Sorcery and the Single Girl (15 page)

By the time I got back to the Peabridge, it was already nine. I ducked into my cottage and donned my colonial attire in record time. I was still pinning my mobcap to my hair as I burst through the library’s front doors.

Fortunately, Evelyn was away from her desk. I was able to slip the muffins onto her blotter without her ever being aware of my late arrival, using the treats to anchor a Post-it note saying that I’d brought them just for her. I powered up the coffee bar, grinding a batch of beans so that I was ready to greet the first customer of the day.

“Excellent!” my boss said, as she returned to the main reading room from the cataloging office downstairs. “It’s a pleasure to see you so prompt and responsible.”

At first, I thought she was mocking me, but a quick glance at her close-set eyes convinced me that she really meant to deliver a compliment. I shrugged. “You know, anything for the Peabridge.”

“That’s the spirit!” Evelyn said. “Now, when you get a moment, come into my office, so that we can discuss your next Monday session.”

For once, I was actually grateful to see a trio of customers approach, and I took my time brewing their complicated requests. I hadn’t settled on a lecture topic yet: I’d been a little preoccupied the past two weeks.

Covens in colonial life, I thought, trying to generate a suitable subject.

Social hierarchies amid closed-membership eighteenth-century cabals.

Secret societies and the Founding Fathers.

Secret societies and the Founding Mothers. And daughters. And granddaughters.

I laced a mocha with whipped cream, nodding to myself. That was actually a possibility. Oh, not the secret society part. But mothers and daughters and the tug of filial duty through the ages. Evelyn would be sure to love the idea.

By the time I got back to my desk, even
I
was brimming with enthusiasm for my session topic. I could bring colonial mothers and daughters to life. I could present an interesting lecture about the pressures of multiple generations living and working in the same house, competing for respect in the same territory.

I sat down at my desk and smiled at the icon in the lower right corner that said new mail had arrived. My fingers moved automatically, clicking on the flashing yellow envelope.

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: We Are Watching You

How much does the Coven mean to you? How much are you willing to invest in their safehold? How much is the centerstone really worth?

 

Beneath the words was a picture. A red jasper vase filled the screen, black veins ugly against crimson stone. Four sprigs of herbs were stuck in the vase, herbs as familiar to me as Gran’s battered copy of
Joy of Cooking.
Feathery dill. Fennel, turned upside down, so that I could not miss its branched white bulb. Oregano, with its simple, flat leaves. Thyme, all woody stem and tiny, spiky leaves.

This time, I didn’t need David to tell me I was being warned. I didn’t need my warder to recite medieval texts. Dill, fennel, oregano, thyme. All were popular in contemporary cooking. All had survived to the twenty-first century because people believed the herbs held extraordinary properties. Lifesaving properties. The ability to stop a witch in her tracks.

My hand shook as I forwarded the message to David and then clicked on the delete icon. Someone did not want me placing the Coven’s centerstone. How far was he—or she—willing to go to stop me?

I
stared out at the Potomac River, trying to will my tears not to trickle down my cheeks. I could sense Graeme standing beside me, but I wasn’t ready to look at him yet, wasn’t ready to talk. Instead, the Kennedy Center fountains chimed away behind us, filling the silence with water sounds. Half the lights on the marble terrace had already been turned off; the huge entertainment complex was going to sleep now that its last evening performance was over.

How many productions of Romeo and Juliet had I seen in my lifetime? How many versions of the star-crossed lovers had I watched flit across a stage? How many times had I screamed inside my head, warning Juliet not to drink her potion, begging Romeo not to fall on his sword?

But tonight’s show had been special. Well acted. Well designed. But something more than that—it had
moved
me. For the couple of hours that I had spent watching the play, I had forgotten that I was surrounded by red velvet and gilt lighting fixtures, that I had a library job to worry about, a coven to occupy my spare time.

The characters had lived and breathed and
been,
and now they weren’t, and I could barely keep from sobbing as I stared out at the nighttime lights of Georgetown.

Graeme passed me an immaculate linen handkerchief and said, “They were wonderful, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” I managed, and then the tears did break loose, and I was looking away, trying not to let him see me act like a fool.

Maybe I was just overwhelmed by everything that was happening in my life—the Coven and its centerstone (which I still hadn’t learned enough about), Gran and Clara and their demands that I back away from the witches, the Peabridge and the increasing hours that I spent brewing coffee when I should be researching colonial history…

Graeme…

He rested his hand against my back. I could feel the warmth of each finger as he set his palm between my shoulder blades. I was wearing a light cardigan sweater, emerald-green over my black sheath dress.

I resisted the urge to lean back, to feel the taut muscles of Graeme’s chest, to fold myself inside his arms. If I let him touch me, I knew I would truly start sobbing like a child. I knew that I would turn to face him, and he would see mascara blobbing around my eyes like a raccoon mask, and he would realize that I was a sentimental fool, and he would be convinced that he wanted nothing more to do with this hysterical, gibbering woman.

Better to stare out at the water. Better to focus on the flickering lights and stopping the tears that leaked from my eyes. Better to wait until I could talk without sobbing, until I could force myself to be coherent.

“Do you know what gets me every time?” he asked, mercifully filling the conversational gap.

“Hmm?” I managed to make a questioning sound without actually shaping any words.

“The nurse.” He shifted his weight, and the motion exposed my side to the steady breeze that blew off the river. Impossible as it was to believe, I was actually chilled out here on the marble patio. Every year, I thought we’d be doomed forever to eternal sweltering heat, and every year, I was surprised by the sudden autumn change in September’s weather.

I rubbed my arms to tame the goose bumps that had sprung up under my sweater, and I asked, “The nurse?”

“She’s the only person in the Capulet household who truly loves Juliet, who truly understands what Juliet is willing to do for her love. She’s the only one who isn’t surprised the morning after. But she’s the only one who isn’t allowed into the crypt at the end.”

I sighed, thinking about the production we’d just seen, the actors ranged around the bodies. The young lovers had been so hopeful, so certain of themselves. Life—and love—could be so very unfair.

And that thought led me into very dark places. Places I didn’t want to go—not with a gorgeous man standing by my side. A gorgeous man who was waiting patiently for me to recover from my morose sadness. Waiting patiently while I finished dabbing at my eyes with his handkerchief and hiding the mascara-streaked evidence inside my clenched fist.

Another gust of wind picked up off the Potomac and—despite my best intentions—my teeth started to chatter. “Come along now,” Graeme said, his Britishness rising to the surface with more distinctiveness than I’d heard all evening. “Let’s get you out of this weather.”

“No!” I said, and then I realized that I sounded like a five-year-old spoiled brat. “I mean, it feels wonderful, after all the heat we’ve had. Do you mind very much staying a bit longer?”

Mind very much? I was starting to sound British again. I gritted my teeth. I hated the way I picked up other people’s accents. I could watch a few episodes of
Upstairs, Downstairs
and sound like an English lass for hours. And watching an evening of Shakespeare didn’t curb the tendency one bit.

Graeme didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he smiled and slipped off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders with a protectiveness that made my heart skip a beat. A half-dozen beats. Nearly stop beating altogether.

Had any other man ever watched out for my comfort this way? Certainly not Scott, my former fiancé and philanderer extraordinaire. And the I.B.? It would never have crossed his Infantile Belittled mind to protect me.

“Mmm,” I said, and then I
did
lean back against Graeme’s chest. I let his arms fold around me, felt the warmth of his fingers spread like fans across my hip bones.

“I’ve been thinking,” Graeme whispered, his lips close to my ear.

“Yes?” I managed to say, barely remembering that I needed to hold up some small part of the conversation.

“You’re going to think that I’m daft.”

What?
Graeme
had fears about what
I
would think? Me? The woman who bathed in Deep Woods Off! and then attracted the entirely unwelcome attention of the Park Police? The woman still recovering from
Romeo and Juliet,
like some lovesick teenager? “I doubt that,” I said.

“It’s just that you’ve told me about your…powers.”

My belly went cold. Colder than the breeze off the river, colder than my memories of Scott and the I.B. How long had Graeme been thinking of me as “other,” “different,” “strange”?

“Yes.” I pushed the one word past the lump that suddenly threatened to close my throat. I didn’t want him to believe that I was some bizarre creature, something he couldn’t relate to, couldn’t speak to. Didn’t want to spend time with.

“You’ve told me about them, but I’ve never seen you use them.”

Yeah, like that had gone so well with men in the past. I thought of the Impressive Bother, and the times he’d seen me use my witchy attributes. The first occasion, in my cottage’s kitchen, he’d been so unable to cope that he’d ascribed my magic to his own confused senses. And the last time, up at Gran’s farm…well, there had been no confusion then. The Impetuous Blackguard had understood exactly what he was seeing. And he had been terrified.

With good cause, I might add.

Showing off my skills as a witch was not exactly at the top of any One Hundred Ways to Win the Man of Your Dreams list.

Of course, providing a small demonstration wasn’t exactly forbidden, either.

“What are you saying, Graeme?”

His fingers clenched slightly, effortlessly, turning me around to face him. “I’m saying that I want to see you. I want to see what you can do. I told you about the women in my family, the powers that they’ve had. I want to see that power in you.”

His blue eyes seemed silver in the shadows on the terrace. The lights were behind him, so that his face was carved in planes. I felt his urgency in his fingertips, sensed his earnestness in the heat that radiated from his chest.

“It’s really not much to look at,” I said, trying to make a joke of my supernatural powers.

“I want to look at it. I want to look at you.”

Oh. My. God.

The heat in his words would have made me do just about anything. A striptease, here on the back porch of the Kennedy Center? No problem! Bring him home to my bed, ignoring the inquiring looks of my familiar and his lover? Hop on in! Present him to my grandmother, my mother and my best friend, and tell them that he was the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, come hell or high water? Absolutely!

Oh. Wait. That last option wasn’t really on the table. Yet.

“You want me to work a spell?”

“Just something small.”

“Now?”

“Please.” He made the request sound like an offer.

I licked my lips and looked out over the river. I’d spent so much time working with David, focusing on crystals and herbs, that I’d ignored the original aspect of my magic, the spells that I’d learned to work from the library in my basement.

I thought back to the endless rows of books that I had cataloged, the pages and pages of magical words that I had examined, at least in passing. As the breeze picked up over the Potomac once again, I realized I had the perfect little working, ready at hand.

“I shouldn’t do this sort of thing,” I said, suddenly embarrassed.

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell.” Graeme’s white-toothed smile made me blush, as if he were promising to keep more secrets than my magic.

“It’s just that I should have my familiar here. Or my warder.”

He looked surprised. “I didn’t mean to suggest anything inappropriate. If you’re not allowed to use your powers without their permission…”

He trailed off, probably driven into silence by the angry set of my lips. Of course I was allowed to use my powers! David Montrose was not the boss of me. And Neko? He might think that he could run my life, but I was
his
master. Mistress. Whatever.

Neither David nor Neko could stop me from using my powers. At least with regard to something as minor as the spell I thought to work now. I mean, if I was going to try something
major,
like setting the centerstone, or something—well, of course, I’d expect my magical cohorts to be present for that.

But a few words, chanted on the nighttime breeze? I wouldn’t ask permission to have a slice of cake for dessert. And I wasn’t going to turn to David and Neko for something equally mundane.

I forced my frown into a smile. “No,” I said sweetly. “I certainly don’t need their permission. Watch this.”

I
did
feel him watching. I felt his eyes as I turned back toward the river. I heard him catch his breath as I reached out for the essence of Water, the strength and power of the basic element that flowed past our marble perch. I imagined him stepping back in surprise as I raised my arms dramatically.

And there he was, behind me, catching his jacket before it slipped to the ground. “Damn!” I said. How could I have forgotten I had his coat draped around my shoulders? Why hadn’t I realized what would happen as soon as I moved my arms? What sort of idiot witch was I? “I’m sorry,” I said, my concentration shattered.

“No harm done at all.” I heard the laughter beneath his words, good-natured humor meant to carry me along. He wasn’t poking fun at me. He honestly meant for me to feel more comfortable. He held out the jacket as if it were a coronation robe. “Perhaps if you wear it properly?”

I smiled and accepted the offer. And then, before I could lose my nerve, I turned back to the river and closed my eyes, the better to concentrate. I touched my forehead, offering up the power of my thoughts. I touched my throat, the power of my words. I touched my heart, the power of my belief. And I said:

 

“Flowing water, flowing stream

Capture moonlight in a beam

Pass close to the quiet shore

Open up a magic door

Offer up your strength as heat

Beat back chill, cold breeze defeat

Let fast current turn to frost

Heat us, now that summer’s lost.”

 

I knew the spell was working even before I heard Graeme’s indrawn breath. A suddenly warm breeze skirled off the Potomac, brushing my face like a promise of things to come. When I looked out at the water, I could see a silver path condensing all the way from the marble porch to Roosevelt Island in the middle of the river.

Anyone who happened to look down on the Potomac at that precise moment would have thought that the water was reflecting the moonlight. Reflecting with an odd precision perhaps, providing a cleaner line than expected, but reflecting, all the same.

I knew that the silver was not reflected light, though. The silver was ice. Rime settled on the water as I drew forth the river’s warmth, as I created a silky summer breeze with magic.

I turned to Graeme, a smile broad across my lips. “And
that
is a little spell.”

He was struck dumb by my working. I could see the surprise, flat across his face. What had he expected? Thunder? Lightning? Flashes of eternal hellfire spawned by my witchy demonstration?

“But…you…” He swallowed and tried again. “You stopped the flow of the entire river.”

I frowned. I thought he would have missed that. “Only for a moment. I took too much water into the spell right at the start. As soon as I found the proper balance, I let the rest of it flow back.”

“You let…” He stared at the silvery path in front of us. “That’s ice, isn’t it?”

“Ice. Frost. Whatever you want to call it. It’s not that thick. It doesn’t go down to the bottom of the riverbed.”

“But you can keep it there, now. While we’re talking?”

I’d left a tendril of my powers attached to the frozen streak across the water. In fact, my warm breeze did continue to blow, harvesting the river’s power, draining the water’s heat for our personal convenience. I shrugged. “It doesn’t take much power to maintain. Casting the spell is the hard part.”

“I see. I’d always thought…” He shook his head slowly. “But what do I know about magic, eh?”

“I should probably let it go. I wouldn’t want to confuse any fish or anything.”

“Oh! Yes! By all means!”