Borage Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Preamble

  The Gathering

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Black and Blacker

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  The Guardians

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  War

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Postamble

  About the Author

  Other Books by Gill McKnight

  Also from Dirt Road Books

  The Plague Tree Coven: Book 1

  Borage

  Gill McKnight

  www.dirtroadbooks.com

  Copyright © 2019, Gill McKnight Dirt Road Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, printouts, information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or to business establishments or events is coincidental.

  Cover design by Louis McKnight and Jove Belle

  Cover art © Louis McKnight

  ISBN: 978-1-947253-45-2

  Dedication

  For Bobbi, who made 1st August a truly unforgettable day.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be possible without the fabulous DRB crew—R.G. Emanuelle, Jove Belle, Michelle Teichman, and Andi Marquette. Many thanks for your help and support with this book. And extra applause to Erin Saluta for her invaluable advice and feedback.

  Preamble

  Lancelot rode the night breeze, his wings outstretched, an inkblot against a starry sky. Below him the village of Golem hunkered in a chalky nook in the heart of the Sussex Downs and winked back its own constellation. The falcon circled, quietly observing the little knot of humanity nestled into the hills.

  Night or day, Golem was a sleepy place where very little happened. Narrow streets straggled towards a market square built around an unremarkable stone fountain. Discreet, tasteful shop frontages were tacked onto old swaybacked buildings. There was a newsagent and a post office, a jeweller, a florist, a grocer, a butcher, a baker—there was even a candlestick maker. And, incongruous to its surroundings, a bright red London double-decker was parked permanently on the south side of the square, its destination banner reading “The Big Bus Café.”

  Apart from this contemporary anomaly, the square was predominantly early seventeenth century. Oak timbers, wattle and daub, and even a little thatch, were the architectural mainstays. Farther into the village, the architecture began to change street by street, showing the passage of time—Georgian, Victorian, Edwardian, pre-war, post-war— and suddenly it came to an end. There were no 1960s council estates, no ugly ’70s modernism. The village petered into fields and farmland, and distant chalky headlands, as if Golem had decided to simply stop, and the march of time had stopped along with it.

  Lancelot widened his lazy circle and investigated the village outskirts. The streets were still. House windows shone amber and yellow, and chimney smoke meandered over slate rooftops. He was offered a view of tidy back gardens and hoarfrost trees, a crisscross of tarmacadam with toy- sized cars parked outside homes. No one was driving. The roads were empty. No one ventured out in Golem at this hour…except…one door creaked open and a woman emerged. The light from her hallway haloed her slight figure and blonde hair. A small dun-brown bird flew over her shoulder and together they made their way through a trim cottage garden to the small car parked by the picket fence. A few streets along, two more women with a pair of small dogs came outside and paused to breathe the sharp wintery air before bustling into their SUV.

  High on a hill, three figures trudged wearily along the winding driveway of a grand manor house that glowered in perpetual vexation upon the village below. A tall, silver-haired woman waited impatiently for them by her sleek black car. Her passengers wordlessly got in, and several spectral animals slithered into the backseat with them. The silver-haired woman set out at an alarming speed back down the drive and out through the estate’s wrought iron gates, where she headed east. In other streets, other homes disgorged women and animals, also with the singular intent of leaving the village by the eastern road.

  Lancelot twitched a wingtip and spiralled out onto the Downs towards a farmyard hunched against the northern winds. It was a tired, rundown place of boggy fields, bent trees, and tattered hedgerows. There was a pigsty without a roof, an old barn with ill-fitting doors, and a paddock with broken fencing. Everything needed repair, but the energy to do so was palpably absent.

  The old stone farmhouse was just as rickety, although the garden was well tended and the vegetable plot settled in for the winter. Tonight, lights glowed from every window and all the chimneys smoked. The heart of the house, though tired, was whole and contented.

  Out across the Downs, the headlights of all the cars of all the women with all their animals came trundling along the lane that led towards the farmyard and its crooked gate and overgrown hedgerows.

  Lancelot shrieked. His call struck fear into the small mammals skittering through the frosted hayfields. He flew over the grass-covered chalk hills towards the Weald and its ancient oaks. The night was unfolding as planned. His job here was done and his master would be pleased.

  The Gathering

  Chapter 1

  The black cat’s tail snapped in disapproval and the shadows around him lengthened, making puffs of goose bumps run along Astral’s arms. She ignored him and broke three brown eggs into her mixing bowl. Borage was a grumpy old tom at the best of times, never failing to bully her at every opportunity. She ought to be used to his moods by now and, usually, she caved in and appeased him, but not today. Today, there were far more important things to do than to pander to a fat, petulant cat.

  “I know you think these eggs should be for you, but we have guests this evening, Borage. Eminent guests.” Astral paused for emphasis and gave him a gentle look of rebuke. His large emerald eyes slid closed in disdain. “We’ll need all the cakes we can bake if we’re to make a good impression,” she continued, trying to sound briskly confident. She wasn’t confident, not at all, and a huffy familiar was not helping. The spoon clinked against the mixing bowl, whisking up tiny silver stars that disintegrated in a flash.

  “And you had better behave yourself, mister.” She tried a stern expression this time, which he also ignored. “Or Old Mother Worriwort will turn you into a toad and you’ll have to sit in a pan of water all night.”

  The threat worked. With a yawn, Borage slumped onto his huge furry stomach and feigned total disinterest in the proceedings. Now that his huff was dissipating, the air began to warm a little and the last of the afternoon sun managed to squeeze through the kitchen windows. Despite the lightened atmosphere, Borage held his ears low and his whiskers took on a disdainful droop. The argument was by no means over. This was merely a time-out.

  Astral sighed, partly in relief and partly with worry. Borage disliked disruptions to his daily routine. He disliked her attention directed anywhere but at him, unless, of course, he didn’t want her around at all. Then he would stalk off in search of her favourite sweater and nap on it, or maybe claw the book she was reading into confetti. Some cats were playful, some full of charm, but Bora
ge was vindictive and Astral knew all about his petty little ways.

  The spoon clanged rhythmically. Silver stars popped. The yellow gingham curtains shimmied. Early December sunlight twinkled off the faucets and warmed the wooden countertops with cheery oblongs of light. The old box radio played ’50s show tunes from her grandmother’s favourite radio station, and Astral couldn’t bear to change the dial, not even a year after Grandma Lettice had passed away.

  Her glance strayed to the worn recipe book by her elbow. This was also her grandma’s. The pages were translucent with grease spots and flecks of Hecate-knew-what smeared all over them, and soft as butter to the touch. She didn’t need to read it because she knew the contents by heart, but it was nice to keep it open beside her while she baked. It was as if the old lady was still with her, pottering around the kitchen, sorting through the larder, humming along to the radio just as Astral did now.

  She had been more or less raised in this kitchen, and had spent hours standing on a stool at her grandma’s elbow watching her bake. The Projectors were Fireside witches and wherever a Fireside witch went, she made her environment warm and welcoming. Fireside witches were nurturers, and they provided for heart and hearth, be it for an honoured guest or the lowly woodworm in the beams. Everything and everyone was happily welcomed. Fireside magic was a replete and sustaining magic, and Astral had learned her trade at her grandma’s table.

  Today, the kitchen was drowsy with the scents of vanilla pod, brown sugar, and warm honey. Nothing lifted Astral’s spirits more than baking. She sang along with the radio, her voice rising to the ancient rafters, where the cobwebs shivered, and sunlight danced along their edges. She always sang when she baked. It used to be because she was happy. Now she sang because it filled the space where Grandma Lettice used to be.

  Though it was nearly five o’clock, she still had plenty of time, so she relaxed and decided to finish the last batch before she tidied the parlour and then showered. Her gaze slid surreptitiously to Borage. He was immersed in watching a spider crawl across the slate floor. His sly amber gaze flicked to his empty food dish and back to her. Astral caught the sideways glance along with the change in eye colour. He was scheming. Amber meant duplicity, emerald disdain, and yellow was for spite. His changing eye colour always gave him away.

  She shifted her attention back to baking. Tonight was a coven night, and she was hosting a gathering at her ancestral home. The Grand Dames of the Upper Council would be arriving in a few hours and there was no time for any of Borage’s nonsense. Behind her, the kitchen table—piled high with frangipani fancies, angel delights, ginger-glazed glees, and toffee twist cake—gave a weary creak. It sagged in the middle like a beggared donkey. There were plates of apple cider pie, sugar crust scones, and Borage’s favourite, creamy mermaid fingers. Dozens and dozens of cakes, pies, and cookies towered, and their dizzying aroma filled the room with mouth-watering promise. Witches had a terrible sweet tooth.

  “Chin up,” she encouraged. “This is the last batch. I need you to be strong for me, you wonderful old thing.” The table had been in her family since the great Plague. It was made from a four hundred-year-old gallows tree from which a distant relative had swung. Several items of furniture throughout the house had come from the same tree, cut down, imbued with magic, and reused as a sort of resurrection for the great-great aunt who had dangled from its limbs. The table had served the Projector family well, and so deserved her respect. It creaked and shifted on the flagstones, then settled down to wait patiently.

  “Thank you,” she murmured and made a mental note to give it a good beeswax polishing once the gathering was over. If only the rest of the house behaved as well. She glanced again at Borage. A stealthy paw shot out and squished the spider. He flexed his claws and examined the remains dispassionately. It was time she dealt with him or his gloomy mood would go on all night and dampen everything.

  Astral dropped a thick dollop of cream into the cake mix and watched Borage lick his whiskers, slicking them back onto his wide, plump face. He adored cream. It was his Achilles heel, and so she began reeling him in. he had been puffed up and haughty all afternoon, which meant he’d come into some new information and thought he was one up on her. She needed him to share it, so she’d bribe it out of him, and she was sure it had to do with the gathering, since normally Astral would never be asked to host one. She was far too insignificant a practitioner for an honour like this, despite her heady heritage. Something was up, Borage knew what that something was, and she intended to wheedle it out of him.

  As far as familiars went, Borage was selfish. He should be at her side, a close friend and confidante, telling her gossip and giving good advice. Instead, he was the general in his army of one.

  She added another dollop of cream and watched his nose twitch. She had his full attention, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it behind his veneer of boredom.

  “I wonder what it’s all about, eh, Borage? We’re only a week away from the thirteenth moon,” she mused aloud, in manufactured distraction. The thirteenth moon was a big calendar date, making tonight’s extraordinary meeting even more curious. “Why is the coven hierarchy coming here tonight? It’s not as if Grandma Lettice is still around. Witches were never away from the door when she was in charge.”

  Her gaze drifted to the small oil painting, done by a family friend, hanging by the larder door. Her grandma had treasured it, and so it hung in the kitchen—the heart of the Projector home. Astral smiled wanly at the faded memory on the tin. Only tin could hold the image of a witch…or so everyone believed until her mother bent all the rules.

  Astral could barely remember Myriad. In the picture, she herself was maybe six years old, sitting on her mother’s knee, giggling and wrapped up in her hug. Grandma Lettice sat beside daughter and granddaughter, smiling indulgently. Three generations of Projector women caught in a joyous moment—before all the sadness.

  If she looked hard enough, Astral could see a faint aura around Myriad, a vibrational hum, as if she was about to fly out of her skin. She couldn’t remember her sitting still for one moment. Hecate knew how the artist had managed to capture her at all.

  Grandma Lettice’s painted gaze connected with hers. She had warm, nut brown eyes, kind and careworn, and very, very wise. Myriad’s eyes were a blur, but her smile was bright, that of a happy woman who knew her own mind. Grandma Lettice was a Grand Dame for The Plague Tree Coven for over seventy years and had commanded the highest respect from witches the length and breadth of the British Isles. Likewise, Myriad had been an exceptional witch. Hailed as magnificent, a genius, an unparalleled practitioner—until she’d disappeared.

  Astral frowned, thinking. In stark contrast to both, she was pretty much on the woeful side of the magical spectrum. The Projector witching genes had fizzled out in her, leaving her with an uncanny knack to partially complete, invert, or twist out of all recognition any spell she attempted. She also had the ignominy of graduating bottom of her class from the Bevelled Moon academy of Witchcraft, a school her great Aunt Elspeth Projector had founded. It was unheard of for a Projector to be so abysmal at magic.

  Rumours abounded that she had been cursed on the eve of her mother’s disappearance, though there was no evidence of such. She was, simply put, flotsam in the gene pool. An aberration. A milestone to nowhere on the consecrated path. Her stomach still flipped whenever she remembered the humiliation of schooldays.

  “You’ll grow into it, sweetheart,” Grandma Lettice would say, as she wiped away the dreaded homework tears. “You’ll see the truth in my words someday. It’s only a matter of time.” Then she would serve up a huge helping of comfort cake and everything, even the Akashic elements, felt doable.

  Well, time had come and gone, as had most things in Astral’s life, and here she was, thirty years old, and despite her grandma’s assurances, little turned out to be doable. Astral accepted she had no knack for spellcasting. What she did have was a skill for baking, looking after her ramshackle family h
ome as best she could, and a magical pedigree longer than the British coastline, and she’d decided long ago that this was more than enough magic for anyone.

  “I mean, it’s not as if the coven has been knocking the door down since grandma died. I only see Dulcie these days.” Her smile brightened at the mention of her best friend. “And Keeva sometimes, if she’s not too busy.”

  Borage’s ears flattened at the mention of Keeva, the local veterinarian. Keeva was a Dogwitch, and looked after all the coven’s familiars, and Borage loathed her with every fibre of his chunky, over-indulged body. Astral felt the scald of his gaze, but it always helped to drop Keeva’s name. It kept him off-kilter as his mind slid away from tormenting her to such things as shots, worm tablets, and other distressing things to do with his well-being. Astral’s fingernails tapped thoughtfully on the cream jug while Borage glowered.

  Clink, clink, clink.

  She took on an artful, distracted look. “I wish I knew what was going on, Borage. Have you any idea? You’re so perceptive and nothing gets by you.”

  She hefted the jug and walked over to his dish. Despite his girth, he was on his feet in an instant. Borage was light-footed where food was concerned. She tilted the jug and a thick dollop of cream rolled to the very tip of the porcelain spout. For one expectant moment, it trembled, poised to roll off and drop, heavy and rich, into his dish.

  “I mean…” She righted the jug without spilling a single drop. “Just for once, it would be nice to be in the know.”

  He glared balefully at her and the jug tilted forwards again, slowly, slowly. The cream rolled teasingly close to the lip of the spout.

  “Wouldn’t it?” She looked at him directly and righted the jug again, denying him cream for a second time. Borage gave an aggravated yowl and collapsed onto his fat belly.