Chapter Text
“As Sokrates tells it, your story begins the moment Eros enters you. That incursion is the biggest risk of your life. How you handle it is an index of the quality, wisdom, and decorum of the things inside you. As you handle it you come into contact with what is inside you, in a sudden and startling way. You perceive what you are, what you lack, what you could be.” - Anne Caron, Eros the Bittersweet
Agatha Harkness leant her forearms on the balcony of her Italian hotel and regarded the pedestrians milling below with envy. A warm summer breeze carried the faint aroma of citrus, gently rustling her tousled hair. The cobbled streets below were filled with families on vacation, friends arm-in-arm, and locals going about their business. Agatha bowed her head forward and let out a long exhale through her nose. There was no sense of urgency in this city. How did so many people move through the world with apparent ease? Infuriating. Agatha thought.
She raised her head back up and restlessly carded her fingers through the ends of her hair. Agatha tugged gently on a stubborn knot before sliding her hand into her silk robe and pulling out a tin. She had tried to quit smoking, but when in Rome, she supposed. On the table behind her, a cursor blinked rhythmically on a blank word document. Her own ‘Tell-tale Heart’. At least the cigarette would grant her three short minutes of peace.
It was midday in Cueno, Italy. She had missed the free continental breakfast and was nursing the remains of a hangover. Agatha took a slow drag from her cigarette, her lungs protesting the action with a dull burn. It did nothing to relieve the quiet panic that had been building with her for several weeks, but maybe a second one would? This is how people become chainsmokers. She thought grimly. Ashing her cigarette, she reached for her lukewarm espresso and mulled over her options.
She was rounding out the end of her third month of a decidedly unproductive research trip to Northern Italy. Today would be spent pouring through archived documents that had been analysed to death by her predecessors. It was admittedly, a very small data pool. Agatha had made the decision to base her doctorate on 15th Century witch trials. In a very specific region. With very limited primary sources. She supposed she could find some novel gap that hadn’t been covered by other researchers, or maybe apply a different framework to the study. It would be nothing new however, and certainly nothing interesting.
Agatha wanted to go big or go home. She wanted to be crowned amongst others who had taken their place in tenured positions due to unquestionable talent. She also wanted to stick it to her mother. Her present dilemma had drawn progress towards these goals to a grinding halt.
Agatha persisted, because self immolation was preferable to quitting. Worst case scenario she could change her name, move to an obscure pocket of suburbia, and start an MLM. She knew she would be good at it. Maybe infiltrate a group of soccer moms, or—
She was thrust out of her reverie by an email notification from her laptop. Agatha turned and slammed the device shut without a second glance, instantly overcome with nausea. She groaned and put her head in her hands. Agatha wasn’t completely delusional, she knew that research would take time - everyone heard the horror stories. However, Agatha wanted a white whale.
She was convinced that she could fathom up something impossible; that her predecessors hadn’t searched hard enough. If anyone could bend academia to her will, it was her. As the fruitless weeks wore on though, both her patience and stipend were wearing thin. Or maybe she was just hungover. Whatever. She was having a day.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket sending a jolt through her chest. Agatha glanced at the Caller ID and hesitated for a beat before answering.
“Heeeey, how’s my favourite PhD candidate?” Trilled the voice from the other line. Agatha rolled her eyes. She could not hear any references to her doctorate in her current crisis of faith.
“Jen, flattery doesn’t actually work if you don’t know any others.” Agatha deadpanned.
Jen and Agatha had met in undergrad and had struck up an easy friendship over their shared drive. Jen however, had made the decision to move into a more employable field of study before post-grad. Jen had also spent months trying to talk Agatha out of this trip, and Agatha would rather saw off her leg than give her the satisfaction of an ‘I told you so’.
“So glad to hear the Italian air is doing wonders for your charm!” Jen quipped. Agatha rolled her eyes and pondered smoking another cigarette.
“I was plenty charming prior to Italy. Everyone here is experiencing Joie de Vivre, it’s truly sickening. I think I’ve built up a natural immunity”
“Oh wow, god forbid people enjoy vacation.” Jen barked out a laugh and then paused slightly. “So, how goes the data gathering of it all?” Bile rose in Agatha’s throat and her thumb hovered over the button to end the call. The consequences weren’t worth it. Jen would inundate her with concerned texts and eventually move to sending her mindfulness exercises via email.
“It’s fine. I’m in the archives daily. I think the staff are going to poison me soon, so if you stop hearing from me that’s probably why. I’m writing. The works. It’s a process.” The lie was blatant. Agatha was in no state to construct false specifics that Jen would question. There was a notable pause on the end of the line. Agatha was grateful that they were not FaceTiming and could avoid the look of skepticism from Jen.
“Right, sure. It’s a process. So what does Lilia think about it all? Any pearls of wisdom from the great sage?” Agatha had inkling of what Lilia thought. However, she had been actively avoiding her since she received an email with the subject line: “Concerned???”
Lilia was a titan in the field, and frankly it was a miracle that she had accepted Agatha as a student considering she was retired. Agatha had waxed poetic to her at a conference about her plans for her thesis, and Lilia had seen the vision. Albeit with reserves, and several recommendations for alternative projects.
It was fine, it was Lilia’s job to be concerned. That’s her whole thing. Lilia raises concerns, and Agatha gracefully weaves around them. Or flat out ignores them. Frankly, constructive feedback from Lilia would not aid Agatha’s unravelling at present.
“Lilia loves Italy actually. She sent me a list of restaurants. You should come if you are ever freed from your prison of the laboratory and… cells, or whatever” Deflect and redirect, Agatha’s bread and butter. Jen wasn’t taking the bait.
“Agatha, you do know that it’s not too late to change thesis topics right? Like, it’s important to me that you know that” Agatha sat down at the patio and rested her cheek on the cool glass of the table, closing her eyes.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence Jen. Just so you know, you have been demoted in the acknowledgements for that”
“I’m serious dude, I’m worried about the tunnel vision thing you have going on at the moment. You are literally searching for a needle in a haystack - based on what, exactly?”
Agatha snorted.
“A hunch” She shrugged.
“A hunch” Jen deadpanned. “You are basing the future of your academic career on a hunch”.
“So fun chatting Jen but I really must be getting back to the ol’ grindstone. Thrilling documents to review. Including fan favourites, such as crop yields from 1467-1473, and livestock deaths in Rifreddo 1495.” Agatha’s fingers drummed against her thigh.
“Whatever Agatha, I’m not dropping this. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go literally insane. I’ll call again in a few days. Also stop ignoring my instagram reels” Agatha grimaced and ran a hand through her matted hair.
“Okay mom, thanks for the check in.” She exhaled and hung up the phone before her friend could say something endearing. Jen’s consistent worry on Agatha’s behalf grated on her nerves; if she wanted to deep-dive into her feelings of impending failure she would see a shrink. Or maybe take hallucinogens. Neither of which were happening for Agatha any time soon.
She decided to placate Jen by heart reacting all eleven reels Jen had sent through yesterday. Including the ones about healing her ‘inner child’, or whatever it was that Jen thought would fix her. Jen really needed to give Brene Brown a rest.
Agatha put her phone down on the table and stretched her arms until her shoulders popped. Her muscles were stiff from endless days hunched over her work, frozen in place. She rolled her neck a few times, attempting in vain to loosen up the tightness in her shoulders and relieve her hangover headache. Letting out a dull sigh, she rose from the balcony table and moved into the small suite to begin her morning routine.
Agatha wasn’t lying to Jen, she really did need to head to work soon. She had wasted enough time wallowing in her hangover this morning. Maybe today would be the day that something impossible would surface. Her cynicism said otherwise.
Agatha moved through Cuneo with purpose. She had spent the last forty minutes in the shower, drenching the remainder of her hangover from her aching limbs. Her washed hair had been pulled into a ponytail, gentle wisps coming free at her temples. The humidity was high, threatening to frizz her hair and leave a dull sheen of sweat at the base of her neck. She shouldered her laptop bag over her blue striped blouse, complemented by form-fitting beige slacks.
Her hotel afforded her a central position in the city. The archives and local university were within walking distance, allowing her to make her way to work with relative ease. Despite the proximity, she kept up a brisk pace; barrelling through pedestrians. Her brow furrowed in frustration. God, can’t these people see I have places to be?
Granted, her lateness was self-inflicted. But that didn’t mean the rest of Italy had to slow her down. Summer scents were heady in the air, filling Agatha with mild nausea. She sipped at the coffee she had grabbed on the way and let the scent of the beverage consume her senses, pressing on. Nearly there. Agatha felt like she was walking to her own execution. Her own burning at the stake, so to speak.
Not stopping to pause, Agatha crossed a major thoroughfare loaded with traffic. Cars abruptly slammed on their breaks and drivers yelled expletives from the windows. Agatha paid them no mind as she moved with singular purpose. Surely the cops have better things to do than pull a woman up for jaywalking. Who hasn’t jaywalked?
Movement speeding towards her periphery yanked her out of her grousing. Movement that wasn’t slowing down. Instinct seized her and Agatha darted to the side, seconds before a cyclist came to a skidding halt where she had just been standing.
Agatha’s pulse thundered in her ears as rage flooded through her. This could have been a nightmare for her travel insurance.
“Are you fucking INSANE? Shit - SEI PAZZO?” Agatha’s Italian needed work. She could read and write, but rarely practiced conversationally. She turned towards the cyclist, fixing them with a glare that would frighten most undergrads. “Chi va in bicicletta?” Who cycles?
The cyclist in question had dismounted and was stalking forward. She was a woman in her mid-30s, panting heavily from the sudden halt. Loose dark hair stuck to cheeks that were damp with sweat, her features flushed with heat. A heavy black coat clung to her athletic frame, followed by tailored black suit pants and leather loafers. Who wears a woollen coat in this heat? On a bike? The cyclist raised a challenging eyebrow over dark sunglasses, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Am I insane? Are you kidding?” The woman spoke with a clear American accent - not humouring Agatha’s attempt at the local language.“Oh, and who cycles?” She gestured at her bike, then pointed to the numerous other bicycles chained up along the sidewalk. “Most people here, actually! Who the fuck walks into oncoming traffic?”
Agatha was affronted. Of course her near-murderer was willing to bite back. This day could not get worse.
“Maybe you should keep an eye out for hazards. Do you know how many pedestrians are killed in bicycle accidents? It’s a tragedy” the woman stared at Agatha in disbelief. “Share the road. You know, this is why cyclists get a bad rep” Agatha goaded saccharinely. People were beginning to stare. Some onlookers shook their head, having witnessed the commotion.
“Do you know how many pedestrians are killed because they crossed the road without paying attention?” The stranger fired back. Agatha rolled her eyes and glanced at her watch. She did not have time to continue this back and forth with some inappropriately dressed American tourist. Regardless of how good her pants looked on her. Agatha turned to leave the cyclist where she stood and — did she just flip her off?
If not for the crushing weight of her potential career implosion, Agatha might have considered throwing a punch. Or kicking the bike. Instead, she flipped the woman off right back and resumed her brisk walk to the archive building. Anger flushed through her cheeks down to her chest.
She could not let this interaction throw her off. She needed to focus, and to really consider if she should submit to an alternative analytic framework for her thesis. She should definitely not think about some asshole who had almost committed vehicular manslaughter and her stupid tailored pants.
Agatha turned down an alleyway and entered the side door to the archive building. These last few weeks she rarely entered through the front, loathing the small talk with reception. At this point the staff had developed a routine with the academic.
Agatha would sneak in unannounced, and the library staff would leave her alone - unless to tell her they were locking up for the day. The mutual avoidance worked for Agatha’s desire for solitude, and for the staff to avoid her ire. Her mounting frustration had been manifesting through increasingly impossible demands, for archivers to bring her documents that frankly didn’t exist. Agatha would test the limits of their authority; pushing and probing, stroking egos where she had to. The patience of the staff was wearing thin, and Agatha wasn’t prepared to lose access to the place entirely.
Entering the quietude of the building moved her brain into a rote state, where she could resume her process of reading, translating, and categorising the sources that the archive held. All of the data had been through rigorous academic interpretation. Different lenses and frameworks applied to derive meaning from the past, and speculative futures gleaned from their contents. Down to the last ledgers on grain supply. It was mind numbing.
Sure, she could throw her hat in the ring and apply another way of approaching the data. Lilia had certainly provided insight into some obscure untapped markets. However, Agatha didn’t want obscure. She wanted something bold and brash; the work she was currently doing was just due diligence. Were she to pursue some unique, fringe approach to the data, she risked pigeonholing herself. It was not promising for tenure; and certainly not promising for escaping her mother.
So Agatha worked. She worked until her hands began to cramp and her shoulders tightened up. When the clerks knocked on the door, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing as much tension through her exhale before she packed up for the day.
Agatha had been in the archives for hours. She departed through the side door of the building unceremoniously. The afternoon had unsurprisingly, yielded zero epiphanies. She had thought working amongst the physical material, staying in the location, would spark some grandiose idea.
She couldn’t see anything other than wisps of concepts, nothing that could be turned into something magnificent. Agatha pulled a cigarette from her bag and inhaled deeply. She couldn’t bring herself to buy another bottle of wine, not after the hangover this morning. Agatha resolved to walk back the long way to clear her head.
She wound through the tight backstreets of Cuneo, gentle laughter echoing through the city as revellers ate dinner. Agatha’s stomach groaned in protest, having missed breakfast and lunch. The streetlights cast a warm glow over the narrow alleyways, enclosing the space in an oppressive embrace. Agatha felt her chest tighten at the sight.
Three storey buildings seemed to loom, the peals of laughter turning menacing. Agatha felt her hands and forearms growing numb, her heart hammering in her chest. The vision at her peripheral had begun to turn black, and she realised that she was not breathing properly. Oh my god, am I having a fucking panic attack? Agatha hadn’t experienced cold panic such as this since she was a teenager, when her mother walked into her room at an incredibly inopportune time with her high school girlfriend.
Agatha leant against the masonry of a nearby building, slowly sliding down and pulling her knees to her chest and attempted to focus on her breathing. The laughter in the distance continued. God, am I actually going to die in a foreign country. Fuck, maybe the bike thing was like a Final Destination moment. She tried to ground herself with a technique she had worked with Jen through in undergrad. Maybe she should have been tuning in to those mindfulness reels. Jen would have a field day with this if she saw her.
“Okay. I can see my hands. I can see the ground. I can see these stupid fucking parked bicycles. I can see the street lamps. I can see a cat” Agatha shuddered through her teeth. The cat stared at her with unblinking eyes. “I can feel… my pants. Sweat. Wait, is it feeling next or - no it has to be feeling. I can’t taste four things right now. Feeling” Agatha’s pulse began to steady as cold sweat ran down her back. She ran through the remainder of the exercise and leant her head back against the wall, stretching her legs out.
Maybe I did die when I crossed that road and now I’m in purgatory. Or maybe the plane to Italy went down and I’ve been dead this whole time. Fantastic.
Agatha rose to her feet and drew her hand through the loose strands of hair that had fallen from her ponytail. Shaking out her limbs, she decided she needed fresh air. Fresher air. Away from these alleys and narrow streets and laughing.
She opened her phone up and dropped a pin on the edge of the city 3 miles away. She stalked in that direction, staring at the map screen the whole time. Several twists through the alleys and three major intersections later she was greeted by darkness.
She had left the lamplight of the city behind and stared at the clear evening sky. A tapestry of starlight was visible under a full moon, illuminating jagged edges of the mountain ranges on the horizon. Several buildings were dispersed along the outskirts of Cuneo, timeworn exteriors and boarded up windows suggested they were long abandoned. The buildings were framed by countless wheat fields as far as she could see. A slight breeze gently rustled the stalks of grain as crickets chirped in the distance.
Agatha sat against a stone fence and inhaled through her nose. The scents of the city had been abandoned and in its place was something more earthy. Under the full moon on the edge of the city, she felt a momentary peace. Agatha pondered if this is what people went on vacation for. The darkness didn’t feel oppressive, it felt like it held possibility. Like Agatha only need extend her hand and grab what lay beyond. Okay, waxing poetic about some farmland in the dark is definitely a new one for me. More signs indicating that I am in fact dead.
Agatha rose from the fence and turned to face the closest farmhouse. The dilapidated building appeared as a lifeless husk, little work had been done to preserve it over the years. Agatha could see herself restoring one of these places in her future. She had liked working with her hands when she was younger, and dreamed of a garden. In recent years her thoughts of a future revealed computer screens and the stacks.
These buildings were remnants of a time long past. Other parts of the city had dedicated resources for restoration of old buildings; areas that tourists frequented, areas that held life and history. These farmhouses would hold ghosts and field mice, nothing more. Her eyes ran up the side of the building, illuminated in the full light of the moon.
The weathered stone was crumbing, and half-dead vines climbed up the sections that hadn’t given way to time. The weathered roof had caved in several sections, tiles littering the ground where they had slipped from their supports. Wood rot had long since set into the haphazardly boarded up windows and doors. Agatha felt a pang of sadness at the deterioration before her.
Her gaze stopped on one stone at the base of the building that had caught the moonlight. Graffiti had been scratched into the wall, moss and dirt obscuring the engraving. She felt a flare of irritation at the defacement. Bending down, she wiped her fingers through the growth; equally curious and annoyed as to what someone decided to immortalise in the stonework of the home. Probably an Italian version of ‘I was here 2006’. The debris yielded to Agatha’s hands, and she stopped cold.
What the fuck. Agatha wiped her trembling hand on her laptop bag and pulled out her phone to get a proper look. There is no fucking way. It has to be a coincidence. Eager excitement filled her veins and hope built in her chest, staring at the mark with reverence. She took several photos for good measure and saved them to her Google Drive.
Agatha was staring at a witch sigil, etched eons ago by contemptuous hands; underneath the sigil was the word Strega. Witch. The sigil before her was used by the Catholic Inquisition to mark the homes of witches. Agatha was shaking. This is insane. She tried to keep her gaze on the wall as she flicked through photos to cross reference the sight in front of her with images from the archives. Those photos had been burnt into her temporal lobes over the months, she had never seen this wall in her life. Her search confirmed it.
Any remnants of her earlier panic of the evening had dissipated, replaced with fierce anticipation. This was it. Her white whale. She stared at the engraving hungrily for what felt like hours, fearful that if she were to turn her gaze it would disappear. Agatha had fallen to her knees and traced the etching with her fingers. Hope was dangerous for her, but it was a beginning. It was new. Agatha saved her location into her notes and was filled with singleminded purpose.
She needed to get into that house.