by E L Wilder
“It’s all about getting into character,” she said. “You said magic is just like baking. Which is true—to you. But to me it’s just like acting.”
Where to begin? She didn’t think she had nearly enough powder to dust the whole tractor, never mind the rest of the scene. And she needed to get this right. God, maybe she should have also grabbed a canister of baby powder for backup. But that wouldn’t have been right for the spell. It had felt right to bring Gammy’s powder jar. After all, hadn’t Gammy’s hairpin gotten her through the phonebooth incident?
The cab seemed as good a place as any to start, so she climbed up and unlidded the jar.
She clicked off her headlamp, casting them into darkness.
“Hey now,” moaned Charlie. “Not a big fan of this.”
At that moment, Theo appeared, providing a little ambient lighting. “I come with a full report, young Bennett,” he announced. “The coast is clear. The officer has neglected his duties in favor of a nap.”
“I think I was better with the pitch black,” said Charlie, edging for Theo.
Hazel ignored them both. She whispered the words from the script, Appare, a simple command in Latin: appear. But it felt too thin, meager, in the dark of the garage. A dead language that stirred nothing inside her. So she began to hum, not because the spell had called for it, but because it felt right in the moment. Somehow trying to draw magic from such mundane materials reminded her of summer mornings spent coaxing snails from their shells, a trick that Gammy had taught her and Juniper. As she repeated the routine now, the powder started to glow, faintly at first but then intensifying until she could see each granule practically vibrating. Right as she was about to run out of breath, she used the last bit in her lungs to blow out, quick and hard. The cloud that billowed from the jar was fantastic—impossible—a huge ghostly plume unfurling until it enveloped the entirety of the tractor and the wall. She was surrounded by the glow and the smell of baby powder and jasmine.
But after a moment, the cloud dissipated and the darkness crowded back in.
“What was that?” Charlie whispered in the dark. “Did it work?”
“That’s not how Hisolda cast it at all,” noted Theo disapprovingly.
Hazel was only vaguely aware of Charlie. All she could focus on was an energy stirring inside her, as if every cell in her body had taken up the vibration of her humming. It felt corny to think it, but for the first time ever she felt like she was truly alive. Every part of her felt awake, harmonious.
She picked up the paintbrush and skimmed the circumference of the steering wheel. A deep purple glow appeared, like a bruise, in the brush’s wake. She dusted the gear shift, leaving another purple stain behind. She hopped down from the tractor and worked her way up its side, sweeping the brush in wide arcs like a painter possessed and leaving a glowing tractor in her wake.
She only came out of the trance when something rustled under her foot. She stopped and looked down, lifting her sneaker. In the purple glow, she saw what looked like a withered flower petal.
She knelt and passed the brush over the petal, the light kiss of its bristles causing the flower, dry and brittle, to crumble to powder, an ash that glowed deeply purple.
She got to her feet and stepped back to look at her work, the hum in her body silencing itself.
“What does it mean?” asked Charlie.
What had the instructions said?
There had been a range of possible colors that would result, depending on a number of factors—the kind of magic used and the intent of the caster. She couldn’t remember all of the varieties, but she knew purple instantly. In terms of the color lottery, this was worst-case scenario.
“Black magic,” Hazel said.
“That’s not good,” said Charlie.
“This changes the whole investigation. We’re looking for a spellcaster.”
“Oh dear . . .” fretted Theo.
Something moved nearby, and this time the noise was distinct, the scuffing of boots on the floorboards. Before Hazel could react, a purple light sprang to life in the darkness, a glowing cloud that quickly shaped itself into a bludgeon. The cloud rushed at them.
Theo swooped in front of Hazel, shouting, “Look out, young Bennett!”
The cloud struck Theo first. His form seemed to slow the object, if only for a second. Then he exploded into a thousand swimming orbs of light and the object barreled onward, slamming into Hazel.
She thought for a moment of the sandwich her mother had served her when she’d first arrived home. As the plate had spun through the air, time had seemed to slow down. Hazel had envisioned reaching out and grabbing it at the perfect moment to stop its spin. She tried to do that here, to imagine herself like the spinning plate, but time didn’t slow down and no hand could steady her. A moment later, she hit the ground hard.
She heard shouting and scuffling and then everything went black.
* * *
Hazel tried to pry her eyes open, but she found them shut fast, sealed tight like welded seams. She tried to claw them open, ignoring the searing pain the action brought with it, but her efforts were futile.
She staggered to her feet and put her hand out, expecting to find a tractor to steady herself on but instead she grabbed a handful of shrubbery.
She finally managed to wrench her eyes open.
She stood inside a hedge maze, pathways wandering off in all directions. The Bennetts had maintained this labyrinth through most of the twentieth century, but Ronnie had convinced Gammy to let it return to nature, saying it took too much time, effort, and money to maintain. Gammy had relented, as she did with most things Ronnie. Yet here it was, not only alive and well but thriving. The hedges towered well over her head, interwoven with rosebuds.
How had she ended up here? She walked the pathways of the labyrinth, looking for . . . something. The way out? No, that wasn’t it. For something lost inside the maze. If she could just make the correct turn—but everything looked the same.
She was just starting to despair when she heard a sound that gave her pause. It started like a whisper just behind the hedgerows. Was somebody there? She called out but nobody answered.
The rosebuds responded to the murmuring, leaning in its direction like they were tracking the sun. All at once, they bloomed brilliantly, the buds unfurling in shades of crimson so rich the color practically dripped from the petals.
She reached out to touch one, but the flower recoiled at her touch. And no sooner had it pulled away than it instantly withered, the red actually bleeding onto the ground until the petals were black. Then it crumbled to dust. Its death set off a chain reaction, and all of the nearby roses drained of color, their petals disintegrating and blowing away like a putrid snow. The whisper grew into a roar and something crested the tops of the hedges, a purple cloud, a pulsing tsunami advancing toward her.
She turned and ran, darting down paths but the wave gained on her.
The roar became words, a horrible mantra repeating over and over. Blooms do wither.
And the wave overtook her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hazel woke with a start and bolted upright, raising her hands in defense—a faint and familiar tingling in her palms. But she relaxed when she saw that it was daytime and she was in her bed. Her mother sat in the rocking chair in the corner, limply holding a newspaper as she looked on.
“You’re awake,” her mother stated matter-of-factly. “That looked like a heck of a nightmare.”
That was an understatement. The feeling of dread still clung to her.
“Where’s Charlie?” Hazel asked.
“At work.”
“There was somebody there! In the barn—”
“Charlie scared them off,” her mother interrupted, and then as if reading Hazel’s thoughts, added, “But she didn’t get a good look.”
“The police officer!”
“Slept through the whole thing.” Her mother carefully folded the newspaper. “I don’t need to tell yo
u how stupid you’ve acted. If you had been caught—it could have made things worse for Juniper. You’re meddling.”
“I’m fixing. I’m not going to sit by and watch Juniper get pinned for a crime she didn’t commit.”
“Did you solve the case?”
“No, but I found clues,” Hazel said. “Juniper didn’t do this.”
“I know that,” said her mother. “But did you find something that will convince the police—the public of that?” She picked up the folded newspaper and tossed it to Hazel.
It was a copy of the Larkhaven Scryer. Hazel’s stomach sank as she read the headline: Local woman held under suspicion of murder. She was relieved the article hadn’t been written by Tyler, but somebody named Jon Boman.
“Small towns don’t keep secrets,” said her mother. “And neither do police blotters.”
“How could they do this?!”
“They’re journalist,” her mother replied. “Their job is to report, not do PR. Just like the police are doing their job of investigating Eric Moore’s murder. And they will figure this out. If you let them do their job.”
“This isn’t something the police can solve,” Hazel protested.
“But Hazel Bennett can?”
“There’s magic involved, mom.”
The change in her mother was instant. Her face darkened.
“I cast a spell,” Hazel said softly.
“You said you didn’t have the Knack.”
“I lied,” she said.
“I know.”
“I met my familiar.”
Her mother was silent.
“He wouldn’t accept me as his partner. Not until I had learned more. But Gammy isn’t here to teach me.”
Her mother drew up rigidly. Hazel didn’t think she had ever seen her mother assume a posture that couldn’t be described as laid back.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” said her mother tersely. “The world isn’t what it once was, Hazel. Maybe it’s best for the Bennetts to start being just plain old Bennetts.”
“How can you say that?” demanded Hazel. “You’ve been on my case for years, and now you just want me to drop it? Like it’s some bad fashion choice?”
“Stop being melodramatic.”
“I’m not being melodramatic!” she shouted.
“Look,” her mother said, rubbing her temples. “I’m losing your sister. I don’t want to lose you too.”
“There is black magic in play here!”
“And that is exactly why you need to stop. You’re in over your head. This can only end with another one of my daughters in prison. Or on the list of victims.”
“I’m doing this,” said Hazel. “The least you could do is help me figure out this . . . curse, so I can use it to help our family.”
“I’m just quaint, Hazel,” said her mother, her words so weighted, they fell flat.
Hazel knew the term well. It was her Gammy’s word for people who lacked the Knack. That meant most everybody was quaint, her mother included. Born without the mark and destined not to follow in her ancestors’ footsteps. Like Juniper.
“But you’re not ignorant. Tell me what you know,” pleaded Hazel. “Help me. Help Juniper.”
“The best way we can help is to stay out of the way.”
“I need answers,” said Hazel. “I’ll go through the Postern if I have to.”
“No!” The rebuke was sharp and it caught Hazel off guard. “You stay away from there.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Her mother stood suddenly, drawing herself up, straight like a sword. “I am your mother. I will always be your mother. And so long as I own this farm and I am the matriarch of this family I will not sit by and let things fall apart. I may be quaint, but I have never been helpless.”
“Then help me find whoever did this. Because they’re still lurking, and they’ll do whatever’s needed to keep from getting caught. I’m not going to stop until I clear Juniper’s name.”
Her mother stopped in the doorway. “I can’t tell you what to do. I never could. But you’re in no state to be walking around casting spells and chasing killers. Black magic comes in a lot of forms, Hazel,” she said. “All evils do. That’s the most important thing your grandmother ever taught me, about magic and about people. Man or means-less or mean, there a withered soul has been.”
“What does that even mean?” She had heard Gammy say it before too. How many of Gammy’s aphorisms had really been magic lessons in disguise?
Hazel threw back the covers and jumped up to get dressed, ignoring her body’s complaints and slipped into a pair of shorts. She grabbed her satchel and checked it—the materials for the spell were missing. She cursed herself for having lost Gammy’s powder jar. Maybe she could to try to get it later. But for now, she would have to find substitutes. Fortunately, everything else important was there. Her notebook, the spell itself, and Gammy’s hairpin.
* * *
Hazel felt like somebody under the effects of a detect guilt spell on her as she entered the East Barn courtyard. The officer on duty outside the tractor garage was now accompanied by another officer, who chatted with him, and, as she crossed the courtyard, they turned to watch her. Was one of them the officer that had taken her statement the night before? She couldn’t remember.
She was surprised to see construction crews back at work, though Tyler was noticeably absent. That must have meant that Jess Tully was back in town. Hazel had come to check in with Charlie, but maybe she could turn this into a twofer.
She climbed the stairs to the Doughn’t Even Bakery. She found Charlie cursing the industrial mixer, a stainless-steel giant with beaters like medieval battle implements. When Charlie saw Hazel coming, her face brightened and she exclaimed, “You live!”
“Charlie, we need to talk.”
“Of course we do!” And even though it was only nine-thirty, Charlie shouted across the din of the bakery, “Bretta! Early lunch!” and stepped away from the table without waiting for a reply, leaving a lump of unshaped dough on her worktable.
As soon as they were outside, Charlie started pawing over Hazel, patting her face and arms as if checking produce quality. “You look okay, are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine, Charlie. Thanks to you. But what happened to Theo?”
Charlie frowned. “I think the ghost man got busted.”
Hazel frowned. She knew that Theo was already two hundred years dead, but she had grown fond of him in the short time they’d had together. He was a piece of her past, and with his redeparture, she felt a door to her own family history closing.
Charlie looked around the courtyard nervously. “Let’s walk.” She led Hazel out of the courtyard archway, but as soon as they were clear, Hazel took the lead, steering them along the side of the barn toward the Ladle Creek Construction trailer.
“What the hell happened last night?” asked Charlie. “One minute you were Mrs. Clean and the next you were Professor McGonnagall. I mean, I believed you when you said you could do magic, but I didn’t believe you could really do magic. I thought maybe it was a phase. Like wearing snap bracelets or listening to jam bands. But it’s real.”
Hazel felt proud, the same way she always felt after a movie premiere. The actress in her believed in sharing her talents. That was the conundrum of magic. It wasn’t really something you went singing about from the rooftops—so to have Charlie there to see it, that meant something.
“In some ways, I didn’t believe it myself,” said Hazel. “But what did you see?”
“Somebody got into the barn somehow,” she said. “Suddenly, there was this purple thing in the air and it knocked you back.”
“It was black magic, Charlie.”
“That doesn’t sound good . . .”
“Be you man or meanless or mean, there a withered soul has been.”
“Not my favorite Dr. Seuss book.”
“It’s something my grandmother used to say. I never understood what it meant, but I think it’s descri
bing the dark side of magic. There are three conditions for creating black magic: to be a man, to lack the means or skill to cast, or to use a spell for ill intent.”
“Wait,” she said. “Men can’t have the Knack?”
“No Bennett man has ever been born with it.”
“Say it ain’t so, Harry Potter. I thought you said somebody without the Knack couldn’t do magic.”
“Maybe shouldn’t is the right word,” she said. “If somebody is quaint, they might acquire a spell or two, but even that, it would be exceedingly difficult. The consequences would always be . . . grave.”
“So our killer is bad at magicking. Or just bad.”
“Exactly.”
“So that narrows our field of suspects to . . .”
“Everyone.”
“I love those odds,” said Charlie. “So what do we do from here? Go back to the drawing board? Proceed with our interview of Jess Tully?”
“Bingo.”
They rounded the corner of the barn and she pointed to the Ladle Creek Construction trailer. The trailer door was propped open and a wave of country music rolled out. A white Chevy pickup was parked outside, a hot-pink 802 sticker slapped on the cab window.
Charlie looked panic-stricken. “I haven’t had time to prepare. Do you still have my list of questions?”
“Forget the questions, Charlie,” she said.
“Why don’t we do this tomorrow?” begged Charlie. “Interviewing Jess Tully is not going to be like interviewing Ruby Northinger. Let me come over again tonight.”
“With a bottle of wine?”
“How did you know? Anyway, I’ll come over again tonight and we’ll figure out a strategy and tomorrow—tomorrow—we’ll come down here and we’ll nail this interrogation.”
“There’s no time, Charlie,” said Hazel. “Whatever happened last night, it shows that somebody is willing to take drastic measures to cover their tracks. What if that somebody is Jess Tully?”
“And what if it’s not?” asked Charlie.
Hazel honestly had no answer. Where did they go from there? Draw up a new list of suspects? Everyone who had been on the farm in the last few days? No doubt that would arouse suspicions. Those were worries for later. Right now they still had a viable suspect in their sights.
