Watching at home, Phyllis and Jessie high-
fived
each other.
Shane shouted, "Yes!" and jumped from his grandfather's lap. "Wait! I know that train."
On the show, as their reunion kiss lingered, the orchestra struck up a festive jingle-bell rendition of "Do You Believe in Magic?"
"I believe in magic," Logan said, loving the feel of her curves under velvet. "I'm holding her in my arms." He kissed her again. "I love you."
"Took you long enough to realize it."
"Like I'm the only one?"
Melody blushed. "I love you, too."
"Too bad you're not the marrying kind."
She toyed with a button on his shirt. "I… might have been mistaken about that."
Logan raised her
chin,
saw that her eyes were bright. "I got the feeling that you sort of… proposed… on your last show, but before you confirm or deny that wild assumption, you should know that I'm about to become an independent filmmaker, not exactly a steady job."
The smile she gave him could rival the sun. "That's all right," she said. "I have a steady job. You can provide the excitement in the family, and I'll provide the stability."
Logan grinned. "In that case, bewitch me, please, for as long as we both shall live?"
Melody unhooked her mike and tossed it. "Hell, yes," she said, "I love raising the devil," and she gave herself up to his kiss.
A roar of approval rose from the audience, and her candied yams came out perfect.
Dear Reader,
Salem,
The Kitchen Witch
are available to visitors, some all year long, and others only at Halloween. Owing to my experience as a special events' coordinator, and to the evolving nature of such events, I renamed those herein to fit my story and to protect the actual events from my imagination. Among the figments of said imagination are WHCH TV, "The Salem Museum of Witchcraft," and "The Keep Me Foundation." For more information on Salem, please visit their website at
www.salem.com
.
Annette
blair
www.annetteblair.com
Turn the page for a special preview of Elizabeth
Minogue's
novel
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
Chapter One
ROSE twisted through the crowd, sweating in her heavy kirtle as the relentless sun beat down upon her uncovered head. Safe within the press, she dared cast a quick look over her shoulder. As far as she could tell, she had not been followed.
Yet.
Two weeks on shipboard had left her legs uncommonly stiff. The wooden planks rose to meet her, jarring her off-balance.
Clap
clap
,
clapclap
. Heel and toe of her wooden
pattens
hit the planks more quickly as she found her land legs. She hurried on, breathing through her mouth against the oily smell of fish, thick as fog on the unmoving air. She kept to the most crowded places, head down, meeting no man's eye. Yet still the sailors noticed her.
"Slow down, Jenny—
sweeting
—
chevra
," they called after her. "What can be the rush? Stay a moment, let me show you—"
Despite the paralyzing heat, she wished desperately for cloak and hood. The past year of silent solitude had stripped her of defenses. Even before that, she had never been the focus of so many eyes. On the few occasions she was permitted to appear in public, her cousins were always present. The two of them rendered her as invisible as any magic cloak could ever do.
But today
Melisande
and
Berengaria
were far away. She was alone in a place where no respectable woman would be seen. No woman at all just now, not in this unrelenting heat. Even the dockside whores had retreated to some shady chamber to wait for evening's cool.
But she could not afford to wait. She must go now, and swiftly, before her absence had been noticed. Eyes fixed on the wooden planks beneath her feet, she concentrated on her destination.
I must be calm
, she told herself.
Or
, she amended, wincing as a sailor trod upon her toe, I
must
look
calm
. But that should present no problem. She was good at looking calm; so good, in fact, that those who knew her best would swear she was half-witted.
But
he
must not think that. He must believe her story, strange as it might seem. She would be bold.
Bold and firm… yet not overbearing.
After all, she was a supplicant.
Or would be, if she ever got there.
Almost running, she crashed into a bearded sailor no taller than her chest with a broad basket balanced on his head.
"Forgive me—please, sir, could you tell me—"
"Piss off," he snarled, shoving her away.
She took a few stumbling steps toward the edge of the dock, but was halted on the edge by a hand fastened on her wrist.
The moment she regained her balance, her plump dark rescuer released her and turned away, wiping his palm fastidiously upon his flowing crimson robe.
"Wait!" she cried, hurrying after him. "Pardon, sir, but could you tell me—"
"
Channa
zayra
," he snapped, not slowing his pace.
"
Alet
amia
," she answered sharply.
He stopped instantly and turned, one hand moving to his brow. "Forgive me,
serra
. How may I serve you?"
"Can you tell me where the Prince of
Venya
may be found?"
He shut one eye in the
Jexlan
manner, a courteous gesture denoting careful thought.
"I have not seen him," he said at last. "And had I done so, I would not tell you."
"But I must find him! Please,
serrin
, it is a matter of life and death."
He sighed. "Daughter, whatever this matter is, you should take it to your family. The… one you speak of cannot help you." He clicked his tongue, a
tsk
tsk
of disapproval. "To so much as speak his name is to sully your honor."
Perhaps in
Jexal
; if it were so in
Valinor
, every maiden in the country was already sullied beyond redemption, for the Prince of
Venya's
name was shouted out constantly in every market square. Despite a dozen edicts, half the troubadours in the country made their living courtesy of his adventures.
"But I must speak to him," she insisted. "My family is dead; they cannot help me, and I haven't a moment to waste."
He studied her face for a long moment,
then
gestured toward the row of stalls. "If the
Venyans
are here at all, that is where you will find them."
He touched his brow again, this time with one finger only.
Why, the man thinks I am a whore
, she realized with a shock as he turned away without the customary bow.
Jehan
help me, will
he
think the same
?
I
must behave with dignity
, she thought, turning toward the stalls.
Dignified, bold, calm, and spirited
—
"Good day, master," she said to the man behind the counter. "Are there any
Venyans
here?"
"Oh, thou dost not want those sly sorcerers," the man said with an ingratiating smile. "Whatever they have, 'tis no match for what I can offer you. See, here is—"
"I thank you, but only
Venyan
will do."
His smile vanished. "I cannot help thee."
She tried the next stall.
"
Venyans
!"
A burly man spat at her feet. "I have no truck with their kind. Move off, you're blocking the way."
An hour later she was soaked with sweat and so thirsty she could barely rasp out another question. But all that was nothing to the anxiety gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She started at each footstep behind her, heart leaping to her parched throat. What if he was not here? What if she had misheard or Captain Jennet had been mistaken?
She had no food, no water, not a single coin with which to buy the most basic necessities, let alone passage on a ship. And soon, if not already, she would be hunted.
She dragged shaking hands across her eyes.
I'm not giving up. Not yet. Not while there is still the slightest hope
.
She reached the end of the row of booths and turned the corner. A single stall stood in the deserted stretch of dock. She held her breath as she approached it.
The shelf was not crowded, but what was there drew and held the eye.
A knife with a plain silver hilt, two rings, a glittering crystal on a stand of twisted strands of gold and silver.
A tiny bejeweled windmill whirred and chirped a merry tune without a breath of air to stir it.
The man who stood above these offerings was no less exotic. He was immensely old, his eyes lost within a network of wrinkles. Hair the pale silver of
carna
blossoms fell nearly to his waist.
"The blessing of the day upon you," she said cautiously in
Venyan
. The man's eyes lit and he smiled.
"And upon you,
acelina
," he replied in the same tongue, his weathered face creasing in a smile. "How may I serve you?"
He is a mage, she thought, giddy with relief.
A
Venyan
mage.
So they
do
exist.
"A
sheeral
ring, perhaps?" he offered. "One for you and one for
your
…" He used a
Venyan
word that could mean either husband or lover. "It will burn with Leander's fire should he ever be unfaithful, recalling him his vows."
"No," she said, "Not that. I—"
"Then perhaps this knife. Have him wear it for a moon-span. When he journeys forth, it will be a comfort to you. So long as it stays bright, you can rest easily, knowing he is well. Should it rust…
"
He ran a finger across the shining edge. "Is it not better to know than sit and wonder?"
She shook her head.
"No—though they are very fine.
I am searching for your prince."
The mage carefully replaced the knife in its sheath.
"
My
prince?
Lady, I am but a simple wanderer without home or country."
"But you are
Venyan
."
"Ah, you seek Prince Rico? Then I fear you have gone far astray. You would do better to look in
Valinor
, perhaps at
She shook her head. "Not him.
Your
true
prince."
"I am sorry, but I do not know of whom you speak."
"Of course you do! Everyone knows of him! And he is here somewhere, I'm certain of it. Please, can you not take me to him?"
"I am sorry," he repeated, reaching upward. "I cannot help you."
A wooden shutter rolled down across the opening. She caught it before it latched and lifted it an inch. "He who will return upon the flood tide with all who have been lost," she said rapidly in
Venyan
. "His cause is just, his followers true, and you shall know them when they speak his name."
She shoved the shutter up another few inches. "Well? I spoke his name, didn't I?"
"You did."
"And I know the words. By right of custom, you must answer me!"
The shutter began to fall.
"I am Rose of
Valinor
."
It halted.
"And I demand—no, I entreat you to take me to your prince."
The sorcerer bent to peer through the opening, regarding her with hooded eyes. "
Venya
has
no prince."
"Until the true prince is restored," she answered promptly. "When Leander's heir returns, the stones will sing and the land rejoice."
When he did not answer, she tried again, raising her voice a trifle. "I
said
, when Leander's heir—"
"I heard you. My silence was an indication of surprise, not failing hearing."
"I know a half a dozen more but I really haven't time. So if you don't mind, I'd like to see him now."
"Wait. I will see what I can find."
NOT another round of questions, Rose thought, I
cannot bear it
. Her last inquisitor, an elderly man with a tired face and piercing eyes, had taken far too long to accept that she would give him nothing but her name. Now she followed him into an alehouse and down a tiny passageway, halfway between fury and despair. She wanted to rage at him, to insist that she be taken to the prince, yet she knew she was utterly dependent on his good will.
"Please," she said, "I have told you all I can and time presses."
"You shall have your audience," he said. He opened a door, stepped back, and with a stiff little bow gestured for her to enter.
The squalid little chamber was stifling and the stench of it made her empty stomach twist uncomfortably. It took her a moment to realize she was not alone. A clerk sat at a tiny writing table in the corner, quill scratching frantically. He looked up briefly when she entered,
then
lowered his head over his work.
She sat down on a stool, folded her hands, stiffened her spine, and lifted her chin. After several minutes her neck began to ache and her stomach grumbled noisily. She cast a quick, embarrassed glance at the clerk, but he was oblivious to everything but his work.