Bewitched and Betrothed

by Juliet Blackwell

  Enough with the self-doubt. I was about to marry a wonderful man who would stand beside me and—despite what Aidan had warned a while ago—would serve to make me stronger, rather than diminish me.

  I was ready to be the witch I was destined to be. Nothing was going to stop me now.

  With a jolt, I came back to the conversation swirling around me.

  “Is she . . . ?” Miss Agatha asked.

  Graciela’s hands were on my belly, a faraway look in her eyes.

  A murmur arose and spread through the assembled women like wildfire.

  “Is she what?” asked Maya.

  “Anticipating,” whispered Pepper.

  “Oh, Lily!” exclaimed my mother.

  “Anticipating what?” I insisted.

  “Nope,” Graciela declared loudly, with a chuckle. “Just a food baby.”

  I let out a long, relieved breath. I knew I—we—wanted children, I just wasn’t sure we wanted them yet. I wouldn’t mind enjoying our honeymoon first, for example—after a great deal of discussion, Sailor, Oscar, and I had decided to begin in Barcelona and then head to Florence and Paris. If we couldn’t find Oscar’s mother in one of those beautiful cities, we’d come up with a new game plan. Also, I wanted time to settle into my role as the godmother of the San Francisco Bay Area magical community—at least until Aidan had fully healed. According to what Rosa had read in her cards, Aidan would recover from his recent injuries but had a more difficult challenge to overcome: He had been hounded by a vila since he had killed a rival that threatened Calypso, many years ago, which was why his strength had been waning.

  As Aidan had once told me, we magical folks might heal well, but we scar like every other human.

  “¿Lista?” asked Graciela. “Ready, Lily?”

  “Sí,” I said, and this time I knew I was telling the truth. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  The druzy in my antique engagement ring glittered as I walked out into the sunshine. Eric played an evocative tune on the accordion; its ancient beat measured our steps toward the altar. Friends and family and coven sisters gathered around the redwood circle, where wisps of mist lingered despite the sunny day. Half a dozen butterflies flitted this way and that, making me feel as though we were ensconced in Snow White’s enchanted forest. Maya, Selena, and Patience stood to one side, and Conrad and Carlos on the other, with Oscar in his piggy guise at their feet. True friends. Family.

  I never could have imagined this day when I first had arrived, so very alone and lonely, in San Francisco.

  Bronwyn welcomed everyone, thanked the woods folk for having us, and beamed as she invited the Lord and Lady to step into the circle.

  My mother and Graciela hugged me as I passed.

  “Lily and Sailor, may your paths come together,” said Bronwyn, “today and forevermore.”

  “Path of thy path,” intoned the crowd.

  I entered from the left; Sailor—wearing a crown of wildflowers—did so from the right. Here in this magical fairy circle, surrounded by redwoods and loved ones, butterflies flitting about, I lifted my face to the beautiful man who had captivated and frustrated, delighted and annoyed, but most of all had enthralled me from the very start.

  “Heart of my heart,” Sailor said, his voice gruff with emotion.

  “Breath of my breath,” I replied, my own voice surprisingly steady.

  “Power of thy power,” replied the crowd.

  Bronwyn gave a short speech about love and connection, the stars and the earth and the Lord and the Lady of the forest. I barely registered the words, but I felt the strong, primordial thrum of the earth beneath my feet, the whispers of fragrant air upon my cheeks. Sensed the loving vibrations of the witnesses surrounding us, and even felt the shining presence of the fairies.

  “And now,” Bronwyn said, her cheeks wet with tears, “Sailor and Lily, place your hands together, and hold them fast.”

  We stacked our hands: his, mine, his, mine.

  “It is time to declare to your friends and family, to the woods and to the desert, to the sky and to the earth, to yourselves and to the ancestors: Do you accept this handfasting?”

  I looked into Sailor’s dark eyes. He gave me a very slight, crooked smile.

  “Vow of my vow,” Sailor and I said in unison, our voices mingling and resonating, echoing through the forest:

  “We do.”

  Author’s Note

  Alcatraz is a fascinating rock of an island, sitting as it does in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. It was never inhabited by the indigenous peoples of the bay, but was used as a military fort and prison by the Spanish, and later by the United States. It was converted to a federal prison in 1934, and occupied by the Indians of All Tribes from 1969 to 1971. Today Alcatraz is one of the US Park Service’s most popular tourist attractions.

  Though there are plenty of stories alleging the presence of ghosts out on Alcatraz Island, any stories about demonic sacrifices (or a demonic presence!) are purely the result of my imagination.

  The character of Ray Perry was modeled after the prisoner Theodore Cole, who escaped with Ralph Roe on a very foggy day in December 1937 by sawing through iron bars and jumping into the frigid bay. They were presumed drowned.

  My story of Cole Albright, who escaped the island by fabricating papier-mâché heads and constructing a boat out of raincoats, was based on the true story of brothers John and Clarence Anglin and their associate Frank Morris, who escaped Alcatraz in 1962 but were also presumed lost at sea. To learn more about their story, see: “Alcatraz Escape,” at fbi.gov.

  For more information about the history of Alcatraz, check out: “Alcatraz History,” at alcatrazhistory.com; and “History Culture—Alcatraz Island,” at nps.gov.

  For more about the 1969–71 occupation of Alcatraz by the Indians of All Tribes, see:

  “We Hold the Rock—Alcatraz Island,” at nps.gov; and “1969 Occupation of Alcatraz,” and “Alcatraz Proclamation,” at nativevillage.org.

  * * *

  • • •

  Bewitched and Betrothed is entirely a work of fiction.

  Continue reading for an excerpt from the latest book in Juliet Blackwell’s bestselling Haunted Home Renovation mystery series,

  A GHOSTLY LIGHT

  Available now!

  The tower reached high into a gray sky. A faint glow—dare I say a ghostly light?—seemed to emanate from the lighthouse’s narrow windows. Probably just a trick of the light, the afternoon sun reflecting off curved stone walls.

  Just looking up at the tower through the cracked bay window made me dizzy.

  “I’m thinking of calling the inn ‘Spirit of the Lighthouse.’ Or maybe ‘the Bay Light,’” said Alicia Withers as she checked an item off the list on her clipboard. Alicia was big on lists. And clipboards. “What do you think, Mel? Too simple?”

  “I think you need to figure out your plumbing issues before you worry about the name,” I replied. That’s me, Mel Turner. General contractor and head of Turner Construction.

  Also known as Killjoy.

  Alicia and I stood in the central hallway of the former lighthouse keeper’s home, a charming but dilapidated four-bedroom Victorian adjacent to the lighthouse tower. The structures had been built in 1871 on the small, rather unimaginatively named Lighthouse Island, located in the strait connecting the San Francisco and San Pablo bays. Not far away, the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge loomed, and barely visible to the southwest was the elegant new span that linked Oakland to Treasure Island and on to San Francisco. The nearest shoreline was Richmond, with San Rafael—and San Quentin prison—situated across the normally placid, though occasionally tempestuous bay waters.

  It was a view to die for.

  Lighthouse Island’s foghorn and lamp had been staffed by full-time keepers and their assistants and families for decades, the flashing light and thunderous horn w
arning sea captains of the bay’s surprisingly treacherous shallows and rocky shoals. But the humans had long since been replaced by less costly electronics, and the island’s structures had fallen into disrepair.

  The house itself had once been a beauty, and still boasted gingerbread trim and a cupola painted an appealing (but now peeling) creamy white. Also in the compound were a supply shed, the original foghorn building, and a huge cistern that collected rainwater for the keeper and his family on this otherwise dry rock. The only other structures on the island were the docks and lavatory, located in a small natural harbor to the east, which were still used occasionally by pleasure boats seeking refuge from sudden squalls—and by those interested in exploring Lighthouse Island, of course.

  “I’m just saying,” I continued. “There’s a lot of dry rot to contend with before you start inviting guests to your Lighthouse Inn.”

  “Oh, you,” Alicia said with a slight smile, which I answered with a big one.

  I had known Alicia for quite a while before spying an iota of good cheer in her. She was still a serious, hardworking person but had relaxed a lot since I first met her on a historic restoration in Marin. We had bonded late one night over a shared love of potato chips and home renovation television shows. And then we quite literally kicked the butt of a murderer, which had definitely improved her attitude.

  “I’m sure you know I haven’t lost sight of the all-important infrastructure,” continued Alicia. “But I need to register my domain and business names, so no, it’s not too early to think about such things.”

  She whipped out a thick sheaf of lists and flowcharts and handed them over. I flipped through the papers. There were preliminary schedules for demolition and foundation work, electrical and plumbing and Internet installation, Sheetrock and mudding, overhauls of baths and kitchen, and installations of moldings and flooring and painting and light fixtures.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Thanks, Alicia, but I usually work up the schedules with Stan, my office manager.”

  “I know you do, but I was up late one night, thinking about everything that had to be done, and figured I might as well get the paperwork started. I based these on your schedules for the job in Marin, you see? I can e-mail everything to Stan so you can rearrange it as you need, and plug in the actual dates and the like. I hope you don’t think it was too presumptuous—I couldn’t help myself. Ever since Ellis agreed to back me on this project, I can hardly sleep I’m so excited!”

  Several months ago Alicia’s boss, Ellis Elrich, had asked me to evaluate “a property” he was considering. It wasn’t until he told me to meet him at the Point Moro Marina that I realized this would be no ordinary renovation: It was Lighthouse Island, and the Bay Light.

  I—along with much of the population of the Bay Area—had watched over the years as the historic Victorian-era lighthouse descended into greater and greater decrepitude. Every time my family drove over the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, my father would shake his head and grumble, “It’s a damned shame.” Mom would shush Dad for swearing in front of the children—“Little pitchers have big ears, Bill”—but craning her neck to watch the sad little island as it receded from view, she would add, “You’re right, though. Someone really ought to save that place.”

  Never did I imagine that, decades later, I’d be that person.

  But historic renovation was my business, and Alicia’s boss was filthy rich. Which was a very good thing, because this lighthouse was in need of a serious infusion of cash. I already had in hand the architect’s detailed blueprints, as well as the necessary permits and variances from the city and county, which had also promised to fast-track the code inspections. The Bay Light’s renovation would be a highly unusual public-private partnership that cash-strapped local officials had agreed to in the interest of saving the historical structures. I was impressed by the city’s eager participation but didn’t ask too many questions. Ellis Elrich had a way of making things happen.

  “So, here’s what we’re thinking,” Alicia said, making a sweeping gesture around the former front parlor. “We take down this wall, combine the space with the smaller drawing room next door, and make this whole area the bar and restaurant.”

  “It’s not very large,” I pointed out, comparing the blueprints in my hand to the existing floor plan.

  “It doesn’t have to be. There will be at most ten overnight guests, so only five small tables are required for their meals—or we might just do one big table and serve everything family-style, I haven’t decided yet. And visitors won’t be that frequent—there aren’t that many people who stop in at the yacht harbor, and even with our boat ferrying people over from the mainland, it will still take some planning to come to the island. It’s not as though we have to take into account foot traffic! So I’m thinking we’ll be at capacity with about twenty guests for drinks and dinner. But for those that make it, we’ll be a gorgeous little oasis in the bay.”

  Alicia sighed with happiness.

  I was pleased for my friend, but experienced enough to be a wee bit jaded. At this point in a renovation, most clients couldn’t see past the stars in their eyes and the longing in their hearts. Starting a historic renovation was a lot like falling in love: a blissful period of soaring romantic hope and infatuation that lasted until the grueling realities of sawdust and noise and confusion and delays—not to mention mounting cost overruns and unwelcome discoveries in the walls—brought a person back to earth with a resounding thud.

  “We’ll keep the bare bones of the kitchen, but include updated fixtures and some expansion, of course. But we’ll make the study and part of the pantry into a first-floor suite for the live-in manager—”

  “That would be you?”

  “Oh, I dearly hope so, if I can find a replacement to serve as Ellis’s assistant. I can’t leave him high and dry.”

  “But he wants this for you, right? Isn’t that why he’s bankrolling the project?”

  Alicia blushed. “Yes, he does. Ellis is very . . .”

  “Sweet,” I said when she trailed off.

  She nodded but avoided my eyes. Now that she had loosened up a little and was no longer the tight-lipped martinet I had first met, Alicia was charming. The scar on her upper lip and another by one eye—relics of difficult times at the hands of her abusive (now-ex) husband—only served to make her pretty face more interesting. The wounds on her psyche were another matter altogether, but through therapy and a whole lot of emotional hard work, Alicia had made great strides toward healing.

  And now, unless I was mistaken, she had developed a serious crush on Ellis Elrich, her boss and savior. Ellis was a good guy, surprisingly down-to-earth for a billionaire. Still, the situation seemed . . . complicated.

  Oh, what tangled webs we weave.

  “Anyway, that will leave three guest suites upstairs, each with an attached bath. And one in the attic, awaiting renovation. Oh! Did I tell you? The attic is full of old furniture, and there’s a trunk of old books. There are even the original keeper’s logs!”

  “Still? No one took them after all this time?”

  “I suppose that’s the advantage of being on an isolated island. Can you imagine? We can put some on display to add to the historic maritime ambience!”

  I smiled. “Of course we can. I can’t wait to look through everything. You know me and old books.” Me and old everything, actually.

  “We might be able to create one more bedroom in the foghorn building, unless we decide to turn that into a separate office. The problem, though, is the noise.”

  “What noise?”

  “The foghorn still sounds on foggy days. It’s not the original horn; it’s an electronic version. But still, it’s loud.”

  “How loud?”

  “Really loud.”

  “That could be a problem. So, what do you want to do with the tower itself? The architect hasn’t specified anything here
.”

  “That—” She stopped midsentence and her face lost all color.

  “Alicia?” I glanced behind me, but didn’t notice anything out of place. “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought I saw . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said with a shake of her auburn hair.

  I turned back to scan the scene, paying careful attention to my peripheral vision. Fervently hoping not to see a ghost. Or a body. Or both.

  Because I tend to see things. Things that would make many people scream, run, or faint dead away. Not all the time, but often enough for it to make an impression. Owing to my profession, I spend a lot of time in historic structures, so it probably isn’t surprising—for the open-minded, anyway—that I’ve been exposed to more than a few wandering souls who aren’t clear on the veil between our worlds.

  The fact that I trip over dead bodies, on the other hand, is . . . disturbing.

  For me most of all, I should add.

  Happily, in this moment I saw only the debris-filled main parlor of the old Keeper’s House. My mind’s eye began to imagine the space filled with vivacious guests sharing meals and stories, children holding cold hands up to the fire in the raised stone hearth, perhaps a calico cat lounging on the windowsill. The visitors warm and happy, safe from the chill winds blowing off the bay, the occasional mournful blast of the foghorn or flash of the lamp atop the tower adding to the dreamy atmosphere, to the sense that they were a world away from a major metropolitan area, rather than minutes. Alicia was right; with Ellis’s deep pockets and Turner Construction’s building skills, the inn could be magical. Would be magical.

  Who’s the romantic now, Mel Turner?

  “Let’s . . . I think we should go, Mel,” Alicia said, her voice tight.