Once a Witch

by Carolyn Maccullough

  I raise my eyebrows and nod. "Sounds nice."

  "Nice is not quite the word," he says, and his voice has taken on a professorial tone.

  "No better than interesting, I guess?"

  He smiles briefly, then continues. "Apparently it was given to us by some king or other for some service. Who knows with these old stories. At any rate, it got lost more than a hundred years ago in a card game between some members of my family and ... another family. This happened in New York City in 1887. And as you can imagine, the trail goes cold after that."

  "So that's where I come in," I add, because he seems to have stopped talking.

  "Yes." He's staring at me now. "That's where you come in." He breaks the gaze first, reaches down, and sets a small black case on his desk. The sound of the locks snapping back seems to startle him momentarily, and I notice that his fingers are trembling a little.

  I blow on my tea to cool it, watching the stray tea leaves coalesce into a vague question mark shape before dissipating. Wouldn't it be nice if that were my Talent—to read the future so I could see exactly how to proceed out of this situation?

  "Here we are," Alistair says and passes a piece of paper across the desk to me. I lean forward to take it and study it in silence. It's a reproduction of a painting—an old one by the texture of the paper, worn and frayed in the corners. It looks as if it was framed at one point; I can see faint yellow outlines around the borders of the page. A clock, simple and straightforward, is set in the middle of the page. The face is inscribed with jewel-colored roman numerals and the hands are gold. Some fancy scrollwork design runs along the edges of the clock; I run one finger along the bottom of the page. Something is familiar about the clock, but I can't say exactly what.

  Apparently, my face must have given this away, because I can feel Alistair lean closer to me. "What is it?" he asks, and his accent is suddenly more resonant and intense. I look up and meet his eyes, and for one inexplicable second I feel as though I am looking at someone else. Or rather, as if another person is looking out from behind his eyes, watching me eagerly. Hungrily.

  I jerk sideways uncontrollably, my hand knocking my tea and spilling the cup onto the floor. It lands with a sharp cracking sound. "I'm so sorry," I cry, down on my knees in an instant, turning the mug upright. The handle has snapped off cleanly. "I broke the cup, but I think the tea missed the rug at least. I'm—"

  "It's no trouble, really. Let me see, napkins somewhere—ah, yes, here." And he joins me on the floor with a wad of napkins in each hand. I take some and we begin dabbing at the liquid seeping into the cracks between the floorboards.

  "Oh!" says a female voice from somewhere above our heads, and we both look up instantly. Suddenly, my face is blazing, and it doesn't help that Alistair is already stammering.

  "Oh, y-yes, Ms. Barnes, wh-what can I do to you? For you?"

  I choke and busy myself with recovering the mug handle, which has flown under the desk.

  "Your copies," Ms. Barnes says, and her voice sounds iced over.

  "Yes, right, thank you. Excellent. Excellent," Alistair says a few more times, and thankfully when I surface from under the desk, Ms. Barnes is gone with a swish of her starched skirt.

  "Well," I say in my most normal voice, even though I'm sure my face is still red, "this has been eventful."

  "Hasn't it, though?" Alistair says and straightens up, holding out his hand for me. Awkwardly I take it, then nearly pull back. His palm feels hot and dry, as if there's a fire burning right underneath the skin. To cover my confusion, I clamber to my feet and brush my jeans free of imaginary lint.

  "Can I have this?" I point to the painting.

  "Of course, of course. That's yours."

  I nod. "I'll see what I can do. I'll be in touch," I say, because that sounds professional enough, even though I'm not exactly sure why I'm worrying about being professional at this point, since I've been lying from the moment I met this man.

  He nods back at me, his eyes suddenly two hard and glittering bits of polished stone. "I look forward to it."

  I nod some more. "Okay," I say finally. I need to stop nodding now. We smile briefly at each other and I turn to go. At the door I stop and turn back. "Just out of curiosity..."

  "Yes?" Alistair says, and I watch how his body goes still. It's something about the way he draws his elbows into his sides, like a hawk about to plunge.

  "I know you mentioned that you heard of us through an antique shop. Which one was it, again?"

  "Oh." He smiles. "Pinkerton, I believe, was his name."

  I nod thoughtfully. Angus Pinkerton flashes into my head. He looks sort of like a rabbit with his red-rimmed eyes and pinched, twitchy nose. I remember a visit to his shop years ago with my grandmother. He kept one eye on me the whole time he was talking to her and seemed on the point of bursting into tears when I ran one finger over a dusty blue glass globe. Still, my grandmother has "found" a number of things for him over the years, and in return he's sent her plenty of business.

  "He mentioned that if I was looking for something that couldn't be found, well, I could try your grandmother's shop. It seems your family has quite a reputation."

  I smile. "You have no idea."

  FIVE

  "STOP MOVING SO MUCH."

  "I'm not moving at all!"

  "Your face is moving."

  "It's called breathing, Agatha!" I glare at my roommate. She frowns back at me, then looks down at her sketchbook and makes three decisive strokes across the page.

  I have a feeling that she just crossed out my face.

  "This isn't working. Your face just isn't working."

  "Thanks," I mutter. "Can I move now?"

  "Yes." She sighs, waving her pencil like a conductor. "Take a break." Then she jabs the pencil at me, blue eyes intent under dark eyebrows. "But we are trying this again in ten minutes. This is due tomorrow and I'm not searching for another subject now." She opens the mini fridge. "Did you drink my Coke?"

  "Um ... no."

  "Pig," Agatha says briefly before scooping up a stack of shiny quarters on my desk that I was saving for laundry. "Want one?" she so generously asks, and I nod, watching her swing out of the room.

  I hop up from the beanbag that we have wedged into the corner under the window in our version of a window seat. It's my favorite place to read, listening to the noise of traffic eleven floors below. I wander over to my desk, stretch, and look down at the painting of the clock that I have half hidden under some textbooks. I'm still puzzling over where I've seen it before.

  "OH MY GOD!!!" a female voice exclaims angrily from somewhere down the hallway. New Hyde Prep is an all girls' school, and it seems as if someone is shrieking about something every other minute. I wait, listening for more, but when nothing happens, I go back to studying the painting.

  Agatha had pronounced it "pretty" earlier but was completely unfamiliar with it. Therefore, I deducted with my superior sleuthing skills that it's not something I saw in my Intro to Art History class last year, since she took the class with me. I spent two hours at the library yesterday combing through a selection of art history textbooks, trying without any success to find its match. Then I came home and stared at the wall for a while, trying my hardest to remember where I've seen this clock before. Something is circling in the back of my mind, but it's too—

  A brisk knock on the door snatches me out of my reverie. I flip some folders over the picture, then turn. The door, which was half ajar to begin with, now swings all the way open. I look up to find Gabriel standing just outside the room. Both of his hands are anchored over his eyes. "Is it safe?" he asks.

  Gabriel. Here. In my dorm room!

  I have only enough time to really regret that I'm wearing my least favorite jeans, grubby flip-flops, and a plain blue T-shirt that shows absolutely nothing. "Is what safe?" I ask.

  Gabriel widens his fingers, peers through the gaps. "Did you hear that screaming down the hall?"

  "Yeah," I say, drawing out the word. "
Are you telling me you had something to do with that?"

  "Apparently, I knocked on the wrong door and walked in on a girl who wasn't wearing ... much. She was jumping up and down on the bed, singing 'Respect.' More like howling it, really."

  "Mary," I say instantly. "She's been blasting that all week since she broke up with her boyfriend."

  "Yeah, I didn't stop for introductions. She was looking for something to throw at me."

  I can't help myself—I laugh. "How'd you get past Hags, anyway?"

  "Hags?"

  "Downstairs at the front desk? Large woman." I spread my hands wide. "With a wart on her chin? All visitors are supposed to be announced. Especially gentleman callers," I finish airily.

  "Maybe I was such a gentleman that she let me up here on good faith."

  I snort. "To what do I owe this honor? Is this part of the family outreach program?"

  Gabriel smiles pleasantly at me. "Actually, brat, I came by to tell you about this show I'm playing down at Silver Tree next weekend. You should come." He pulls a fluorescent yellow flyer from his backpack.

  "Cool, thanks." I hesitate, then turn back to my desk. Oh, screw it. I'm lost anyway. "I'm glad you came by ... I was wondering if you could ... help me with something."

  "What is it?"

  "It's not something I can't handle for myself, you know. Just because I'm asking you doesn't mean anything," I say in a rush. "Okay? I just need to get that straight."

  Gabriel studies me. "This is really starting to sound like fun," he says, his voice completely bland.

  "Sorry," I mutter. Before I can change my mind, I snatch the painting out from under the folders and shove it at him. "Does this look familiar?"

  He takes it, gives it a brief glance, then looks back at me, raising both eyebrows at once. "Somehow, this was not what I was hoping you'd ask me."

  "What were you hoping ... oh, God, never mind. Give me that back." I make a swipe for the paper.

  But he holds it out of my reach, fluttering it just above my head. I switch tactics and try to barrel into him instead, but with his free arm he fends me off easily enough.

  "Why did I ever forget how annoying you are?" I say through clenched teeth.

  "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you forgot to write me and therefore remind yourself," he says cheerfully, taking another look at the painting. "What do you want to know about this?"

  "Can you find it?"

  "As in find find it?"

  "Yes."

  He lowers his arm abruptly. "First tell me why."

  "Er ... homework assignment?"

  Gabriel gives me a pained look. "That's weak, Tam. Try again."

  Damn. "I ... can't."

  "Okay, tell me why you can't."

  "I can't tell you why I can't." I sigh. I don't know what I was expecting. If the old Gabriel would never have let me get away with being so close lipped, I shouldn't have hoped that the new Gabriel would either.

  "Why don't you trust me, Tam?"

  "I do."

  "You don't. You've been really weird ever since I came back. Fine, you didn't want to keep in touch. But we're not kids anymore, and what's with—"

  "You've seen the way everyone looks at me. Everyone in my family. You know what happened to me."

  "I know what didn't happen to you, yeah, but—"

  "I'm not like you."

  "True. I'm a guy, you're a girl—"

  "You're obtuse," I inform him and whisk the paper out of his hand. "And never mind about this—"

  But he snatches it right back. "Oh, I can assure you that now I am finding it for you. Then you're going to have to tell me what's going on." He grins at me.

  "Don't hold your breath," I say, but I can't help smiling back. "You know, the funny thing is, I swear I've seen it before."

  "I can't say that, but there is ... something about it." He tucks the paper away in his backpack, then props his foot up on Agatha's desk chair to tie his shoelace, which has loosened. The muscles in his arms stretch, jump briefly, and I have the craziest desire to run one finger down the length of his back. I open my mouth to say something undoubtedly stupid and am saved by Agatha, who walks back into the room carrying two cans of soda. She stops, looks from Gabriel to me, then back to Gabriel.

  "Hel-lo," she says. "I love a man who feels free to put his filthy feet all over my furniture." But she's using her pudding voice, warm and sweet and familiar. Agatha can say anything in that tone and no one would take offense. Compared to Rowena, she's an amateur, but then again it's hardly fair to compare anyone to Rowena, and I've seen the Agatha Effect in action.

  And Gabriel is no exception. He dusts off her chair with wide sweeping motions while saying, "Wow, sorry—this looks like a family heirloom."

  "Maybe it is," Agatha says, handing me my Coke before cracking hers open. Then she gives him her lightning-fast smile and holds up her can. "Want some? I'll find a cup for you since I don't want your germs all over the place. I mean, maybe if I knew you better—"

  I obey my cue. "Gabriel, this is Agatha. Agatha, this is Gabriel."

  They shake hands, the movement of their arms long and ropy. I press the edge of the soda tab into my palm until the metal pinches my skin.

  "So how do you know Tam?" Agatha asks him.

  "Tam and I go way back." His eyes meet mine briefly. My face feels warm and I drink some Coke quickly.

  "Oh?" Agatha says.

  "Family friends," I say. "Gabriel and his mom just moved back here."

  "Cool," Agatha says. "So, do you think I captured her essence?" she asks and, to my horror, holds out her sketchpad to Gabriel. "That's my assignment. 'Capture the essence of your subject.'"

  "Um ... he doesn't need to see that," I say, moving forward to snag the sketchpad out of Agatha's hand. But she sidesteps me and I'm too late anyway—Gabriel is already examining her drawing with interest.

  "Not so good, right?" she prompts as they both study the page and then me so intently that I want to sink through the floor.

  "Not your fault," Gabriel says at last. "Take it from me, Tam's pretty hard to pin down on paper."

  "You're right," Agatha says as if that's the most profound thing she's heard all day. Just in time I remind myself it's probably not all that attractive to snort.

  Her gaze snags on the yellow flyer, now on my desk. "What's this?"

  "That's my show. You should come."

  Agatha nods enthusiastically. Like me, she loves checking out bands on the weekends. "Where?"

  "Silver Tree."

  "Awesome. Our fake IDs work there." She drinks more of her Coke, sets the can on her desk, and rummages around for a few minutes. "Where did I put my freaking charcoals?"

  "They're probably in your closet. On the top shelf," Gabriel says helpfully.

  Agatha gives him a dubious look but walks over to her closet anyway, reaching for the top shelf. Then she whirls around, charcoal set in hand, her eyes wide and wondering. "How did you know that?"

  Gabriel shrugs. "Uh ... it's where I like to keep all my important stuff. In the closet."

  "Thanks for stopping by," I say brightly, pinning the flyer to the cluttered square of corkboard over my desk.

  "So you're coming next weekend?"

  I nod. I really wish that I could come up with something witty right about now, but he doesn't give me time. "Great to meet you," he tells Agatha before winking at me and walking out the door.

  "Does that mean he's gay?" Agatha muses after we hear the hallway door close. I choke on my soda. "That closet comment he made," she prompts when I stare at her.

  "I don't think so," I gasp, my nose tingling sharply.

  Agatha whacks me on the back.

  "Good, because he is hot. Hot with three t's."

  I settle back down onto the beanbag, arranging my legs in a more comfortable position. "You think so?" I say neutrally after a minute. The soda tab snaps off the top of the Coke can. The metal is now warm from my hand.

  "Don't you?"
r />   "He's okay," I say.

  Agatha gives me a wry look over the top of her sketchpad. "And he's totally in love with you."

  "What?" I sit upright.

  "Be still," Agatha says, lifting her pencil. She's smiling.

  "But you don't—"

  She rolls her eyes, tapping her pencil on the page. "It's obvious, stupid."

  I lean back, trying to digest this information, trying to figure out how I feel. Then I shake my head. "He's a friend of the family."

  Agatha frowns at me. "So what?"

  How can I explain to Agatha that for me that's something to be avoided at all costs? That falling for Gabriel would really torch any hope of escaping from the seriously suffocating arms of my family. I roll the soda tab between my fingers. "Not my type."

  "Hmm," Agatha says, studying my face a little too long. "Try not to move so much this time."

  I sigh inwardly, relieved that she's off the topic of Gabriel.

  But then she adds, "And stop blushing, too."

  SIX

  BY THE TIME Gabriel's show comes around a week later, I feel ready for a break from school. Agatha and I have been quizzing each other relentlessly on SAT vocab words every night before bed. Consequently, I dream of opening up a test booklet full of words that I've never seen before. And every day more and more college catalogs arrive at the downstairs front desk for us to look at. Agatha keeps mentioning Reed and Stanford and the University of San Diego. I don't have the heart to tell her that my parents will never let me leave the state, let alone go across the country.

  We spend our usual amount of time getting ready. Me: ten minutes. Agatha: going on an hour as she tries on and discards every shirt in her closet before moving over to mine. "That looks great," I say for the fourth time, my head bent over my copy of The Tempest.

  "Am I getting fat?" Agatha moans, standing before the full-length mirror that we glued to the back of the door. Who knows how we're getting it off at the end of the year.

  "No," I say automatically, then snap my book shut. I wander over to my makeup kit, pick up my green glitter eye shadow, and decide to apply another coat to my eyelids. I'm relatively happy with my outfit, a denim overalls mini dress with my green and gold tube top underneath.