Under Her Spell by Bridget Essex

Author:Bridget Essex [Essex, Bridget]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

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A great shout went up amongst all of the people assembled before the makeshift stage, raising their hands to the far-off peaked ceiling, then pressing their palms against the stone floor, heads bowed, sending their thanks to the goddess who once, long ago, had aided humanity out of love. Isabella, too, crouched down with the other actors, pressing her hands against the stage floor, the worn wood almost warm beneath her palms.

There was so much warmth in her heart, warmth toward the goddess as she'd helped recreate the story...but it faded almost instantly as she noticed the cold in the hall. For an unexpected chill drew across Isabella’s face, then, as she crouched down on the floor—a chill so cold that every thin hair on the back of her neck stood to attention. Isabella raised her head, gazed out over the crowds.

The other assembled witches—didn’t they see her? For from the door that led to the greater abbey came a white, shimmering figure. This was no goddess, like in the play. Isabella knew it instantly as she stared at it.

It was a ghost.

She’d been at Lunarose long enough to know the ghosts that roamed the halls on Imbolc night. Once, when she was very small, she actually ran screaming through a ghost's body. This was before her witch’s training, in which she learned that no ghost could physically harm you; they had a code, just as the witches did. But ghosts might still bring ill tidings and death along with them, and they could possess mortals, as well, for a short time. A ghost could enter any living thing. And, perhaps worst of all, they could bring a feeling of great sadness that would linger possibly forever, hovering over a space, or a person, like a dark cloud.

As the ghost moved through the door and began to wander amongst the humans in the sanctuary, drifting closer to the stage, Isabella could just make out her hazy features—for the ghost was a woman. A beautiful woman, with long shimmering hair and large eyes that Isabella wondered if, once, might have been blue. Her dress was very old fashioned, the sort of gown that reminded Isabella of the costumes they’d worn for the play, with tiers of fabric and lacing along the edges of the hems, though Isabella could never have told you what color the skirts and bodice were.

The ghost wandered for only a heartbeat, but it seemed like an eternity to Isabella. Why didn’t anyone else look up and see her? Why did no one else react to her?

But then the ghost paused at the edge of the stage. She gazed up, and she looked to Isabella, their eyes locking and meeting, bound together for a single heartbeat.

Isabella’s heart raced, her body and limbs frozen to the spot as the ghost and witch stared at one another. Then, quick as breath, the ghost turned and drifted toward the opposite door, the one that led out of the sanctuary in the direction of the priestesses’ quarters and the guest chambers.

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