Manea’s laugh filled Hazel’s and Primrose’s ears, making them bleed. They screamed while Gothel watched in horror.
“Mother, stop!” Gothel screamed, but she knew no matter how much she begged, her mother wouldn’t care. She needed to do something to save her sisters. And then she remembered something she had read in one of her mother’s spell books, The Art of Spoken Spell-Craft. She quickly said the first words that came to mind and wished with all her soul that they would work. “I call upon the old gods and the new. Send our mother to the mists. Make our lives anew!”
Manea screamed. “Gothel, stop! No! You don’t know what you’re doing!” But Gothel kept reciting the words. It was as if they came to her on the winds. As if they came from another world. “I call upon the old gods and the new. Send our mother to the mists. Make our lives anew!”
“Gothel, no!” screamed the queen of the dead as the vortex condensed, collapsing, and then exploded, shattering into a thick rancid dust that covered everything in sight.
“Primrose! Hazel! Are you okay?”
Gothel ran to her sisters. They looked like onyx statues, covered in the black dust. Please don’t die! Please don’t die.
“Prim! Hazel?” Gothel was wiping the soot from her sisters’ faces. “Prim! Please wake up!” said Gothel, slapping her sister’s cheek. “Prim! I said wake up!”
“Gods, Gothel! What’s all over you?”
Gothel laughed. She’s alive. Coughing, Hazel woke to the sound of Gothel’s laugh. “Hazel? Are you okay?”
“I think so. Is Mother gone?”
“I think so,” said Gothel, looking around the room, which was entirely covered in thick black dust.
The three sisters sat there, looking at their house. There was a giant hole where their vestibule and staircase used to be. Bones were scattered everywhere, and there were tree branches in the chandeliers.
“Gothel! How did you do that?” asked Hazel, looking at her sister in amazement.
“I honestly don’t know.”
Gothel looked at her sisters. She had no idea how she had destroyed her mother. She was just happy her sisters hadn’t died in the process.
“What are we going to do?” asked Primrose. “Our house is destroyed.”
“We will have it rebuilt exactly the way we want!” said Gothel. “We will have a new house and a new life. A beautiful life. I promise you.”
“How are we going to do that?” asked Primrose.
“We have Jacob, and Mother’s creatures.”
“I think they’re your creatures now, Gothel,” said Hazel.
“I think you’re right.”
The young witches were tucked away in the carriage house while their home was being renovated. Every day brought a new wave of wagons, dozens of them bursting with building materials. Gothel sat at the large window, watching the skeletons unload the wagons as her sisters slept. It had been several months since she had sent her mother to the mists, but her sisters still seemed traumatized and exhausted, spending much of their time in bed or sitting in the courtyard, staring blankly at the minions doing their work. She didn’t know how to make them better. How to put their minds at ease. Every day came the same questions: Was Mother really gone? Would she come back? How had Gothel stopped her from killing them?
Gothel didn’t know the answers. She was just thankful she hadn’t lost them. But as the weeks and months went by, she felt as if she was losing her sisters to their fear and melancholy.
There was a knock at the carriage house door. She quickly answered it, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake her sisters. It was Jacob.
“Hello, Sir Jacob.”
“Hello, little witch. More wagons have arrived.”
“I see that. Thank you for seeing to everything.”
“It’s my pleasure, little witch.” He lingered in the doorway a moment longer.
“Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?” asked Gothel, wondering what Jacob might be up to. It wasn’t like him to be idle.
“Yes, a wagon arrived I think you would like to see. Will you please come with me?” said Jacob. He seemed very pleased with himself.