancy of spirit is her gift, granted within civil limits of her Elder's far more exuberant vitality.'”

Lilith paused, considering how much more to recite, and filled the empty moments by distant caresses to Mary's knuckles.

“Am I 'the Prospective'?”

“Of course,” breathed Lilith, still staring into time-worn pages.

“And... the trials?”

“Earn the apprenticeship.”

“To what end? This 'buoyancy of spirit'... what does it mean?”

You surely know what it means.

You've felt it, before I ever intended that you should.

You can't have forgotten what nearly befell you, by my neglect.

“It means that you will be strong enough to play your part in the intrigue ahead.” She lifted her other hand to rest upon the back of Mary's head. “I won't ask you again if you're sure.”

“Good.”

“I have learnt how stubborn you can be.”

“I really can.”

“Even when pitting yourself against all the fury of Hell.”

Mary fell silent at that, and Lilith worried she may have gone a step too far, prodded too deeply. She listened to the still gradual sound of Mary's breathing, for catches and signs of doubt, but the pause was short-lived.

“I'm not going against Hell. I'm just standing beside you.”

“It rather amounts to the same thing.”

“Not to me.”

Dizzied by the rush of oxygen which had so suddenly filled her breast, Lilith worked her fingers into Mary's hair.

I believe you.

We are fools together in this,

you and I.

The idea was becoming frighteningly less foreign, and the temptation to trust – an impulse which had proven ruinous again and again – made her heart seize and her fingers tense and thread deeper into Mary's embrace-mussed curls.

That precious weight against her shoulder grew steadily heavier, and Lilith could intuit the advancing of time by the sounds of the forest, not far beyond the bathroom window.

“You should sleep,” she told the mortal who rarely acknowledged her own mortality.

Mary sighed, clearly well aware of that fact but too comfortable to act upon it.

“We can start tomorrow,” Lilith added. “Assuming you've nowhere to be.”

“Where on earth would I have to be, if not here?”

A pang rang out, at the gentleness of that assurance. “Then sleep.”

“Honestly, I'm not sure that I can. Even if my body wants to, my mind is...” She rolled her head, hair still in Lilith's grip, so that she could make eye contact. “You just told me that tomorrow I'm going to find myself 'wrapped up in magic'. How could I possibly just fall asleep?”

“Then I should compel you to slumber.”

“If you would, please. I think that would probably be for the best.”

Lilith smiled at the strangeness of a mortal so calmly giving up sovereignty of her senses – especially someone with Mary's experiences.

How many times has it been that you have trusted me, and put your body and mind into my hands?

Even when I've so manhandled them in the past.

With the weight of the hour upon Mary's limbs, their forms moved in necessary tandem to the bedroom, and reclined once more into an embrace, as, for the first time, Lilith hummed her enchantment directly against Mary's skin, into the curve of her neck. She felt the awareness leave that body where it met her own, knowing that her imminent exit would not disturb its slumber; yet for a time she remained, breathing and listening and allowing herself the agony of hope.

Brushed-cotton.

She breathed again, more deeply, and gauged how large her heart had become by its immense pressure against her ribcage; too much more, and this narrow chest would not be enough to contain it.

But maybe it didn't have to be.

Moving through midnight-blue shadows, her passage was only discernible where the moonlight chanced upon her thick crowning waves, and glanced off the decisive peaks of her nose and cheekbones. Beneath her personal shade, blue eyes were inky and glinted with purpose.

She would have liked to risk it, simply falling asleep in that improbable embrace, but there were too many cogs turning in the First Witch's mind, and Mary's period of unconsciousness was the ideal time to investigate a suspicion which had for weeks been gnawing like rats at her heel.

So many things hadn't added up, and with Mary's recent comments regarding her classroom's attendance, Lilith could not shrug it off any longer.

The girl's frequent confusions, her contradictions, her memory lapses... whatever game she was playing, Lilith was in no mood to indulge it, especially when she would need to give the entirety of her focus to Mary in the coming days.

The woods parted ahead of her, revealing a magically-charged patch of dirt, and beyond it a little cemetery. She was tempted to take off her shoes and sink bare feet into the earth, to feel the tingles of enchantment through her soles and up her ankles. But there was no time for mucking about in resurrection dirt, and so she circled the pit, and met the pebbled driveway of the mortuary, her heels saved from slipping by preternatural balance and will.

The closer she drew, the more she felt it: wards upon wards, in the distinct colours of the homestead's casters, woven as a multi-layered mesh, a thorny barrier, a sheet of thrumming silver, or a wall of brick upon gleaming brick, their edges overlapping. Her witch's intuition could see it, even if her eyes could not, and she searched for weaknesses in the joinings, areas where the force had grown thinner with time or been damaged by previous interference.

Stepping soundlessly onto the porch, she found it: just one ethereal sheet among many, bent slightly askew, just enough for her to wriggle slim, invisible fingers into the gap. Pitting the strength of her magic against the ward's, she quickly pried it loose and slipped inside, casting off her physical form and melting into the shadows of the maroon-carpeted foyer.

Along the darkened walls and up the staircase, through a river of void she swam; down a narrow corridor she had travelled once before, when seeking some material means to an end.

In the absence of a body, Lilith's mind itched, excitement growing at what elucidation might soon be at hand. She hesitated at the threshold, already aware of a presence and growing even more eager, then slid hungrily under the door, and across the floorboards of the bedroom.

About to unfurl herself into corporality, she was almost too slow to notice the familiar curled up at the foot of the bed – a creature who had supposedly been released into the Greendale woods – and darted a wave of shadow across his body, cloaking him in a pocket-dimension of blindness and muteness, for the duration of her visit.

Her eyes became eyes again, and her smirk more than just a feeling, as she gazed down at the pale, slumbering head, kissed by moonlight on a plush white pillow.

Well, isn't this a pretty puzzle?

She tilted her head, lips drawing back further in amusement.

'I miss my aunties, Lilith. I miss my familiar. I just can't bear to see them!'

Her red-nails shadowed to blue, she scratched one finger across the fullness of the pillow, stopping just short of the girl's vulnerable ear, and Lilith wondered whether she dared.

For only the briefest of moments. Because of course she dared.

What sugarplum visions dance in your head, 'my young queen'?

What did you think you could hide from me?

Before taking the plunge, she considered what she knew: Sabrina had at long last shown up to check on her forsaken teacher, and been convinced to leave the woman be, under threat of her irresponsible behaviour reaching her aunts; not soon after, she had sat in the Infernal Library, seemingly having lost full cognisance of that agreement, until reminded and threatened anew; and that time, the instruction seemed to have stuck, as Sabrina had not made a single mention of Mary since that day. All her attention seemed to be on her duties as a monarch-in-training; and yet, if Mary was to be believed (and, leaving aside the loathsome possibility that her mind had again been compromised, Lilith had no reason not to), Sabrina was also giving her full attention to her mortal studies, spending time with her friends, painting posters for more insipid cheer events.

And while not strictly impossible, these things did not, in Lilith's informed opinion, pass muster.

Which suggested one conclusion far more than any other: the girl had found a way to be in two places at once. The ways in which a witch might do so were myriad, but not in their full capacity: at least one of them would be a golem, an echo, a convincing reflection of some sort.

Lilith considered recent occasions when she had seen Sabrina in Hell and directly conversed with her: she had seemed quite solid, as keen in mental acuity as she was ever likely to be, and even if by some miracle she had convinced Lilith's own instincts, it was unlikely Lucifer would be equally deceived. Which meant that either the weaker copy had been left to attend school, and dupe her friends and family, or that both copies were somehow strong.

There were ancient, forbidden methods of splitting oneself into two, spells for the diabolically disturbed who feared not the perils of a soul torn down the middle, but those were supposedly lost to time, and even if they weren't, the amount of bodily tissue and fluids – both the spellcaster's and those of multiple sacrifices – led Lilith to discard the possibility.

Of course, there was always the Mandrake spell: were Sabrina to revisit such a fraught mistake, she could have created a pristine twin and given all of her powers thence. If that were the case, it would have to be the Sabrina who spent her hours in Infernal pomp and circumstance who retained those magicks.

Which would mean:

Rather than the Dragon who acts the Lamb...

She placed the lightest of touches, three perceptive fingertips, upon the girl's forehead.

...are you, after all, just a little...

She shut her eyes and ears to the room,

...lost...

peered into the mind and listened to its whispers,

...lamb?

and was met with the full consciousness of Sabrina Morningstar née Spellman, as magically-potent as ever and dangerously close to sensing the intrusion.

With wily reflexes, Lilith sent powerful waves of suggestion directly into the girl's subconscious:

There is peril ahead, Sabrina. Peril gathers all around you. You are strong and brave, but you are also alone. No one can help you, excepting one: you must put your trust in Lilith. When push comes to shove, you must run to Lilith. She will help you, because she believes in you.

Trust in Lilith, Sabrina. She is the only one with as much power as you. The only one with as much determination.

Lilith will be your only chance of survival.

And with that, her body fell to hissing shadow beside the bed, her fingers leaving naught but a cold tickle on the girl's mind.

One with the walls again, she drifted in frowning concentration back down the balustrade.

It made no sense.

And it needed to make sense, because the alternative put Lilith very much on the back foot, and that was a position she could not abide.

There could not be two of equal strength.

There could not be one and one to make one.

Was there the possibility that Sabrina would not be in her bed in Pandemonium, were Lilith to rush straight there now? That she had split her sleeping hours across realms?

No, it couldn't be done.

Not when time passed so differently, and where Lucifer might burst into the room at any point – just as he used to with her – for no other reason than to impose alertness upon the girl; for no other purpose than powerplay.

Perhaps she should re-enchant the mirrors of this house, and keep a closer eye on the family. Yet, could she really afford to split her focus thus, once again considering what lay ahead?

Her thoughts swum with the same fluidity as her shadow-self, through the dips and curves of the furniture, drifting in uneven circles as she attempted to reach a decision.

She skirted the entrance to the kitchen, put off by the heavy bouquets of warding which hung, wrapped in twine, from the rafters.

She traced the little door that led to the mortuary, tasting the residue of death at its hinges.

She lapped at the warmth that still seeped out from the living room, sent by the last of the fireplace's embers. But there her spirit narrowed its eyes, stopped in its rotations, and she lingered. Listened.

A presence sat within. Asleep, but not really. Sinking in and out of consciousness in a rhythm which suggested chemical interference.

Curiosity was not a thing Lilith feared; indeed, it had served her well over the centuries, for without curiosity, little may be learned. And in her current form, the risk was minimal, so she slid under the door and blended with the patterns on the deep-pile rug.

The room was dimly lit by dying hearth-glow, but Lilith had no difficulty seeing the slumped shape of Zelda Spellman: sunny red hair turned dull, strands adhered to her lipstick where her head lay to one side; a purple satin robe sagging off a shoulder to reveal opulent black lace; a book held loosely by the passive weight of her arms; and a crystal decanter keeping her company on a side-table.

The woman's eyelashes fluttered with fitful visions, and her little pink lips fought to have their opinions known.

Suddenly bold, Lilith slid her entire shade onto the opposing couch, and came to form with one leg crossed lazily over the other, arms stretched out on either side of her hips, and a deep brew of simmering emotions pooling in her eyes.

How nice to be so carefree.

Just look at you, in your comfortable house, protected by those who love you. They will form a circle around you, no matter what unkindness you might spit at them.

And when their power is not enough, they will rally strangers to defend you. To fight for you without even knowing you.

No wonder it was so easy for you to cast me out.

For what could you possibly know of true loneliness?

Still resting on the couch cushion, Lilith's fingers fidgeted and slowly drew together, as she focussed her intention forward, to the pale throat which flinched in its sleep.

With anger coming to a head in her chest, Lilith gripped the air in a fist, holding on just long enough for Zelda's body to panic and for her to cough herself fully awake. As though something distasteful now lay on her palm, Lilith wiped her hand across rough fabric, watching it instead of the startled witch.

“Who's there?” Zelda gasped, indignation coming through more than anything else.

Lilith hummed in response, a querulous sound. “Who, I wonder... what was it you called me?”

She watched the awareness slowly dawning on still-groggy features, but did not wait for a reply.

“Oh yes. 'The ultimate wildcard', wasn't it? Quite the compliment, really.”

“Lilith—” Zelda began, and Lilith pressed light fingers to her windpipe once more, in warning.

“Hush. You call me a wildcard, and I can't help but ponder the implications: a card which can be all things, all colours, as needed; one who might enter play without the same pre-requisites as those around them.” Impossible as it should have been for her eyes to grow darker, they did, as meagre light collapsed into them. “But then, that's not what you meant, was it? My dear ex-High Priestess.”

Zelda attempted to speak once more, pushing herself upright with one hand, the other raised to guard against further telekinesis. But nary a word had left her lips, when Lilith huffed a phantom zephyr at the hearth, and flames sprung up, loudly and blindingly.

No easing of the nerves for you, Spellman.

I may be toying with acts of forgiveness, but you are far from worthy, from where I stand.

After she was able to stop blinking, green eyes watering, Zelda scowled through the glare.

“How dare you come into my home this way? Have you nothing better to do than accost a sleeping woman?”

Lilith inspected her own fingernails. “True, I normally reserve such behaviour for men, but you're a special case, as turns out. And you should count yourself fortunate I allowed you to wake up at all, for what you've done to me.”

“What I've done to you?” she pulled herself up more stiffly, lifted her jaw in even greater indignation. “It was your own machinations that led you to your fate, and it was not my duty, nor that of my coven, to save you from yourself.”

An ache spread sharply across Lilith's breast, as vivid memories of prayers flashed before her mind's eye, of earnest entreaties for protection.

Of course it was only ever going to go in one direction.

What fool I, for thinking otherwise.

“Indeed,” she replied, with all the barbs of the vine. “And speaking of survival,” she made a show of playing her eyes across Zelda's body, from bare feet to glowing auburn crown, “you look surprisingly adequate for a dead woman.”

“As do you.”

Watch your pretty little mouth, snarled Lilith's curled lip, and she narrowly kept ethereal fingers from throttling once more.

Instead, she nodded politely. “I've more lives in me than you can imagine. Though none have come without considerable cost. But you?” she forced a smirk and rested back, bringing her elbows atop the couch. “You've but a single existence, and whispers on the breeze tell me that it almost ended in a quite humiliating fashion!” She raised a brow at Zelda's ribcage. “A mortal, they say. With a crude mortal weapon. How unbecoming for someone of your stature.”

“It is as you say,” Zelda sighed, relaxing slightly as the encounter lapsed into civility. “The school mistress whose life you stole. Though I have no doubt you already know all the details.”

“Perhaps,” Lilith rested her head back, portraying how utterly unthreatened she felt. “But don't flatter yourself that your piffling brush with death interests me all that much. I trust you put an end to the mortal once you were firm in body and soul once more.”

Now would be the time for gaining at least a few titbits of security.

“I did not,” Zelda replied, taking her eyes off Lilith to pour of the decanter, herself making a show of indifference.

“Oh no?”

“Much as it was deserved, and much as I have imagined many ways I might have gone about it.”

“A violent tree of delights, I'm sure,” Lilith agreed, her smile hiding the unease in her belly.

“But no.” Zelda regarded her drink, as though debating whether she wanted it at all. “It would have caused more problems than it was worth.” Then, at Lilith's questioning gaze, she elaborated: “Despite clearly being a lunatic, the woman is a necessary pillar of Sabrina's school, and I for one do not relish yet another frothing panic amid the mortal population. It may surprise you to hear, but my family prefers to keep a calm and reciprocal relationship with the townsfolk.”

“Then what, I wonder, did you do to curtail the schoolmarm's aforementioned lunacy?”

Zelda drank, suspicious eyes locked upon Lilith all the while. “You really don't know? You who specialises in the clandestine? The very archetypical cloak-and-dagger?”

“You flatter me.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Then indulge me, because I know you love the sound of your own voice.” She did not hold back the venom, as her pitch grew gravelly in its lower reaches.

Zelda pulled her chin in, wrinkling her neck with dubiousness, but allowed it.

“My niece emptied her head of her witch-hunting mania.”

“Ah yes, the precocious young queen. What can't she achieve, when she sets her sights upon it?”

“A queen in name alone, I'll remind you. Sabrina must be allowed to complete her studies, both at Baxter high and at the Academy.”

“Of course. Why shouldn't she enjoy all the freedoms of youth, after having seized the crown and thrown me to the dirt of the Infernal Court?”

“Bitterness is unbecoming, Madam Satan. We should not blame others for our inadequacies.”

Lilith felt her chest rise and fall roughly with the effort of containing her rage, of maintaining the calm of the carpeted room. But the image of the Spellman matriarch engulfed in flames, shrieking and begging for mercy, was all she could see for some moments, as her jaw clenched itself into even sharper angles.

She did not trust herself to speak, and let Zelda assume she still held the floor, for whatever reasons she cared to.

“At any rate, it would seem that Hell is yet in your hands, albeit in a supporting role. Pragmatism has prevailed, as it must.”

A supporting role. Yes.

Supporting him, supporting her, and supporting myself, where no one else ever cared to do so.

And then she remembered, shocked that, in the heat of the moment, she had been able to forget.

Until now.

Though, given the brief snatch of time during which this reprieve from loneliness had bloomed, she could be forgiven for having it slip out of mind, amid the endless waters of time which whipped past her, which had thrown her to-and-fro ever since the Beginning.

Back in the cottage, she slumbered.

In that cottage of slumbers.

That place of silence with its lack of expectation. And what could be more balm than that?

“Well,” she breathed, finding her composure at last, “I suppose all is then as it should be.” Her eyes moved to the book, now sat between Zelda's hip and the armrest. “And you have your new patron, of course. I trust she is giving you everything you were unable to exact from me. Ah, but, tell me...” she smirked at the idea, “has she yet revealed herself to you? Your illustrious Hekate? She whom you invoked on a dreamer's whim, with no prior interactions. Has she ever invited herself to tea?”

Zelda's eyes too landed upon the book, and she pulled it back into her lap, as though keeping it from being stolen. “She has not. But we feel her presence about us, when we gather. She drinks with us in spirit, if not body.”

“What beautiful nonsense,” Lilith sneered, and pushed herself to standing.

Zelda quickly gathered herself to stand as well, turning a shoulder defensively and filling her chest with what was surely empty bluster.

“No need to fly to arms,” Lilith soothed. “I am merely taking my leave. I had come here in hopes of some penance, Zelda Spellman, but it would seem that you are as pig-headed as ever, and will not be seeking to mollify the pain you and your kin have caused me.”

Zelda's lips were tight and thin as she attempted to stare Lilith down, so bravely that she granted her a speck of esteem, in an almost empty bowl.

Just as she reached the door, Lilith paused. “Oh, and one more thing.” She turned and immediately locked their eyes, seeing in Zelda's a level of apprehension that was at least some pittance. “You thought I broke into your house, in the middle of the night, clawing through your many layers of wards to have you at my mercy. But why?” she tilted her head, sending suggestion cloaked in the guise of confusion. “When you've been dreaming this entire conversation?”

She let her human form grow black and foggy, keeping only her gaze piercingly clear, as she dissolved backward into the wallpaper.

“Go back to sleep, small witch,” she whispered, enjoying the uncertainty which passed across Zelda's face, “and pray to your patron for protection, against the demons in the dark.”

Chapter Text

The pillow beside her smelled of Lilith: of their shared shower products, of her skin, of her embrace. The sensory warmth of it was difficult to abandon, and there seemed little reason to do so, until Mary's mind slowly unfurled itself to memory and anticipation, the two combining into a frisson that jolted her awake.

It's time.

Today, at last, I'm going to be...

No, not a witch.

But something not so dissimilar.

And, for being mortal, something even more precious.

She reached for her glasses, her hand suddenly unsteady under its racing pulse, and in doing so brushed the onyx bowl, and a protruding piece of paper. Pressing her glasses against the bridge of her nose, she examined the note, written in black fountain pen, in neat script so much like her own, upon a heavy-grained page that seemed out of place in a relatively modern bedroom.

'Should your heart continue unwavering, then these are your instructions for the day:'

Her heart leapt again and she brought a hand to cover it, begging the thing for calm lest she become light-headed and useless for the task ahead; if she could not even manage to read the preamble for the day, what hope had she of accomplishing anything?

She returned her eyes to the text, easily imagining Lilith's face as she had lain words to parchment:

'Eat well, but be done by sundown. Between waking and my return, drink three cups of the tea blend I have prepared. Shower and then soak in the bath, using three drops of the oil which you will find there. Massage it throughout your hair, from root to tip, and do not bind the hair thereafter. Wear only natural fibres, and at least one item of red. Secure the ritual fabrics in a bag easily shouldered, each within a water-safe sleeve.

I will return by eight o'clock this evening.'

Mary stared into the ink for some time, and the words blurred in and out of meaning; they were only instructions, written in a firm and neutral tone, yet within that pragmatism, she found a great deal of care, even if most of it was of her own fancy.

Slowly, though, the text transferred itself to a mental to-do list, and her first worry emerged:

Leave it unbound? Lilith, I couldn't. Not unless I devote the next few hours to styling it!

She knew what would happen, particularly with the involvement of any sort of foreign substance along the entire length of her hair; and having duplicated her body to the atomic level, Lilith must surely know it too.

And yet she had requested it all the same. Which meant that it had to be important and should not be contested, even if what would later need taming loomed voluminous in her imagination.

There was no point fighting it, she had committed to all of this on a level which far exceeded vanity. And so she rolled out of bed and headed to the kitchen, to discover what Lilith had laid out.

The ground leaves and flowers sat in a glass jar, sealed with cork, and when Mary opened it she could make out the bitterness of dandelion and the soothing waft of lavender, among other spicier scents. She set about brewing the tincture, attempting to keep her mind clear of everything but the motions of her hands, for composure's sake. Waiting for it to steep was challenging, as she kept remembering things: things Lilith had said, pages from the Fledgling Witch's Golden Guide, and snatches of dreams, both night and day; excitement and nervousness were predictable bedfellows, but the frequent insurgence of undiluted fear, this she did not appreciate.

As soon as it was ready, she utilised the sharp tang of the unsweetened tea to cut through every alarming image.

She trusted Lilith.

She had affirmed it many times, to the both of them.

She was not going to be tricked back into Hell, nor used for some Hellish purpose.

Her soul did not hang in the balance, and that which lay ahead was not a snare, but an education.

And she knew education, she adored education. Lessons and tests, enlightenment and new understandings, these things were gifts. And like everything that was truly worth having, they would not be easily acquired; there would be risk, hardship, and perhaps even suffering, and that was all to be expected, and was right and fitting.

Dulce et decorum est, as Owen had put it, and who was she to argue?

She could not know what shape the classroom would take, but Lilith would be at its forefront, and that was good enough for her.

Wasn't it?

Lilith would helm the lessons and administer the trials. She was the knower of the mysteries. She saw that which mortal eyes could not. And that was as it should be.

Wasn't it?

Mary was in talented hands, ancient, caster's hands which had been shaped from the soil at the beginning of time and had seen more than any living woman. Hands which had endured more suffering and...

Grasped more necks in domination.

Torn more men asunder and...

and...

She had stopped breathing as her mind recalled a time where she had sat in a space of gruelling candour, and posed a frightful question.

Only to receive an even more frightful response.

'...In my nearly six thousand years of life, as the leader of Hell's armies, as a devout follower of Lucifer, and as one who has time and time again been known as only the most vicious type of demon, if I told you that I never once ate a human child... would you believe me?'

Children.

Infants.

A shadow sprawling beneath a door. A shape creeping across the wall to a crib.

'If you want me to.'

The deep gulp of tea went where it shouldn't and left her choking and heaving, her eyes tearing up in protest.

“I trust you,” she coughed, in case her words might be heard, as well as her thoughts. “Lilith, I do, I swear!”

Would you perjure yourself, Mary Wardwell? How honest is your heart being?

“I trust you,” she insisted, and took a heavy, frowning breath, set her eyes ahead to the calendar which had been frozen for weeks, ever since she had returned to her life, from an actual, unimagined Damnation.

“I trust you.” The numbers on the little blocks weren't real, no more than wisps of dreams that came and went before the dawn. They were only ciphers, left to mock her in moments of doubt. “Lilith, I trust you.”

I trust you not to hurt me.

No, it was more specific than that. And far more tenuous.

I trust that you have no intention of hurting me.

And that had to be enough. Because the time for running, for hiding under covers — between dust-jackets — was long gone. She was going to be wrapped up in magic, and even if her mind shook at the prospect, she would step into that embrace.

She would take that hand. She would trust that hand. And she would do as she was told.

The last indigo let loose its hold on the horizon, as Mary freed her hair from another thick, temporary braid which she had not once fully fastened. At least twisted and dried in this manner, it would not become an unruly cloud of a thing, but merely hang in the wild, wavy clusters which had earned her so much teasing in her youth. If it was only the two of them, it would be all right; the two of them, and whichever raw forces of nature they would be communing with.

The last sip of the required cups of tea lay cold on the glass top of the dresser, beside her sturdy hairbrush; she supposed it was all right not to finish every fluid ounce, the taste of it still so tart upon her tongue.

She took the bottle of essential oils and drizzled a small pool into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and began to stroke the blend once more across her hair. The thirsty filaments had already soaked up that which she had applied in the bath, and the smell of it was comforting enough that she was pleased to repeat the exercise.

She had recognised the scent immediately when the first drops had hit water: how could she forget, when she had been anointed from pulse to pulse with it, from curve to angular curve across her face, and to the place of sightless seeing in the middle of her forehead? Those touches immediately followed by a sealing kiss.

There had been glowing purple then, rushing through her every available conduit, and having experienced that colour once again, she now recognised it as the rich, twilight colouration of Lilith's magic. That which tasted like plum, in both skin and flesh. That which coated its passage and readied those spaces for the deluge. Whatever sort of flood that might be.

And Mary had no doubt that she would be surrounded by and filled up by that sensation, that heady hue, once more, very soon. Lilith had all but said it, when reciting her witch literature.

'A buoyancy of spirit... from the Elder's far more exuberant vitality.'

What else could that be, but a magical infusion? The likes of which had recently rescued her failing life-force and which had, so long ago, aided in the warding of this very cottage.

It was strange: even with an upbringing where the worth of one's spirit was often referenced, she had never really considered whether hers could be lacking. She had never thought of herself as 'mortal'. Only human. Child. Woman. Teacher. Possessing of the same manner of spirit as all others, tonalities aside.

But of late, she had needed to consider her spirit a finite, spendable resource. Something like currency, to be bartered, or invested, or supplemented.

Something once so invisible, her spirit — or perhaps her soul — had become remarkably concrete.

And she could not help but wonder what colour hers might be, and how another person might feel, were they to be wrapped up in it.

Well. Perhaps Lilith already knows that much.

The room had fallen to darkness without her notice, and unknown minutes ticked by as she continued to shape her hair, stray pieces wrapped round and round her careful fingers, seeing only her own vague shape in the mirror.

Her mind drifted just a little further and, deep within reflected shadow, something glinted; quickly she straightened up, blinked and shook her head.

There's nothing.

I'm just tired.

Yet she didn't feel tired at all.

You're falling to imagination, stop it.

As sensibly as possible, she hastened to the light-switch, shoving the gaping questions away with the clarity of human science. Her breaths were shallow and pointed, and her eyes darted about, checking each visible nook without stepping away from the wall. Then the knock came from the front door, and she was surprised that her body did not startle; perhaps she was finally developing better instincts.

Come in, she thought, then rolled her eyes and opened her throat.

“Come in!”

There was no reply from the door, but Lilith was beside her all the same, angling her head at Mary's still apprehensive posture.

“I... I thought I saw something,” she answered the questioning look. “Maybe. Or it felt like I did. But I was probably just zoning out.”

Lilith stepped into the centre of the room, doing as Mary had by casting her sharp eyes around, then closed them and lifted her chin, listening, lips falling open as if tasting the air. Presently she sighed and turned to Mary.

“Nothing. But your awareness of what lies beyond the veil is clearer now. As it must be, for our purposes.”

“You mean, there could have been something in here before now, without me knowing?” The idea made her pull her elbows tightly around her chest.

Lilith considered this, then turned to the window and stared out into the darkness. “How long have you lived here, Mary? Alongside these woods which pulse with magic from frond to root?”

“Oh, very many years. The majority of them, in fact."

“And in that time, how has your relationship been, with the forest?”

Mary raised her eyebrows at the odd phrasing. “Good, I suppose? I've never really had any bad experiences there — at least, none I didn't bring upon myself.”

“You're fond of the wooded spaces, aren't you? Of the trees and the rivers, the birds and small beasts.”

“I am.”

“Then I would wager,” Lilith decided, drawing the lace curtains with a tilt of her head, “that they are fond of you as well.”

She said nothing in reply, picturing precious days in the woods, on her own, or with Adam, or the occasional student come wandering; reading beside the brook or comparing the moss upon different trees, to try and locate a pattern to them, for naught but her own amusement.

Lilith moved closer, running her fingers across the vanity and then the hairbrush, fingertips tickling the bristles. “'Only love may enter here',” she reminded Mary.

“Are you saying something from the forest came in here, and...”

“A will o' the wisp. Or perhaps a wood-sprite. Or, as you say, perhaps nothing at all. But whatever it may have been, Mary,” she sat upon the edge of the bed and gestured that she should join her, “it wouldn't have harmed you. It couldn't have.”

Once Mary relented and left the safety of the wall, she saw that Lilith's attention had shifted from her face to the loosened coils and waves of her thick, brown hair.

“Beautiful,” Lilith breathed. “Thank you.”

“Oh. Well, your note said—“

“Yes. But even so, thank you.”

Mary could not fully read her tone, and stopped trying when Lilith raised her hand, pausing just inches away and awaiting permission to touch. Mary gave it in a nod, but cautioned: “It's not going to let you—“

And yet, the witch's fingers slid smoothly through the dense waves, and Mary wondered if this were magic or mundane mastery.

“Are you ready?” asked Lilith, gazing at where graceful fingers and curls interlaced.

Mary's chest seized and she fought the feeling back, though the effort left her dizzied. “I think so.”

Then Lilith's eyes met hers, intensely blue, and Mary knew that it wasn't answer enough. And so she lowered her face to where her tresses were held aloft, and inhaled the scent which she had been instructed to wear, from root to tip. Behind her eyelids, she imagined herself bolstered by purple.

“Yes,” she stated. “I'm ready. Let's go.”

Chapter Text

Though Lilith maintained that this had happened before — that she had whisked them away from solidity, to re-form somewhere far away — Mary had no memory of it. Which would have been more alarming, had she not been so focussed on the potential mechanisms of it all.

“But where does the matter go?” she rephrased her question, once again. “Does it spontaneously become energy? Because while that is the process of, um, annihilation, from what I recall from physics class... the idea that a body could come back from that—“

“You weren't so insistent on matters of science when you saw me simply vanish into shadow.”

“Yes, I know, but... my body is coming along too this time. And the two of us are not built the same, despite outward evidence to the contrary.”

A smile flickered on Lilith's lips at the nervous quipping.

“And as I've told you...” She pulled the snug trousers — some kind of dark, rubbed leather — up under the hem of her dress, then proceeded to tuck the crimson and black cotton into them, with a level of modesty Mary had to assume was for her sake. “...your mortal body, just as you exist in it today, has done so before.”

“Well it doesn't remember that.”

“Which is perhaps just as well; you were rather upset at the time.”

“I'll take your word for it.” She had been 'rather upset' a great many times, early in their acquaintance, and she was more than happy to put much of it behind her.

She looked down at her own outfit, that which she usually used for gardening, and hoped that it would suffice; as far as she knew, the denims were all natural fibres, and the fitted red sweater was a good middle-ground for most temperatures. Though really, she supposed it had to be all right, or Lilith would have said something about it.

“So, the last time we did this,” she rested the sling-bag over her neck and shoulder, “did I feel ill afterwards? Does one get motion sickness from it?”

Lilith's brow crinkled in amusement, which Mary found a little unfair. “That I cannot speak to. But try not to overly anticipate the sensation, or you'll create your own ill-ease, out of thin air.”

That at least was fair comment, and Mary nodded, held out her hands to meet Lilith's.

I trust you, she reminded herself, in what was becoming a mantra.

Lilith began to murmur strange phrases, perhaps Latin but oddly accented, and the atmosphere against Mary's skin seemed to grow electric, thrumming as though un-earthed — which, within moments, indeed they were, and Mary's vision failed her, blacking out then hazing back into orange as she frantically blinked away the bleariness. Her pale eyes were further assaulted by daylight, filtered through a canopy of silver-barked trees, and she let go of Lilith to bring a shielding palm to her brow.

“Where are we?”

They stood on the verge of a bog, the air peaty-thick and trilling with insect wings, just on the edge of perception.

“The Earth,” Lilith replied simply, and stepped out of her shoes, placed them side-by-side on a patch of wiry grass.

“Must you be so vague?”

“No. But I do quite enjoy it.”

A dense carpet of moss reached out into the soggy ground, and Mary was alarmed to see Lilith nonchalantly pad across it, expecting her weight to immediately collapse the pathway into muck. When it didn't, Mary experienced a jarring parallel with a passage from the New Testament, and her throat grew narrow in protest.

But Lilith was holding out her hand, her otherworldliness eager to be shared, and Mary had seen too many strange things of late to refuse.

When her newly-bared feet met moss, however, she realised that walking upon it required no supernatural tread, for the stuff was as sturdy as a tarpaulin and just as waterproof, anchored too broadly to sag.

Lilith took them further into the bog, the vegetation beneath their feet interwoven with fallen twigs and other things which crunched and mulched. Once they were firmly in the centre, bordered closely by mossless instability, Lilith indicated that they should kneel.

Closer to the ground, Mary surveyed the biome, trying to separate out the colours and textures into distinct lifeforms (while her sense of smell had no hope of doing so): there were patches of red and yellow, where tiny flowers spilled from the banks, spider webs glistening between bark and marsh, unassuming mushrooms and more flamboyant toadstools, sharp outcroppings of fungus from fallen wood, and fluffy white piles of what looked like cotton, sheltered under shrubberies; for all the signs of decay, there was a great deal of quiet life within the stagnation.

Something ran over her hand where she leaned upon the ground, and she reflexively batted it off, seeing neither what it was nor where it had gone. Lifting her eyes once more, she met Lilith's amused gaze; the witch showed no intention of rushing her, but at the same time was full of tingling purpose, coiled for release in her languid limbs.

“This place must be so old,” Mary whispered, not wanting to disturb the whirring hush of it.

“Indeed,” Lilith smiled. “Like many things, far older than it even looks.”

Mary caught the intimation and was about to offer a rejoinder, when Lilith folded forward and plunged her hand into the bog.

Gradually, she worked it deeper, twisting her arm until she was submerged past the elbow, her forehead brushed by a wispy, white-flowered weed, her red lips pouted in focus. Then she straightened up, dredging up a chunk of grey-blue soil which largely maintained its shape in her fist.

“Clay?” Mary asked, trying not to care about the muddy mess of Lilith's arm, and how close it was to her tucked dress.

“Gley. And not just that, I think,” Lilith smiled, and without warning summoned blue flame around her fist, steam rising up as the moisture was forced from the dirt, and pieces crumbling off and rolling over her thighs.

Eventually she shook off the fire, and opened her hand, displayed its contents to Mary: all residue burnt away, the pieces were brittle and silver, and with each movement of Lilith's hand they sparkled.

As did the First Witch's eyes, lit with flickers of illicit glee, and the realisation came with such clarity that Mary felt guilty for not noting it before:

This isn't just for me.

Tonight... tomorrow... however long these trials take... they're for you as well.

Lilith was once again sharing a part of herself which she usually kept guarded, by infernal habit, and Mary would do well to bear that in mind, and be as respectful and deserving an apprentice as she could.

She regarded the handful dutifully: “Mica... this close to the surface?”

Lilith, really, where are we?

The First Witch passed the crumbling minerals to her with satisfaction. “As I said, this land is old. And so are the spirits which reside here.” She turned her face to the slowly-collapsing hole left by her arm, and indicated with her jaw that Mary should make use of it.

“What?” She was significantly less than keen to plunge her forearm into unknown depths, Lilith's lack of hesitation notwithstanding.

“Go on,” urged Lilith. “Grasp as much as you can manage in one hand.”

She sighed deeply, with the acerbic hope that this trial was not merely a test of nerves, and dug in. She encountered marshiness, but also something more in the closing of her grip: something sharp, made of many delicate, interconnected pieces.

She cringed and gingerly withdrew the finding, wrapped in sloppy earth, then laid it on the moss beside her: translucent bones stuck out here and there from the grey, and little balled remains of what must once have been feathers.

Lilith had kept her eyes on the thing, tracing its passage like a cat, and once Mary pulled back to wipe her hand upon the moss, an equally feline smile touched her lips.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Mary asked awkwardly, working off the lighter muck against her trousers.

“Its body has decomposed, but there is still proof of its existence.”

Mary's brow knitted, and she braved the touch of the dirt again, with one hand spreading it open so that what was left of the skeleton could be seen: from the roundness of it, and the sharp, petite beak, it was likely some manner of jay.

“This is how it all begins,” Lilith continued. “Earth. Mouldable clay.” She began to trace symbols in the soft ground, then paused a coated finger and met Mary's eyes, her own twinkling with irony: “'Dirt magic'. The root of all things. Myself included.”

How typical it was of Lucifer, Mary's thoughts scowled, to make fun of something so intrinsic to creation. To disdain the most pivotal of magicks.

Lilith completed her series of sigils and drew a circle around them, placed the bird skeleton at its centre, and Mary's unease stewed, threatening her outward composure.

This is why we're here, she reminded herself. This is what you expected.

After all, she had traced arcane symbols into the earth herself, not long ago, and that had been woefully absent of Lilith's guidance.

“What happens now?”

“Now, we grant it flight.”

“Flight?”

No, this was not what she had expected.

An earthy journey of discovery, yes, spellcasting knee-deep in the rawness of nature.

But not this casual necromancy.

She had never read The Modern Prometheus, though had long meant to, and so the only images of Frankenstein's monster which flashed before her were those of her horror cinema, of Boris Karloff rendered pale and ill-formed, the creation of a man whose hubris led him to build a chimera of corpses.

A creature that lived in misery and confusion, obscene by its very nature.

I won't play God, Lilith.

I can't.

It's unthinkable.

Even with her face averted, staring into the mire, she should have expected how easily the witch would read the crinkling anxiety that crouched within her, and soon there were light fingers under her jaw, raising it to attention.

“There's nothing wicked in what we're doing, Mary. Your soul does not hang in the balance.”

“Are you certain of that?”

The words had come unbidden and she regretted them, not wanting to show doubt when Lilith had put so much on the line in getting them here. But to reanimate the dead, a cluster of stripped bones...

Her focus again left her, her eyes straying to gnarled roots and pale yellow lichen, reaching down into the depths of muddy contemplation.

She felt Lilith's hand upon her wrist, felt her gently encircling it, fingers resting on her pulse as though securing the blood itself.

“Listen to me and hear what I tell you: these spirits have been without bodies for so long that they have forgotten the joys of it; what we are giving them is a gift, a chance to experience a lost sensation, just for a short while.”

The earnestness in Lilith's eyes was pushing back Mary's dread — in that way which Lilith so often could — yet still uncertainty clung to her.

“What gives us that right?” she queried, expecting more voice than had emerged.

The question seemed to surprise Lilith, and she broke eye-contact to ponder it, as though being asked why water need be wet.

“The right to grant freedom? To play with the magic at our fingertips?” She frowned, still struggling with the gist of the question. “Why should we need permission? And, more to the point,” she met Mary's gaze and darkened, “from whom should we request it?”

“I only—”

“Do you seek his permission, whenever you put trowel to soil? Whenever you sit down to sew or mix batter for baking?”

“No, but...”

“But what?”

The sharpness which had so quickly formed around Lilith's words felt like an attack, and one which Mary could not help but feel she deserved, irrational as it was. She thought for a moment, then gave her reply, slowly and respectfully; not just to avoid angering Lilith, but because it was correct, in this place of timeless energies.

“I understand what you're saying: we don't need permission to use our hands, to create things with the skills we've learned. I do understand that. And I also understand that, um, the thought that I might wish to...” she swallowed to gain some courage, “bow my head, to someone, to a being who wronged you,” again a quick and necessary breath, “might be especially upsetting. And... that's not what I want to do.”

The chirrup and whine of insects hung in the heavy air, and somewhere a toad grunted.

“I'm just wondering if we've... I shouldn't say the 'right', that's a rather loaded term. But... is it fair? To manipulate the natural world? To force the spirits to do as we — as witches please? Is it... is it kind?”

Lilith's eyes softened alongside her once-taut lips, and Mary felt the world breathe again. “We're not forcing them, Mary.” She lifted her face to the tree tops and closed her eyes, wrinkles pulling loose with gravity. “We're making an offer. And it is their choice to accept or reject that offer.”

Choice.

That was the most important part of all magic use, Mary decided in the moment.

But then, what of compulsions?

What about what happened to me?

Her gaze grew pleading and she hoped that Lilith would know her doubts without voice.

The witch's eyes searched her face, and perhaps her mind, and she sighed with her entire chest. “No, that is not always the case. And neither has it always been my modus operandi. It is not the life I have come to lead. But in my...”

Her fingers pressed more firmly into Mary's wrist, and Mary realised that they had never left.

“In my heart, I have many times wished it could be so.”

The new hoarseness in Lilith's voice brought Mary to add a hand to their connection, and she permitted herself to speak aloud her mantra:

“I trust you.”

Surprise registered in Lilith's brows, and in the tendons of her neck, but her only response was a nod, and she guided their joined hands down into clay, covered Mary's with her own. Soon, a feeling stirred where warm skin met hers, and Mary felt pins and needles throughout her hands, as though they were coming alive once more, freed of a blockage she hadn't known was there; they felt nimble, like conductor's hands, and capable, like a sculptor's.

Without being told, and without questioning the instinct, she dug more muck out of the hole, picked up the most solid part of the skeleton and began to fashion for it a vessel. As she worked, slowly adding in other bones, Lilith moved to sit behind her, and Mary soon felt kneeling thighs around her hips, heard Lilith's quiet intake of breath close to her ear:

“Visualise its flight, as it was in life.”

Mary nodded.

“Focus on its agility. On the joys of freedom.”

She nodded again, and closed her eyes, giving the thing blue feathers and a fluffy white chest, a cheerful crest which raised in delight.

“Now,” Lilith moved closer to her ear, such that it tickled, almost to distraction, “repeat the words I am about to say. They are for the bodiless who watch us, rapt with curiosity.”

“Are they... are any of them dangerous?” she worried, fighting to keep her visualisation from caving in.

“It doesn't matter. None of them would dare attack us.”

“Because of you?”

“Yes. They know who I am. What I am capable of.”

“All right. All right, I'm ready.”

And so Lilith began to pass the words, so quietly that Mary had to strain to hear them, and she wondered whether that was to hide the fact that, ultimately, it was Lilith's spell and not hers, her hands and throat mere messengers.

“O children who have long cast off the coil
who dwell among the mushrooms and the moss
who linger in the air beneath the soil
consider thee my words and hereto cross

“From earth all things are formed and all decline
to once again be blended with the source
Yet for this hour alone these hands define
for thee a separate passage and a course”

Between her palms, she felt the surface of the gley become smoother and harder, and stifled the tremor which attempted to enter her voice.

“Upon these brittle bones submerged in time
this empty beak which has no song to sing
I sculpt a vessel with intent sublime
where soul and soil together life may bring”

From the shoddily designed carapace, a more defined shape was emerging, and she loosened her grip against a feeling of unfurling, so as not to cramp its progress, as the final rhyming couplet left her lips.

“Shouldst thou desire to take to wing and play
accept my gift and claim this flight of clay.”

The spell was a sonnet, which she would not have thought likely. Had it always been thus, or had Lilith adapted it to suit her preferences?

How did you know?

Mary was fairly certain that, even in their discussions of other poets, she had not expressed how deeply the pulsing flow of iambic pentameter affected her. Was it something in the way she spoke? In the way she breathed?

But there was no more time for such wondering, because the creature within her hands was stirring, pushing to be set free. Too nervous to open her eyes, she spread her palms and felt the weight leave them with a kick of tiny, dusty legs.

“Watch,” Lilith told her, and so she lifted her face obediently.

The little golem flitted upwards, then let itself fall, caught itself once more upon the breeze and glid up to the tree tops; at first its flight was erratic, but quickly grew more purposeful, and even braver in its swooping.

As Mary followed its movements, she was suddenly struck with nausea and dropped her chin to her chest.

“What's wrong?” whispered Lilith, and Mary heard the genuine anxiety prickling her words.

“I don't know. I just, I feel sick.”

“You didn't use... the magic was mine, you shouldn't be—“

“No, it's not like that.” She stopped speaking and took careful breaths against the spinning in her forehead.

“Then what?”

Mary wanted to reassure her, and fought harder against the sensation, until she understood it:

“I'm sorry, I... I think I'm panicking.”

She felt Lilith's arms encircle her and looked down at where the witch's hands grasped hers. “Don't.”

Lilith, if only it were so easy.

“I'm sorry. Really. I don't mean to, but...” She lifted her gaze to the somersaulting creation and immediately looked away as a resurgence of nausea hit, and her voice came dryly with the reason. “It's not natural.”

“It is,” Lilith insisted. “And like everything that is natural, it only exists for the blink of an eye.” Her fingers broadened their contact. “Don't miss your chance to observe that which few mortals will ever see, in their similarly brief lives.”

My brief life...

And so far into it before I met you. Before I knew for certain that any of this was possible.

An occurrence so rare.

You're right, I can't waste this, just out of cowardice.

She filled her lungs and kept them full, the motion raising her chin in turn, and her eyes seeking out the golem.

It still soared and dipped, spiralling in glee, but something was already changing: with each more aggressive manoeuvre, flecks of dried earth were breaking loose, spilling down into the bog.

“It's coming to pieces,” Mary murmured in dismay.

“Yes,” Lilith confirmed. “And it knows.”

Its movements were becoming more and more reckless, desperate urgency mounting with every crumb lost.

Mary pressed her fist to a chest gone tight. “Lilith, make it stop.”

“I can't. Its time is up now. The game has to end.”

“Game?” Sadness slipped into her voice, like an old friend.

“Its game of make-believe. You have to end it, before the spirit becomes too distressed.”

“I have to....” Her lungs wouldn't allow her to fill them any further, so she pulled her shoulders back instead, to keep from slumping. “What do I do?”

“The sigils, and the circle. Smear them with your left hand and repeat what I tell you.”

Mary nodded, poised her hand above the shapes and repeated each whispered line.

“This flight of clay has reached its ev'ning hour,
as must all things which thrive beneath the sun
I hereby break the bonds held by my power
As soul and earth may no longer be one.”

She splayed her fingers wide and took out a large portion of the symbols with one swipe, then circled around to erase the others as quickly as she could. Somewhere out of sight, crusty pieces hit damp earth or splashed into water, and before Mary's sadness could crest, Lilith had retrieved the square of tightly-woven hemp and passed it to her.

“Now, quickly, press your hand to the fabric.”

“With all the mud on—“

“Yes. And as you do so, picture as clearly as you can what you have seen here today, and how you feel, at this very instant. Burn those thoughts into your hand-print.”

How I feel? Right now?

There's so much!

She was overwhelmed, mournful, aghast at what had come to pass, filled with wonderment, but also, powerful and alive. And some part of her felt as ancient at the bog itself.

She pressed her muck-coated hand against hemp, hearing herself whisper undefinable things as she did so.

The world around her ears was whining, with more than just the wings of insects, and the gravity holding her to the ground felt so much stronger than before; her knees, her shins, her ankles, seemed to have sprouted roots and tunnelled down into the earth itself, anchoring her to the spot.

She found herself dizzied and almost swooned, before steadying herself with both hands, instants before Lilith attempted the same.

“Are you all right?” Again, Lilith did not hide her concern, but neither did she stifle the excitement in her voice. The glee that wanted to burst out but was gauging the moment.

“I'm... I'm fine.”

Lilith's hands moved up to her shoulders, pulling Mary carefully backwards against her chest, resting her jaw in the curve of Mary's neck. “Thank me.”

“What?”

“It's important. Please.”

Mary frowned, trying to come up with something which matched that importance, a phrasing which would satisfy the requirements of the trial.

Spells are poetry. So I need to speak in verse.

After all these years, teaching and writing, it shouldn't be too difficult.

Humbly... in the manner of an acolyte.

Like in the journal of Lilith's coven.

“My humble eyes have ne'er before now seen
such wonders as you bring into the light...”

She heard Lilith's hum of surprise and smiled.

“I give my thanks to you, with all my being,
and trust that you'll escort me through the night.”

“Mary...”

“Is that okay?”

“It is.”

Those two simple words were barely standing under the weight upon them, and Mary let herself relax back into Lilith's embrace, hoping to further convey her trust, and her willingness.

She had been afraid, and she had felt ill, but as she rested against the firm scaffolding of the First Witch's body, she could feel the exhilaration that had underlain it all, crackling distantly in her brain, through her blood and lymph.

I can do this.

I can do it for you, and for myself.

It was a means to an end — a means to avoid an end — and supposedly every part of it relied on technicality.

And so perhaps this too was a game of make-believe.

Was she a bird of clay, gathered up from the dirt and given artificial wings by Lilith's potent hands? Only to crumble when time was no longer on their side. When the fantasy had run its course.

And if so, did that matter? If, for at least some of that time, she was able to soar.

“Lilith?”

“Yes, Mary?”

“Tell me what comes next.”

Chapter Text

From the crispness of the little zephyrs which nipped at her lower arms, and the cautious blue at the horizon, Mary would have placed the rocky desert at somewhere between five and seven in the morning; however, being as she had no idea where they were, and equally no expectation that Lilith would be forthcoming on the issue, it was perhaps pointless to assume even a loose frame of reference. All that she knew for absolute certain was that the natural wind-tunnels and gaping pits were far below the overhang, far below the thin, rigid tree around which her hand was clutching, so tightly that bark flaked loose against her palm.

Yet for all their elevation, she could still hear Lilith humming to herself, as she knelt on the dusty ground, putting fountain pen to thin, crinkling paper.

“Every word uttered by human and inhuman tongue alike lives in the air,” Lilith had said as they stood together on the precipice, the two of them having once again travelled through that dizzying nothingness. “The winds remember, and when appropriately entreated, they might share their truths with us.”

Mary had gone down onto her haunches, the cliff-face threatening to draw closer and trick her feet into the abyss. “They extrapolate from the data they have? From all the voices they've heard?” If she could only map these things onto some relatable logic, however strained, her head could remain clear.

“If you like,” Lilith had smiled, and Mary knew that a witch would see it differently.

“How would you say it?”

Lilith had pondered for a moment, as traces of the breeze played with her pristine mane, leading Mary to bring an anxious hand to smooth back her own, which was rebelling in the dryness.

“Across the ages, what is true remains true, its essence immutable. Your truths and mine have existed time and time again.”

Mary had recalled their recent conversation about the nature of Truth — how something need not be verifiable in order to ring true — when she had considered what terrifying future might slowly be growing in Lilith's womb, and how they were fooling Lucifer while telling him no lies. Was that a different kind of truth to that which these winds held?

Of all the tongues Lilith could surely speak, how many of them had multiple words for truth, and might distinguish between the factual and that which, to the soul, felt singularly apt?

It was easy to fall into abstraction in the thin air, with the umber landscape stretching out in all its sandy complexity, and Mary did not wish to meander off thus. With a moistening of lips, and a rubbing of steadily wearying eyes which she had allowed to gaze too long, she attempted to draw herself back into the physical world.

A world which was steadily growing lighter, at its hazy reaches.

Was it tomorrow yet, back at the cottage? With no concept of time, it was difficult to know how tired she ought to be, and moreover, how much of that fatigue might be of the spirit rather than flesh.

At least this time, I won't accidentally go too far.

Just a moment's glance behind her had Lilith quickly meeting her gaze, more vigilant than ever, even while absorbed in her task, and Mary had to wonder how much of that was due to the ordeal at large, and how much her mortal proximity to a sheer drop.

You'd never put us through that twice.

Eventually Lilith finished her writings and brought the page over, ushering Mary from the edge with a light touch to the upper arm.

“Forgive the delay; I have never encountered this spell in English and I have a feeling your Mandarin is less than fluent.”

“It wasn't an option at my university, no.”

“Well, you've more than enough time to learn,” Lilith assured her, with surprising confidence.

You must think me far more adroit of mind than I am, Lilith. Two and a half languages would seem to be my limit.

Though aloud she did not protest, only accepted the rice paper and examined the text: it was a far shorter piece than before, just a single stanza of four lines. Which made her wonder where the power would come from, given so few words with which to 'charm'.

“These winds are objective,” Lilith was saying, “and they can be very strict in their responses. It would be best to ask a question which allows a simple Yes or No. They will not predict the future for you, and like all ethereal spirits, they are impatient and capricious: do not irritate them, or they will disdain your request.”

“How do I avoid doing that?”

“Be honest. Let your thoughts flow unimpeded by doubt, and don't bore them with dilly-dally. Ask only that which your heart most demands to have answered.”

Yes, there were many questions that still clawed at her; so many that a brief meditation could fill pages and pages of her journal. They concerned not only her recent history, or the existence of witches and demons, but the larger certainties for which all mortal minds yearn.

But what if those questions were too vague, and her one chance to persuade the winds was wasted by aiming too high?

The present was where she resided, and should therefore be her focus — especially if, as Lilith had said, the spirits would not deign to predict the future.

Something pressing. Something decisive. Something about this path she willingly trod, and about the Elder who led her journey.

Knowledge which could soothe her heart, and bolster her dubious courage, should she receive an affirmative.

A tiny smile whisked over her lips as the question revealed itself, like a gift card waiting to be opened.

“I say this spell, and then ask my question? Over the edge?” she found herself whispering, as anticipation grew.

“You must sing it, in fact.”

“Sing?” The unexpectedness of it struck her in the belly, and she struggled to keep it from her face.

“Yes,” Lilith replied, her tone indicating that it should be obvious. “This is a Trial of Air, and the power found in breath and voice is at its most potent in song.” She placed two fingers upon her throat, and hummed against them, reminding Mary of all the times Lilith's voice had been her panacea. “Sing the spell, then speak your question into clasped hands, and set it free.”

“I don't usually, um...” Mary's eyes flitted through memories of her school's choir, of bright stage-lights tickling her skin as she hoped her pallor was not visible amongst so many others, “I don't usually sing in front of people.”

“You don't have an audience, Mary.”

“I just—”

“They're spirits. They're not judging your performance on its artistic merit.”

She frowned, tried to frown away the memories as well. “You're here, though. You're people.”

“I'm afraid I can't very well leave.”

“No, I know, of course not. And I don't want to be alone up here. But, does this even have a tune? Do I just... make it up as I go along?”

“Take a moment with it, and put the words to a tune that means something to you. I expect by now you'll have noticed how much our emotions can help or hinder the efficacy of a spell.”

Mary nodded and stared back at the paper; the ink upon it had not managed to dry without bleeding, the breeze having produced unintentional serifs. The spell's metre was no easy sonnet this time, but a mixed rhythm, a lilting thing, moving in surges.

'Wise and Wild Winds, I implore thee to heed
Words that my throat breathes forth
Take thee this song which flies from the heart
and pray grant me what it be worth'

“There's something you need to be prepared for,” Lilith began carefully, as if uncertain how much of a warning was appropriate, “the wording of the third line...”

“'Take thee this song'?” Her suspicion had already reared up at the line, as she was gradually learning how dangerous it was to make an offering of one's faculties.

“Yes.” Lilith bit her lip, glancing off to the right. “If your request is accepted, the winds will need a voice with which to reply, as they themselves are mute.”

“A-are they going to take mine?” Her insides tightened and she found herself folding forward.

“Temporarily. The sensation will be strange, but it will not harm you. And for the sake of calm, I would recommend you not try to speak in the interim.”

Mary breathed in the information and attempted to relax the encroaching panic in her chest, which would no doubt render any singing unlikely.

It won't hurt me.

I trust you.

She thought it over and over, until her heart felt reasonably at ease, then shifted her thoughts to which tune might fit the metre and tone of the spell. Nothing from her usual listening habits would fit the occasion — CCR, Dylan and Harrison offered much to her soul, but they did not belong up here — and so she cast her mind back to childhood, a time when songs were forthright and uncomplicated.

She needed a song of winds. Something which soared.

But the trouble was, her childhood home had largely been a silent one, any music reserved either for church, or for her father to administer, from his collection of orchestral and choral vinyls. It was not until she had begun to spend summers with her grandparents that she discovered how freely music might sweeten the air in one's home: her grandmother would croon to herself while cooking, dancing about the room as she moved from task to task; there was always something poised upon her thin lips, and she had enjoyed the folk music of her ancestry most of all. Some of these pieces were jigs, which made her kick up her leather-clad heels, and some were sombre ballads, reflecting the toil of generations of countrymen.

And rising over the clang of stirring spoons on pots, through the billowing steam and potpourri, she heard her grandmother's voice.

'Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on a wing...'

“'Words that my throat breathes forth',” Mary murmured, continuing the tune.

It fit, with some wiggle room.

She practised the rest in her head, not wanting to draw the attention of the spirits before intended.

At length, Lilith's voice sought her out, and Mary could hear the restlessness contained within. “Do you have it?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Then... may we proceed?”

Even as Mary nodded her readiness, the constriction returned to her chest, as well as that slight folding over, and she forcibly straightened her spine, wrenched her shoulders back from the urge to curl up and hide.

“Are you certain?” Lilith's impatience had been replaced by concern, and the protectiveness that rang out gave Mary what she needed.

“Yes.”

This is for both of us, she reminded herself. For our future.

So that they could go on spending time together in their witch's house, for as long as her mortal lifespan would allow.

She moved back towards the edge, kneeling down so that the chasm ahead would feel less hungry, then looked over her shoulder to see Lilith moving further away, out of respect for the privacy of Mary's question.

And truly, no matter what the answer, she was not sure that she would be able to share it with Lilith; part of it felt so self-indulgent, and even a little presumptuous, but she had to know. Even if it affected nothing in the tangible world, for her it would grant a beautiful certainty.

She lifted the page and hummed the full stanza to herself, and just like that, the air around her seemed to pause in its movements and stare. From all angles, she felt its invisible gaze, and off to her sides, little eddies picked up, lifting dried plant fragments and dirt.

They were waiting.

Listening.

She swallowed and hoped there would be more than a croak when she attempted that youthful soprano.

“'Wise and Wild Winds, I implore thee to heed'...”

The eddies slowed, and crept closer.

“'Words that my throat breathes forth.'”

The air grew hushed with expectation.

“'Take thee this song which flies from the heart'...”

Happily there was no catch in her voice at the portentous line.

“'...and pray grant me what it be worth'.”

Not stopping for mounting anxiety, she cupped her hands over her nose and mouth, and uttered her question. Then she pulled her hands into a fist, trapping the question between her palms, held it to her breast imploringly, then, with arms spread wide, flung it out into the ether.

For a moment, there was stillness, even the little flurries having entirely ceased.

Then, in the way of an aborted hiccough, her throat clenched, and was emptied. An unnatural void took up residence, the space no longer within the purview of her mortal realm.

Yes, she could breathe — she confirmed it hastily — there was no interruption there. And she could swallow, and feel the pressure of the altitude equalising between her ears.

'I would recommend you not try to speak in the interim.'

Of course she wouldn't, she had never been a masochist like that. Furthermore, she dreaded whether such an attempt would let loose the vacuum within, to swallow and negate whatever air it reached.

The absence did not hurt, but her chest did, its mechanisms unconvinced by what her brain knew, tightening and aching, and beginning to thud.

She placed her palms high on her thighs and let her fingers dig in, hoping the pain would be a distraction.

Her jaw whined and threatened to seize, and before she could stop herself, she cleared her throat.

No vibration. No hum. Only a cough of air past taut, fearful flesh.

An emptiness that wanted to grow bigger and choke her.

Yet, now that she thought about it... was this suffocating voicelessness really so unfamiliar? Had she not, far more than once, been its sole arbiter?

True, the doctors would have their own explanations, no matter what she told them, and without expensive brain scans, she could say nothing against their diagnosis of stress-induced mania, so casually described as a 'mental breakdown'. The only affordable route beyond that would have involved committing herself to state care, and knowing what she did about such places, she would rather have gone quietly insane at home, in front of her own hearth, amid the comforts of books and furniture.

She could have confided in the minister of her church — Reverend Hopkins had always leant a sympathetic ear over strongly brewed tea — but she had been so deeply ashamed of the darkness which seemed to lurk within her, and feared that a Man of the Cloth would see something the doctors had not. Something far more sinister than a nervous system run amok.

Much as she had fought to keep such thoughts from contemplation, she had been struck, on many a solitary night, by the terrifying certainty that her torment was not of this earth.

She had wanted to be a scientist above all else — when it came to her own brain and body — but her soul was the business of the Almighty, and should she have tainted it, in some demonic way that the Reverend would be able to perceive, then surely she would no longer be welcome in a House of God. Surely even such a kind man would have had to take drastic measures, to drive the wickedness from either her soul or his congregation.

And so she had said nothing and done nothing, merely excommunicated herself.

She could have spoken to sympathetic ears at work, to Ms Glover or Mrs Meeks — they had both of them seen the trembling behind her eyes whenever a stray thought disturbed her mind — but work held her final hope for stability, and sharing what was surely unhingement — beyond the acceptable reaches of chronic fatigue — would have jeopardised it beyond what she was willing to risk.

And then there had been dear Richard, the last of her friends still in Greendale. After university, most had grown tired of the small town and moved to more lively places, but he had found his niche as an entertainer early on, and worked to combine his popular culture fancies with something financially viable (something of which his doting but intense mother would approve). He had curated an intimate space of whimsy, where he and his patrons could enjoy the macabre, couched in playful theatricality.

No true horrors could exist in Dr Cerberus's domain, and because of that, she was unable to bring herself (filled to the brim with infernal visions, flesh clammy with vexation) to confide in him. That which twisted within her was far too real.

And so she had left it all unspoken. All the while still hoping that someone would see the desperation in her eyes and drag it out of her.

It had spilled out at times, there was no way it could not, sneaking out when she meant to say something normal and forcing her to make many a mortified exit. Worse was when it happened while teaching a class, and she would have to find some feasible reason for her words, call them a metaphor or even fabricate a quotation, at her most disingenuous.

She had only opened up with full honesty to one person — or at least, had begun to — unfurling her nightmares, her belief that her soul had received the ultimate punishment. And that confession had yielded only the briefest reprieve; more fool she, for trusting...

Each tear was a hatchling turtle, attempting to reach the ocean of her lips down the sharp curve of her cheek, but the rising winds picked off each one swiftly, quick and pitiless as gulls. And so it was dry-faced that Lilith found her, likely having grown tired of the lack of communication, beyond just an absence of voice.

She knelt beside her, skilled eyes certainly taking in Mary's every tell, though she offered no comment on them.

“It won't be long now.”

It's already been far too long.

“And then you'll have your answer.”

Mary turned to her at that, and examined the abstracted profile.

My answer.

Lilith, if only I'd known you sooner.

The things I would have asked you.

Why did it have to take this much pain to bring us together?

And why was she thinking about it now, upon this desert cliff-side, unknown leagues from home, when for so many weeks she had thought herself stronger? When she had dared to think herself, if not healed, then well on her way to being mended. The peace and the activity, then more peace, then more activity, the focus on her tasks for Lilith, it had given her the structure — and distraction — that she had needed.

But suddenly, with the want of her own voice, the silence that had always surrounded her was greater than ever before, gaping more even than the landscape below.

The emptiness in her throat was connected to an emptiness of the breast, and a hollowed out gut.

Don't do this now.

The pressure increased, threatening her organs.

Not here, where she's counting on you. You can fall apart later, if it's so vital you do so.

“Sometimes, you remind me of magnolia,” came the wistful voice.

Mary tilted her head in confusion, stared until Lilith's developing gaze of nostalgia made sense.

No. Not magnolia, but Magnolia.

Her heart dipped, further than it should have.

You knew?

Lilith nodded. “You did a dismal job of hiding it from me, I'm afraid.”

Then, before Mary could begin gesturing apologies, she continued.

“It's that look of earnestness you get, when you insist on suffering in silence.”

But I can't—

“This circumstance notwithstanding. She too would clamp down on her jaw and glare fiercely at herself. At her own imagined deficiency.”

Have I not proven my deficiency, on any number of occasions?

Lilith tutted disapprovingly at what Mary's face betrayed.

“And almost always...” she followed the movements of Mary's hair, as the wind again began to rise “...it was out of fear of disappointing me.”

I can understand why. In her position, there must have been such crushing responsibility. Your entire coven was—

Whipping curls caught Mary's eyes past her glasses and she flinched, brought her hands up to take the lashings instead. With the sound of the wind batting at her ears, and unable to continue reading Lilith's lips for clarity, her isolation was, all at once, doubly intensified.

Magnolia...

The woman who gave her life to preserve her starving sisters.

I could never do something like that.

I could never offer myself up as meat, even if it would save lives. I'd search for another way.

There had to have been one. Something less obscene.

And while I searched for a more desirable option, innocent women would die. Lilith, you shouldn't compare me to someone so selfless. Nothing I've done could come close.

The winds lessened from one direction, and Mary knew that Lilith was blocking it with her body, felt her shoulder nudging close, and felt guilty that she was once again demanding the First Witch's physical and emotional support, two for two within these trials.

“I could never be disappointed, of course,” Lilith's voice came close to her ear, low and heavy with memory. “How could I, in the face of so much devotion?”

Mary nodded, keeping her eyes clenched tight against the ever-rising gusts. Forgetting her situation for just a moment, she attempted a note of understanding high in her throat, and when the predictably empty puff escaped her nostrils, her chest tensed for an involuntary moan that wouldn't form, and she removed one hand to press against her middle, and ward off further foolishness. She could not guess whether any of her reactions had been subtle enough to escape Lilith's notice, and she dared not hope.

She worshipped you with all her soul. I'm glad you had someone like that, even just for a while.

“You don't see it, do you?” Lilith asked, her humour tinged with melancholy.

Only a heartbeat passed before Mary allowed herself a shame-filled shake of the head.

“Of course you don't.” Then she paused, just long enough that Mary considered risking her vision. “But she was a witch from birth, Mary. From the cradle she suckled on magic, and by adolescence she had comprehended all the ways of the hidden world. She accepted her duties knowingly, prepared for them her entire life.”

A lifetime of magic...

It felt different this time, to picture a child engaging with all manner of witchcraft, in both study and play. Once, the idea had appalled her: 'too young, too soon', she had worried, 'too much darkness for a child'. But it didn't sound like darkness now; it sounded like a blessing.

So much knowledge, at her fingertips. So much understanding.

For a fledgling witch, there could be no question too taboo, no enforced ignorance, no guilt in curiosity.

How she envied Magnolia, in that moment; the witch as a child, an adolescent, and a woman, wiser every year, while plain old Mary Wardwell—

“But not you, though.”

No.

“You've sought it all on your own, haven't you?”

What?

“Everything that's brought you here, all the way up to these cliffs, has been through dogged effort. And you're still seeking, even now. Tearing yourself apart inside, with the need to understand it all.”

Lilith...

“And rather than devote your entire life to enlightenment, you've given irreplaceable years to leading others to their own understanding.”

How do you...

The winds had become a gale, and soon sand particles and leaf matter were buffeting her arms and face. She snarled, turned her head and tried to find an angle of immunity, but the gusts seemed to be chasing her down from all directions.

Though the growl in her throat was silent, she scarcely cared, too busy batting at the air, and close to standing to flee it all.

Stop it! Leave me alone!

Then, as if in a targeted insult, a sizeable leaf hit her square in the face, stinging her lips. Angrily she grabbed at it, and glowered with squinting eyes.

“That's it,” Lilith told her. “It's returned.”

Perplexed, Mary examined the veins of the five-lobed, sharply serrated leaf: faintly, light was rushing through them, even as the leaf itself was crisp and wizened.

She turned questioning eyes to Lilith and received a look of some urgency.

“Put it in your mouth,” Lilith commanded. And with that, she stood and walked away, knelt back down in her earlier position.

In my mouth?

There was no sense delaying the necessary, and so she folded the shape into a parcel and placed it on her tongue, its dryness immediately absorbing the moisture and forcing a need to chew. The thing crunched easily between her molars, coming apart into hundreds of dessicated fragments; it tasted of the desert and Mary wondered whether she would have to swallow the mulch of it, when the pieces began to fizz, like bicarbonate of soda, and a gagging impulse warped her throat, caused her to spit the mouthful into her palms.

She choked, and her gullet fizzed, and she coughed, and it was full of sound.

From deep in her lungs, a word was climbing up, and through her panting, it escaped:

“Yes.”

She stared at the mess in her hands, unblinking, until her eyes welled up and kept on welling.

Yes.

“Oh thank God,” she whispered, and only spared herself the smallest scolding in her elation.

“Yes,” she said more decisively, adoring the sound of her voice.

The fabric swatch of white silk gossamer was placed before her and, without having to be told, she smeared the contents of her palms upon it, left hand then right. Then she allowed herself to be lost in weeping, knowing Lilith would be patient with her as the relief shuddered throughout her body, and her exhausted heart swelled with certainty.

There was a whistling in her ears, even though the winds had abruptly fled, and the inside of her skull felt like an amphitheatre, primed for oration.

Eventually, the sound resolved itself into Lilith's uncreased voice and Mary blinked her eyes clear.

“You're pleased with your answer.”

“I am,” she breathed, hearing how close to the surface her delight bubbled.

“Good. Then I think it's time we returned to the cottage.”

Mary frowned, surprised and a little unwilling. “Why? There's so much more to do! Isn't there?”

Lilith's wry expression displayed how much she saw that Mary could not. “And time enough for it. But you need to rest.”

“I'm fine! Honestly, I'm sure I can keep going.” Powered by giddiness, she wondered at which element might come next.

“You think that now,” Lilith said firmly, “but your energy is depleted, and you'll fall before you complete a further challenge.” She stood once more and held out her hand. “Come. We're leaving.”

Obediently, Mary followed suit and found that her legs were alarmingly unsteady, immediately took the proffered support, which earned her an affectionate smirk.

Then Mary remembered what had come before, and sought some fitting poetry from the keening pathways of her mind.

“I... offer up my thanks for your— ”

“That will do,” Lilith interrupted, and looped an arm around Mary's waist, holding her close as the world blurred around them, leaving only settling sand in their wake, and a new memory imprinted on the air.

'Am I making a difference?'

Chapter Text

Lilith paused, arms akimbo, staring into the small, ornate mirror which hung at the entrance to the cottage, as unheeded minutes ticked by. After Mary's dismayed flight to the bathroom, upon catching sight of her hair, Lilith had been left clutching the house keys, as well as a fistful of far weightier feelings; the experiences of the past few hours would live in her heart for centuries, she was certain of it, and the thought that the two of them were not even halfway through the endeavour was enough to prompt a momentary shortness of breath.

Examining her appearance after its exposure to the elements, and the exhilaration which lived tentatively in her eyes, she was struck by her own beauty — their beauty, of course, its exquisite foundations were not hers of which to boast — but more than that, it was a beauty she so seldom witnessed, in whichever inhabited form, because it was the beauty of a spirit enlivened, one which was hopeful and, most implausibly, loved.

There was much to fear, and enjoying this state of mind should have stirred more trepidation than it did, but come what may, she would gain nothing by second-guessing their course, and for her part, Mary showed no signs of doing so. Indeed the mortal struggled, against past assumptions and predictable human superstition, but she was driven to overcome those things; slowing down might break her stride and cause her momentum to stumble, Lilith could see the fear of it a mile away, and it was her responsibility as the rite's Elder to overrule any ill-conceived stubbornness.

She placed a fingertip over the webs of lines beneath her eyes, which had been irritated by the desert air, traced up a flushed cheekbone, and lightly ran a nail down to her lips, where her lipstick had first melted at the marsh, then cracked at the cliff-side: these were proofs of time in the wilds, away from shuttered spaces and anxious, down-cast gazes; surreptitious markers of her little victories; marks to be savoured.

Still, a glass of water and her own turn in the shower wouldn't be the worst things, and so she headed for the kitchen; she had not made it past the dining table, however, before her footsteps halted, her mind snagged on the matter of another set of matching faces, those with entirely identical anatomies lurking beneath their churlish skins.

It was not a case of there being an original and a masterful facsimile thereof, Lilith had all but cemented that before her return to the cottage. Sitting in their secluded alcove of the Infernal Library, she had allowed Sabrina some time to pore over her lessons, before setting her innocent snare:

“It would seem to me, your Majesty,” she had said with artful spontaneity, “that you have been increasingly dedicated to your studies of late. Perhaps you've earned yourself some time off. A chance to re-connect with the people you've so bemoaned not being able to see.”

“What do you mean?”

She had lifted her eyes from complex personal geometries. “Why, your aunts and cousin, of course. I believe I can organise a weekend in the mortal realm for you, I need only supply the Dark Lord with proof of your studiousness.”

The girl had blanched, and scrambled for words. “Oh, Lilith, no, that's really super thoughtful of you, and yeah, I have been working really hard. But being the Queen of Hell is serious, you've made that really clear, and I'm not just gonna knock off the first chance I get. I have my duties to focus on.”

“Nonsense! Even as monarch, you're still a child, and you have every right to see the people who raised you and cared for you.”

“What if my father gets angry at the request, though? I don't want to put you in that position.”

That may have been the first time I've ever heard you express direct concern for my well-being; of course it would be in the service of deceiving me.

“He's always angry with me for some reason or other, Sabrina,” she brushed it off, with humour that was less than skin-deep, “it's unlikely to make very much difference.”

Sabrina had lowered her eyes to her books, apparently saddened by Lilith's words, if only fleetingly. “Look. I made my decision to leave it all behind and be strong. Even if it hurts, I can't—”

“Can't you?”

“If I let myself weaken, I'll regret it.”

“Will you indeed.”

“I'm...” she had sighed aggressively, “I just know that if I spend any amount of time in my old life, it'll be impossible to leave again.”

The performance held an element of truth, certainly, but she had wanted to push the girl just a little bit further, to be sure.

And just because she could.

“I don't suppose,” she had gazed up at the tallest shelves, airily gestured a hand, “that the shameful secret you're still intent on keeping from them could have anything to do with your reticence, now could it?”

The reminder was no surprise, but it was clearly unwelcome. “I mean, obviously there's that. But they're not going to find out about it, because we've got a deal, right?”

Sabrina's poorly restrained anxiety had brought a smirk to her lips, and she had not cared for its interpretation.

“Our deal. Yes, of course. Though, if you'll forgive me in my advanced age, would you kindly refresh my memory, on the precise details of our agreement?”

The girl had furrowed her brow, hackles beginning to rise. “You don't tell them what I did, and I promise to stay away from Ms Wardwell, outside of school hours.”

“Because?”

“Because you've laid claim to her.”

“And why?”

Sabrina's urge to stomp a foot in frustration had been all too evident. “For some kind of ritual magic. Lilith, come on, you know you didn't tell me everything about your plans, stop messing with me.”

But why deprive myself of the simple pleasures in life?

“Oh, of course, that's what it was. I really should take the time to follow through on that plan, shouldn't I? My life isn't getting any shorter.”

“Sure.”

“And that would be the only information you'd like me to keep from them? The fact of your nearly murdering one of the pillars of Greendale's community, by wanton neglect?”

“Yeah? What else would I have to hide? Plus, do you really have to put it that way? It was an accident. I told you I didn't mean for her to die.”

“An accident is spilled milk, Sabrina.”

“Well, she's fine, isn't she? And she won't even remember what happened, you said so yourself!”

“I did. Once again, cleaning up after your carelessness.”

“I said I was sorry.”

To the depths of your soul, I'm sure.

“Well then. I suppose there's no more cause to mention it.”

Lilith's sight returned to the cottage and she found herself glaring dryly down at the dining table, and at her own stiff arms: she had made it about as close to the kitchen as she had to peace of mind. But soon she would absolutely find a way to steer it all to her advantage; as a knower of such secrets, she had gained a powerful card to play.

The sounds of showering had ended and she was tempted to enter the bathroom, to offer a towel and distract herself in more immediate conversation, but she knew it would be unfair to use Mary thus, and so she dismissed the urge and strode purposefully into the kitchen, fetched a glass of water, and brought it to the bedroom, placing it beside the onyx summoning bowl and herself at the foot of the bed.

When Mary entered, hair gently patted dry and dressed in her robe, she gave a little startle at Lilith's silent presence, but not a scolding, instead smiling demurely and sitting down at her dressing table. It was understandable that the woman would be scant on words, after the experiences she had endured; it could not have escaped Lilith's notice how inwardly taxing the trials had been, despite Mary's efforts to restrain herself for Lilith's benefit. Which ultimately — Lilith's sympathy aside — was correct for a prospective in Mary's position.

Her back to Lilith, Mary occasionally snuck glances in the mirror, but mostly busied herself in the neat sectioning and combing out of her fountain of dark brown hair (wherein, with the aid of direct sun, Lilith had picked out interspersed strands of blonde and silver). It was pleasurable to watch for a while, but eventually Lilith's fingers grew covetous for touch and she did not fight the impulse, only made her intention clear in a telegraphed approach and readying of the hands. In response, Mary obligingly bowed her head, baring her still damp locks for Lilith's attentions.

She threaded her fingers gracefully through the already-combed sections — noting with satisfaction the silkiness which could only come from Mary finally utilizing her gifted toiletries — and appreciated the weight of them, how the curls were already taking form as they lay cupped in her palm.

Mary's eyes were closed, her bowed face neutral against sensation, but soon her brows drew together as Lilith worked deeper, combing her hair at the crown, and a contented sigh escaped her nose.

“Let me braid it,” Lilith said, the thought reaching her voice without warning.

“It's too wet,” Mary barely murmured.

“For now.”

While Lilith seldom used magic in the styling of her hair, rather relishing the slow process of it, there were some simple elemental tricks which could make for a sleek, streamlined result. And perhaps now would be the time to share them with Mary, as something of a reward for the hardships of the day.

Whispers came alive in Lilith's mind, in communication with the water clinging to Mary's locks, and she took light hold of a section at the roots, placed it between flattened palms; gradually, her mind's eye seeing at preternatural magnification the bonding of water to keratin, she drew her hands down until they reached curling tips. Noting her success, she claimed another section and worked it smooth, while tiny plumes of vapour escaped past her fingers.

An interested sound from Mary brought Lilith to meet her reflected gaze.

“What are you doing?”

In reply, Lilith passed the straightened sections over Mary's shoulder, where they were examined with delight.

“I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

Mary snorted, smiled down at her hands. “That you were cheating.”

“I was not.”

“But you did do this for yourself.”

Lilith drew fingertips through the hair at Mary's temple to gather it up, earning another sigh of pleasure.

“Occasionally. When time was of the essence.”

Mary sat in silence for a while, her face appreciating every sensual rearrangement of her tresses, until eventually:

“Has anyone ever done this...” her head lolled to the side as Lilith moved to the other temple. “For you? For your hair?”

“Braided it?”

“Yes.”

She cast her mind back, over centuries of interactions and unintended vulnerability. “Perhaps once or twice.”

“Did you like it?”

Another pause for consideration, leading to an unfortunate dimming of the heart. “No.”

Mary frowned her concern. “Why not?”

Lilith's sigh was long and stretched thin with procrastination. “All my life... I have kept my hair long, and as luxurious as I could manage it, regardless of the face I wore.”

“That makes sense.”

“Does it?” she raised an intrigued brow.

“I think so. You obviously put a lot of effort into it.”

“I do. And it feels...” her face slid into stoicism as she worked to put it all into words, “special. Something I possess that eclipses all others.”

Mary frowned, clearly searching through many pages of recall before slowly reciting: “'Beware the lure within her lovely tresses... the splendid sole adornment of her hair.'”

Tickled, the corners of Lilith's mouth twitched. “'When the pretty witch winds it tightly around young men, she doesn't soon let go.' My, you really have built a library of my odes, haven't you?”

“It wasn't difficult. There's far less than there rightfully should be.” Then Mary beamed, as another piece of literature returned to her, charming on her tongue: “'Her enchanted hair was the first gold.'”

There you go again, with your fascination of that which gleams golden. Whatever gave it to you, I wonder. Could that be what you felt, when in desperation I forced my spirit into yours?

“I see you're familiar with more than one Dante.” It was unsurprising that the sensitive, sonnet-writing poet should appeal to Mary's proclivities. “The English are so easily captivated by red hair.”

“They did all paint you as quite vain, though.”

“Indeed I was. And I am no less so today.”

Mary had opinions on that, plain on her face, but she kept them to herself.

“Which... was always to Lucifer's liking.” She would have liked to keep their conversation to the impersonal level of literature, but Mary's 'why not?' yet hung in the air, and she could not put if off indefinitely.

“Oh, was it?” Not missing her sudden reticence, Mary too had grown cautious.

“Yes, he is a great proponent of narcissism— in no small part because the False God disapproves — and it pleased him that I should maintain a rich, womanly mane, no matter what dreadful degradation my body might endure. It spoke of my dedication, you see. My loyalty to satisfying the hunger in his gaze, without fail. And so, one might say that our desires coincided, in that one superficial way.”

With muted alarm, Lilith realised that her chest had been steadily tightening as she spoke, reacting to that which her mind preferred to keep buried. Pointedly, she increased her focus on the task at hand, hoping to conceal the affliction.

“But with his approval came the... regrettable assumption of... of a certain physical entitlement. And, unfortunately for me,” she blinked into the shadows cast upon Mary's neck, “he has not been the only man to feel that way. However much I might—”

Vicious tactile memory seized her scalp and her hands froze.

No. Don't you dare.

Her fingers stiffened, such that Mary winced and turned to meet her eyes directly.

“What's wrong?”

A great wrongness.

Filled with tugging.

Wrenching.

Her heartbeat hit the ground scrambling, knocking the breath from her. “Please, just a moment... my...”

Hurling.

And an unavoidable uprooting.

“Lilith?” Mary's fingers reached hers atop the crown and interlaced them.

Nausea threatening, Lilith shook her head, and found just enough air to downplay that which assailed her vision alone.

“I'm sorry, it just... doesn't bring up the most... pleasant memories.”

Mary said nothing, only guided Lilith's hand down until it lay against her cheek, the heat radiating from the mortal's flesh starkly contrasting with how cold her own had become.

“At times,” Lilith shuddered, through a reality which was attempting to subsume the present, “I've considered cutting it all off. Short enough that—”

No ease to grab.

No convenient anchor.

“You shouldn't have to,” Mary whispered, moving her face against Lilith's hand.

“I know. And I won't. I won't let that be decided for me.”

Mary nodded, and brought up another hand to cradle Lilith's, brushed it lightly with her lips. And when she spoke, her breath tickled Lilith's palm.

“Maybe... that is, if you'd let me, then maybe sometime I could...”

From you?

The instant reaction from her heart was blind-siding, with its immense ache to accept, no matter how sharply her survival instincts might recoil at the thought.

The hands of Mary Wardwell were unlike any she had encountered, in how plainly they spoke, how vastly they cared.

“I don't know,” she admitted, as the trembling in her breast showed mercy and began to ebb.

But I do wish to know.

“All right.”

“Perhaps. I don't think I can make any promises.”

“It's fine,” Mary insisted, her voice now muffled by its proximity to Lilith's palm. “Just know that the offer is there.”

“Thank you.” Those words weren't sufficient, but she was at a loss for any which could be.

Mary smiled against her skin then parted their hands, rolled her neck so that her hair slid back into place; the invitation was clear, and Lilith immediately returned to the task, willing the sensation to banish the last violent strains of memory, via her fingertips to the roots of her mind.

This communion of the senses was their living present, and the past could only grow more meaningless with each ineffable touch.

Having attractively secured Mary's hair into a braid that might, on an overzealous turn of the head, serve as quite the effective flail, Lilith had followed the needs of the mortal's flagging energy and joined her on the bed, where they both lay on their backs, atop the sheets.

Where Mary's mind wandered, while her eyes examined the ceiling and her fingers flexed against her chest, Lilith could not guess, but her own trajectory was firmly set, on the matter of the continuing trials. Ordeals of fire and water were interchangeable in order, but so diametrically opposed that she did not feel comfortable visiting both in an evening; mud and wind were indifferent to each other's passage, but to singe then freeze, or chill and burn... it was more than she was willing to inflict.

There should be some days in-between, and by necessity, one would be taken by the classroom, in just a few short hours. Therefore it would be wise to urge Mary to food and bed, before another sleepless night slipped by, from which only one would emerge unscathed.

A glance over at Mary's calculating face, though, revealed that she was still very much occupied, and so Lilith returned to her own nagging concerns.

Water and then fire. Or fire and then water, it was ultimately inconsequential. But when she considered the trial of void, her stomach tightened: it was enormously risky, even for a well-versed witch, and though she had not seen the effects personally, Lilith had heard many a tale of witches who attempted the journey and ended up trapped in the most grotesque of ways, if they emerged at all, and dying of panic or suffocation or organ failure when they did not.

Not so for Lilith. For her it was, if not easy, at least sufficiently rote. Her spirit was familiar with the gape of it, and the period during which one's body was naught but a theory. And while it was seldom possible to perform a pin-point exit on extended journeys, across short distances she was as deft as with the sacrificial blade.

Mary would be under her supervision and as such should be fine, but the weight borne by that 'should' was significant, when she could not account for Mary's personal reaction to it all. There was nothing humanly comparable. Even death would not have prepared her.

As if interrupting to insist that it was still very much alive, Mary's body betrayed a creak of hunger, and its owner curled her lip.

“Sorry.”

“Should you not bend to its demands?”

“I will. But give me a moment?”

Lilith nodded and turned her head, to gaze right back into her plans.

Of course, they needn't make the journey twice; she could translocate them both as soon as Mary's hand was laid to fabric. But that left the most looming trial of all, and Lilith still dug her heels deep into her mental mire whenever the thought reared up.

It was inescapable, the texts were very clear on that point, and she would take no more liberties with magical negotiation than she already had. Mary would undoubtedly accept the challenge head on, clothed in sweet ignorance of what she might find, and it would take incredible concentration on Lilith's part to shield her from the worst of it.

No tender soul should be made to venture there, least of all you.

Again the protestation from Mary's body, more demanding this time, and Lilith turned raised brows towards her.

“Oh fine. You're right, I'll go, only...” She sighed, and a scowl shifted her glasses. “There's something I can't seem to stop thinking about.”

“Which is?”

“What if you didn't come?” Mary's face was pained as she re-lived the memory. “What if you didn't find me?”

“I thought we were rather clear on that point.”

“No, I mean, what if someone else had found me? A policeman or... or some other witch. Or anybody at all really. Someone who couldn't offer me anything that would make a difference to my life.”

“Someone who would have left you just as you were.”

“Yes. Just where I was: lost, afraid and confused. And, Lilith...” she drew her arms up, folded them tightly against her chest, “the way I was feeling... I would have believed anything, if it seemed like a good enough answer. Anything that could have put a name to what I was going through, and explain why it was all so suddenly different and strange. And terrifying.”

“There will never be enough mea culpas, Mary...”

But she was not looking for apologies, only stared further into a far worse, potential future.

“You told me I let the Devil into my house, but.... what if I had eventually let him into my heart too? What if his lies sounded like reason?”

“They usually do.”

Mary's brow was furrowed deep, her voice flattened by grim fantasy. “And I can't stop thinking how I could have simply... lost myself entirely. I don't think you can imagine how close I was. Why, I'm not even sure I knew, back then.”

“But that's not what happened.”

“No.” She continued to stare at the ceiling, unblinking. “You happened.”

“By sheer luck.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“No longer?”

“That part never mattered.”

“That's not true.”

“The reason you came doesn't change the effects of your coming.”

“Well. That is true.”

“And so I really thank—”

She stopped herself, and the pit of Lilith's stomach soured as she filled in the missing words — 'I thank God that you came' — and tried to take them in the spirit they were intended.

“Thank mere happenstance,” she suggested.

“All right, happenstance. Or Fate.”

“Or Predestination?”*

“That's a little on the nose, don't you think?”

Somehow, through the haze of the moment, she had teased Mary and been teased back. Her chest constricted, once again threatening to be too narrow for the size of her feelings. As though it might rupture at any minute.

“Perhaps. But the fact remains, you have retained yourself. Despite the odds.”

“And now I'm finally doing something with it. With my Self.”

“'Finally'? What of the children?”

“That's all really small, isn't it?”

“You don't believe that.”

“And yet I feel like I should.” She rolled her head to gain eye contact, and her blue eyes were rinsed to grey.

Ah, so that is what's happening to you.

But it was unavoidable.

“Why should you?”

“Because of this... all of this, with you and I. Would it be arrogant, to say that not just anyone could do what I'm doing?”

“No, I would say that's an accurate assessment.” Never could I have foreseen the abundance which is you.

“Whereas, honestly, any competent educator could replace me at Baxter High. It's not exactly a prestigious post.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“And... up on the cliff-side? Earlier?”

The lustre continued to fade from Mary's eyes, the withdrawal from the highs of borrowed life-force, the emptiness left by faded magic, all too evident in her melancholia.

I'm sorry. You'll have to go through this for a while yet. But after that, after the trials are over...

“What about it?”

Mary stared for a while, her gaze shifting all around Lilith's body and her own, then reconsidered and slowly shook her head, rolling to properly align their faces. “I'm just glad, to know what I know. And that this is where I've ended up.”

“Right here?”

“Right here.” Weariness dragged down her lids, and fluttering did little to lift them.

All right, food can wait a few more hours.

“You should sleep.”

But she needn't have said anything, because Mary had already departed. And this time, Lilith decided, there was no more fitting thing for a First Witch to do, than remain, and be soothed by the sweet cadence of beloved breath.

Chapter Text

A few serene hours passed before Mary's sleep became fretful, rousing Lilith from her miles of reverie. At first, there were hasty breaths, which grew tighter into strangled gasps; then there was a clenching of the fists, a curling of the body, and a drawing up of the knees, such that her shins met with Lilith's hips.

Before the mortal's whimpering could crest and wrench her awake, Lilith placed her lips to Mary's forehead, humming a kiss that travelled down through sinews aching with loss, and into a skeleton that shook with forbidden knowledge. The effect was not instant, but it was there, slowly ebbing the tension throughout Mary's body and mind, while Lilith moved in closer to nestle the cage of that mind against her breast.

In Mary's distress Lilith had seen herself, beyond just their matching forms, and had tended to it in a way which had never once been done for her. It was so easy, so simple, to soothe a nightmare — rather than being its source — and she could not help but hope (again, that precarious, gleaming hope) that perhaps she too, one day, when they had triumphed and Lucifer no longer cast such a dread shadow over their futures—

“Thank you.”

More sigh than words.

“Are you awake?” Lilith whispered; but the woman was not, if she had been at all. And on the bedside table, the little brass alarm clock showed no interest in pausing its countdown.

It's too soon. You need more time.

Would it be a betrayal, the idea which suddenly came to her? If Mary found out, would she see it as manipulative, or controlling? Or would she recognise the sense in it?

Either way, Lilith did not restrain the magic as it flowed reflexively from her fingertips, halting time within the piece, if not the room at large.

Now she would be the keeper of time, and judge the morning as she saw fit.

The birds made useful measurement as further hours passed, their songs' changing pitch aligning with the sun, and Lilith waited a final spree of notes before carefully nudging Mary from sleep.

“Lilith?”

“Mary.”

“You stayed here all night?”

“I did.”

“Is that really okay? Won't...” she cut off a yawn, “won't you have been missed?”

“It's my risk to take,” she said with calm assurance that did not run especially deep.

Mary rolled up onto an elbow, tilting her head quizzically. “What time is it?” There were other questions in her tone, but that was the least complicated.

“Time that you should get to the shower, I think. I'll brew the tea.”

“But my alarm didn't go off?” she blinked at the brightness beyond lace curtains.

“It did not,” she replied truthfully.

“That's odd. It was fine yesterday.”

“Take your shower,” Lilith urged. “I promise you won't be late for work.”

How easily that word slipped off her tongue these days. In that human way, wherein a promise was not a set of weighted shackles but a kindness so light as to risk being completely vacuous. She had never made a promise that she did not feel with her entire being, and thus seldom made them at all. If she were to begin peppering her speech with promises — nothing more than seasoning to bend a will — could it still be called a promise?

But then...

It could never be hollow, if intended for you.

She laughed at herself, thick with mocking, and the sound confused Mary.

“What's so funny?”

“The inane ramblings of my mind. Please think nothing of it.”

“You really are strange,” she replied and gradually obeyed Lilith's instruction, fetching her robe from its hanger with limited sight, “but I'm glad you stayed.”

She withdrew the full length of her braid from the robe and pulled it over one shoulder, examined it with a quiet smile. Momentarily, a frown came across her brow, and Lilith was certain that it was sympathy, for the things she had revealed while styling Mary's tresses. But the woman was not one to poke at old wounds and she shook it off, nodding decisively.

“I'll see you in the kitchen.”

Once she had set the tea steeping, Lilith investigated the contents of the refrigerator, noting with affectionate recall the little plastic-covered bowl of leftover harira which Mary would likely never touch. As such, it was only good sense that Lilith should see to it, and so she withdrew it and a tray of sharp cheddar, before moving to the breadbox, toaster and preserves. Mary's body may have given up on ever receiving nutrients again, staying silent all through her slumber, but Lilith had not missed hunger's markers upon her, and had no interest in leaving Mary to neglect her health, especially during this period wherein her physical resilience would be tested.

Mary's food prepared and their mugs on the table, Lilith sat on the counter by the window, eating harissa-spiced chicken from the bowl with her fingers. And, given the boon of her sturdy braid, it was not much longer before Mary joined her, immaculately dressed in lavender and tweed. She had again draped her hair over one shoulder, absent-mindedly stroking its length as though a beloved serpent.

“I'm going to have so many compliments about this, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.”

“Are you afraid of the attention?”

“Some part of me is. But I'm also a bit excited, to be honest.”

“Why is that?” Lilith probed, the corners of her mouth flicking up.

“I don't know, maybe because it's sort of... my own little secret? That is, they don't know who made it, and they'll assume I did, but I know something they don't. And for once, it's actually something good.”

To be the 'something good' which glimmers in the back of someone's mind, what a ridiculous notion.

Yet one with which she was becoming more and more comfortable.

Lilith licked her fingers and rinsed them in the sink, then joined Mary at the table, receiving a smile of thanks for the tea, and another for the proffered food. But Mary was still considering her question, and after the first sip, Lilith noted an almost imperceptible drop in her spirits.

“What now?” she nudged.

“Oh.” Witnessed in her introspection, she was awkward. “It's just... I was thinking that it would also make quite the change.”

“How so?”

“Usually...” she shrugged, but kept on with it. “I don't know, it's just unusual that anyone would pay attention to anything about me. That is, unless they have something especially to gain by it.”

Lilith considered the manner of Mary's dress, the way she spoke, the way her body language had a tendency to keep her small. “Is that not by design?”

“A little. But it's also something I think I've subconsciously taught myself to do, in order to avoid, well...” she shrugged again.

“Yes?”

“Just... things. Conversations. It's fine.” After a third and final shrug, she made herself brighten and met Lilith's eyes. “They're all going from day to day, living their normal lives, but sometimes, when I go home, the First Woman ever created is waiting for me. Waiting to teach me incredible things. So really, they've got all their preconceptions about my life, but they don't know me at all.”

“And is that really all that new?” Not that Lilith's voice displayed it, but Mary's words had placed a powerful thrashing, like the broad wings of a heron taking flight, within the confines of her breast.

Mary smiled into her tea, sniffed her touché of a response.

Lilith let them sit in the stillness, one so rare and valuable, until Mary had made decent headway. Then, with some effort made towards tonal delicacy:

“You'll need to tell me where you found it, of course.”

Mary made a questioning sound, then paused with the mug against her lips as realisation crept in.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She lowered the mug. “I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to hide it from you. Or, I didn't mean to. But the fact is, it was embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Of all the words which could be used for such a text, Lilith would not have predicted that one.

“For me to have it. To be brazenly looking through something so special and personal, without permission.”

“You could hardly have gotten their permission, Mary. They're all long gone.” Far longer and far younger than they should have been.

“I could have gotten yours. But I really didn't know what I was holding, before it was too late. And then I just,” she sighed, unable to defend herself, “I couldn't put it down.”

“I expect you'd never read anything of the sort.”

“Not at all. The closest I've ever come have been some hundred year old diaries collected in the town archives, which talk of unnatural creatures in the woods and mysterious spirits appearing in their homes. But those are generally assumed to be the whimsy of the town's superstitious ancestors. And, true or not, they're all from a mortal perspective.”

“And so, how did you procure such a rare piece of history?”

Mary glanced away, down at her tea, then back to Lilith's hairline. “My friend, who runs the occult-themed café and bookstore in town.”

Lilith raised her brows in disbelief. “How could that kitsch vaudevillian have access to a book like this?”

“Oh, not him personally. Although, to be frank, people underestimate him, because of his temperament; they think he's just some silly actor. But the truth is, he's always been genuinely curious about otherworldly things, just like me. And he's in a much better financial position to pursue those interests.”

“Then I apologise for my assumption. But how, then, did he lead you to such a text?”

“When I went looking for literature, to, to help me learn more about you, without forcing you to sit with me for hours on end, answering questions when I didn't even have much of a knowledge base to start with... well, I needed to go somewhere that wouldn't try to sell me broad encyclopedias of myth, or New Age books that made up their own stories to suit themselves. So I asked Richard for one of his contacts.”

“A dealer of mystical rarities.”

“Yes. A woman, with a store, not all that far from here.”

“A human woman?” She had been half expecting one of many breeds of book-hoarding demon.

“As far as I know? Although, she... she did seem to understand an awful lot about me, after just a few moments of us speaking. But I thought perhaps I was simply that readable, given my anxiety.” She laughed and sipped at her tea, neither action seeming all that genuine.

“Would you be able to furnish me with the address?”

“Of course, it should still be in my satchel. I'll find it before I leave.” Then she glanced out the window, taking in the green of the day. “Lilith?”

“Yes?” She knew the moment would come eventually, and hoped to quickly counteract Mary's impending dismay.

“It's certainly very light out there.” She swivelled in her chair to look up to the wall-clock, where 7:27 was starkly displayed. She stood up, pushing back so quickly from the table that her mug almost toppled. “Lilith, why didn't you tell me?” Her eyes were large, as calculations flashed behind them.

Lilith reached across the table, though stopped short of touching. “Don't worry. I promised you wouldn't be late, didn't I?”

“Yes?” But Mary was hardly listening, rounding the table towards the door, whereupon Lilith smoothly apprehended her forearm.

“Mary. Stop.”

“I'll call and tell them I—” she paused and murmured to herself. “Whatever do I tell them this time?”

“Mary.” Lilith hardened her tone to insist, and loosened her grip as soon as Mary's eyes showed the correct amount of attention. “Have you already forgotten the past two days?”

“What do you mean?”

Lilith stood to match her height, and brought an arm akimbo. “I'll get you to work. In plenty of time.”

Finally, the implication set in. “You'll... teleport us to the school?”

“Why do you sound so doubtful?”

“I suppose I never thought of it as something one would do for such mundane utility. Since you've only taken me places that way when it's really important.”

“And yet I can. And I will.” Because what was the use of being magically fluent, if it could not streamline one's life?

Mary's chest rose and fell as she accepted the solution, and let go of her anxiety as best she could. “Then... I suppose I should finish what you were kind enough to prepare for me.”

“Both myself and your earthly body will thank you. Not to mention the students who will no longer need to carry you to the infirmary.”

Mary accepted the teasing with a huffed laugh and a turn of the cheek. “Why do you always have to impress these obvious things upon me? I should be able to take care of myself by now. In fact I know I can. I've gotten by for decades.”

“Of course you have. But in recent days I have come to understand that it is not necessary to be satisfied at the level of 'getting by'. That it is permissible to desire more.” Lilith tracked her, leaning back in her chair as Mary returned to her own seat. “And that it does not speak poorly of us to accept a helping hand.”

Mary sighed. “I know that. It's rather unfortunate how difficult it is to turn that knowledge towards oneself. Especially when there's no one around to...”

“Turn a mirror on oneself?”

“Precisely.”

“Though, in most cases, the interpretation would tend to be less literal.”

Mary nodded, biting into jam, and it was only a few moments later that she realised what she was nodding at and nearly laughed the bread back onto her plate. She covered her mouth, eyes beseeching: “Lilith, not while I'm eating!”

Lilith held up her hands and, peacefully neutral, allowed once again the silent progression of time until Mary had taken her plate to the sink and begun heading for the door.

“I'll just be a moment and then we can go.”

“There's no need for us to go outside; we can travel from anywhere in the house.”

Mary nodded and turned to exit the room, then paused as thoughts swum across her down-tilted face. Lilith did not inquire on them this time, merely watched the expressions unfold, from inert contemplation, through gentle disbelief, into happy bewilderment, whereupon a bloom of gratitude was quickly concealed with a shake of the head.

“I won't be long," she said before leaving, her voice newly sweetened by the harvest of her thoughts.

Having manifested the two of them directly in Mary's office, the latter trying and failing to conceal her giddiness at the convenience of it all, Lilith returned to the cottage, and set about readying herself for public view. Her hair had not received a lick of attention since before their adventures in the wilds, and her face had ill appreciated its residual make-up. With methods half mundane and half magical, she began re-defining herself, until she felt presentable from the neck up, then leafed through Mary's closet, choosing a modest black dress whose cap-sleeves pleasingly displayed her toned upper arms.

Turning herself this way and that before the mirror, it occurred to her that this was the dress she had worn on her very first day at Baxter High, masquerading as their (and now her) demure Ms Wardwell. Which was entirely fitting. Though on this day, she would not be binding back her hair or affecting short-sightedness; there seemed little need, since whomever the bookstore's proprietress might be, Lilith doubted she would remember Mary in much more detail than any soft-spoken customer. In her experience, such people spent far more time staring at the faces of books as they passed across the counter, than at those of their customers.

At the door of Tabula Arcana, just as invited, she knocked and she entered. The place felt like catacombs — though of wood and paper, not rocks and bones — and she had no trouble navigating it, her awareness locating the only person in residence and avoiding detection for the time being. What was available at the front of the store did not impress her much: books like these could be found at any decent city store, and their contents were full of vagueries and presumption. But the deeper she moved, the more her interest became ever so slightly piqued, until she broke cover in her curiosity.

“Hello again, shopkeep,” she smiled, in a manner to her mind sufficiently Mary-esque.

The old woman, hunched at her desk in layers of brown and umber, had not startled at her sudden appearance, though her bespectacled eyes admitted at least a little surprise.

“Well well, I did not expect to see you back so soon. Did you find my books enlightening? Or have you come to request further aid from my collection?”

Lilith sauntered to the desk, her face tilted towards the many paintings of wooded areas displayed overhead.

“Oh they were very, very useful.” She met the woman's gaze, which was surveying all of her, quite unashamedly. “Thank you for your assistance,” she added, for flavour.

“I'm glad to hear it. And should I assume you'll be hanging on to my one-of-a-kind chronicle for the time being? Or do you have it concealed somewhere about your person?” She made as though to search for it, but it was all in jest since the woman's sharp eyes had already been everywhere, and her eventual flash of a smile confirmed it.

“Ah, well as it happens, that is indeed why I have returned, as you say, so soon.” Long wedded to the habit, Lilith had walked her fingers the length of the desk, and had been just about to recline upon it when she caught herself, and instead flexed a hip. “For you see, it has been brought to my attention that there is someone with a quite personal attachment to that journal, and she is very curious to learn how it arrived in your possession.”

“Is that a fact?” She had grown cautious, but not yet suspicious.

Lilith gave a smile which was perhaps a little too tight. “It is. And so if you would care to share that information with me, I can perhaps put her concerns to rest.”

The woman had become virtually inanimate as she searched Lilith's face, the only movement a frown across her hairless brow. Lilith was not overly concerned, however, as even if her identity did not pass muster, there were myriad less courteous ways to gain the information.

“Who might she be, your friend? Because I can assure you, there's no one alive with a more personal attachment to that book than me.”

“She's a great deal older than you.” Lilith allowed her voice to lower, a soft purr of a threat.

“I very much doubt that,” the woman replied, darkening her tone to match.

The limited illumination of the desk-lamp flickered, as any pretence that they were not at odds drained from both of their faces.

“You're not that soft-hearted little thing at all, are you?” The woman's eyes held no fear, and Lilith had to admire her for it.

“Aren't I?”

“Not even close. What did you do to her?”

“Do?” She cocked her head, feigning confusion for her own amusement.

“Possession? That how it is?” The woman rested back, studying the air around Lilith's body. “You skinned her and ate up her soul?”

“What a vulgar suggestion,” Lilith huffed, “I've done no such thing.” She ran her hands over her bosom and down her hips. “Everything you see is mine; there's not a single, ill-gotten pound of flesh.”

“A shape-shifter, then.”

Lilith twisted her lips in assent. “Close enough. Though I've no intention of shifting again, not with any sort of permanence.”

While not exactly afraid, the woman betrayed considerable discomfort, aware of her vulnerabilities of both age and position. “Tell me your name, demon. Trust me when I say that you do not want to make an enemy of me.”

Lilith could not contain a twinkling laugh at that. “Are you really threatening me, shopkeep? When your blood is already cooling in my presence?” She placed both palms on the desk, splayed her fingers, and leaned forward. “Just be a good witch and tell me what you know, and I'll be on my merry way.”

“Your. Name.” The woman insisted, and somehow her voice did not quaver.

Oh, I like you.

“And if I give it to you, you'll attempt to banish me? Like some common or garden fiend?” Her lips pulled back in pleasure at the game, eye-teeth rampant.

Confronted with this predatory aspect, a different kind of shadow came over the proprietor's eyes, and she examined Lilith even more intently, until Lilith saw a moist sheen, spreading across the nearly-black depths of that stare.

“There's no way,” the woman chided herself.

Lilith stayed where she was, but angled her chin to the left, then to the right, making a show of her intrigue. “Of what, pray tell?”

The woman only gaped, then ever so slowly pushed back her chair, and, keeping a wary eye on Lilith all the while, rounded the desk, until they were side by side.

Lilith lifted her hands from the desk, reared to her full height, raised her jaw, and waited; being appraised did not bother her, but the woman's altered demeanour was puzzling.

Finally, a tear making its way down her dusky face, the shopkeeper took a single step back, then stiffly lowered herself to a kneel. “It is you,” she sighed in wonderment. “You came back. All these years...”

“Who do you think I am?” The menace had left Lilith's voice, forgotten in the sudden turn; something had slipped its fingers over her heart and begun to tighten, and she didn't like it.

The woman made to reply, but could only bow her head and — evidently overwhelmed — grow closer to the ground.

Lilith stared down and attempted to call off the feelings, the visions which beckoned from her blind-spots.

“You were one of them. Weren't you?” Finally — crucially — her voice had gained its indifference. “You saved the coven's journal.”

Her head nearly touching the floor, the woman nodded.

“How?” Again the visions prodded at her, but she would not look at them. “There were no survivors. He made certain of it.”

“I hid, my Lady. Deep in the ground.”

“The ground?”

“We were burying our offerings when they came. I climbed into the pit, and covered myself with carcasses and dirt.”

“You could have suffocated.”

“It would have been the better way to go. I heard their screams, even through the soil.”

Lilith heard them too, though she had not witnessed the slaughter; she had more than enough screams archived to fuel the imagination. “And when all was quiet,” she found that she was whispering, “you took the book and fled?”

“I waited until morning, with only my face aboveground, hidden under a pelt. Then I tried to find someone else who might have survived, but...” she raised her head and Lilith saw how cruelly the memories had overtaken her, “just one look at any of them, there was no doubt about it.”

“No.” Crowded pikes. Limbs strewn asunder. A series of obscene tableaux. “No, there wasn't.”

“They used to call me Zinnia,” she said gruffly. “Do you remember me?”

“I'm sorry.”

The woman accepted the pain of it, allowed herself to relax back upon her soles. “No reason you should. I'm no one to remember. But, I did—” Her voice caught and she stopped herself, which Lilith could not abide.

“Tell me.”

“I prayed to you, Dark Mother. That night, and every night after that, for fifty long years. And after the fiftieth year, I knew you weren't going to reply.”

Lilith tried to peer past the curtain of endless, wordless sobs, spread across those five meagre decades, when she had slunk as close to Lucifer's heel as she could, to not so displease him again. If there had been prayers, she would not have heard them over the screams in her own mind, as he seemingly found some new reason to punish her with each passing day. It had always been that way with him: the decades after some fresh scolding would be raw beyond agony, as he attempted to drive the desires from her blood; all desires, that was, except for those which served his will.

But what sort of weakness was all of that to share with a centuries-old acolyte?

“I regret that I could not.”

“I regret it too,” the once-Zinnia admitted, though she knew it to be a trespass.

Again Lilith waited, her mouth struck sour, and eventually the woman stood, returning almost but not quite to her original posture. “The journal was penned for your sake as much as ours, so it's right that you should take it.”

“Indeed it is.”

“But... can I ask a question, my Lady?”

Lilith slid herself onto the desk, her hips craving the solidity of it, and folded her arms. “You may.”

“That sweet girl from before, who came seeking your stories... does she follow you?”

“In a sense.”

Yet, paradoxically, the reverse had begun to ring true.

“Has she pledged herself to you?”

“One might say so.”

“And why do you honour her to such an extent,” she shook her head, confounded, “that you take her appearance?”

Lilith repositioned her hips and folded down onto an elbow, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “You asked for a question. That would be your third.” A member of her erstwhile coven would know better than to push her beyond this point, wholly aware of her capabilities.

“Forgive me. Being in your presence, after all this time, I think it's affected my reason.”

“It's understandable. And... thank you.” She waited for the clearest of eye-contact before continuing, so that the limited words she would bestow could be felt to their fullest. “For keeping it safe. For preserving our memories. And for helping her.”

“It was my privilege. I'd never dreamed we'd meet again.”

Lilith didn't hide the genuine feeling which slipped onto her lips, but it was a fleeting communion. “Perhaps we shall again.”

Granting no more, she took a final look at the paintings, and now found that she recognised many of the places, with their boughs and dells and shaded gullies.

Yes. Let me know these places again, with the blood wiped clean.

Let them live in me again.

She turned on her heel then, having gained all she felt she could stand from the encounter. The way to the outside world was a straight line when one disregarded the crates of books, and she had almost made it, when:

“Does she pray to you?”

Lilith stopped before the doorway, permitted the final question.

She prays.

Whether she knows it,

and whether she means it,

in sleep, and in waking...

“Yes.”

“And you answer her prayers.”

“Inasmuch as I can.”

Lilith would not turn to find what sort of mask the once-Zinnia was wearing before she would speak again.

“It's good you've got someone like that. A goddess without worshippers is—“

“I am no goddess, child.”

“You were to us.”

“I am the First Witch. And that... that is enough.”

She stepped outside, where the noonday sun was too bright, even through the trees, causing her a flurry of blinks. And as the door swung closed, her preternatural hearing did not miss the awed whisper:

“Praise Lilith, O Lady of Despair.”

So much had changed, since she had last stood out on these pave stones — lurking behind less foliage than it should have taken to conceal her — and stared into Mary Wardwell's classroom. Before, she had skulked covetous and malcontent, with venom thick in her glare and on her tongue; the schoolmarm was to be a mere footnote in their success story, and Lilith had sized her up with the appropriate disdain.

She had keenly monitored the woman's mannerisms, taking in the always-busy hands that invited and encouraged, explained and listened; and, when they fell silent, clasped or carried each other, as though unwilling to stay apart for too long; and yes, at times and in private, they were drawn together in prayer.

Those hands had told her far more than they would most people, about how easy it would be to lay an emotional snare, even if she did not understand the reasons behind their frenetic movement.

But now, as she watched them again, she knew how they felt when held; how warm they were at rest; where their pulse should be most readily found; how the tendons tensed and flexed as they communicated so much and so earnestly. And, most shockingly, she knew how they felt placing care-filled caresses, despite their awareness of that which they touched; that bare flesh, those unarmoured palms, so exceedingly thin and vulnerable, nonetheless choosing to know her.

Reading their movements had become innate, another instinct among many, which grew more honed every day.

It was just a little bit longer (hours which were moments to a being as old as she) and then she would re-appear in Mary's office, and spirit her away from this place, back to the cottage to prepare for the oncoming trial. And perhaps before that, to share with her the revelation of the afternoon — that there was a follower still breathing from those fervent, blazing days — should Lilith feel the impulse to do so. If revealing what had happened to the rest of the coven did not feel suddenly impossible.

She watched the children file out and saw Mary bow her head to her chest, saw her wrap the lengthly braid around her neck like a scarf, and hold its end up against her lips in thought. Such a small thing, just the briefest workings of her fingers, and Lilith had given her a focus for her fidgeting, and a tactile reminder of their shared spaces.

Her forearm was stinging, but she chose to ignore it, not wanting to allow his intrusion.

It's too soon. I need more time.

The letters kept forming, as the spell fed on her flesh.

You don't have dominion here. I'll come when I'm ready and you can pout all you want alongside your truant of a daughter.

But no matter her scorn, she knew she must obey, because ignoring his summons might just have him thundering across realms to fetch her.

And besides, leaving the cursed text to keep devouring her arm would only make the wounds that much harder to erase.

Wait for me. Trust in my loyalty.

I will rejoin you as soon as I can.

Though she had made use of the room many times during her short reign, Lilith had never devoted the time to having the Chamber of Letters refurbished. And so the metal silhouettes of dancing vliege demons were yet tarnished at the tails, threatening to fall from their rusted mounts; the uppermost shelves of scrolls were still overflowing, their accumulated weight sagging the centuries old wyrmwood; the hinges of the doors continued to shriek in a manner most grating whenever her scribes came and left; and the bejewelled copper inkpots were never refilled, left crusty while the ink was drawn directly from whatever ugly cannister it arrived in.

On these details and more she fixated, attempting to divorce herself from the force upon her jaw as it was gradually dislocated against the wall, and from the deep twisting of muscle at her left shoulder, where she was secured by Lucifer's unrelenting grip.

“Do you truly believe me so stupid, Lilith? So unobservant? That neither I nor my millions of eyes throughout the Circles had caught notice of how often you leave Hell? The only place you have any business being.”

She attempted to reply but the pressure on her face was too great and he well knew it.

“What self-serving machinations are you up to now? Admit it all, and I would strongly advise against lying to me.”

He shifted his hold and Lilith heard her ragged yelp; a loathsome noise, like some cowering pup with no means of defence.

Eventually, he pulled back, allowing her to slide down and put a hand to her jaw, massaging it back into place, and to roll her shoulder, just the barest amount.

I should have come here a demon, so that none of this would matter. To now have him brutalise this face...

But she never wanted to see that monstrous skin again, never wanted to hear that guttural voice, or feel the prick of rows upon rows of teeth against that prehensile tongue.

“Forgive me, Dark Lord,” she whispered, trying not to move her bones too much, and knowing that, while it was the correct thing to say, forgiveness was not a thing which lived in him. “I will tell you. Everything.”

Everything. And anything but the truth.

The more slowly she could right herself into a submissive kneel, the more gingerly cross her hands in her lap, the better chance she stood of crafting a convincing lie out of whole cloth.

She had not failed to overhear as she approached the chamber's doors, as he ranted to his Accountant of Augury about how vexing it was that she had correctly judged the pregnancy's significance. He wished for a thorough appraisal of the signs, collected across disciplines, to further understand the alignment of it all. He was pleased, of course, but also irritated, because it proved her value to him, and that of the child; there was no choice but to keep them both alive, despite moments when, in his rage, he had considered letting the baby out with the water of the witch's womb.

And so, her lie must play towards the themes which consumed him; she must speak of a threat — or at least a suspicion thereof — to the sanctity of the child, and to his humble mother's life.

“Your traitorous ex-Church of Night, my Lord...”

“What of them?”

“I have been... monitoring them. Following their members through their... daily lessons and rites.” Even speaking with pauses, her bruised throat was struggling.

“And why should you spend your time thus, when all of it belongs to me?”

She took a quick breath against anxiety.

“They have proven themselves duplicitous... and unworthy. They cower under the... supposed protection of Hekate. A force who has not even deigned... to reveal herself to them. They claim to act in the stead of downtrodden witches, yet... yet they were quick to turn me away... amid my greatest peril.”

It was, after all, from a throat most scorched that the most convincing bile might flow.

“Yes, a highly regrettable outcome for you, Lilith. But you should be happy, as their rejection brought you to a place of greater glory.” He bent down onto one knee and placed a hand that was sinisterly gentle upon her shoulder, lowered his voice to a cultured hiss: “And I hardly think you are one to pronounce upon the duplicity of others.”

She swallowed involuntarily, dryness encroaching at the back of her tongue. “My point is, Dark Lord... I find myself suspicious. Of their intentions, in the wake of young Sabrina's coronation. She is of their own... while also fully yours... and one assumes that they wish to maintain their ties... to the throne.”

“Make your point with less rambling, Lilith.”

“If our baby — our Antichrist — stands in the way of their—“ her throat rebelled and she lost dizzied moments to coughing, “— their False Prophet's rule... over Hell? Might it not serve them to... do away with him?”

“And have you any intelligent evidence of such intentions?”

“None, my Lord. Yet. Only my intuition.”

“Then you are being led around by paranoia. I imagine it is the inevitable mother's ailment, you can't be expected to maintain your reason once your entire purpose folds inward to that of your child.” He straightened up, though not before laying a caress across her jaw with the softest part of his thumb. “Put such nonsense from your mind and cease to waste any more of my time.”

“Yes, my Lord. You are surely correct. My mind has indeed seen better days.” She bowed her head, keeping her scowl for the flagstones. “You've borne witness to countless... failings of my faculties. In our millennia together.”

This 'our' smacked of hemlock, grown thick at ancient foothills, but there was another 'our', newly discovered, which soothed like dawn's first honey; and she was no longer beholden to swallowing the former.

He left her and took a wide journey about the room, interspersed by brushing his fingers over objects and glancing contemptuously at pages, before seating himself behind the immovable black desk. “Now, Lilith: you will join myself and Hrangentine here, in compiling such texts as will allow us to predict the exact date of my son's birth, his necessary charts, and which schools of magic will most serve his earliest education.”

“Of course, my Lord.” She stood carefully, taking note of whichever bruises might need seeing to before she might return to solace. Which in turn reminded her of her duty to Mary, which was surely overdue.

Please keep waiting. There will be no quick escape today.

If I risk it, he will follow me. And it is far, far too soon. We need more time.

He must not know a single thing about you. About us.

There must be only Lilith, naked in his headlights.

It is my suffering to absorb, and I will not share it with you.

Limping up to the desk, she saw the confused spread of it all, the obvious grasping at straws which dearly craved a more organised mind, and a more inspired approach.

Always buried so deep in your mythologies, Lucifer; so you'll always fail to see what's right in front of you.

If you think you have re-broken me, you are missing the liquid gold which is continually mending my shattered pieces; for every crack, there is more than enough to seal it.

And, unlike you, I am not bereft of love.

Chapter Text

She had waited until the last of the students had filed out of the classroom,

(“Ms Wardwell, I had no idea your hair was so long!”

“That's always the way with hair like mine.”

“It looks really pretty! Um, if that's okay to say?”

“That's very kind of you, Mr Goodfellow, I do rather like it. A change really is as good as a holiday.”)

then returned to her office, expecting Lilith to appear within minutes. When half an hour passed and she did not, Mary assumed that she had been delayed at the bookstore; it made sense that Lilith would wish to peruse the mysterious proprietor's collection.

An hour passed, while students played their extra-curriculars near the window, and Mary wondered whether she had gotten their meeting place wrong, that perhaps she had been meant to wait outside. And so she took a leisurely walk around the perimeter, searching the surrounds with what she hoped was a casual eye.

(“Lost, Ms Wardwell?”

“Not at all, Mr Simmons. I'm just enjoying the fresh air.”

“Isn't the air better out in the boonies?”

“It is. But I still need to be here for a while.”

“What happened to your car?”

“It needed some urgent maintenance, so unfortunately I had to be dropped here today. Although...”

“Although?”

“I did say so. This morning in the staff room, I mentioned it.”

“Oh, when you scooted in at the eleventh hour?”

“I wasn't late, Mr Simmons.”

“By the skin of your teeth, Mary.”

“If you'll excuse me, sir, I think I'll walk a little more.”)

Once the sun had grown low and the children collected their bags to leave, Mary returned again to her office, contemplating how much longer she should wait before making other plans to get home.

No doubt Lilith was fine, there was no reason to worry on that point; and she was a busy woman, Mary couldn't expect her to drop everything to be at a mortal's beck and call, day and night, no matter how generously she might want to. Surely some duty or other had come up and prevented her from their rendez-vous. And so Mary would not distress herself by imagining scenarios for the delay.

She opened a folder and set her mind on administration, only lifting her head some time later, when a knock came from the door.

“Ma'am, I need to start locking up, you gonna be much longer?”

“Oh goodness, I'm so sorry. Please give me a minute, I'll just pack up.”

“The parking lot's empty, ma'am. Figured you'd gone home until I saw the light on.”

“Yes, my car is in the shop. I was waiting to be picked up, actually. But now it seems like...”

“It's pretty late, need me to drive you?”

“Oh I couldn't possibly ask that! You live just around the corner, don't you? I'll call a taxi.”

“Fare to your place is gonna be an arm and a leg. You sure?”

“It's my own fault. Really. Give me a few moments? Won't you?”

With no more time to consider, and with fresh guilt for the groundskeeper's bother sitting in her neck, she phoned the taxi company, committing to the exorbitant fee that would carry her to the other side of the Greendale Woods.

Back at the cottage, she pinned up her braid and took a longer bath than she normally would, then took her time preparing a slow stew, something which would hopefully last her for at least the next two days.

When there are things we can't control, we must focus on the things that we can.

A cup of honey-lavender tea and a volume of travel fiction accompanied her to the kitchen table, as well as the knowledge that she and Lilith had spoken about this on more than one occasion, how the witch might be called away on a moment's notice, and might need to fall silent for a while; how, were there any sort of real threat to either their plans or their persons, Lilith would find a way to send word.

And so there was really, really no reason to be concerned. One appointment missed was no harbinger of doom, and any instincts which suggested as much deserved to be submerged as deeply as possible (though merely beneath tea, at least for now).

She opened to her bookmark, and began reading aloud to fill the spaces in her thoughts:

“'Nothing could have prepared me for the surreal experience of walking out among the peribacaları, finding myself confounded by their strange magnificence. Daverson too stared, his chin tipped back at what was quite fairly judged one of the great Wonders of the World: Cappadocia, that which the ancient Persians called simply 'the low country', and whose layers upon layers of sedimentary dust had seen the stride of mighty creatures as far back as the Cretaceous.'”

She paused and closed her eyes, trying to recall what she had seen of the formations in glossy coffee-table books, and found that another rocky landscape swam easily to mind: they had been so high up, so detached from the footsteps of man or beast, where the air was spiced by millennia of natural history, and where that air had reached inside of her and known her and placed a soothing truth in her parched throat.

And it occurred to her, with a flurry of the breast, that she was now just as much an adventurer as these fictional men. Perhaps Jeffers and Daverson and Dr Asher's author had been to Turkey and seen these things, but he had never stood beside the First Witch and had the surface layers of the world peeled away. He could never travel thousands of miles in an evening, bypassing space and time. He could never see the things he had seen without a plane and a pilot, an adventuring party piled high with supplies, and a local guide to translate. Not even with the greatest fame and fortune.

But she could.

Lilith permitting, she could.

Indeed, as soon as Lilith returned, she would.

Whatever her next task should be, it wouldn't be here, in her backyard or even in all of Greendale. They would go wherever the most pertinent magic could be found, to progress her education.

She had shaped brief wings for a soul with her earthly hands.

She had lent her voice to arcane winds and learned the unknowable.

What awaited her next, to be received without hesitation?

The nostalgic scent of onion and beef-stock stayed behind in the kitchen long after she had eaten and tidied up, and a satiated warmth followed her into bed, where Lilith's perfume yet lingered on a pillow recently claimed; with luck, Mary would be able to steer clear while unconscious, and avoid dulling the scent with her tossing body. She fell into dreams, more quickly than she should have been able to, and they were dreams which towered skyward and gaped below. Eventually the landscape was peppered with demonic carnage and suffering, but she barely remembered those parts upon waking. They revealed themselves in fragments, while she drank her tea or checked her blind-spot on the road, but were too commonplace to merit much reflection.

Her braid was not as pristine as it had been, but a palmful of Lilith's hair mousse was enough to keep it presentable; she was not ready to pin it up and lose that private focus for her hands. Pleasurable as it was, the fidget was not without its problems: she had already caught herself once, in front of the students, toying with the ends of it around her fingers, and had immediately ceased — hopefully before any of them saw her carrying on like a smitten teenager.

Unfortunately, as the day wore on, tactile distraction became frequently more necessary. While she had somewhat convinced herself not to dwell on possible reasons for Lilith's absence, she could not entirely silence the niggling feeling that she ought to have been contacted by now. The lack of information was what itched the most; if she only knew the facts of the matter, even just a few vital kernels, it would be tolerable.

She had collected and clung to facts throughout her life, surrounded herself with their reassuring certainty, piled and neatly categorised them into a bulwark against spiritual attack. And though April's terrifying weeks of ignorance were well behind her, she could so easily transport herself back into a mind left destitute, left grasping at fancy, naked against the ever-encroaching darkness.

And she was none too happy to relive the experience.

Wednesday arrived sans enlightenment and impatience gripped her chest, growing by the hour more difficult to ignore. Perhaps it would be permissible to send Lilith some kind of message, if only she could find out how. Perhaps in a dream, if she could find her way to lucidity somehow. She did not want to be burdensome, and with just a little reassurance, she could wait as long as needed. She had ample patience, surely more than enough... if she could only stave off the fear.

Dragging its heels all the while, evening finally arrived, and Mary found herself thumbing through the Golden Guide, brandy occupying her left hand.

She told herself it was merely for diversion's sake; they had an agreement, after all. She had not for a moment forgotten it.

“...promise me that you will not attempt any further casting without my presence.”

Neither had she forgotten the raw dread on Lilith's face, when she admitted that Mary's spirit had been teetering, brutally depleted, on the brink of death.

Mary could not put either of them in such a position again, now that she knew how easily drawn her mortal energies could be.

And so she wouldn't.

There would be no bartering with her life-force, to neither spells nor creatures. Again, she was only perusing these chapters because she was curious as to how — were one a witch, and were one to do such a thing — a message might be sent across the realms, to a specific person.

For interest's sake alone.

She turned the page, past Divination, and came across an illustration of a crude doll, wrapped in twine:

'Every witch will be familiar with the humble poppet, as a means of affecting the body of a chosen person...'

A frisson of discomfort passed through Mary, fingers, spleen and toes; even mortals were familiar with such magic (though few would admit believing in it), and the thought of being so vulnerable to the machinations of another, across great distances... it sent another shudder along her flesh. Yet she read on:

'...But its lesser-known application is as a summoning tool, to contact a person you are unable to discover by ordinary means.'

Mary frowned, intrigued but still leery.

'You are free to experiment with the poppet's presentation — use whatever will best match the look of your person — so long as its internal parts follow instruction. With well-recited words, your target will no longer be hidden, and may be called back to you at your leisure!'

She paused, her thumb absent-mindedly stroking the crisp incline of the pages, to the jacket and back, while her thoughts attempted to make sense of how one might both beckon and bane with the same device. What did these two things have in common? There was no human equivalent that she could think of — other than words on the school intercom, which could both summon and conjure distress; but one's obedience to that was optional, even if it seldom seemed to be.

In any case, these magicks took a hold of a body without its consent, and with that in mind, should the caster's motivations even come into it?

She shook her head, less at the question and more at the mercury gathering in her belly.

No, there had to be a difference.

In matters of life and death, there had to be.

(Not that this should be a matter of life and death, there was no call to think it.)

Consent must surely be a moot point when leaping to save a person from a speeding car; one does not ask permission when reaching out to stop a body from toppling down a stairwell.

(Not that there were any encroaching vehicles or gaping abysses. Almost certainly. But if there were?)

'However, keep this in mind, witchling: if cast correctly, this spell may be strong enough to wrench the intended person from whatever they are doing. Always send your summons at the wisest time.'

And there it was, the most obvious reason to not go down such a route, even were she physically and spiritually robust enough to try. How could she guess at what the right time might be? Especially when, across the realms, even time was not a constant. It would be a fool's errand to even attempt it.

She closed the Guide and set it aside, covered it with some school papers for good measure. She would eat her three-day stew, pour another drink, and read her book. As many books as it would take to while away the time.

Before long, she was sat in the hearth's glow, learning the outcomes of Daverson's expedition and finding it, on the whole, unsatisfactory. Intrusive thoughts and nightmare memories were creeping in, and she stood with some urgency to trade the book for another, intending to select from the backlog within her bedside table.

Still acclimatising to the brighter light, her eyes drifted over to her haberdashery corner, which, following its recent use, was less neat than it should be. She stared at the various levels of it, her mind slowly shunting onto a track: there was no time like the present to resolve its mess, no need to wait until the area fell once more to dust; moreover, there was nothing like putting things in order to corral delinquent thoughts.

She pulled the hefty storage case — re-purposed from her father's fishing days — out from behind her sewing machine, and removed the top segment, revealing various pieces of trim and fastening, then the next, onto compartments of folded fabric swatches. Here she deposited the scraps left over from trimming her invaluable squares, then searched around the floor for stray pieces. In doing so, she found the packet they had come in, and lifted it to her lap to check for residue; it weighed more than expected and she peered in curiously:

“Oh. You.”

The red brocade. All two spontaneously purchased yards of it.

Whatever had possessed her? It wasn't as though she intended to sew herself a gay summer skirt from it, or a vest to put Oscar Wilde to shame.

'Well, if you have no practical use for it...' the thought sidled up, and for the moment, she pushed it away.

She held the folded material in her hand and her knuckles remembered brushing past it, the skin on her cheek remembered turning, wet with tears, to press against it, fabric stretched and draped around succour personified.

'There really is no harm in it', came the prodding notion.

It would just be nice. Something to keep. Something to hold.

You wouldn't need to use it in any mystical way. And even if you did, it wouldn't have to be now. Not today or tomorrow, or even at all.

It could join the ranks of her dolls, only this one sewn by her own hand. But, far more than that, it would be a tribute to the night of her rescue, from a cruel and pitiful fate. An ode to the first thing she had clearly seen when Lilith had insisted she keep her gaze low.

And if you ever do need it, for whatever reason, you'll have it. At your fingertips. Somewhere safe.

But if she was going to do it, she must do it correctly, to prevent any future complications. Such things should absolutely be done by the book.

Each canvas limb was equal, down to the stitch; nothing less could be tolerated. The woollen mop of hair would never look especially pleasing, but at least Mary could blend in strands of gold and umber embroidery thread, to evoke the places where Lilith's hair (and indeed her own) had been bleached by the sun. The stuffing could be anything from cotton wool to bamboo, as long as it contained a particular intermingling of herbs — some essential and some selected from a table, depending on the nature of the relationship between caster and target — and some organic trace of the relevant person. Mary found herself grateful for the diversity in her 'witch's garden' and 'witch's kitchen', which accounted for many of the suggested ingredients.

To a ratio of 1:3 with the stuffing, fresh mint leaves should be vigorously rubbed and pushed into the furthest extremities of the doll, filling its hands and feet; this, the book explained, was the base for safe and secure magical communication, the best guard against interference.

Next, there was the question of honing the magic's reach: if the caster had an inkling of where their target most likely awaited, the spell would be that much stronger. A fingertip guiding her eyes down the column, Mary selected the Underworld, then put the book aside and took a brisk visit to the forest, to harvest brightly blooming foxglove by lamplight. Through gardening mitts that would need a thorough scrubbing to remove the plant's toxicity, she plucked the petals apart and folded them in tissue paper.

From here it became more difficult, the choices reliant on intimate things. Orris root seemed appropriate, its purpose to open dialogue with a person affectionately held — a 'belovèd', the Guide suggested, and Mary paused at the implications: in the purest sense of the word, there was no doubt that Lilith was loved, the language of it echoed through Mary's every action, even if the precise words had never been spoken. When it had happened Mary could not say, but as she chopped up the orris root and its sweet, floral scent reached her nostrils, the certainty of it rose up even sweeter.

The next herb was thyme, suggested for the deepest of friendships, and again she lingered, pinches of herb poised in her palm, wondering whether she was being presumptuous. Counting the days of their association on her kitchen calendar, it had been a blink of the eye, from all but the perspective of moths and gadflies; but if she were to gauge their time together in truths and vulnerabilities bared, confidences granted, hopes and fears admitted and held to each desperately beating chest... then time lost all meaning as measurement.

What she felt was kinship beyond anything Mary could have predicted, and did it matter to the herbs if Lilith did not feel the same way? It was a possibility she had to allow for, if only by the cosmic deficit in their years and understandings, and if it were so (and if she listened to the sighs of her own irreversibly ageing heart), Mary knew it was not something she could resent. Neither would she regret the depths of her own attachment.

And now... some little piece of you.

Visiting the bathroom, she retrieved a hair-band that Lilith had recently borrowed for her ponytail, and set about freeing the hairs which had wound themselves around it. These, as well as the few strands she had found under the blanket on Lilith's side of the bed, she pushed deep into the poppet's heart, and then sealed it all up with silver thread.

For a while she admired her handiwork, taking note of her body's rhythms, listening for any warning signs that she had inadvertently called upon the magicks with this crafting. Thankfully, there was no whiff of such, and her breath steadied: what she had done was not witch- but mortalcraft, an entirely permissible pastime.

She laid the doll against Lilith's pillow and reclined beside it, placing her hands on her hips and locking her arms to stretch her stiffened spine. Then she set about twisting, hearing a litany of cracks up and down her body and laughing at how cricked up she had allowed herself to become.

Those cracks must have carried on into her ears, as they continued at regular intervals, even as she relaxed onto her side. It took her longer than she would have liked to realise that the noise wasn't coming from her at all, but rather the window: a small but insistent tap-tap-tapping.

“Who's there?” she asked politely, bearing in mind that which Lilith had reiterated on her home's safety from mischief.

She made her way cautiously to the curtains, and drew them open just in time to see the blurred shape depart for the front door, and continue its sounding there. For lack of a better weapon, she grabbed the heaviest hardcover in the room and crept to the entrance. There she froze with a hand on the doorknob, gathering her wits about her, then undid the catch and slowly revealed her visitor.

There on the doormat, its striped tail feathers arching in alertness, its small brown head cocked, and its endlessly black eyes staring into everything that she was, stood a lyrebird. Only, it wasn't quite a lyrebird: when it shifted under the moonlight, a purple sheen gleamed across its feathers; its beak was just a little too long, in a shape more evocative of a crow; and, in a particularly odd move for a bird, it wore a leather pouch, strung around its neck.

Mary placed her book on the sidetable and carefully crouched down, monitoring the bird for any intention to bolt, either into the cottage or off into the night.

“Is this for me?” she asked, ever so slowly unfurling her fingers to gesture at the pouch. In response, the not-quite-lyrebird reared its head, making visible a knot and bow at its nape.

“All right...”

It couldn't be a trap, surely? There would be no sense for it to approach so gently, only to begin pecking and flying in her face.

“Um, who is this from?” There was only one person it should be, but Mary had been burned too often in recent chapters of her life to assume such fortune.

The bird only continued to stare into her, its inky eyes somehow failing to reflect any of the light which poured past her; it was deeply off-putting, and Mary noticed a quaver in her outstretched hands.

Taking a strained breath, she gingerly reached around the bird's neck and worked at the knot, vigilant all the while, until eventually the pouch came loose and met the mat with a light thud; certainly there was more in there than a fist of seeds or feathers.

Freed of its burden, the bird hopped backwards on nimble claws and opened its beak wide, as though to squawk at her, but what emerged was not one of many possible avian noises, but the surreptitious whispers of a human voice.

“Follow the instructions and trust me. We will be victorious yet.”

The bird closed its beak with a crack, cutting off the last resonance of Lilith's words, and immediately took flight, up and over the roof of the house, whereupon the sound of wings abruptly ended.

Mary stared for a while at the sky, distant eyes processing the strangeness of it all, then willed strength back into her fingers and untied the pouch. A tiny piece of parchment was looped with rough twine around an equally diminutive glass vial, corked and stamped with a drop of red wax. So narrow was it that she had to use her fingernails to uncork the vial, then sniffed at the liquid inside, expecting some blend of essential oils but receiving only traces of sourness, as though of stagnant water. It was not exactly unpleasant, but neither was it a treat to breathe in, so she refastened the container (likewise the front door) and returned to the bedroom.

The parchment instructed her to choose a mirror which was not currently in use, and after some thought, she retrieved one from the back of the wardrobe, wrapped for storage in brown paper: it was a copper-framed rectangle, a family keepsake that was too large for her home's available mounting spaces. She leaned it against the wall, beside the door frame, and consulted the next item on the list: she was to draw a border around the glass of the mirror with her index fingertip, being sure to keep it coated in fluid from the vial at all times. Not pausing to wonder on the stuff's composition, she upended the vial against her finger, finding it slightly viscous. Then she uttered the required phrase, in a language she could not discern. The places she had touched shimmered, and once they had ceased doing so, Mary covered the whole mirror in a thick shawl, the final instructions on the paper.

'Do not lift the veil,' the page commanded. 'No matter what you should hear. Do not approach until the following words ring out, their ensuing parts to be recited in turn between us.'

As she read the verse, her heart-rate climbed in anticipation: finally, the wait was at an end — or soon would be — and she need only carry on with her life, as she always did in Lilith's absence. And so she did, resolvedly across the rooms, until she was able to slip into bed, unperturbed by what dreams may come.

The realm was dark and soupy, the air uncomfortably warm and still, and something like diluted treacle reached her waist. There was a great distance all around, though no terrain could be seen, no matter where the empty sky stretched. The submerged ground was spongy and cool beneath the soles of her feet, with the occasional stone or shell fragment, and with each step the sand clouded up around her bare ankles.

A tiny gust of wind sounded somewhere, though she could not feel it on her face, and as she listened it slowly became the susurration of a human throat.

“Lilith?” she asked, the vibrations of her voice swallowed by humidity. She squinted into the blackness, unable to pick out anything concrete, and her ears strained to trace the source.

Again the whisper, its words indecipherable.

“Lilith!”

She had attempted and failed to be louder, and within her slump of frustration, she noticed another sound — or rather, the feeling of one: a thrumming against the air, which grew denser until it was thick enough to lay her forehead against.

Soon it transformed into a reverberating thud, pulsing through her skull, and all of a sudden her waking ears took command, returning her to the bedroom, where she peered fruitlessly into the deepest shadows.

The noise was here too, its source undeniable.

“Lilith?” Her voice was unsteady as she fought against fear, and she chastised herself, knowing she had to get used to such things in this strange new life of hers.

She remembered the rules and shook the sleep from her head, turned on the bedside lamp to claim her glasses and the little page of recitation that she needed to be certain — though 'certain of what' she did not care to ponder.

She moved to the foot of the bed on all fours, then descended to kneel on the carpet, her eyes still straining in the low light.

“I'm here. Lilith, it's me. Um... and if it's really you, then could you—”

“Shadows deepen, hone thine ear,” came the hushed line, sparing no time for pleasantries.

Mary nodded and gave her reply: “What was solid now grows sheer.”

“Spirits harken, far and near.”

“May the boundaries disappear.”

“May my voice ring bold and clear.”

Though it did not, but rather continued anxiously, seeming to draw further away and then closer. Mary swallowed and completed the unchanging rhyme:

“Only love may enter here.”

She heard a sigh through the shawl, then a light began to seep through: not magical illumination, but the light of a room on the other side, marginally less dim than her own.

Mary placed a hand to the hem of the cloth and pinched it, caught between immediate disobedience and caution of the unknown.

I want to see you.

“Lilith, are you all right?” She already knew the answer, could practically feel the First Witch's mood through the ether, and the length of Lilith's silence confirmed it.

“Don't fret about me, Mary.”

She allowed the evasion. “Where are you?”

“Hell. For how long I cannot presently say.”

“Why?” she nudged and again Lilith paused, apparently unprepared for the question.

“It's always so difficult to tell with him. His moods are unpredictable, even to me. Even after so long.”

“Did he,” her chest tightened with the certainty of it, “Lilith, did he hurt you?”

“I'd rather you not think about such things.”

“How can I not?” Her pitch was rising and she quickly collected herself; the last thing Lilith needed was hysteria. “Is there anything I can do? For you?”

Lilith's voice was wearily grateful. “You already have.”

“How?”

“By continuing to exist. Now, listen to me, I don't have much time, but I need to... I need to apologise. For stranding you.”

“Lilith, I don't care about that.”

“You were relying on me. It was my decision to translocate you with no means of return.”

“I may be mortal, but I'm still an adult. I found my own way home. Really, the worst of it was not knowing. About you, I mean. About what might have kept you.”

From me.

“I'm sorry.”

“But you're here now.”

“In some capacity. But I must leave. Be patient, and I will send word again, when I can.”

“Lilith, wait!” Her heart leapt in panic at the impending solitude, and her hand went again to the cloth, gripped the frame past it. “Please, before you go—”

Her chest was thudding, and she imagined that she could hear the same in Lilith's reply. “Yes?”

“Please let me see you.”

“I mustn't. The rules of the spell are explicit.”

Her words had a tang, strange and discordant to Mary's ears.

Lilith, are you...

“A-are you lying to me?”

There was no reply, though Mary thought she caught a troubled murmur, a way back from the glass. And then Lilith returned, her breath audibly constricted.

“Yes. I was. Forgive me, but... I do not wish to be seen.”

A pebble which had crept stealthily up Mary's throat grew immediately large. “Why?”

She knew she was being unfair; but she couldn't help herself.

“I have lost many things, many times, Mary. But where possible, my dignity must be preserved.”

Oh God.

“Can't I just,” she shook her head, attempting to jostle the selfishness from her thoughts, “can't I even...” Then she stopped, and sighed at herself in frustration. “You're right. Of course. I won't insist upon it.”

“You'll see me soon enough, Mary. And I will be well.”

“Will you?” There was a keen in her words, which would not be stilled.

“I will. Be patient, and be trusting.”

“Always.” And she hoped that estimation would hold true.

“I must go now.”

“I know.”

“Goodnight, Mary.”

“Goodnight.”

'Take care of yourself', pleaded the words Mary wouldn't give voice, 'until I can as well.'

Chapter Text

“Goodnight Lilith.”

The First Witch closed her eyes and let herself fall backwards, artful hands gesturing as her body met the futon; she dispelled the enchantment upon the veiled mirror and the cantrip of steady speech on her bruised throat, extinguished the rows of every kind of candle which illuminated these new, even more meagre quarters, and embraced the solace of sightlessness.

She sighed — a thin, whistling sound — and, from the gloom beneath the candles, shapes emerged which would have glinted bronze were there even a speck of light remaining. Their steps were softened by silken pads and raised heels, and they hissed a soothing song as they approached from all sides.

The succubi licked her wounds, up and down her body, sliding long, skillful tongues into every cranny; their attentions would not do much to heal the damage wrought upon her, but they could pacify her mind and speed her own ability to do so. The distraction of first one body and then another — climbing nimbly over each other in the dark, adroit with darting tails — was a panacea old as time.

They risked their lives being here, not five minutes from the Throne Room, but they could never have refused her; not with her pedigree, not with her boundless energies. Not with the ancient echoes of her that lived in their violet blood.

Though she tried not to acknowledge concern over such things, Lilith was acutely aware that the succubi's numbers had been steadily whittled down in recent centuries, leaving them too few to pose any threat to her enemies, had she considered rallying them.

In their way, they were just as trapped as Lilith herself: though Hell had rendered them prey animals, the creatures were hesitant to venture into the mortal realm (unlike their masculine cousins, so quick to possess human flesh). Once they had drained a man, he was under their thrall, but before that, should he be ready — and more so, should he be warlock — their defence was limited; once, fangs and claws had served them well, but in this new era of automatic weaponry, a demoness could lose her gleaming life in an instant.

“Mistress Lilith,” a voice lisped, so feathery beside her ear that she had to draw a naked shoulder up to rub the itch away.

“Tira? Neesa?” she inquired. “Some other?”

“Tira, my lady.”

Lilith nodded, knowing she could have seen through the dark had she wished it, but keeping her eyes veiled brought every other sensation into relief, all the better to lose herself.

“Do you thirst?”

“Without end,” Lilith breathed, stretching her arms and elongating her ribcage, granting access to whomever else might wish it.

The creatures smelt of copper and musk, and, after a time, braised nutmeg. Put to the tongue, they were flavourless along their soft scales, but within their mouths and their folds, lay gasps of crisp ginger.

A leather flask was placed against her curling fingers and she accepted it, though it would be a while before she would attempt to sip; for one thing, the activity about her hips had intensified, and the risk of spilling honeyed water across her face amid convulsions was far too great.

Arms reached over from behind her prone form and slim, tender fingers began to caress her neck, drawing forth moans which pleased her ears; the sound of her own delight was a delicacy to savour, frustratingly rare as it was.

Cat-like teeth took hold of her helix, then navigated her lobe in sharp little nibbles which grew sharper when her body shivered its insistence.

Lilith's hand sought some purchase, and found it in a coiled tail, which she gripped and thumbed for both of their pleasures. Then, with a meaningful tug, she ushered the demon atop her chest and eased her down to still-parched lips. The creature's unrestrained cries dazzled Lilith's mind in a flash of lemon, and she enjoyed the textures — now smooth, now slick, now velvet — which gave themselves over entirely to her use.

Working her jaw was still difficult, its dislocation a very recent memory, and the swelling within her cheeks was felt with every arch of her tongue. But it wasn't important; no matter what he might do, he would not keep her from her pleasures; neither these, which the False God called Sins of the Flesh, nor those of a quieter sort, which did not churn, but simmered, did not cry out roughly, but hummed and crooned and sank into slumbers.

It was no longer clear, within the writhing mess of them, which was her own body and which another lithe creature; their limbs interlaced and melted together, and her nerve endings joined an endless forest of sparking branches, perpetually on the cusp of flames.

Her ego embraced the loss of itself, swallowed into hot, undulating darkness.

Deeper and deeper, to be reborn on the other side, where eventually, against an eternity of voices, there would be blinding, wrecking light.

Her earlier banishment, being relegated to her tiny apartment on the outskirts of Pandemonium, had been the lightest slap on the wrist; whereas this place, far sparser and meaner and without her cherished amenities, was a yank on the chain.

She had seen to it that her little halfway house was guarded — it and the precious items it contained — but she was unlikely to return there for some time yet. For now, he wanted her stuck to this stake in the ground, laid low, at his mercy in an even more visceral manner than usual. It was too pretty for a jail cell, because Lucifer hated the aesthetics of austerity, and so he clothed the cold in a veneer of elegance, not for her sake but his own.

He would not deprive her of nutrition when she should eventually need it, as such would risk his son's health, and should he grow annoyed throughout his day, if any small thing should pique his ire, he would not hesitate to come for her, with a multitude of cruelties that would leave her womb unscathed.

Keeping her in ignorance was a gleeful part of the game; on the alert, she found it difficult to heal, her meditations frequently broken by sounds of life beyond her door; the involuntary stiffening of her limbs and quickening of her heart, so many times over the hours, bred in her a hopelessness which — while she knew the situation was temporary — weakened her faith.

Faith: a thing she had been born into, twisted under, dragged around by and lost. And for the longest time, she loathed the word, for what was faith but a dedication to one's own suffering? The only faith she had allowed was faith in herself, though in that case, she would call it anything but.

Faith, and also Hope: twins in foolishness. They were intangible things that could never be seen nor grasped in hand, no matter what incantations she might whisper; could only be clung to by sheer desperate will.

And it was tiring.

So tiring.

Her insomniac spirit trembled, bereft of the only touch that truly mattered.

I might have forever to wait, but you don't. And if I am to be chained here for too long—

“Hi? Lilith, is it cool if I come in?”

After her heart had recovered from its leaping, she recognised the door-muffled voice, and a smirk hit her lips where it hurt.

“Why even ask, your Majesty?”

Cloaked in shadow on her low cot, Lilith would normally have glamoured her face to decency at times like these: for all that Sabrina was a brat, she was not a devil; even if by chance she did have a part to play in the End of Days, she was still a child, and Lilith was not especially inclined to terrorize children with her own wretchedness.

Usually.

But for now, she was angry.

Angry and in pain. And the girl was not without culpability in that.

Light streamed in from the passageway and Lilith blinked Sabrina's shape into clarity, as the latter wandered into the room, taking it in for the first time.

“Did I leave that rubik's cube thing with you? I was sure it was in my room, but, uh—” Finally Sabrina's eyes had fallen upon her face, and Lilith caught the tiny quaver in her voice, before the girl was able to cover herself with a clearing of the throat. “I've looked everywhere, and there's no sign of it.”

“Ad Azzarel's Puzzlebox?” she asked, unable to fully enjoy Sabrina's discomfort.

“Yeah. Yeah, that one.”

“No. I do not have that irreplaceable, millennia-old artifact.” Neither had she the energy to continue feigning interest in Sabrina's absurd rank.

“Oh... then, can we...”

What will 'we' be doing this time, I wonder.

“Is there maybe a way we can find out where it's gone? Like some kind of homing beacon?”

“How convenient that would be, if every priceless relic had its own tracking fob.”

“But isn't there? I'm pretty sure I read something about it, when I was doing research for my dad — not that I have any idea what that was about. Like, why do I suddenly need to know what it means when stars align? I mean, okay, maybe for the past hundred years or whatever, that's interesting, and it's kind of cool to know how they actually pointed to real things that happened. But he seems really into astrology now, I'm getting super close to just saying 'Hey, are you a Libra? 'Cause you seem like a total Libra'.”

I assure you, he is a Cancer.

“You'd offer the Dark Lord his daily horoscope?”

“I mean,” the girl shrugged, “it was just a joke. Not everything has to be serious all the time, Lilith.”

Yet still you refuse to look me in the eye.

Lilith tilted her head and stared in wonderment. “How do you do it, Sabrina? How do you make sense of the vast dissonance between your knowledge of who your father is, of everything he has done, and this ridiculous... this casual jocularity of yours? How can you see his endless cruelty and simply...” She squinted in disbelief, let the sentence shrivel up.

The girl took a keen interest in other areas of the room, unable to settle on Lilith's marred face. “It's not about him. Being queen is my birthright.”

“And that's all there is to it? You'll learn at his knee, take his advice, yet maintain that you are nothing like him? You, somehow, more than anyone who has ever lived, will keep close ties with the Devil, and yet remain unsullied by his influence?”

“I'm not stupid, Lilith. I know how dangerous he is. It's not like he didn't do terrible things to me and my family in the past.”

“But now all of that is water under the bridge? Or perhaps you think, now that you've given him what he wants, he'll stop attacking those you care about.”

Either option would pass, judging by the look on the girl's face. “I mean, he has, right?”

“Well. It's nice to have confirmation of where I stand with you — that is, if I ever had any doubt.”

Finally Sabrina met her gaze, but only fleetingly, before moving to her hairline. “That's not fair.”

“Isn't it?”

“You've known him for thousands of years, what happens between the two of you is—”

“Yes, I have.” Lilith pushed herself upright. “I knew him when I was as fresh as the first bud. Back then, he acted kindly, told me saccharine things, and I — child that I was — could not conceive of his manipulation. Before him, those who had injured me did so far more directly. Why, the First Man had barely the guile to fake concern, for even a few scant hours. And so it was no wonder I fell in love. As fools are wont to do. But you, Sabrina...”

Her eyes darkened, chin dropping to her chest.

“You're a modern girl, aren't you? You've grown up in an age with history, and you've had the opportunity to learn from my mistakes, and all the other women who came before you. You've had a family — a true family who did everything they could to make you wise and keep you safe — and you've had the luxury of friends, who could caution you when you blindly stumble into peril's path.”

Scowling into her memories of lack, she tucked mussed tresses behind her ear, revealing more of her damage to Sabrina.

“I had no idea how truly terrible he could be, and before long I was trapped, in body and mind. But you? You had it all. And you knew better. You saw everything unfold, and still you chose this. And still... you act as though the things he does to me—” (swells of anger created a physical pain in her chest, constricting her speech) “—are beneath your concern. You would dance with the Devil, follow his steps, but claim you are not allowing him to lead. And you... you would...”

Much as she fought to regain her flow, she was exhausted, and words deserted her. Instead, she curled her lip and shook her head once more, sighing into the futility of it all.

She expected the girl would exit after this scolding, pout and stomp around the court feeling ill-done-by.

But she did not. Instead, she moved closer to the foot of the cot.

“I know you think I'm the worst,” she muttered, sullen but trying not to be. “You're not subtle about it.”

I gave up on subtlety long ago. Around the time I realised that it did not matter even the slightest amount what I felt.

“But I don't actually like watching you suffer, okay?”

Lilith conveyed her scepticism in an arch glare, unwilling to expend precious energy to speak on it.

“I'm not a bad person,” Sabrina insisted. “I know I've made some mistakes, but I'm taking this queen training very seriously, can't you see that? I want Hell to be better, I know I can make it better. And if that means dealing with Lucifer's bullshit until I'm properly in charge, then I've just got to grit my teeth and do it.”

It's true, you have been putting in the efforts needed — much more easily done when you've split yourself in twain — but even so...

“And looking the other way while he brutalises my body is just a distasteful necessity?” Her throat was growing far too dry, but there were some things which had to be said. If they were going to do this now, lay their grievances on the table while she lay infirm and in pain, she would not waste the opportunity.

“Yes! I mean, I hate it, but... Lilith you always survive. Everyone knows how strong you are. You've been way worse, and you're still here.”

Lilith gaped for a moment before catching herself: the girl's words were amazingly close to complimentary, even as they were also repulsive and ignorant.

“And given my refusal to die... you're content to watch the cycle repeat ad infinitum?”

“Well, what do you expect me to do!” Sabrina had given up on her indoor voice, straining against helplessness. “I can't exactly get between you, can I?”

“What do I expect?” Lilith lifted her knees and drew herself quickly forward to rest upon them, her face a snarl of battery and disappointment. “I expect nothing from you! Only the weakest minded of sludge demons, dredged from the primordial pools, would hold any expectations from you. You crave power, and you crave adoration, and with every passing day, you see less and less of who you are becoming. I have seen things in you, Sabrina. Things I've seen in him, and things I've seen in myself. But you will never see your own descent, because you are just as short-sighted and self-involved as your celestial bastard of a father.”

“Shut up!”

“Admit that you want his dominion over the lives of others, Sabrina! Admit you want to play with them without consequence, that you want to build them up and then kick them over, like sandcastles on your own private beach.”

“Shut up!”

The girl's eye shone pearly white, but Lilith was prepared for the crimson arc of energy when it darted towards her and she already had a hand up to deflect it. For a moment she held the pose — breathing through the blow, the stress such an absorption had landed upon her system — and allowed Sabrina to take in what she had done. Eventually, her chest aching but under control, Lilith chuckled.

“You see? Just a little poking, and you're the same violent, unthinking beast he is.” She lowered her hand to rest upon a knee. “I trust you'll enjoy your horns and second maw when they grow in.”

Shock had overtaken Sabrina's face, and she began to tear up, biting down onto her lip.

“Oh really, my young queen,” Lilith continued dismissively, “regret is not for one such as thee.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“You're not.”

“Lilith, I didn't mean to—”

“You did. And I'm tired. So now, your Majesty, if you please... I would like, once more, to rest.” She leaned back and took her eyes off the girl, pointedly positioning her face out of view.

Too long was there silence, of both voice and tread, and Lilith could feel the eyes upon her.

“What?” Her patience was gone, the company weighing on her skeleton.

“I don't want to be like him,” the murmur came eventually, thin with remorse.

“How unfortunate for you.”

“Just... tell me how I can help you. Without messing everything up.”

Lilith heard the catch, the real sorrow in her voice, and was again surprised into a smirk of disbelief. “Help me? Now why would you ever care to do that?”

“Stop it, I just want to be... Lilith, tell me how to be a good queen.”

“You can't.”

“What? But—”

“You'll never be a good queen. Not unless you begin to see what you already are, and change your course. It's remarkable what we can become, when we are willing to look at ourselves.” Her voice had grown wistful without her knowing, because her eyes had shut and taken her somewhere better.

“Okay. I guess maybe that's something I need to do.” Lilith heard her shuffling, and waited for the rest of it. “But leaving that aside... let me help you. Please.”

The desire was genuine, and Lilith could barely believe it.

At least for now, in this one moment, that's what you want. And I would be supremely foolish not to take advantage of it.

“All right. I'll tell you.” She angled her head, feeling the vertebrae grate and complain. “You can lie for me.”

“Lie?”

“Yes. You shouldn't have a problem with that.”

“Lie about what?”

“My whereabouts. You'll tell him where I am, that I'm tutoring you, taking you on field-trips, whatever you need to say to convince him that my time is not my own.”

“Where will you really be?”

“What makes you think you have the right to that information?”

And Sabrina was silent, because the only true answer could not be said out loud.

“Do you agree?”

Sabrina nodded. “Okay. I'll lie for you. If that's what it's going to take for you to see that I'm not a bad person. That I'm not like he is.”

I'll see no such thing. You have already lied far more than I could possibly have expected, to dodge the responsibility of choosing a single path in life. With your great facility in the act, perhaps you are the False Prophet after all.

How appropriate, then, that you should clear the path for me and mine.

Chapter Text

By engaging her core and leaning backwards from the waist — three classes worth of examination booklets barely balanced against her chest and held in place by her chin — Mary was able to get just enough purchase on the handle to twist it, shifted her hip to the forefront, and pushed her office door open.

Precariously she continued, a little bit further, then carefully levered forward, releasing her fingers one by one until the stack was stable in the centre of her desk. Just a few more days, and this would all be over for months, both she and the students free to pursue their personal narratives. Which was none too soon for Mary, given how many unknowns still lay ahead of her.

She gazed beyond the pile of papers, their hazy outline growing hazier through fatigued eyes, and experienced the unwelcome vision of the pages caught in a breeze, swaying and collapsing, flitting to every corner of the room, some sliding under her bookshelves, never to be seen again. Such a prospect had her gulping back anxiety, before it might infect her with clumsiness and bring the chaos to fruition by her own hand.

Suspiciously eyeing the papers, she backed away, eventually taking her eyes off them to pull the door shut, and, after a moment's reflection, lock it as well; if she had to worry about students coming to ask for testimonials, she would never fully focus on grading, and that prohibitive workload had to take precedence.

Then a sound came from behind — an airy swishing — and dismay sank all the way down in her gut. Half of her gave up immediately, but the other insisted on at least attempting damage control, and she spun around, her eyes darting floor to furniture for scant moments before she realised that nothing had fallen, and her vision acknowledged the dark shape made manifest behind her desk.

Seated in her chair and holding a single exam booklet, its binding resting lightly against mulberry lips.

“Hello, Mary.”

Like effervescence her dread dissolved, and both palms went to her chest, pressing one over the other against her rejoicing heart.

“Lilith, oh, thank heavens!”

A little smirk and she allowed the expression. “Thank you for your patience. My troubles having been resolved, I am back on task, willing and able.”

Her initial joy passed, Mary approached the desk, scanning Lilith up and down. “Are you all right? When we last spoke, you weren't... um, you sounded so...”

Lilith waved a hand. “I'm fine. Think nothing of it.”

“After everything, you're still trying that?” A laugh sprang from her chest, tinged with persistent unease.

“Well, what if I allow you to thoroughly look me over later tonight, after we whittle down this behemoth?” She placed the booklet gracefully back atop the pile.

“I'd be a fool to refuse an offer like that. Um, the papers, I mean,” she added quickly.

Lilith watched her silently, her smile as languid as her posture in the chair, and Mary insisted to herself that this need not be a mask; Lilith was back, and as self-possessed as she ever was when things were going to plan. It hurt nothing to agree with the semblance of it, and so Mary's mind turned to more practical concerns.

“Should I start dinner soon? We can head back right now if you like, there's no reason for me to sit around and wait for someone to need me.”

“As you wish,” Lilith replied, with a courteous tip of the head. “Though you needn't worry about feeding me. I've dealt with that already.”

“Oh. All right.” She wouldn't deny that it was disappointing: whatever hardships Lilith was keeping to herself, Mary had at least wanted to offer a nurturing meal. “What did you have?”

Another placating wave from Lilith. “I was quick to find sustenance, after leaving Hell. I'm afraid I'd become quite ravenous, and did not wish to greet you in such a state.”

“I see.” Though she attempted not to see, drawing conclusions of a decidedly graphic sort.

Then Lilith sighed and Mary caught the slipping nonchalance in her eyes. “Mary, tell me...”

“Yes?”

“How long was I gone? Days? Weeks?” Her mouth stayed open, hesitant to add another unit of time.

“Oh, just another few days! It's Tuesday. The ninth. Why?” She examined Lilith's face, felt a frown take over her brows. “How long was it for you?”

Lilith's lips stiffened and she regarded some other distance before returning to the room. “Longer.”

Fishing for more details would help neither of them, Mary knew, and so she let the knowledge settle on her skin and hoped the chill of it would vanish soon.

Lilith's unhurried veneer aside, time was undoubtedly of the essence — even more so, with the lapsed days after their previous excursion — and so Mary focussed on collecting in her breast a solid determination, which she hoped would accompany her voice.

“Let's continue the trials tonight. I'm ready. If you're going to help me with the papers again, then there's plenty of time.”

Lilith was perplexed. “You said it was Tuesday. You can't possibly sacrifice your sleeping hours and still function tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don't have to. After collecting a stack like that, we usually get the next day off to get a head start on the grading.”

“Ah, yes. That had somehow slipped my recollection.”

I'm not surprised. Even with your fine mind for minutia, things like these must certainly fade with disuse.

“And as for Thursday, I've only got afternoon invigilation. I'm sure if I go and ask now, I can find someone willing to swap a Friday slot with me, since that'll let them take a long weekend.”

Gratitude and excitement glimmered in Lilith's eyes, before she blinked them back. “We'd need to start preparations immediately, of course.”

“Do you think I can nap for a few hours in-between?”

Lilith considered the restrictions, apparently spread across the office walls. “I believe so. Yes.”

“Then, I think,” she shook her head, corrected herself, “I know I can do it.”

Spurred to standing, Lilith placed both palms atop the stack of papers. “That being the case, I will spare you the burden of these.” Tendrils of shadow began to lick at the booklets, from the bottom up, and Lilith met Mary's eyes with an enthusiasm that her habitual neutrality had no hope of concealing. “And I will see you at the cottage. Soon.”

“As soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

Her words vanished into shade, along with her body, and Mary took a deep breath, acknowledging how tight her chest had become, and the pounding of her heart. Then she rubbed her fingertips across her face — brows, forehead, cheekbones and chin — and huffed her readiness: Mrs Williams should still be on the property, and with her children already on break, an early weekend would be an absolute godsend.

“Well,” she said to the room at large, “no time to waste, Wardwell.”

Not with her life-force so modest. Not with such vastness ahead.

The grading already well underway, Lilith barely looked up at Mary's return.

“I see you've made a three-day stew.”

“I did, yes.” It was no kind of welcome home, but given Lilith's intense absorption, any more animated greeting was unlikely.

“You'll need to have eaten before sundown.”

“Understood.” Mary hung up her satchel, attempting to keep both of their nervous energies muted.

“And ideally you should take what sleep you need not long after that, if—” Lilith stilled her pen and sighed, raised her eyes to Mary's as she forced back the electricity therein. “Should you still wish to continue with the trials tonight.” She paused, tightened and loosened her smile. “But there is no necessity to do so. I dare say it will keep another day.”

Your mouth says that, but your eyes tell another story. And I still don't even know the half of it.

“I want to, though.” She pulled off her shoes and set them aside, made her way to the dining table in her pantihose. “And I've confirmed the exchange at work, so I'm entirely at liberty, until Friday at least.”

Lilith nodded and separated one of the papers from the pile, slid it over to Mary's side of the table.

“Young Ms Sheffield has told a tale with many details but quite disastrous flow. Almost as though she were recalling plot points written by someone else entirely. I am not the expert you are in such things, but I suspect she may have channelled your contemporary horror cinema.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Mary shrugged, and tried to make a mental note that would stick. “I'll take it to the bedroom with me; if anything's going to help me fall asleep, it'll be these long compositions.”

“I pity everyone involved,” the First Witch remarked, with no trace of pity whatsoever.

Having acquired a light serving of stew, Mary sat across from Lilith, feeling guilty for not assisting but equally unwilling to risk the safety of the exam papers. She sipped as quietly as she could, tried to keep the spoon from sounding anywhere against the bowl, and let her eyes wander all across the room, following the textures of fittings and furniture that she had examined hundreds if not thousands of times; if she was to be a mere accessory to the marking process, she should at least be an unobtrusive one.

But despite her best efforts, her eyes were caught up in an invisible gravity well, pulled back to the ancient, inscrutable being managing a mere mortal school teacher's workload; once more she found herself staring at the elegance of that down-turned face, the severe arching of brows and lips, the solemn furrows and crannies; once more she found herself wondering:

Is that what I look like? So full of gravitas, even engaged in the banal?

When new students see me focussed at my desk, could they possibly find me that intimidating, or is my aura simply far too mild?

When they looked at you, every last one, they must have felt it. Deep in their bones.

That they were in the presence of a queen.

Though the flow of her pen was unceasing, Lilith responded to the weight of Mary's gaze. “If I didn't know better, I might think you were trying to stare right through my flesh.” Her chin dipped, to follow the essay down the page, and so too did her voice. “Which I would very much advise against.”

But even with the chiding, Mary could not look away; a sense of déjà vu held her ensnared, intensified by Lilith's words and posture.

Through your flesh?

She felt suddenly strange, in a way she could not explain. Inside of her skull and hands.

Beneath your skin?

Her mind's eye was attempting to cast a misty overlay across Lilith's face, summoned from another world. A memory from the dead? From some place in Damnation?

The feeling tugged at her; a thread; a suture that bypassed anaesthesia.

She frowned until her eyes grew dry and lost focus, and in that haze, a darkness formed — a rough black silhouette — and features emerged that sunk deeper than any Pit her soul could recall.

Her breath caught in her throat as the entirety of that dream descended, slamming into place all around her:

Lilith was there, on all fours, palms pressed plaintively against the tarmac, speaking in an infernal rattle which barely made sense as words.

Mary remembered her own terror, her feet welded to the ground as she shrieked to be left alone, and demanded some reason for the horror standing before her.

And she remembered how the creature had stared at its rough right hand and gurgled in misery, before descending into total, bestial submission.

How it had stayed there until Mary's mind had finally seen beyond the grotesquerie and discovered the human Lilith, pleading through a monstrous cage of her own making.

It was so clear now, as though she had only just woken up.

In the dream, Lilith had reacquired their matching face — by whose will Mary could not say — then made a swift egress, back into the waking world, tattered by her shame.

You told me about your other face, more than once.

I should have known you would have a body, and a voice, and a set of claws to match.

But I never imagined it would be like that.

Not that she had ever truly tried to imagine; if she were honest with herself, she had chosen to assume Lilith's warnings metaphorical, even as she knew they were not; It was easy to deny fear when she did not allow the possibility.

I told you I didn't care what you might look like. And you didn't forget my saying that.

Though it would be more accurate to say that I know better than to judge by appearances. But even so, I could not switch off my basic terror.

It took me too long to figure it out. I should have been quicker. I should have known in my heart it was you, without fail.

Loving someone... surely that should be enough? To ward off a trick of the darkness.

She folded one hand over the other in her lap, the lower gripping at her thigh as she assimilated the memories, and experienced the devastation which had raked across Lilith's spirit — just as she had that very night upon waking, perceiving it in Lilith's exhausted movements and mournful cadence, without knowing its full cause.

Lilith couldn't know the brief, confusing flashes of dream that Mary had remembered, even then, or she would have brought it up, full of justifications and apologies.

And she must not be let to know now, lest Mary be the cause of even more pain, beyond that which recent time had already inflicted upon her.

Unfortunately, one thing she could not control was Lilith's intuition, and Mary averted her eyes as the witch placed down her pen and straightened up.

“Well Mary,” she sighed, “if it's eating you up so badly, I suppose I'll have to come clean.”

“What?”

You can't have...

Another sigh, this one more indulgent. “About the things that happened, while I was away. I can see you're virtually catatonic with morbid curiosity. But grant me, if you will, some further hours' reprieve. I fear getting into all that will seriously hamper our plans for the evening.”

“Oh, of course,” she answered immediately, glad to have been misinterpreted for once. “I didn't mean to pressure you.”

Lilith tilted her head with a briefly flickering smile. “You do feel rather loudly. But that's part of your charm.”

“My charm?” She felt the borders of her face heat up and placed cool knuckles against her cheek.

Lilith gifted her a chuckle, before returning to her work.

My charm?

I think you've got us reversed.

Blessedly, though, the sudden attack had short-circuited her inner turmoil, and she was able to return to the remains of her food, then excuse herself to the bedroom.

She reclined atop the covers, the dubious essay poised, but found herself shifting, unable to find comfort. Eventually, she reached her hands behind her back and unclasped her stiffly-contoured bra, let it fall slack beneath her sweater with audible relief; perhaps it was high time to be less concerned about the precision of her silhouette (despite what her mother's immortal voice continued to insist). After all, Lilith took no pains bullying her shape into submission — day after tightly constrained day — and yet remained a radiant beacon of femininity.

Comfortable at last, she lifted the page to block the light which still passed through her lace curtains.

'Maggie Townsend is 37 years old and she has two children, Sam and Liam. Sam is 6 and likes to play with his red fire truck, and Liam is 12, and everyone says there is something strange about him. His eyes sometimes glow the wrong color, and once his brother heard an evil voice coming from his mouth, when Liam thought he was alone in the bedroom...'

Lilith had been correct: lots of specifics, but a very clumsy flow, as though the student were recalling piece by piece a film's pertinent points.

'One day, Maggie was called in to see the principal of Liam's school, who said that Liam had been found in the boiler room, his hands covered with blood, and nobody could say where the blood had come from.'

Mary took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose; for just a moment, she would rest her vision, rest her neck against the welcoming pillows. For just a moment, and then she would finish reading this piece; it shouldn't take long, once she could find a rhythm in it.

She was surprised by how much the bed seemed to shift and sway with her eyes shut, and noted the tension which had been sitting at her temples for some time. She stretched her spine and focussed on her breathing, in hopes that she could free herself.

In...

(just a little bit longer)

...out.

(then you'll be somewhere in the wide world again)

In...

(Who knows where she'll take you.)

...out.

(Who cares, for that matter?)

In...

Gentle pressure prodded her shoulder, nudging her until she moaned and blinked her lids apart.

“I was just taking a moment,” she protested, and Lilith gestured with amusement at the dimness all around. “Oh,” Mary sighed. “Not... not just a moment, then.”

“Many handfuls of moments, I'm afraid. Here.” She placed a newly-laundered towel on Mary's lap, as well as a corked vial of oils and a crimson sprig of some kind of plant, unfamiliar to her.

“I hope I don't have to chew this,” she only half-quipped; the rough stem would be none-too-kind to her thinning gums.

“Not unless you feel especially inclined, no. Just keep it with you, in the shower.”

“Only a shower, not a bath this time?”

“It will suffice. You can leave your hair as is, I'll see to it once you're seated by the fireplace.”

“Dressed?”

“Begowned.”

Mary nodded, finding herself surprisingly pragmatic about all this ritual box-ticking: it was nice to have guidelines, even if she didn't yet understand all the reasons. It somehow made her life less stressful.

She placed the stiff sprig beside the soap dish and began to shower, and as the room filled up with steam she became aware of an aromatic tinge to the air, something like fruity curry that drifted in from a distant kitchen. Glancing down for the plant, she found that it was no longer there, leaving only a few waterlogged sediments, bleeding dark red and brown into the grouting.

Lilith, if you ever decided to go into shower products, we might have a financial empire on our hands.

Robed and warmed to the cells, she found Lilith reclined before the hearth, a wicker bowl in the crook of her knees — knees clothed in opaque black stockings — that contained fresh and dried flowers, and vine-stiff twine. At her approach, Lilith directed her down onto the rug, between herself and the fire.

“Your little plant evaporated,” Mary remarked, closing her eyes against the glare.

Lilith sniffed — “That was the hope” — and Mary felt the heaviness of her hair lifted, as Lilith began to undo what remained of her braid.

For a time, neither said anything, Mary merely enjoying the sensations about her scalp and neck, where Lilith worked whatever magic was needed to calm the frizz from her hair and return it to a state fit for braiding. But eventually, curiosity prickling, she reached a hand beside her, trying not to move her head as she felt for the wicker bowl, and had it passed to her.

Lilith allowed Mary to dip her chin, as the plaiting travelled down her back, and she sorted through the plants for recognition: fennel, fresh and feathery; dried stems of juniper, berries erect; soft, flat coriander; violet twining snapdragons, their necks already coiled around the other plants; and flowers of sweet orange, with green and yellow stamens, reaching for a sun no longer there. Of these last she lifted a head and held it where Lilith could see.

“Fire poppies?”

“Papaver californicum,” Lilith confirmed with a nod that Mary could feel through her hair, then reached an open hand around her body. “The snapdragons, please.”

Mary freed them as carefully as she could, and deposited them in Lilith's palm, where they soon began twisting around her fingers.

Are you making them do that, or are they intrinsically weird?

By the diverse pressures on her braid, Mary knew that the plant was being worked into it, and her tightening chest longed to see it; in all her life, she had never had flowers interlacing her hair — the state her curls were so often in forbade it, even had she someone with the desire to do so — only a bloom placed playfully behind the ear, which would always fall out and be lost within minutes.

Piece by piece, she passed Lilith flora and twine, her need to watch growing ever stronger, and once Lilith's hands stilled, she permitted herself the request:

“If there's time, and it's not a bother... could you possibly take a photograph of my hair? If that's something that's permitted?”

Gracious fingertips tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and Mary flinched, became flush with tingling.

“Of course,” Lilith breathed. “How?”

“There's a camera at the bottom of the closet. Behind the shoes. I used to take it out nature-walking.”

But she hadn't used it in a long while; it was a cumbersome thing to wear around one's neck, and her hands were too slender to comfortably grip it the entire time.

“I'll get it,” Lilith said, but instead headed into the kitchen, bringing out a cup and saucer to Mary, before proceeding to the bedroom.

The tea was berry-purple, its aroma sweet and floral, and when she put it to her lips, she tasted the slight bitterness of wildflower honey. A few sips in and Lilith had returned with the camera — a Kodak Brownie to which Mary had treated herself after a Christmas bonus, fifteen years ago if not more — and began photographing the pagan braid from this angle and that.

“Oh, you don't have to do too many,” Mary blushed, the eye of the lens unfamiliar on her skin. “I don't even know how much film is left in there.”

In response, Lilith came again into view, but instead of returning the camera to its case, she crouched close to the fire, raising the viewfinder at Mary's full seated length.

Instinctively, she turned away, blocking her face with a hand. “Lilith, no, don't.”

There was a silence during which her protest was absorbed, and then a querulous tone from the First Woman: “Why not?”

“It's embarrassing. I'm sorry, it's just... I feel really awkward on camera. I've never photographed well. My face always does something stupid at the last moment.”

She heard Lilith's disappointment and turned back cautiously, her hand still raised.

“A pity.”

“Sorry. But, every single time, either one eye will be half-closed, or—“

“Forgive my presumption. I had thought I might take one for selfish reasons.”

“Selfish?”

“But I've lived long enough that my memory will suffice.”

And Mary's heart sank when she heard what Lilith was saying beneath her words:

Something to remember me by.

She fought the clenching sadness which attempted to fold her in half.

Time moves differently for you. In more ways than one.

And tiny mortal me... how fleeting a moment...

She took a firm breath and reset herself in a more civilised pose. “Actually, Lilith, it's fine. Maybe it'll be nice to see my face, frozen in time. After all, I'm sure there are things to appreciate now that I won't have later.”

“That would seem likely. Then shall I?” Lilith's hands were lifting the camera already, though her voice still awaited permission.

Mary closed her eyes, pictured sunny days of yore; walks in the cool, green woods; surprise tokens from grateful students; a not-quite-lilac not-quite-periwinkle gift of the heart, held between her fingertips... and she felt gentleness spread across her face.

Capture me here — in this glowing Now — when neither of us knows what tomorrow might bring.

As she had before, Lilith anointed Mary's pulse points, scenting her with cardamom and clove. Mary's willowherb tea was not quite finished, but she had set it aside when they both noted how little the hands of the clock had cared for their happy diversion.

“One of the great tragedies of existence is that suffering... is inevitable,” Lilith began without preamble, and Mary lifted her chin questioningly, unable to inspect Lilith's face as the spicy clouds lingered around her eyes. “We can neither prevent it nor remove its scars upon the world. And as witches, the temptation to meddle in that inevitability is great. But Nature must weep and bleed, retaining the balance, and all we can do is protect that which matters most, to any of us.”

Mary parted her lips to speak, but peppery fumes crept into the moisture of her mouth and she arched her tongue, shielding her windpipe and abandoning speech. Lilith did not appear to require the interaction anyway.

“'But Lilith,' you might be thinking, 'we brought those bleached bones to flight, were we not meddling in Nature's affairs?'”

Mary nodded, although she had not considered it until prompted.

“And yes, in our way, we were playing hopscotch with life and death. But we ended the game, one ultimately frivolous in Nature's eyes— at least, at my hand. Had we joined body and soul permanently and restored it to life, well, that is the truly forbidden craft. A wise and experienced witch does not engage in such things, despite the happiness they may perceive it to bring.”

And yet, you brought me back.

Imperfectly, which you said was unavoidable.

But you did it, and you've never said it was wrong.

Mary made a sound in her throat, attempting to convey the question, and whether by psychic link or guesswork on Lilith's part, she succeeded.

“I, of course, was Queen of the Underworld. Once. I held dominion over the passage of souls, from death to whichever realm they were owed. And by dint of that station, I operated outside of the usual rules, able to do as I saw fit, for the good of the balance. A self-serving decision here and there would not be surprising, for a ruler of Hell. But were I to attempt the same today...”

Lilith trailed off, and Mary did not need to look to see the sombre expression upon the witch's severe face. She waited, noting the gradual dissipation of the fumes, the cessation of Lilith's anointing touches, and finally dared to open her mouth.

“I understand. Everything in magic has consequences, I'll never forget that.” She blinked her eyes clear, the moisture which had sprung up against the spiced fumes gathering in the wrinkles beneath.

“Good. Now,” Lilith settled herself into a lotus position and took both of Mary's hands in hers, rested Mary's wrists against her knees, “look past me, into the flames.”

Switching her focus from Lilith's intensity was no easy task, but Mary did as she was told, squinting into the brightly dancing light until her pupils adjusted, as much as they were going to.

Then Lilith began to sing, low and lilting, and the amber notes were Middle Eastern. Mary had no hope of understanding, but eventually she picked out a phrase oft repeated:

'Alhimayat min alhariaku'...

...or was it 'alharayik'?

'Alharayiq' perhaps?

Whichever it was, Lilith pronounced it with great determination, and when her song ended, she held the final note until her breath gave out and gasped. She produced a folded item from somewhere on her person and placed it in Mary's hands.

“Silk?” Mary held it up, watching it fall open into a gathered triangle. “It's a bandanna?”

“Yes. To wear over your nose and mouth, should you need it.” She twisted towards the bedroom, “I've laid out your clothes on the bed, so if you're ready?”

Mary nodded and carefully stood, supporting herself on the edge of the couch, and hoping that her nerves would stay only as tense as they currently were and no more; thus far, this was the most preparation they had done for an excursion, and that did not suggest an easy path ahead.

Her prescribed outfit included a russet cloak alongside her regular autumn clothing, which hung as low as her hips and had pockets on each inner side. Inspecting them, she found that one contained her square of crushed velvet, still neatly sleeved, while the other was yet empty.

Presently Lilith arrived, likewise cloaked, and beckoned Mary inward.

“I don't suppose you'll be giving me any warnings, will you?” The lightness of Mary's tone was for both their benefit, but it nonetheless betrayed her trepidation.

Lilith ushered her closer with a suede-gloved hand and a smile. “No. Only this: I would not expose you to anything that I did not truly believe you could withstand.”

“That only says that you have an inflated sense of my abilities.” But she was touched all the same, and also sufficiently buoyed.

Having learned that the ocular blurring of teleportation did not agree with her, Mary moved to rest her face in the crook of Lilith's neck, as both of her hands were taken and clasped firmly at their sides.

She felt the winds of magic suck them out of the cottage, felt the temperature change against her skin, and gave her insides a moment to recalibrate before greeting the altered world.

In the meantime, Lilith's hand left hers and came to press softly against the back of Mary's head, angling it to her lips; she whispered something which fluttered against Mary's forehead, but which Mary could not hear because the atmosphere was drowning it out, nullifying Lilith's words with white noise. Which, with the opening of her ears, grew sharper and louder than the most savage of waterfalls.

What is that? she wondered, the touch of Lilith's lips still soft against her brow. That sound, it's not right.

Then her nose tickled, and she realised there was more to the surrounding pungence than Lilith's peppery oils.

And again, much that was not correct.

She stepped back from Lilith — finding that it was night, somewhere vast and mountainous — and cast her struggling eyes past the First Witch's body.

Her every sense confirmed it in an instant, and far down, within her wily, mammalian mind — within hot, pulsing tunnels older than language, their walls wet with fleet-footed terror, and in colours cold as blood — her psyche cowered, and shrieked.

Chapter Text

Though it was night, Mary could not see the stars, as from the forest which stretched across the mountain's dark plateau, thick plumes of smoke pushed past the canopy, culminating in voluminous clouds; embers sparked on the breeze, thrown out by updraughts and immediately sucked back in, towards the heart of the conflagration.

At her feet, small creatures continued to flee, some scuttling over her shoes in their frenzy (for what comparative threat could she pose?). She could hear their high-pitched chirps, some of them, but mostly she heard the rushing roar of the flames, as though somewhere hid a jet-engine, primed for flight. Every so often a crackling pop resonated above it all, or needle-sharp whining as water vapour was rapidly forced through tree-bark.

Dust made its way into her nostrils and she sneezed, quickly pulled the bandanna over her face and tied it firmly beneath her flower-woven braid, bunned and bound just above the raised collar of her cloak.

Finally she blinked the fear and detritus from her eyes, and turned them on Lilith, who was watching and waiting, her back to the inferno.

“Come,” Lilith told her, raising her voice over the din.

“Into that? Lilith, we can't!” She brought a hand to her galloping heart, and much as she wanted to obey, her body overruled the idea, freezing her legs in place.

The witch tilted her head in sympathy, but gestured them onward, waiting only briefly before setting off regardless.

Mary stared in horror, and inside her head, her voice was shouting that old refrain: I trust you! I do trust you!

But it was not enough. Because she was an animal, just as every human being, and her instincts had taken hold of every sinew, making her shiver from head to toe with the effort of not running away. Her breath came hard and short behind her mask, her throat squeaking its refusal.

This isn't brave. It's madness.

Nature in all its fury...

I can't.

Lilith had stopped and turned to look at her, a hip cocked and insistence in her eyes. She held out a hand, turning a flourish of the fingers into a fist, and bringing it to her breast meaningfully. And Mary's own stated conviction returned to her, over the spice of harira:

'With you in all your knowledge, watching over me, I can handle a little burning.'

Though she had been woefully unprepared for so literal an application; this was far more than just a little burning.

If all of their preparations were to be believed, she was fireproof, but it was extremely difficult to keep that in mind when the heat nonetheless broke sweat across her skin, with how her pale eyes suffered at the merciless, towering brilliance.

Lilith had brought her here, with complete certainty that she could handle it. She had given no warning, as though none were required (rather than it simply not being allowed).

You have such absurd faith in me.

I should do you the courtesy of having the same in you.

Even if her body was going to fight her every step of the way.

Mary caught up and Lilith acknowledged all of her struggles with a nod, her confident strides leading them along a natural footpath between the blazing columns.

Staying so close that their shoulders regularly bumped, Mary took in the different types of burning, the differing speeds at which vegetation was consumed, the colours it left behind. She tried to find the beauty in it, but try as she might, sorrow hung heavy on her heart.

They were moving uphill, she soon realised, and peered down at lands which had grown blacker while her back was turned.

Lilith had stepped away and said something, casting her gaze upward, but Mary had no hope of hearing her, and so Lilith pursed her lips and wove tapestries in the air, until pressure shifted within Mary's ears and the world was muffled. She cleared her throat to check that she had not been likewise silenced, then gave Lilith her full attention, as the witch repeated herself:

“We're not alone.”

Mary followed Lilith's gesture to the canopy, where at first she saw only leaping flames, but then Lilith's palm passed before her vision and suddenly they were there: pixies, moving en pointe from branch to branch, their wings like crumpled, burning leaves, their skin like acorn's shell. And with their every jeté, the blaze spread, even inside the trunks as the creatures played hide-and-seek within knotholes and fissures.

“Did they do this?” Mary whispered in dismay, then turned her eyes back to Lilith, the question a wet sheen between them.

“No,” the First Witch shook her head, and Mary noticed the ashes falling from her mane. “They're just enjoying it. It is their element, after all.”

Mary closed her eyes tightly at the explanation, trying not to perceive the tiny creatures as wicked, for merely doing as their tiny souls were born to do. But to not see wickedness when so much harm was being done, with such apparent disinterest to the outcomes of their fiery toe-tips...

In a fit of crackles and gasps, a new wall of vegetation caught alight — a patch of dense, woody brambles — and Mary took a step back, watching the flames eat out the undergrowth and follow a curve towards loosening earth below, down feathery weeds and upended roots. Then she noticed that the earth was moving, showers of sand kicking out from a gap in the brush.

She went down onto her haunches and peered in, far enough away to avoid the flying dirt, and witnessed the frenzied back legs of a fox, then its snout as it swivelled to check the encroaching world, before returning again to its task, racing to find itself deeper ground to wait out the blaze.

She placed her hand on the ground, feeling how hot it had become, and noticed the many types of root weaving into the den.

“The fire's going to get in there,” she whispered.

“It's unavoidable,” Lilith confirmed.

Mary clasped her hands and pressed her knuckles against clothed lips; it was too horrid, but if they were to be impartial observers, witches who allowed the course of Nature to play out—

A clump of earth collapsed as its supporting roots fell apart, to the left of the digger, and a smaller head appeared — and another and another, pricking up black ears and raising white muzzles, before scrambling as far in as they could, behind their tireless mother.

Lilith, no.

She implored her Elder with every inch of her being, feeling as though her beseeching spirit might rise up from her body and take action on its own.

Slowly, Lilith shook her head, with a stoicism that was far from absolute. 'What is is what must be,' said her ashen blue eyes.

Must it? Must it always? When we have the power to prevent such suffering?

'But Nature must weep and bleed...'

Her heartbeat struggled within its cage, thudding against the bars this way and that, and her limbs trembled, disobedience poised within them.

'...and all we can do is protect that which matters most, to any of us.'

Where does that boundary lie, between the personal and the presumptuous? How many souls am I permitted to protect, before I reach the limits of my allotment?

In her Hellish torment, she had always failed somehow to protect her charges, be they Baxter High students or helpless fauna that lacked her supposed intellect; her desires torn to shreds, she would be lost for another day, doomed to repeat it again and again, loss after loss; and even now, in this re-awakened life, the dread lurked within her that all of her mundane warding would prove futile.

Her weight was shifting on her haunches, her knees descending, and she dared not twist to look up at Lilith.

What matters most, to any of us.

Flames were licking from all sides at the burrow, and Mary felt the familiar heat on her face, as though she could shut her eyes and be in front of the hearth, body and mind at rest. But there was no shutting out the knowledge of what cowered behind these flames.

Ignoring the warnings in her bones, she edged closer, until her knees were just shy of burning brush, and — sparing no further thought for the consequences — reached in with both hands. Before she could make contact with terrified fur, her left hand was nipped, then nipped again, harder. She pulled back, noting the neat little punctures, but not for long. This time, the beleaguered vixen was less subtle in her warnings, and latched precise teeth around Mary's right wrist, shaking it with all the strength in her slender neck.

Mary gritted her teeth, seething through the pain, as she reached deeper, trying to get behind the vixen's hindquarters and draw her out; while front claws gripped her forearm, raking her flesh, and feet kicked and kicked at her hand, Mary used the attack to her advantage, easing the frantic beast from her hole. She was about to turn resolute eyes upon Lilith, but the vixen was not done, and pushed herself onward, teeth on full display as she leapt for Mary's face.

The attack did not connect, however; not due to Mary's quick blocking with her less scathed arm, but to the fact that time had halted around the vixen's body.

From above, past the sound of another collapsed sapling, she heard Lilith sigh.

“Have it your way, Mary.”

I'm sorry, Lilith. I couldn't do it.

Even if it means that I fail as some sallow imitation of a witch, I can't just look away.

Lilith touched the stiffened body and the vixen fell slack, comatose in Mary's arms. Then she knelt, in her confounding high heels, gathered up the pups from the depths of their den — now also fast asleep — and secreted them away beneath her cloak.

“I'm sorry,” Mary insisted, unable to meet Lilith's eyes.

Cumbersome as it surely was for her, Lilith found a way to grip Mary at the shoulder, and spirited them away from the hissing winds of the forest, as the fox burrow wholly vanished into flames.

“I'm sorry,” Mary repeated when she had a throat once more, and pulled down her mask to take in the cool air of Greendale's woods, which jarred more than it soothed.

What else could she say, when her flimsy will had cost them the trial? She only hoped that there would be another chance, that she could be firmer of spirit for whatever lay ahead.

But for what this failure could mean for Lilith, she felt deep, choking shame.

They had materialised beside the thick roots of an oak, and Lilith had already placed down her slumbering bundle, proceeding to expand upon a pocket of collapsed earth with her bare hands, which now seemed far less refined; manicured fingers dug easily into soil, pulling out clods of earth, and soft palms smoothed the ground into an incline. It wasn't a burrow, more of a lean-to with gnarled roots providing the ceiling, but it was quite sufficient in weather such as this.

She placed the pups in the furthest section and beckoned Mary over with their mother. Then, once the family was warmly clustered, she ran her hands over each in turn, and leaned in to whisper to them. In response, ears flicked and noses twitched, but the foxes did not come awake, and Lilith pressed her hands to her thighs, gradually levering herself upright.

And still Mary could not bear to meet her gaze.

I'm sorry.

“Stop being sorry,” Lilith told her, and again rested a hand on her shoulder.

The woods swirled away and Mary stood, crest-fallen and sooty, beside the living room table.

And alone.

She lifted a hand to her cheek to wipe it dry, and was surprised by a biting sting, up and down her arm; for the first time, she properly examined the damage wrought by her insolence, and knew that she would doubtless have reminders of it for many years to come. She would need to see to it before infection took hold, but did not feel especially motivated to do so.

From within her cloak pocket, the square of crushed velvet accused her, and she slumped in assent.

This room, this cottage, normally so cosy, felt large and cold and empty. Should she seek Lilith out, or merely wait for the dressing-down which awaited her? Given the choice, she would prefer to receive it sooner rather than later.

At the very least, though, she should make herself presentable before that happened, and so resigned herself to moving in shambling steps towards the bathroom.

Once there, one mystery was immediately solved, as Lilith stood before the sink — leaned against it, in fact — her head hanging down, and again Mary's shame grew.

She held back yet another apology, not wishing to further irritate Lilith's ears, and in doing so noticed the instability at the First Witch's elbows; the way her weight was pitched slightly forward over the lip of the sink; the echoes of exertion in the shape of her spine.

She trod closer, as silently as she could be while still boot-shod, but could not bring herself to lay a hand on Lilith's curved back, feeling undeserving of the contact.

“You're exhausted,” she murmured, appalled that, all throughout the evening, she had picked up not a sign of it.

“To my discredit,” Lilith admitted to the porcelain. “It would appear that my vim and vigour has not yet recovered as fully as I had anticipated.”

What happened to you down there? And how could I have been so thoughtless, to so quickly believe you when you said you were fine?

Hesitantly, she placed a hand over Lilith's, struck once more by what lay within.

“We should have waited,” poured forth her shame. “This is my fault.”

“Do not play the Nazarene, Mary; it isn't your cross to bear.”

“I'm— I'm sorry,” she recoiled, both at the implication and at Lilith's terse cadence.

Lilith's spent eyes drifted to Mary's hand, which was coated in dirt, and up her bloodied forearm. “I'll see to that, given just a little time.”

Mary withdrew her arm, shielding it with the other. “No, please don't. I've more than enough in my first aid kit to deal with something like this.”

“You'll be scarred.”

“It's a small punishment. I suspect I've cost you a lot more, with my stubbornness.”

“Not really.”

“All those spells... protecting me from the flames, smothering the sound... whatever you did to my eyes that I could see those fire fey... and... saving my face from getting torn into... putting the foxes to sleep and healing them...”

Lilith allowed her to stumble through the list before tossing her mane dismissively. “Mere trifles.”