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If you looked at Anathema Device, you would see an extraordinarily competent, confident young woman. A woman armed with wits, witchcraft, and a well-sharpened bread knife. A woman unfazed by whatever life threw at her.
As far as it went, that impression would be mostly accurate.
But for nineteen years, Anathema’s confidence had stemmed from one key source. With a book of prophecies to rely on, of course she was unfazed by life. She had advance notice of what was going to happen. Say what you might about Agnes Nutter’s sense of humor or respect for privacy, she’d always lived up to her descendants’ trust in that regard.
And now, there were no more prophecies.
***
“I don’t know what to do,” Anathema said. She was sitting on a deck chair outside Jasmine Cottage, Newt perched nearby. She rubbed her eyes. “It’s just… I always put my faith in Agnes, you know? And she never let me down. What do I do now?”
Newt, who despite his best efforts had never quite managed to have faith in anything, shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“I wanted to stop being a descendant, I know I did. And I still do. But…”
She trailed off. Newt waited, trying to look encouraging.
“But I don’t know how,” Anathema finished, voice small.
“I don’t think anyone knows, really,” Newt said. “We just do it anyway.”
Anathema sighed, and he sighed with her. Awkwardly, he reached over and patted her hand. She caught his, and squeezed it.
***
“What was it like?” Newt asked later, wistfully. “Faith, I mean. I always wondered. Um.” He paused, self-conscious. “If you don’t mind my asking. I know it’s a sensitive subject…”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” Anathema was quiet a moment, thinking. “I guess… I knew I could count on her. If she said something, I could believe it. I might not always understand, but I knew I could trust her. Like she had my back.” She chuckled softly. “Even when she was annoying as hell.”
“Oh,” said Newt. “Thanks.”
She smiled at him. He smiled back.
***
I could count on her, Newt mused. Like she had my back. Even when she was annoying as hell.
He looked at Anathema, and thought that maybe faith wasn’t so foreign as it seemed.
***
I don’t think anyone knows, really. We just do it anyway.
The words rang in Anathema’s mind.
She was no stranger to just doing things. Not really. When she’d bluffed the security guard, that had been her, not Agnes. Her Ph.D… she’d known she’d get the degree, of course, but it had been up to Anathema to figure out the logistics of making it happen.
Between prophecies, her daily life had always been full of smaller choices, actions she took of her own accord. In that sense, nothing had changed.
Maybe she could do this, after all.
***
And gradually, together and individually, they grew into new kinds of faith.
Faith in each other.
Faith in themselves.