PROLOGUE
( March, 1968 )
"WE CAN FIX YOU," the man's words were back in her head. It had been weeks since she'd last seen him, yet his wrinkled face was vivid in her mind's eye as though she may have just seen him a blink ago. His appearance was as shabby as his voice was rich; it was powerful, strong and clear, and it resounded in her head over and over again like the beat of a drum. Or the heartbeat that she could still feel pounding fiercely inside her chest. "We can fix this, Juliet."
Don't, she saw her brother's solemn face. She could sense the tight grip he had on her wrist just moments ago, the lingering kiss he left on her forehead as she slipped out of the library to meet their mother downstairs. Don't let them do this, Juliet. As though she had a say in the matter. But she didn't want one either, did she? Little girls did not interfere in their parent's decisions, her mother often said.
Weeks ago, when fresh snow still floated about the air, Juliet had been summoned to her father's study. Amber, her dear mother, had found a solution, her father had whispered. For her, for Juliet. She prayed this would make things better for her. Perhaps they did too, though whether they prayed for her or for themselves, Juliet would never be sure. Her parents had been peering at her from an early age, scrutinizing her actions, exchanging worried glances with one another that did not go unnoticed by Juliet. It was one of the many odd behaviors around her that reminded Juliet she wasn't like her siblings or cousins. They never had anyone breathing down their neck. Not a soul ever grimaced when they walked into a room. And above all, they weren't tethered to their homes the way she was; they were free.
But this will fix everything. The words, her own, had comforted her for weeks, yet they failed to calm the fire coursing through her nerves now. Mama knows how to fix me.
Juliet's bare feet made little noise as they glided over the icy marble floors at Waelmore House. Turning around a corner, the young girl continued marching through the opulently decorated hallways of her ancestral home, her breath in her fist, passing dozens of dozing pictures and several breathing armors. She could almost swear an rusted barbute had turned towards her retreating form, watching her disappear into the depths of the forlorn mansion, answering the dreaded call which had frightened her siblings and servants alike.
The smell of burnt sage and castor oil greeted her senses the moment she pushed past those heavy, carved oak doors. Beyond, the glass-walled garden was bathed in an eerie blue light, a glow caused by the small flame burning in the hearth near the back. Juliet walked a few paces blindly, heart thrumming, lungs burning, before coming to an abrupt halt. The sickening haze quickly clouded her vision, making her eyes water and throat tighten. It made her long for the warmth of her bed all the more, where the pillows smelled of fresh vanilla and the windows allowed the shimmering moonlight to brighten even the darkest corners. Where her sister, with her sharp features but kind smiles and deep red hair, sang her sweet lullabies and kissed her goodnight.
"Juliet." Her mother's voice was crisper than the howling winds outside. It was a curt tone, had always been for as long as Juliet could remember, laced with its usual boredom and irritation, and it promptly shattered all her dreams of comfort and safety. "Come over here, please."
The last vestiges of warmth abandoned Juliet as she approached the table at which her mother, dressed in blue satin, was seated at along with her father to the right. A lanky man wrapped in a tattered cloak sat opposite her mother. Grigori Craid. We can fix you, Juliet.
Juliet evaded the man's gaze as she approached the small gathering of three. There were papers littering every inch of the cherrywood table, painted in odd symbols and letters that made very little sense to her. She caught a glimpse of red herbs and dried roots, some delicate wings in a drawstring pouch, a tiny bottle with rotten-leaf colored gas swirling inside.
Amber's eyes were trained upon her youngest daughter's, her face placid and void of all emotions. Beside Amber, her husband sat with an expression that matched his wife's. Iwan Walsh was a man of old etiquette; his decorum marked his distinction, and so it was with a jolt of confusion that Juliet noted her father was slouching in his chair. He met Juliet's gaze calmly, matching his wife in her phlegmatic expressions, though Juliet could tell, even at eight, that both her parents were hiding their distress underneath that placid facade. She could see it in Amber's white knuckles and Iwan's taut smiles. It made Juliet want to weep. "Papa-"
"Hello again, fair Juliet," the stranger interrupted. His voice was rich and deep, almost melodious, just the way she remembered. Juliet found herself meeting his gaze in spite of herself; his voice commanded attention, admiration even. "Have a seat, why don't you, my child."
Throwing her long braid over her shoulder, Juliet tried to remain steady as she fell into the empty chair across her father. "Thank you," said Juliet, choking on her own words.
"Now," Grigori spoke, thrusting a cup into Juliet's smaller hands, who did not need to be told to drink it. The honeyed liquid slid down her throat easily, leaving a lemony taste in its wake. It warmed her insides faster than her father had said it would.
Glancing sideways, Juliet saw Grigori wearing a small grin. "That was quick of you. Eager to get things done, aye? I think it best too. Less, uh, displeasing this way."
She could only nod.
"This is safe, isn't it?" Her father spoke for the first time all evening. "You promise this will not-"
"Mr. Walsh." Grigori did not blink much, Juliet noticed. "I stand by what I said during our previous conversation. I had hoped you didn't foster any doubts anymore. I will need your trust and patience if we are to attempt a hand at such an arcane magic."
Amber cleared her throat. "Iwan is a rather protective father. You must have noticed as much by now, Grigori. I apologize on his behalf."
"I do not need apologies, Mrs. Walsh."
Amber shook her head. "No. Trust, then? You have my, our, trust, Grigori."
Her mother's words seemed to appease Grigori for he gave her a curt nod before promptly turning towards Juliet once more, as did his crooked grin. His gaze never wavered as he looked upon her and said, "I need you to hold out an arm for me, dear Juliet. This won't take long."
Juliet felt her heart jump in her throat, though she forcibly swallowed the feeling. It was all to make her better, Juliet reminded herself as she stared into Grigori's eyes. Searching for something to calm herself with, to remind her why she must let them go through with this, Juliet went through the list she had constructed over the course of her few short years: she thought of the Potter boy at the Christmas party three years ago, how he made the toffees dance in their crystal bowls, and how everyone cheered jovially at it. The face of the older McKinnon girl who had sat beside her once, how she had accidentally, effortlessly, turned her mother's hair blue in a fit of rage. The adoration on the Lestrange's faces as their baby boy, barely able to walk, managed to blow out his birthday candles with just a fierce blink. She had never made anything of the like happen. But she could, perhaps.
Gathering herself, Juliet held out a trembling arm to Grigori. We have to fix this.
He pulled out a wand made of light-colored wood, chipped at the ends and fragile like the hand holding it. With a reassuring smile, Grigori pressed the tip of the battered wand to Juliet's forearm, and Juliet felt as though a hundred needles poked her arm. She had let out a small whimper before she looked down. That's when she gasped.
From the tip of the wand, a small cut had spread out, exposing bright red to Juliet's eyes.
"What...what... Papa," she stuttered. They had told her how this would work. The potion she would quietly drink, the blood she would willingly give. And yet the sight made her insides churn. Ellis said not to. "Mama, please."
"Shhh." Her mother's hand rubbed soothing circles into her linen-clad thigh, practiced ministrations that did not achieve their intended purpose. Comfort had never been so far out of reach for the eight year old.
Grigori's face swarmed in front of her. He held her gaze, never blinking. "It'll take a few seconds, only a few. But it may hurt. You, Juliet, must be brave."
She said nothing, nor did she move a muscle.
"You understand me, Juliet?" Grigori prodded. "You must do everything you can to pull through. It won't take long, but it will make everything better. It can fix you. Juliet?"
She could only provide the briefest of nods. It was enough for both Grigori and her mother.
"Go on," Amber encouraged, and Grigori drew in a breath.
Her father leaned forward, nodding reassuringly, though he could not muster a smile for his youngest child. "Mae'n iawn fy nghariad, Juliet."
Juliet felt pain just before she saw Grigori's lips move. Then his mouth kept chanting a long spell and the pain kept rising through her veins, spreading to her arms, her chest, until her entire body felt aflame. She was drowning in darkness, a lonely place where the smell of sage lingered on her tongue and the feel of pain danced before her eyes. It climbed. The pain climbed, higher and higher, up and up, faster and faster. Juliet could feel her fear, her desperation, yet they didn't feel like her own. It felt alien, and left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She had thought she'd be able to taste freedom, had hoped so desperately to feel what magic felt like, yet she was all but embroiled in pain and misery. And there, lingering on the edges of all she felt was a sliver of excitement. It shimmered and thrived and Juliet knew it wasn't hers.
We can fix you, Juliet.
It felt like ages had passed by while time stood still when the thread, the feeling, snapped at long last, only for a new wave of agony to wash over her. No words would come to her aid. She could hear nothing but the loud whisper of fear, couldn't see anything beyond the darkness that threatened to destroy her.
There was just her, Juliet Betrys, and hollow, icy pain that would most certainly shatter her into pieces.
We can fix you.
¹Mae'n iawn fy nghariad (Welsh): It's fine, my darling.
A/N: Welp. I'm not sure how I feel about this prologue but there it is.
And so begins Juliet Walsh's story.
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━Elaine.