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Back then, when I was a young woman, there were still witches. That was what Nana Alba used to say when she told Minerva bedtime stories; it was the preamble that led into a realm of shadows and mysteries.
The stories contradicted one another as all good oral narratives must. Salem was a few train stops away from the college, but there didn’t seem to be a real basis for the story about the witch. As for the Devil, he seemed to live everywhere in New England.
“How do you feel about that?” she asked. “I go to the same school Carolyn attended and study what she wants me to,” he said, tossing her a sharp smirk. “Do you imagine it matters how I feel?”
When you are frightened, whom do you turn to in your time of need? Who is the first person that springs to mind? For many of us, it is our mother, and it was no different for Ginny, even if her dear mother was dead and buried.
“It’s okay to relax occasionally. Otherwise you’ll burn out.” Witches burn, she thought.
