A Witch to Remember

by Heather Blake

  A Witch to Remember

  A WISHCRAFT MYSTERY

  Heather Blake

  For my family, with much love.

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, and everyone at BookEnds who has championed this series from its very beginning and continue to do so.

  Thank you to editor Jenny Chen for her steady and sure guidance, and to the whole team at Crooked Lane who help bring Darcy’s adventures to bookshelves and e-readers everywhere.

  A big thank you to keen-eyed beta reader Jan Lancaster for giving this book a good once-over, and to Jeff Marks for his assistance with a pesky wedding detail.

  And finally, thank you to all the readers who adore Darcy and the Enchanted Village as much as I do.

  Chapter One

  “This wedding might be the death of me, and I’m not even the one getting married. So much to get done, so little time.”

  Startled by the statement, I studied my sister Harper a little more closely. June sunshine highlighted the humor in her big golden-brown eyes. She was joking, which made sense since the wedding ceremony would be a small affair, fifteen to twenty people max. “We both know there’s not much left to do at all, and please don’t tease about the death thing.”

  I’d seen enough death in the past couple of years to last me a lifetime.

  Maybe two lifetimes.

  While some of the deaths had been natural, most of them had not.

  As we wended our way along one of the paths that twisted through the vast village green on our way to Divinitea Cottage, a tearoom where my informal bridal luncheon was being held in fifteen short minutes, I didn’t want to think about death. Any death … but especially Harper’s. Not too long ago, she’d had a close call. It had been enough of a scare. I couldn’t even bear the thought of life without her in it.

  But as hard as I tried to dissuade morbid thoughts from encroaching on what was supposed to be a cheerful day, I couldn’t keep from remembering all the murder cases I’d been involved in during the two years I’ve lived in this quaint village. The cases had scarred me. Some literally. All figuratively.

  While the Enchanted Village, a touristy witch-themed neighborhood of Salem, Massachusetts, appeared at first glance to be postcard-perfect, it wasn’t always. Every so often, evil visited these charming cobblestone streets. It walked past the boutiques with their colorful awnings, drank a glass of wine at the Cauldron, and watched kittens play in the window of the Furry Toadstool pet shop.

  And sometimes … the evil came to stay, residing alongside the magic.

  Both of which were well concealed.

  Especially the magic. What most people didn’t know was that witches inhabited this village, working and living alongside mortals who simply thought the Enchanted Village was a popular tourist area. Here, witches like my sister and me—Wishcrafters, who could grant wishes—could practice the Craft out in the open without fear of being caught.

  Well, I could.

  Harper was currently off witchcraft.

  Abstaining. Again.

  I was holding out hope that she’d change her mind about using her Craft abilities. Soon. Otherwise …

  Drawing in a deep breath, I forced those particular worries from my thoughts and tried to think only of the afternoon ahead at Divinitea. Time that would be spent celebrating my upcoming wedding to Nick Sawyer, the village police chief. Waiting for Harper and me at the cottage were a few of my nearest and dearest, and I was looking forward to enjoying an afternoon of love and friendship.

  With a smirk, Harper said, “I think your sense of humor is lost somewhere under that hat, Darcy.”

  “This hat proves I have a sense of humor.” Before we left my house, Harper had presented me with an ivory fascinator decorated with tall, glittery feathers, rhinestones, and a birdcage veil that was nothing short of overwhelming.

  Glancing up at the hat perched on my head, she laughed. “It’s a work of art.”

  “Oh, it’s something, all right.” I smiled at someone who openly stared at the ostentatious creation.

  I hadn’t been receiving too many curious glances, only because it was the third day of the Firelight Psychic Festival. Here on the green, I was literally surrounded by curiosities in the form of mediums, animal communicators, tarot readers, chakra specialists, crystal healers, palm readers, astrologers, and many more mystics. Despite most of the vendors looking like your average everyday joes and janes, there were some who took their appearance to the next level with turbans, caftans, top hats, and long coats. With the fascinator, I blended in.

  Amid all the booths, tents, and demonstrations, the village buzzed with upbeat energy. Music thumped, the scent of fried dough permeated the humid air, and the thrum of voices chatting and laughing surrounded us.

  “And there is plenty to do still—for the reception, especially.” Harper wore an emerald-green maxi dress that flowed behind her as she strode along, her tiny, rounded belly leading the way. She was six months pregnant. She held up a hand and started ticking off a list. “Final fittings, final check-in with vendors, pick up your rings, follow up with the people who haven’t RSVP’d, finalize the music playlist …” She lifted her other hand. “Package wedding favors …”

  In two weeks, Nick’s and my wedding would be held in our backyard, attended by only our closest friends and family. The reception, however, was going to be a big party right here on the village green that practically the whole village was invited to. I wasn’t the least bit stressed about any of it.

  I was concerned with other big life events that I didn’t even want to think about.

  I suddenly felt queasy as we walked along. Worry and anxiety weren’t good companions to the thick fried-oil smell hanging in the air.

  But there was time enough to stress about everything else later. Today was supposed to be a happy, joyous day.

  Thankfully, Harper had everything with the wedding under tight control. I could only imagine how she was going to behave when she was an actual bride, but I’d find out soon enough. She and village lawyer Marcus Debrowski planned to marry at Christmastime. He was currently out of town, helping his mother settle into her new house in Florida, and I thought some of Harper’s hyperfocus on my wedding had to do with his absence. Harper didn’t think he was coming back until Tuesday—the day of her twenty-fifth birthday—but that was because she didn’t know we were having a little surprise party for her Monday night, where a bonus surprise would be Marcus’s early return.

  I reached over and forced her closest hand down. “Everything with the wedding will be fine,” I said. “Take a deep breath before you deprive your poor baby of oxygen.”

  After a rocky start to the pregnancy, Harper and her baby were now as healthy as could be, thanks to a little magic and some modern-day medicine. I glanced at the amulet she wore on a long chain that bumped against the top of her belly as she walked—a protection amulet she hadn’t taken off since the day she put it on back in February. It had done its job remarkably well, and I thanked my lucky stars for the magic in my—and her—life.

  Tufts of her light-brown pixie-cut hair fluttered in the breeze as she said, “I know, it’s just that I want everything to be perfect for you and Nick. You both deserve it.”

  I smiled at her. “It will be.”

  “But—”

  “Hush. No more worrying today, okay? Today’s about celebrating. There are people waiting for us at Divinitea, so let’s get a move on.”

  I hadn’t wanted a big, fussy bridal shower, much to Harper and my best friend Starla Sullivan’s collective dismay. To appease them, I’d suggested a luncheon instead, and they’d jumped at the idea, even though I capped the guest list at seven. Including me.
r />   Holding the festivities at Divinitea Cottage had been a favor to Dr. Dennis Goodwin. He wanted to ensure the tearoom, which was owned by his wife Amanda and her cousin Leyna Noble, was booked solid for its grand opening. I’d gladly agreed to Dennis’s plan, since Harper and I literally owed him our lives—he was a Curecrafter, a healing witch—but he needn’t have worried. Divinitea, which also specialized in tea-leaf reading, had been packed solid since its doors opened a few days ago.

  “Look, it’s Feifel Highbridge’s tent,” Harper said with an impish look in her eyes as she stepped off the path onto a thick carpet of freshly mowed grass. She patted her belly. “Should we see if he can guess what I’m having?”

  Feifel “Feif” Highbridge was one of the top-billed psychics at the festival, and over the past couple of days I’d overheard people raving about his readings. But a psychic proclamation wasn’t necessary when it came to the gender of Harper’s baby. “We already know what you’re having.”

  At Harper’s last obstetrical appointment, a detailed ultrasound had revealed she was carrying a little boy.

  A perfect little boy.

  “I know, but let’s ask Feif anyway.” Harper grabbed hold of my arm to steer me toward a large ornate tent that looked like it belonged on the set of Arabian Nights. Domed, the tent was draped in yards of gossamer and satiny fabrics colored in deep reds, purples, and golds. “Let’s see how good of a psychic he really is.”

  I dug in my heels. “Let’s not. Don’t you think it’s rather rude of us to attempt to debunk guests of the village?”

  “It’s not personal, Darcy. It’s research.”

  The arched entrance to Feif’s tent had an OUT TO LUNCH sign clipped to it. “What a shame,” I said with a shrug. “He’s not here.”

  “Yes, I can feel your disappointment. But aren’t you curious, Darcy? Can people really see the future, read people’s minds, talk to the dead …?” Harper gestured far and wide, sweeping all the tents and booths into her question.

  “I’m not curious at all.” I lifted the veil out of my eyes as a breeze kicked up.

  “How can you not be curious?”

  “It’s simple,” I said. “I believe in things I can’t see. In things I don’t quite understand. I believe in magic.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “That seems a little naïve to me.”

  “Does it? Do I need to remind you that we’re”—I dropped my voice—“witches?”

  Despite that particular—and undeniable—fact, Harper still didn’t fully believe in the wonder of magic. The skeptic deep inside her longed for scientific proof that magic was real, and I had the uneasy feeling she’d never completely accept her abilities and her heritage until she found what she was looking for: one big aha! moment that would explain everything.

  It simply was never going to happen.

  Not with the Craft.

  And not with these psychics, no matter how much she researched them.

  Harper looked around and said, “What if some of these people are phonies?”

  Whether Feif—or any of these mystics—had true psychic ability, I didn’t know. As long as they weren’t hurting anyone, I was of the thought to live and let live.

  Do no harm. The tenet was the cornerstone of the Craft. Witches couldn’t use the Craft to emotionally or physically hurt one another. Not without dire consequences, at least. It was my greatest wish that everyone would adopt the rule, whether they were a witch or not. But even though I could grant wishes for others, Wishcraft laws stated I could not grant my own. Otherwise the world would have been a much more peaceful place.

  “What if they are phonies?” I asked. “Are you going to throw them out of the village?”

  The corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile as she looked around. “I might.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at the thought of her strong-arming anyone. At just five feet tall, she was more elf than henchwoman. Yet … “I don’t doubt it, Harper. I don’t doubt it. Now, come on. We’re going to be late.”

  “All right, but don’t you think there’s enough time for a quick stop at one of these food stands?” She eyed the offerings—everything from fried Oreos to lobster rolls. “I do.”

  “You know Divinitea has food waiting for us—lots of it.”

  “But not corn dogs.”

  I could hardly argue. The menu offerings for today’s tea included items such as salmon-and-herb sandwiches, shortbread, scones, custards, and quiches. No corn dogs.

  “Do you want one?” she asked.

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Your loss.” Grinning, she veered off to stand in a long line.

  Since I certainly wasn’t going to deny a pregnant woman her craving, I found a shady spot next to a tree to wait.

  From here, I could just see the top of Divinitea’s quaint eyebrow dormers and thatched rooftop at the other end of the village square. That the tea cottage’s opening had overlapped with the arrival of the Firelight festival wasn’t a coincidence but had been planned carefully, as the festivalgoers were ideal long-term customers.

  That Divinitea had managed to open this week at all was a bit of a miracle. There had been issues with obtaining the property, hoops to jump through regarding zoning, and construction troubles. The renovation issues hadn’t had anything to do with the ability of the crew and everything to do with vandalism—thefts, graffiti, and property damage. It had stopped only when Amanda and Leyna commissioned a protection spell. Even though the culprit had never been caught, most every witch in the village had a suspicion of who had been behind the acts: Dorothy Hansel Dewitt.

  Dorothy, newly separated from her husband, Sylar—and therefore newly jobless as well, since she’d worked for him—had fought bitterly to buy the property herself to open a gift shop to feature her handmade woodcrafts. As a Broomcrafter, a witch who could work magic with wood, she had an undeniable talent for creating masterpieces, ranging from wooden bowls to stunning besoms. She hadn’t been pleased when the previous owner of the cottage rejected her offer to buy the place in favor of Amanda and Leyna’s bid. Much to everyone’s relief, Dorothy had not tried to set the place on fire. It was no secret that she was a firebug—especially when she was angry.

  Dorothy was not a witch used to being denied something she wanted.

  Something I knew quite well.

  “Psst! You! Hey you! You there.”

  I glanced around and found an older woman eyeing me from a booth across the path. A large banner behind her had PSYCHIC written on it in silver curlicue letters.

  I put my hands to my chest. “Me?”

  The woman nodded and beckoned me closer.

  “No thanks.” I stayed put. “I’m not interested in a reading.”

  Not that I wasn’t curious, but there were too many secrets tucked inside my head that I wanted to stay exactly where they were, thank you very much.

  “Come here, child,” she said in a stern voice.

  Ordering someone around perhaps wasn’t the best way to snag a customer, I reflected.

  Yet … I oddly found myself crossing over to her, so maybe she knew precisely what she was doing. She still wasn’t going to get a reading out of me, no matter what tone she used. I could, however, make idle conversation until Harper was ready to go. I didn’t want to be rude.

  The booth smelled of roses and was filled with displays of stones, glass balls, candles, and delicate crystal figurines of fairies, cats, and witches. Eyebrows raised, I approached with caution.

  The woman thrust out a thin, arthritis-gnarled hand and said, “I’m Mathildie. You can call me Hildie. That’s with an ie. Nice hat.” There was a slight warble in her voice that came with age and a mischievous gleam in her eyes that I instantly suspected had been present her whole life long.

  Hildie with an ie was a tiny woman with clear blue eyes flecked with gold that were sharp yet playful. Her ivory skin was deeply lined—almost cross-hatched in appearance. Black and white strands wove through glitte
ry silver hair that was pulled back and clipped at the nape of her neck. She wore loose jeans rolled at the hem, a red tee, and black Converse sneakers. She had to be eighty if a day. I guessed closer to ninety.

  I held out my hand to shake. “Thanks.” I didn’t bother explaining the hat. “I’m Darcy.”

  “I know who you are.” Her warm, baby-soft palm met mine, and she quickly added her other hand to the mix, trapping my hand between both of hers.

  “You do?” I tugged my hand, but she held firm.

  “Darcy Ann Merriweather. Daughter of Deryn Devany Merriweather and Patrick Merriweather.”

  Shock rippled through me that this stranger knew of my family. After all, my mother had died when I was seven. My father had passed a couple of years ago. It wasn’t as though she’d just met them as they wandered the village green. “How did you—”

  “Shhh. I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Hey, stop that!” Tingles spread from my hand up to my elbow. I tried to yank myself free, but for a petite woman, she was strong. “Let me go!”

  Abruptly, she released my hand, and I stumbled backward.

  “Just what I thought,” she said with a firm nod and a sly smile.

  “What do you think?” I watched those clear eyes carefully.

  They gave away nothing.

  Had she divined that I was a witch? Or picked up on any of the other secrets I was keeping? About the Renewal. About the … No. I wasn’t going there. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t even think about that particular secret for a few more days.

  I wasn’t sure what this woman knew. All I knew was that I didn’t have any memory cleanse with me because I’d left my purse at home. I threw a glance at my house, on the other side of the green, and then at Harper, who was still in line at the corn dog stand. I was going to have to run home to get—

  “Stay right there,” Hildie said as she turned to rummage through a large apothecary chest that had to be a nightmare to haul from festival to festival.

  I froze, wondering if Hildie could read minds as well.