Witches Never Cry
The matron didn't want them talking about it, but everyone knew. "Witches," the other children whispered when they thought she couldn't hear. "Witches killed Mrs. Barebone and Chastity and took Credence away."
She thought about correcting them. But they were right, weren't they? Credence used witchcraft, and her family was gone.
Her sister had always been the one to help her with her hair. Her brother had tried, but his hands were too clumsy. She asked Ma once, when Chastity was ill, but her braids that day had been too tight and hurt whenever she moved her head.
Modesty pinned her hair in place and looked in the mirror. Stray tufts stuck out at odd angles around her face, and when she turned her head she could already see the braids becoming undone.
It was almost breakfast time. Out of pity for her, and respect for everything Ma had done for the orphanage, the matron pretended not to notice when Modesty went about the day with her hair in disarray. But the woman never looked happy about it, and yesterday she suggested that Modesty talk to some of the older girls about styling hair.
Most of the older girls cut their hair short, like Chastity did. Modesty thought that even though they had the same hairstyle, Chastity looked better than all of them.
Had looked better.
She looked around to make sure she was alone. Then, she closed her eyes and concentrated.
"I like your hairstyle," another girl told her, as they waited their turn for breakfast. "It suits you."
"Thank you," Modesty said nervously, touching one of her perfectly twisted braids. "I learned it from my sister."
"My momma, your momma, gonna catch a witch," Modesty spun and began to jump back, making sure she didn't smudge the chalked numbers by moving her feet too much. "My momma, your momma, flying on a switch."
"That's an interesting rhyme."
"My Ma taught it to me," Modesty said, turning to the speaker. It was a pretty lady who'd just stepped out of a nearby bakery. "'My momma, your momma, witches never cry. My momma, your momma, witches gonna die.' It's educational. Witches are real, and we must always be on guard."
"Oh," the lady said quietly. She was dressed in pink and had blonde curls which shone in the sunlight, and looked very, very sad as she watched Modesty with wide eyes.
"I know more," Modesty stepped out of the hopscotch square and returned to the beginning. "Do you want to hear, ma'am?"
The lady took a deep breath and said, soft and gentle, "I'd love to."
"Witch number one, drown in a river…"
There was an almost-familiar man sitting on a park bench, reading a piece of paper that looked important.
Modesty watched him carefully. Ma had always said it was rude to approach grownups without invitation, unless she was handing out flyers. But Ma wasn't here.
The man looked up as she approached. He didn't seem surprised.
"Good afternoon," he said. "You are Modesty Barebone, correct?"
"Yes sir."
"My name is Percival Graves," Mister Graves gave her a polite nod, like she was his peer. "I believe this is the first time we've met."
It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "It is, sir. That man looked like you, but he wasn't."
"You are a very perceptive girl," he said. His expression didn't change, but Modesty thought he looked kind and very, very tired. "I am sorry about your family."
Modesty opened her mouth. Then she closed it, not knowing what to say. Tears gathered in her eyes.
Mister Graves winced, and silently offered a handkerchief that Modesty knew hadn't been there a moment ago.
She took it anyway and wiped her face until the tears dried.
They sat in silence. Modesty twisted the handkerchief around in her fingers, searching for anything that marked it as witchcraft. The cloth was plain, not like the hand-embroidered ones she used to have, and it was softer than she was used to. There was no obvious mark, nothing that said it was not an ordinary handkerchief.
She glanced at Mister Graves, who'd turned back to his important document, and made a decision.
"May I keep this handkerchief, sir?"
Mister Graves looked surprised. "Of course."
That night, she waited until everyone was asleep before sneaking the handkerchief from her coat and bringing it to bed.
Modesty always liked the night. Night was when she took out her wand – not a witch's wand, just a toy she'd bought after saving the money she earned from running errands for neighbors – and pretended she was in that tiny apartment with her siblings and parents, back when she didn't know about witches and the world's sins.
Sometimes, she thought she remembered her parents with wands too. Wands like hers of course, not witches' wands, because her parents had been good people. Witches were evil and never cried, and she definitely remembered seeing her parents cry.
Sometimes she dreamed about Ma, and Credence, and her wand snapping in half. Sometimes she wondered what would've happened if her wand was a real witch's wand, the kind that had power and let witches use witchcraft.
Maybe Credence wouldn't have lost control.
Maybe Modesty could've done something.
But Ma always said that nighttime was the witches' time, the Devil's time. And it had been nighttime when her home was destroyed, when Credence vanished and left Ma and Chastity buried beneath stone and wood.
"Night is when all the ugly truths are revealed," Ma once told Modesty as they waited at the printing press for a new stack of flyers. "Look at a witch in the midst of night and there will be no doubt about their true nature. But such knowledge comes with a price – good people cannot look upon pure, unmasked evil without dire consequences. That is why we must prepare, and spread the truth. One day, a reckoning will come – perhaps not in my lifetime, or even in yours, but it will be here. And when it does, the world must be ready."
Modesty held up the handkerchief, pinched between two fingers, and squinted at its outline in the darkness. It was square, like all handkerchiefs were supposed to be when unfolded, and the cloth was still soft.
Chastity had once said that a woman's instincts were rarely wrong. Modesty wondered what Chastity would've said about Mister Graves and the handkerchief that was just a handkerchief.
"Line up, children. Nice and orderly now," the matron ordered, and with large smiles they hurried to obey. For the past few days they had been helping the recently opened Kowalski Bakery, cleaning the store and running deliveries, and now they were about to be paid.
Modesty had just managed to jostle for a decent spot when the door opened and the baker, Mister Kowalski himself, walked in. He pushed a trolley of baked goods and was followed by the lady who'd been so interested in Modesty's hopscotch rhymes.
"Hello again, honey," the woman said with a bright smile, looking much more carefree today. She greeted the other children just as warmly, and struck up a friendly conversation with the matron – "Queenie Goldstein. Please, call me Queenie." – while she helped Mister Kowalski set up the pastries.
"Alright, kids," Mister Kowalski clapped his hands. "One at a time, hm? There's more than enough for everybody to have seconds."
The line surged forward.
Modesty moved with the crowd, stretching out her hand, and received a pastry shaped like a strange animal. It looked a little like those elephants in the circus she saw once, with the long face, except it was smaller and chubbier and cuter.
"That one is my personal favorite," Miss Goldstein – Queenie – said with a wink. "Though Jacob might disagree."
Mister Kowalski muttered something under his breath about banks and shiny objects.
A couple days later she saw Mister Graves in the park again, but he wasn't alone – there was a woman with him, dark-haired and dressed in what Ma would've called good, sensible clothes. Modesty stopped, politeness warring with her desire to learn more about Mister Graves. Then Mister Graves noticed her, and beckoned with a small smile.
"Good afternoon," he said, inclining his head like he had before. "This is my colleague, Tina Goldstein. Miss Goldstein, Modesty Barebone."
"Hello," Miss Goldstein said. Her voice was friendly, but her face seemed conflicted. "My sister speaks fondly of you."
Modesty thought about the other Goldstein she knew. "Is your sister Miss Queenie?" Then, she asked what had been on her mind ever since that hopscotch game, where Miss Queenie had looked so sad. "Is she… does she also know witchcraft? Like Mister Graves?"
Mister Graves raised an eyebrow, though he didn't look surprised.
"Yes," Miss Goldstein said, watching Modesty with an almost hopeful expression. "Queenie is my sister. And we are both witches."
Modesty frowned. "No, you're not."
"Pardon?"
"You're not witches," Modesty said, looking between Miss Goldstein and Mister Graves. The two adults stared at her in confusion. "Witches are evil. You, and Mister Graves, and Miss Queenie… I don't think any of you are evil. You know witchcraft, but you're not evil. That means you're not a witch. You're like my brother. He can use witchcraft, and it's scary, but he's not evil. He's Credence. And I know he cries."
"Your brother… was a good person," Miss Goldstein said slowly, looking torn between sadness and pride. "He was strong, and kind, and cared for you very much. I am honored you consider us to be like him."
"As am I," Mister Graves said solemnly. "I have never met your brother, but by all accounts he was a fine young man."
Was.
Modesty nodded, not sure why she was nodding but not trusting herself to talk, because Credence was alive and just because adults were usually right didn't mean they always were. But then Miss Goldstein made a startled sound and hesitantly held out her arms, and Modesty leaned into the hug as she started crying on a park bench for the second time in as many weeks.
The sun was beginning to set by the time her tears finally stopped running. Modesty dabbed at puffy red eyes with Mister Graves's handkerchief and stammered out a quick farewell as Miss Goldstein excused herself. She gave Modesty a smile and a quick squeeze on the shoulder, bid Mister Graves a good night, and walked away.
"Come," Mister Graves said after Miss Goldstein was out of sight. "I'll take you back to the orphanage."
"You don't have to," Modesty protested. Like Modesty, most of the New Salem orphans had grown up listening to her Ma's lectures on witches. Mister Graves was not a witch, but he had witchcraft, and they might not bother to see the difference. Ma did not. "Don't you have other things to do, sir?"
"Not at the moment," Mister Graves stood and brushed off his coat. Glancing at the soiled handkerchief in Modesty's hand, he held out another. She took it with a whispered thanks and wiped her face. "Due to recent events, my workload has been considerably lightened until I am deemed fit enough to resume my duties. Suffice to say, I have quite a bit of free time."
Mister Kowalski and Miss Queenie became familiar faces over the next few months, having struck a deal with the matron to continue their arrangement of having the children help the bakery. At the end of every week they eagerly gathered in the parlor after dinner, waiting for Mister Kowalski and Miss Queenie to arrive with wide smiles and trays heaped with pastries. Miss Goldstein sometimes joined them, more subdued but just as warm, and politely brushed off Modesty's attempts to apologize for crying all over her coat that day in the park.
On Modesty's eleventh birthday, six months after she arrived at the orphanage, she walked downstairs and heard a familiar voice.
"Good morning, Modesty," Mister Graves said, looking up from his conversation with the matron. The matron also smiled at her, almost beamed, and Modesty stared blankly at the unexpected sight.
"I'll just fetch the paperwork and let the two of you get reacquainted," the matron said brightly. "You be a good girl now, Modesty."
"Good morning, sir," Modesty said as the matron rushed off. She hadn't seen Mister Graves since that second meeting in the park, though Miss Goldstein had assured her that he'd simply been busy after returning to work. "What's going on?"
"For the past month I have been in contact with the New Salem Society about my interest in adopting you," Mister Graves watched her carefully. "If everything goes smoothly, the proceedings will be finished by the end of today."
"You… wish to adopt me?"
"I wish to take you as my charge," he said. "Of course, if you prefer one of the Goldsteins, it would be a simple matter to transfer guardianship once your adoption is completed. I'm sure they'll be delighted to have you."
"Why?" Modesty whispered. Ma's last words to Credence echoed in her head. "Why do you want me?"
"You are an exceptional girl, Modesty. Exceptional… and talented," Mister Graves glanced around, and pulled an envelope from his pocket. Modesty's name was neatly printed on the surface. "I couldn't do anything until we knew for certain, but a friend was kind enough to pass this on to me."
He gave it to her, but put a hand over hers as she started to open it.
"Not here," he said quietly. "Open it later, when you won't be disturbed. I will explain more once we are home, but you are welcome to come to me with any questions you have – I expect I will be here for most of the day."
"Yes, sir," Modesty automatically responded, now thoroughly confused. It must have shown on her face, because Mister Graves smiled and put a hand on her shoulder.
"For now, allow me to congratulate you on your acceptance to Ilvermony."