Long before I was—by choice—a traitor and—mostly by choice—a murderer, I was an unhappy child. Among the noble witch families, there are some who take the noble part seriously, and some who take the witch part seriously. Mine was definitely the former. My mother, Lady Genevieve Lockwood, viscountess of Greengrave, was a class five, and had no intention of going further. She had no need of witchery when running her real estate portfolio and stock investments, and—of primary importance—managing the hunt. Her wife—my step-mother—was Lady Evelyn Kennard; a level three witch, but purely for fleshcrafting and the doll rituals. She was an amateur doll-maker; the sort of expensive and questionably ethical hobby only available to my class, or so I thought. The Royal Society of Knights Sorcerous didn’t really mind; if you had at least a modicum of witchery, and the right (upper) class, you were welcome.

Neither of them had found enough time, among their important activities, for anything as trivial as raising a child. My mother, having done the duty of producing an heir, expected me to be quiet—to the point of non-existence—until I was old enough to learn about the family business. Evelyn was fractionally better; she would talk to me, but only to explain—in highly scientific terminology—her doll work; a lecture that was baffling or worrying to young me. It was the only chance I got to hear about dolls though; my family had a large pack, but I was not allowed to interact with them. Much of the time, I stared out of the windows at the grounds, while Genevieve and Evelyn were in the forbidden part of the house.

Fortunately, I was packed off to boarding school as soon as was practical. For most children of my class this was an awful time. Their parents might have been terrible, but they were at least present; so now they were homesick and lonely. I thought I was not; in fact, I was, but loneliness was like the water I swam in.

So, anyway, all in all I had a jolly time at school. These schools tend to give you power in exchange for trauma; many aspiring MP’s and CEOs are happy to exchange influence and grift for the knowledge that you would never be loved. But maybe these places are somewhat less effective if you already have trauma.

Academically I was… fine. A little above average, but not spectacular. I wasn’t particularly bright, but I had a good memory. But sports were where I excelled; cricket, golf, rugby and more. And then, as I got older; shooting, fishing and archery. This sporting excellence saved me from most bullying; the team sports gave me, if not friends, certainly acquaintances. That, plus the fact that I was uncommonly tall and wide for a girl meant that bullies were likely to try elsewhere. 

Even the holidays were somewhat improved once I got old enough to hike, fish and golf nearby.

And so the days passed. Eventually I gave up most of the team sports; as we got older, they wanted an actual team-member, not some solitary girl. I still had no friends; I wanted them, but I could not make myself speak more than monosyllabically to anyone new. They assumed that I was a bitch or a fool rather than someone whose loneliness had turned pathological. 

My teenage years did not improve the situation; I did not blossom, as aunts sometimes assured me I would. My boobs were nothing special, and although my general form had added some definition, it was still too tall and too muscular. It bothered me only inasmuch as I saw that the pretty girls had lots of friends, and perhaps if I was pretty, then I would too. Obviously, in retrospect, this was not true.

In the last year at Lytleigh Girls Private School—in the sixth form annex by now, with a little more freedom—I had a particularly unpleasant time. Not only was I still friendless, but I gained a persistent bully. I’d encountered bullies before, but they didn’t last long; my responses were not entertaining, and if all else failed, there was the threat of violence. 

Sophie Tallowfield was, as I say, persistent. She tried many verbal barbs until she found one that worked. I was ugly (I didn’t care too much). I was posh (and so were ninety-five percent of the pupils). My uniform was bad (it was a uniform, though I was a little unkempt). I was stupid (I wasn’t). But finally she hit on: I haven’t got any friends. Which was true, and a great source of sadness to me. But while she had a line of attack, I thought at first my taciturn response would see her off. From the first thing in the morning (Sophie was a day student), she’d begin with a jibe about my friendlessness. A jeer about the way people avoided me. Every time I wandered past someone at break, she would speculate loudly that I was trying to pretend they were my friend. I assumed she would stop after a few days and settled in to taciturn it out. It did not stop.

The next escalation was threats of violence. Sophie was skinny and not particularly well-muscled. I assumed that threatening to punch her would get results. I suppose it did; she just stepped closer and repeated whatever jibe she was making in a sing-song voice.

Frustrated, I made a major error. I mentioned it to my mother over Sunday dinner. Unbidden, tears started, which I knew was a mistake.

“Child,” said Lady Genevieve, “you are the daughter of the viscountess of Greengrave; is this child of similar stock?”

“No,” I sniffled. “She’s there on scholarship. I think she’s poor.”

“Then you are crying for entirely the wrong reason,” said my mother. “You should be ashamed to tarnish the family name so. Injure her. You do not even need to get someone to do it for you; use your cart-horse frame and punch her. Kill her, if you’ve got a mind to. I will deal with any disciplinary fuss.”

The next morning, before school started, I was reading (”Alchemical Basics”) in the common room when Sophie found me. She started on some jibe, and suddenly I struck her; not a punch—I was not angry enough to break her jaw—but an open-handed slap across the face. The rest of the common room stopped at the sound and looked on; perhaps hoping for a fight. But there was none. Sophie wobbled, tears springing to her eyes. She sat down suddenly, silent. The other pupils sighed at the non-event and resumed their activities.

I thought that would be the end of it, but Sophie did not learn. After lunch she found me again and immediately started up her jibes. I slapped her again, a little harder, and she immediately shut up. I was embarrassed rather than relieved; one side of her face was now a lot more red than the other, I even thought I could see finger marks. There was the odd silent tear. I felt strange; excited but also sick.

Again, though, that was not the end. The next day she found me in the playground and again started up her jeering. I pushed her over; she was light and a little gawky. She stood up and immediately went back to her jibe about me having no friends. I grabbed her hair and pulled; angry with her and myself.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?!” I shouted.

I saw the tears form in her eyes again, and I let go of the hank of hair. A few loose ones stuck to my palm. She didn’t say anything. But neither did she go; hanging around in awkward silence.

And I suppose that was the problem solved, albeit annoyingly. Sophie would approach me before the start of the school, or at lunchtime, and begin with “Verity has no friends because—”. And I would pull her hair or pinch her arms or slap her legs, until tears formed and she would be quiet, but wouldn’t actually go away.

One morning—a Friday before half-term—she broke this stupid habit. She didn’t jeer, but just spoke to me instead.

“I’m leaving Lytleigh today,” she said. I just looked at her. “We’ve got to move back with nan. Fucking Birmingham. Too far to come here.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I can give you our new address,” she said. “We could write.”

“Why?” I asked. I didn’t understand.

Sophie blinked, and turned away rapidly. She hurried off. 

So that was a success, I suppose.