A Secret History of Witches by Louisa Morgan

Author:Louisa Morgan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Magical Realism, Fiction / Occult & Supernatural, Fiction / Historical, Fiction / Romance / Historical / 20th Century, Fiction / Alternative History, Fiction / Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology, Fiction / Contemporary Women, Fiction / Family Life, Fiction / Fantasy / Historical
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2017-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

“I wasn’t born above stairs,” Irene began. “Indeed, the house I was born in had no stairs at all.” Morwen blinked at her in surprise, and Irene’s lip curled. “Of course you wouldn’t understand that. You’ve had everything you could possibly want, since the moment you were born. And before.”

Morwen frowned, and Irene flicked one languid hand, brushing the thought away. “Never mind. That isn’t part of the story—only the result of it.” She pulled a blanket from the back of the settee and spread it over her lap, then turned her face to the starlit night beyond her window. “The only part of your heritage you’ve kept is the French language. I saw to that, at least.” She curled her legs up beneath the blanket. “But I should begin at the beginning.”

She began her recitation. Morwen listened, her lips apart and her eyes stretching wider and wider as the story unfolded.

Irene spoke of family roots in rural France. She told of a narrow escape from persecution, a clan fleeing the French shore in a rickety boat, braving cold seas and bad weather to make a new home on the southern coast of Cornwall. She spoke of mysterious rites, and suspicion, and accusation, and, last, an escape.

“Her name was Ursule,” she said. “Though outside of her family, most called her Ursula. She was only a farmer, but she was a good one. Good with animals, with a strong back and big hands like a man’s. She fled Cornwall with nothing but the clothes on her back, and the Shire stallion she rode.”

Morwen had not stirred throughout the long tale, but now she lifted her head. “A Shire? Like Ynyr?”

“Exactly like Ynyr, as it happens. Just listen, Morwen.”

Morwen dropped her chin again, and Irene adjusted the blanket over herself. “She was pregnant,” she said. “With me.”

Morwen couldn’t help a little gasp.

“That’s right,” Irene said. “I was born to a farmwife. She had no husband. No relations. She called me Irène.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“Peut-être. Hard for the Welsh to pronounce.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Far enough away that no one here knew me.”

“But why, Maman? And what happened to Ursule?”

“She’s gone.”

“I wish I had known her.”

“Why? You wouldn’t have had a thing to say to her. She spent her days tending cows and mucking out stables.”

“She was my grand-mère. Your maman. Aren’t you sorry she’s gone?”

Coolly, “We didn’t get on.”

“You and I don’t get on, either, do we?”

Morwen expected anger at that, but she received only a narrow, mirthless smile. “We’re more alike than you think.”

“In what way?”

Irene moved restlessly, and the blanket slid to the floor. She let it lie, and her gaze drifted again to the window, where the stars were beginning to fade into dawn. “Don’t you ever wonder why Ynyr knows your thoughts, Morwen?”

Morwen stammered, “Wh-what do you mean? How do you know that?”

Irene didn’t move her head, but her eyes shifted to Morwen’s face. “I know everything.”

“Jago must have told you.”

“He didn’t need to.”

“Ynyr is smart.”

“So was his sire.”

“Did you know his sire?”

Irene’s smile widened, though there was nothing amused about her expression.

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