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xp_logsEveryone winds up dealing with the library talking to them through a fictional character and delivering some uncomfortable truths in the process.
Amanda gets one that might not be so fictional, but very relevant - the first woman in the British Isles to be condemned for witchcraft.
It was hard to tell how she’d become separated from the others - time and space seemed fluid in this library and they could have been wandering around for months for all they knew. But here she was in a small study not unlike the one she’d had in the mansion as a student. It had been part of the library there as well.
Any normal person would have just assumed it was a harmless coincidence, but Amanda wasn’t normal people at any stretch. So it was a cautious witch who approached the wing-backed armchair in front of the glowing fire, positive she was not alone in the room.
“Of course you’re not alone. When have you been since you walked into this place?” The voice was female with an Irish accent, but a strange dialect reminiscent of something she’d read in her magic books. The speaker was a small woman with red hair and blue eyes and white skin, dressed in a simple white kirtle. But there was something intimidating about her, an air of someone who was used to being in charge and would do anything to stay there.
Amanda had no idea who she was.
“True,” she said, responding to the question the woman had asked. “We’ve had all sorts of visitations from figments of the library’s imagination… or ours, really. But if I’m supposed to know you, you’ve made a mistake. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The woman snorted. “Of course you haven’t. There are no portraits of me, at least not in your books.” She rose and dropped a curtsey that was somehow mocking. “Dame Alice Kyetler.”
“Kyetler?” Amanda frowned. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately pin it down. Then she blinked. “The first woman in the British Isles to be condemned for witchcraft.”
“At your service.” The woman took her seat again. “Of course, I wasn’t actually executed.”
“No.” Amanda took a seat of her own on a nearby ottoman, wrapped in memories of the history of witchcraft. “You escaped before they could burn you.”
“I did.”
“And the servant you left behind… they tortured and burned her instead.”
If Amanda had been expecting an extreme reaction, she was disappointed. Alice’s face remained calm and serene, although perhaps a little sorrow entered her eyes. It certainly was evident in her voice. “They did. I did not want that to happen, but events forced my hand and I wasn’t able to bring Petronilla with me. I did save her son. Small comfort to her, obviously.”
“What with being dead and all, yeah.” Amanda’s sarcasm was biting. “So, what’s the deal here? You here for the library? I thought we’d gotten things pretty much worked out there, and you don’t strike me as a bookish sort.”
“Patience is a virtue, young woman.”
“So is not beating around the bush and telling things straight out. Calling a spade a spade, is that an expression you know?”
“No, but I can see you’re in a hurry to leave. Apparently this is the part when you have some kind of revelation.” Alice shrugged. “I am merely the vehicle your subconscious has taken.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. It figured. “If it’s about losing my kids and being over-protective and the rest, I already had that one. I’m working on it. Can I go now?”
“You tell me.” Alice settled down among her cushions, hands folded in her lap. “Is there any other reason why I might be here?”
Amanda made a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. “So what do you signify? Survivor’s guilt? Doing what you have to do? I know all that.” She made an impatient gesture. “What else is there? It’s not like I’ve ever buggered off to save my own skin and left behind…”
Amanda stopped. Her face paled.
“Left behind?” Alice prompted. “Who did you leave behind? A fellow witch? A friend?” She paused and then added, meaningfully. “A lover?”
Amanda shuddered and took a shaky breath. “All three, in a way. Only it wasn’t me, it was another version of me, another dimension, but now that version is me.” She shook her head. “I’ve talked about this, I know there wasn’t anything I could do. I was a fifteen year old kid, an abuse victim just like he was. There was a chance to escape and I took it. I accept that.” She looked at the other woman, almost beseechingly. “Besides, he’s dead, same as your Petronilla. It’s over and done with.”
“Is it?” Alice shook her head. “You still carry him with you.”
There was a guilty flash in Amanda’s eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, unless you’re going all touchy-feely about carrying him in my heart or some bollocks like that. Adam and me… that isn’t how it was. We didn’t love each other. Neither of us knew how.”
“I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean literally. You carry his memories around in your mind and you have so far refused to seek the help that would purge them. Why is that?”
There was another long pause and Amanda looked into the crackling fire. When she responded, it was in a near-whisper. “Because he’ll die for good if I do. I couldn’t save him then. I can now.”
“Can you?” came the inexorable response, the voice of her own conscience. Or possibly Tante Mattie. “Dead is dead, child. Nothing can change that.”
“But…” Amanda dropped her head, struggling with the truth she knew she couldn’t escape. At last, she lifted her head, opening her mouth to respond.
The chair was empty.
Amanda gets one that might not be so fictional, but very relevant - the first woman in the British Isles to be condemned for witchcraft.
It was hard to tell how she’d become separated from the others - time and space seemed fluid in this library and they could have been wandering around for months for all they knew. But here she was in a small study not unlike the one she’d had in the mansion as a student. It had been part of the library there as well.
Any normal person would have just assumed it was a harmless coincidence, but Amanda wasn’t normal people at any stretch. So it was a cautious witch who approached the wing-backed armchair in front of the glowing fire, positive she was not alone in the room.
“Of course you’re not alone. When have you been since you walked into this place?” The voice was female with an Irish accent, but a strange dialect reminiscent of something she’d read in her magic books. The speaker was a small woman with red hair and blue eyes and white skin, dressed in a simple white kirtle. But there was something intimidating about her, an air of someone who was used to being in charge and would do anything to stay there.
Amanda had no idea who she was.
“True,” she said, responding to the question the woman had asked. “We’ve had all sorts of visitations from figments of the library’s imagination… or ours, really. But if I’m supposed to know you, you’ve made a mistake. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The woman snorted. “Of course you haven’t. There are no portraits of me, at least not in your books.” She rose and dropped a curtsey that was somehow mocking. “Dame Alice Kyetler.”
“Kyetler?” Amanda frowned. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately pin it down. Then she blinked. “The first woman in the British Isles to be condemned for witchcraft.”
“At your service.” The woman took her seat again. “Of course, I wasn’t actually executed.”
“No.” Amanda took a seat of her own on a nearby ottoman, wrapped in memories of the history of witchcraft. “You escaped before they could burn you.”
“I did.”
“And the servant you left behind… they tortured and burned her instead.”
If Amanda had been expecting an extreme reaction, she was disappointed. Alice’s face remained calm and serene, although perhaps a little sorrow entered her eyes. It certainly was evident in her voice. “They did. I did not want that to happen, but events forced my hand and I wasn’t able to bring Petronilla with me. I did save her son. Small comfort to her, obviously.”
“What with being dead and all, yeah.” Amanda’s sarcasm was biting. “So, what’s the deal here? You here for the library? I thought we’d gotten things pretty much worked out there, and you don’t strike me as a bookish sort.”
“Patience is a virtue, young woman.”
“So is not beating around the bush and telling things straight out. Calling a spade a spade, is that an expression you know?”
“No, but I can see you’re in a hurry to leave. Apparently this is the part when you have some kind of revelation.” Alice shrugged. “I am merely the vehicle your subconscious has taken.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. It figured. “If it’s about losing my kids and being over-protective and the rest, I already had that one. I’m working on it. Can I go now?”
“You tell me.” Alice settled down among her cushions, hands folded in her lap. “Is there any other reason why I might be here?”
Amanda made a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. “So what do you signify? Survivor’s guilt? Doing what you have to do? I know all that.” She made an impatient gesture. “What else is there? It’s not like I’ve ever buggered off to save my own skin and left behind…”
Amanda stopped. Her face paled.
“Left behind?” Alice prompted. “Who did you leave behind? A fellow witch? A friend?” She paused and then added, meaningfully. “A lover?”
Amanda shuddered and took a shaky breath. “All three, in a way. Only it wasn’t me, it was another version of me, another dimension, but now that version is me.” She shook her head. “I’ve talked about this, I know there wasn’t anything I could do. I was a fifteen year old kid, an abuse victim just like he was. There was a chance to escape and I took it. I accept that.” She looked at the other woman, almost beseechingly. “Besides, he’s dead, same as your Petronilla. It’s over and done with.”
“Is it?” Alice shook her head. “You still carry him with you.”
There was a guilty flash in Amanda’s eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, unless you’re going all touchy-feely about carrying him in my heart or some bollocks like that. Adam and me… that isn’t how it was. We didn’t love each other. Neither of us knew how.”
“I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean literally. You carry his memories around in your mind and you have so far refused to seek the help that would purge them. Why is that?”
There was another long pause and Amanda looked into the crackling fire. When she responded, it was in a near-whisper. “Because he’ll die for good if I do. I couldn’t save him then. I can now.”
“Can you?” came the inexorable response, the voice of her own conscience. Or possibly Tante Mattie. “Dead is dead, child. Nothing can change that.”
“But…” Amanda dropped her head, struggling with the truth she knew she couldn’t escape. At last, she lifted her head, opening her mouth to respond.
The chair was empty.
