Enchanted

by Daisy Prescott

  “Almost certainly not. Never wise to completely rule out any possibility.” He arches one of his dark eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Has anyone died here?” I glance around shelf-lined walls and rich wood paneling.

  “In the library with a candlestick. Or was it a fire poker?” He grins. “This isn’t a game of Clue.”

  “Does anyone still play that game?” Everett asks from the couch.

  Andrew glances over his shoulder with a smile. “Who can say. I’m sure there’s a copy around here somewhere if you’re interested in murder.”

  My back thoroughly heated, I step closer to Andrew. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He takes both of my hands in his. “Of course people have died here. Loads of them. Well documented natural deaths. For the most part. A few questionable accounts of poisonings and an unfortunate fall out of a second story window.”

  Andrew and Sam return with beers and cups of drinks. I sniff the cup Sam hands me. “What is it?”

  “Never you mind. Drink and be merry.” She taps her red cup against mine.

  I sip it and the taste of apples and cinnamon hit my tongue followed by a lingering heat. “Mmm, delicious.”

  Drinking his beer, Andrew watches me. “Want a tour of the house?”

  Tate speaks up from across the room, “The couple who leaves the group is always the first to die. Classic horror movie trope.”

  “I think we’re safe.” Andrew stands and leads us out of the room.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask as the tapping of our shoes echoes across the marble floor in the foyer.

  “I believe anything is possible.” He tugs me closer to the stairs. “Like hidden rooms and secret passages.”

  “Really?” I don’t fight my excitement. “I’ve always wanted to remove a book and have a wall open to reveal another room.”

  “Tonight, your wish is going to come true.” I love when he smiles. It’s like the sun breaking through dark storm clouds—fleeting and stunning.

  We’re a couple of steps from the top of the grand staircase when deep, booming chimes fill the grand space.

  “Is that the doorbell?” I pause on the stair below Andrew’s.

  He turns to face me, his brow furrowed. “Strange. We all knock or just come in.”

  “Did you invite more people?” Tate appears at the base of the stairs. “Print up flyers? Send out engraved invitations?”

  “Not me.” Andrew steps beside me. “You know I don’t really like people.”

  This earns him a chuckle from Tate. “Must’ve been me. The more the merrier.”

  Andrew groans. “Tate can never keep these things small.”

  “We can sneak away before the new arrivals see us.” I squeeze his hand.

  “Is my son here?” a deep voice asks from the threshold. “He’s not returning my calls.”

  We both stiffen. Andrew’s hand grips the banister, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

  “Father.” The word is poison in his mouth.

  Again, he moves in front of me, blocking my body with his. I peer around his shoulder at the enormous open door, mostly blocked by Tate’s tall form.

  The deep voice continues, “Ah, he is here. Figured he’d be neglecting finals to party with his buddies and pals.”

  The last two words are spat out like sunflower shells.

  “Finals are over,” Andrew says calmly. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

  My own pulse rivals a hummingbird’s beating wings.

  “We’re about to play a game of Clue, Mr. Bradford. I apologize, but we don’t have enough pieces for late arrivals. Perhaps you can join us another time,” Tate speaks slowly and condescendingly. Unbelievably, he begins to shut the door on Andrew’s father.

  “Nice try, Winthrop.” A shiny, polished black shoe wedges itself between the door and the jamb. “I’d like to have a word with my son. Since he refuses the aids of modern technology, I’ve taken the courtesy of driving all the way up here from Boston. He’s not rude enough to turn me away after all my efforts.”

  I can’t even begin to unravel all the layers of insults and entitlement in his statement. I’d ask if he was for real, but after everything Sarah and Andrew have told me, this is the mild version of Stanford.

  A charcoal colored suit covered arm braces against the door, opening it farther. A slim line of white shirt cuff is exposed above an enormous statement watch. Everything about the man screams wealth and power, and I haven’t even seen his face yet.

  Tate glances over his shoulder at us, a silent question behind his warm eyes. I have no doubt he could force the door closed or escort Mr. Bradford from the premise without much effort.

  Almost unnoticeable, Andrew shakes his head no. I feel his hair brush against my cheek.

  “If I asked you to go upstairs, find a room, and lock the door behind yourself, would you go?” Andrew asks without turning his head.

  “No. Your father doesn’t scare me,” I whisper.

  In a flash, his lips press against my cheek before cool air caresses the same spot.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  I can’t tell if he sounds resigned or proud. Both maybe.

  Tate steps aside, making a grand gesture of welcome like a model showing off merchandise on a game show. “You may enter.”

  The words are formal and strange coming from Tate. I giggle, thinking he’s joking, but there’s no humor on his face.

  “Thank you.” The most boring looking man I’ve ever seen enters the foyer. The suit, the watch, and the shiny black shoes are the only interesting things about him.

  I’m not going to lie, I kind of expected a cape. And maybe a dastardly thin mustache.

  Stanford is a middle-aged man with light brown hair, unremarkable brown eyes, and an average build. From my perch on the steps, I can tell he’s shorter than his son.

  The only memorable thing about him is the smug superiority of his expression as he stares directly at me.

  “You must be the Bradbury girl who has my son so enchanted.”

  It’s not a compliment. He practically spits out the reference to magic. Nothing but malice and ice fill his voice.

  Sarah must have been on some serious drugs or something to ever find him dateable or attractive enough to get naked with. Perhaps she was under a spell herself.

  “Andrew has clearly forgotten his manners tonight in failing to introduce us. I’m Stanford Bradford, Miss Bradbury.”

  The way he says my name sounds like a threat. The prickling down my spine returns.

  Andrew ignores his father’s jabs. “What do you want? I’ve made it explicitly clear I don’t want to speak to you.”

  “I assumed you were busy with classes and your studies.” His cold dark eyes flash to me. “Shall we step outside for privacy?”

  Andrew doesn’t move. “Whatever you want to say can be said in front of Tate and Madison.”

  His father clucks his tongue. “That’s not acceptable. I’m well aware of your friend’s meddling abilities.” He glances toward the library. “Are you sure you want all your fellow partygoers to listen in on our conversation?”

  I’m not sure who knows what in this group. Sam’s still mostly in the dark about real magic, other than what she’s learned about herbs and crystals.

  “No point in trying to get syrup from an oak tree.” Tate shrugs his shoulders. “Why don’t the four of us step into the dining room. More privacy and not as cold.”

  I need a Tate-to-English translation dictionary tonight. He’s speaking in code. I know he can absorb and diffuse emotions like a super powered empath, but there’s something else afoot this evening.

  Andrew squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to join us.”

  “Yes, I do.” I walk down the stairs.

  When we reach the bottom of the staircase, Mr. Bradford extends his hand and moves toward us. Andrew bristles. I step beside him, my back straight and my chin lifted. I’m not go
ing to let another Boston blowhard try to intimidate me.

  “You’re as lovely as I’ve heard.” He lifts my hand and his warm, stale breath caresses my skin like humid air on a crowded train.

  Retracting my hand, I tuck it behind my back where I can wipe it on the seat of my jeans, which I’ll be washing soon.

  * * *

  Inside the elegant dining room, which is centered by a long table surrounded by twelve chairs, no one sits.

  Tate leans against the closed pocket doors while Andrew and I stand across the table near the large buffet. Sanford rests his elbows on the top rail of the chair at the head of the table.

  The uncomfortable tension has me scanning the wallpapered walls for a telltale line of a secret door, in case we need to escape. Sadly, I don’t see one.

  Remembering my drink, I take a long sip, letting the soft burn of alcohol calm my anxiety.

  Stanford finally breaks the silence. “There is a rumor of a coven gathering a few weeks ago.”

  “Interesting. Is this the word on the street in Boston?” Andrew’s sarcasm is unmistakable.

  “People talk.” Stanford brushes imaginary lint from his sleeve. I can’t imagine dust would dare cling to his clothes.

  “Not the people I know,” Andrew says. “It surprises me you have any curiosity about what happens in Salem. You’ve made it clear you hate this place.”

  “My concern lies with my only son’s welfare. If he insists on living here, it’s my parental duty to protect him.”

  “Bullshit.” Andrew hacks out the word.

  “Language.”

  “Protection?” Releasing my hand, Andrew grips the back of a chair. “Is that what you call using dark magic on your son?”

  Stanford pales, but recovers almost instantly, and releases a dry laugh. “Is that what your mother told you?” Flat brown eyes focus on me. “Or is this your doing, Miss Bradbury?”

  Every time he uses my last name, I want to scream. It feels menacing, an unspoken threat lying behind the syllables.

  “I figured it out,” Andrew speaks up, breaking through the staring contest his father is having with me. “All those years of you telling me to be boring. Hide who I am, or else? You poisoned me with your own fear and shame of my mother’s power. Turning me against my true self. Now it’s over.”

  Stanford shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re opening yourself up to. The world is bigger than little Salem. Darker, more dangerous.”

  “Who helped you? Give me the name of the witch.” Andrew doesn’t sugarcoat his request with a please.

  “I can’t.” His father’s voice leaves no room for negotiation.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Andrew asks.

  His father tightens his jaw. “Doesn’t matter, you won’t get the answer from me

  “Did you use Curses.com? Bad idea, Mr. Bradford.” Tate joins the conversation.

  “Are you ever serious?” Stanford asks. “Doesn’t it get tedious going through life playing the fool?”

  Tate stares at the ceiling for a few beats. “Better than being a bitter ass.”

  I giggle and catch the twist of Andrew’s mouth as he fights a smile. I can’t tell if Tate’s deliberately lightening the mood or not.

  Andrew crosses his arms. His expression sobers. “If you’re not willing to give us the name of the witch using dark magic, then our conversation here is done.”

  For facing the man who was willing to sabotage his son’s happiness out of bitterness and fear, Andrew’s amazingly stoic.

  “Well, that concludes another awkward family meeting in this dining room. The streak is unbroken.” Tate slides open both pocket doors. Laughter carries across the foyer from the library.

  Stanford’s shiny shoes click on the floor as he crosses it to stand in front of us.

  “Don’t do anything rash.” Stanford reaches for his son’s hand, but Andrew evades his touch. Facing me, he continues, “I don’t approve of you dating my son. I’d ask you to rethink your romantic notions about witches and magic. Before it’s too late.”

  The sensation of hanging upside down swarms over me, followed by the sway of the room spinning. I feel myself tilt and lean into Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Don’t you dare threaten her,” Andrew shouts. “Get out. Now.”

  I’ve never heard his voice sound so cold and commanding. The house seems to still in response. All conversation and laughter abruptly ends.

  “And on that note, I’ll see you out.” Cupping Stanford’s elbow, Tate guides him to the door. “You’re no longer welcome here, Mr. Bradford.”

  As soon as the door closes and the lock clicks into place, the sense of the ground swaying ends and my equilibrium returns.

  “Are you okay?” Andrew wraps his arms around me and leads me over to the steps. “Sit. Tate, get her some water. Please.”

  “I’m fine. I think. I got a little woozy. Probably drank Sam’s concoction too quickly.”

  Tate returns with a glass and hands it to me.

  Sam walks into the foyer. “Where have the three of you been?We found a set of Cards Against Humanity. You want to play?”

  “Didn’t you hear us?” I ask.

  Andrew stares at me and gives a shake of his head.

  My mouth drops open as I meet his gaze.

  How is that possible? The doorbell and the shouting?

  He glances in Tate’s direction. “Later.”

  “Andrew and I gave Madison a tour of the house,” Tate says, like we’ve been having the best time ever.

  I join in the lie. “I wanted to see the secret passages and hidden doors.”

  Sam pouts. “You’re not the only one.”

  “Another time, I promise,” Tate says with a flirty smile.

  “I’m not feeling well.” An annoying throbbing has taken up residence above my right eye. “I think I should go home and go to bed.”

  Andrew’s brows lower as he frowns. “What did you put in the drinks, Sam?”

  “I found some brandy in the liquor cabinet. Mixed it with hard cider and a splash of Fireball. Wasn’t it yummy?”

  When Andrew and Tate hold a silent conversation with their eyes, I start to worry.

  “Maybe the brandy had turned,” Tate suggests

  “I drank it and feel fine. In fact, I was about to make another round,” Sam says. “Anyone else want one? Not you, Madison. You don’t look so good.”

  “I’ll be fine after some sleep.”

  Andrew doesn’t appear to agree. “I’ll take you home.”

  “You can stay, Sam. I hate to ruin your fun.” I meet her eyes and flick my gaze to Tate.

  “No, I’ll come with you. If you end up puking, I should be there to hold your hair. Unless Andrew wants to do it?”

  “Um.” He pauses.

  “Please no.” I wave my hands in front of myself. “Sleep. Some Aleve and water. I’ll be ready to drive to the farmhouse tomorrow. Promise.”

  Three

  Unfortunately, I wake up with the same headache. Not quite a migraine, but it’s there, and nothing seems to help make the stabbing go away.

  Sam offers to smudge me.

  I decline.

  As I pack up my stuff for winter break, I mull over last night. How is it possible no one in the library heard the arrival and confrontation of Andrew’s father? I know old homes have thicker walls and better construction, but that doesn’t explain how their conversation and laughter stalled when Andrew got mad.

  All the jokes about ghosts and haunted houses and secret passages aside, there’s something strange about the Winthrop house.

  I shove my clothes and boots for the weekend into an oversized LL Bean canvas tote. The rest of my clothes are in my big suitcase and laundry bag. I’ll have an epic amount of laundry to do when I get home. Other than my laptop, I’m not bringing home as much as Sam, who still sits on top of her oversized suitcase while she forces more clothes into a duffel.

  Thank goodness, because after packing all tha
t, I need to lie down.

  Andrew’s taking his final this morning and we have a couple of hours before we leave. I can lie here and softly moan in pain on my bed while Sam finishes her own packing.

  She’s turned on the white twinkle lights we hung up to bring some holiday cheer to our room. I stare up at them, letting my eyes go unfocused as they widen and blur into larger globes of light.

  “What do you know about Tate’s family? Other than the ancient history part and the giant house part?” I ask, shifting my eyes to her side of the room and the vintage Which Witch book cover poster she swears could be us.

  “You mean parents, siblings, that sort of thing?”

  “No, like the family as a whole. Who are the Winthrops?”

  “They’re über wealthy, but there’s not a lot about any of the current ones online.” Her cheeks pinken. “Yes, I’ve looked. Beyond the basic social media accounts and a few photos from society events, they keep a low profile. Most of what comes up is about his great-great-great-great—I think that’s the right amount of greats—grandfather, the seventeenth-century governor.”

  “Why do you think that is?” I ask.

  “Old money. They live in a different world than the rest of us. Different rules and standards.”

  “Like the Kennedys?”

  Sam scoffs. “Compared to the Winthrops, the Kennedys are new money.”

  “So no skeletons in the tabloids? Past scandals? Ugly divorces or bastard sons showing up to cause trouble?”

  “None of that.” Sam shakes her head, sending her blond braids swaying. “Too WASPy for such things.”

  “There must be some dirt.” I frown in frustration.

  Andrew’s words about haunted houses return.

  “Maybe they’re really good at magically hiding what they don’t want others to find out.” I let my doubt about magic turn into sarcasm.

  “Could be.” Sam struggles to close the zipper on her bag. “How are we going to get all of our stuff in the car?”

  * * *

  Because of all of our bags, we end up driving two cars to my grandmother’s farm. Sam rides with Tate, and I’m riding shotgun with Andrew. My headache still lingers and I’m fighting against the urge to nap. We have the address programed in Andrew’s GPS and my road trip playlist queued on the stereo. My co-pilot duties are handled.