Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2)

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  “Well, that’s one way of knocking.” Declan’s cadence deepened and lengthened, as it used to do when he was pleased. Or when he was preparing to do bodily harm. Apparently, he hadn’t completely changed.

  I pivoted, slamming my open palm onto the buzzer. “This is Wisteria Fairchild. You will open the wards, granting entry to me and Declan Benoit, and then you will answer our questions.” My haughty tone intensified, sounding nothing like my poised, professional self. “Or I’ll tear it all down.”

  I slammed my palm against the buzzer a second time. Then, with a sharp pulse of my magic, I intentionally overloaded its electronics.

  Declan chuckled under his breath. He was juggling three small, smooth stones in his right hand, each one feeling as if it contained a tiny burst of his magic.

  I took three deliberate steps to my left, standing directly in front of the gates.

  “One,” I said, raising my voice but not shouting.

  The ward magic standing between me and the house shifted. The gates began to open.

  Declan swore something nasty, quietly. When we were younger, he’d never spoken in his native Creole. Over all the years that Jasmine had given me his address so I could mail Declan his birthday reconstruction, I couldn’t remember any of them suggesting he’d gone back to Louisiana. Of course, I also had no idea if he’d ever received or opened those packages.

  As we waited shoulder to shoulder for the gates to creep open, I wanted to ask after Declan’s mother and whether or not he’d tracked her down. But the question was too intimate — and would have been so even under different circumstances.

  We didn’t huddle in the orchard grass anymore, hidden from the stars by the boughs of fruit-laden apple trees. Whispering secrets to each other.

  Down the long drive, the front door of the stone mansion opened. The inside light setting the stained-glass sidelights ablaze spilled across the front steps, golden white. A tall blond woman stepped out, appearing to be in her early forties though I knew she was a decade older.

  Dahlia Fairchild.

  Jasmine’s mother. The youngest of the Fairchild sisters. Ward builder and charms maker.

  My aunt was dressed from head to toe in deep cream, wearing a silk blouse, wool crepe pants, and low-heeled shoes. A three-strand pearl necklace stood out against her lightly tanned skin. She glowered in our direction, crossing her arms against the chill.

  I didn’t take a single step until the gates had fully opened. Then, with Declan following, I walked up the drive briskly, maintaining eye contact with Dahlia the entire time.

  An equally tall man stepped out behind her, running his hand casually through his lighter blond hair. His pleased smile was in complete contrast to his wife’s hardened demeanor.

  Grey Fairchild. Declan and Jasmine’s father. By blood, at least. Overseer of the day-to-day business of running the various Fairchild corporations and business interests.

  “Rudeness doesn’t become you, Wisteria,” Dahlia said as we drew close.

  I didn’t bother answering, pausing only when we reached the base of the stone steps leading up to the entranceway. From this vantage point, I could see the massive crystal chandelier centered within the sweep of the foyer stairwell.

  “Dahlia Fairchild.” I acknowledged my aunt first, then glanced over at Grey. Declan and Jasmine’s father was more casually dressed than his wife, wearing a brown crew-neck sweater and black slacks. “Grey Fairchild. We have questions pertinent to our investigation.”

  Dahlia jutted out her chin. “How dare you speak —”

  I interrupted her smoothly. “I believe I’ve already made it obvious what I will or will not dare to do. On more than one occasion.”

  I let the heavily implied threat settle between us.

  Grey glanced uneasily at Dahlia.

  My aunt dropped my gaze, turning back into the house without another word. She hadn’t acknowledged Declan at all.

  Another wide grin spread across Grey’s face. His hair had lightened and thinned with age, making him appear to be his natural age, somewhere in his midfifties. Apparently, he didn’t subscribe to my mother’s age-defying potions. “We were just having an after-dinner drink.”

  “We aren’t staying,” I said. “We’re here on business.”

  “Yes. You’ve made yourself clear, niece.” He stepped to the side, indicating the way into the house.

  I climbed the steps, passing Grey and crossing through into the foyer. Light-gray marble spanned the entranceway, leading to the drawing room on the left and the front parlor on the right. A sweeping staircase of dark wood cut through the center of the house. Antique glass sconces adorned the walls, bestowing the entrance with a soft haze of warm light.

  I heard, rather than saw, Grey clap a hand to Declan’s shoulder.

  “Son.”

  I didn’t turn back to gauge Declan’s response. I didn’t want to see more pain etched across his already perpetually tense features. But for all I knew, maybe he had forged some sort of relationship with Grey after all the years that had passed.

  I continued through the entranceway, knowing that Dahlia would be pouring herself a second — or third — glass of Chardonnay in the drawing room. I had three questions to ask. And, depending on the answers, I wanted to be gone before she had a chance to pour her next glass.

  Removing my coat and carefully folding it over my left arm, I double-checked that Jasmine’s necklace was hidden underneath the lace scarf Pearl Godfrey had made me. Whether or not my aunt and uncle knew it, the fact that I wore a gift from the chair of the Convocation held sway in this house. For good or evil, depending on everyone’s individual mood.

  Despite my bluff at the gates, Dahlia could physically remove Declan and me from her home with a flick of her wrist. Power plays would get me only so far with my family. As soon as I stopped either amusing or intriguing them, I’d have to ante up. The Fairchilds weren’t known for their attention spans. Jasper and I were the exception.

  I wasn’t comfortable comparing myself to my uncle in any way, but it was the truth — and quite possibly the reason Dahlia had allowed us onto the property so easily. For fear that what had happened to Jasper could also happen to her.

  It was a concern I’d encouraged twelve years ago, when punishment was to be meted out over Jasper’s fate. A narrative I’d built that went beyond the actual capacity of Jasmine, Declan, and me to create any sort of real chaos. And I still believed that it was my hastily strung-together accounting that had kept Declan alive.

  One of us had needed to be punished for what we’d done to Jasper. Declan was the easiest target, forever the outsider. I’m not sure it even crossed our parents’ minds to believe me, to side with us over their coven leader. At sixteen, Declan had no hope of standing alone against even a single elder Fairchild, let alone the entire coven.

  So I’d made a deal. And now, more than a decade later, I was just as desperate to get out of Connecticut with Jasmine safe as I was to escape without the details of my peace treaty crumbling under reexamination.

  A fire was crackling away in the large white-brick fireplace that occupied the far wall of the drawing room. The wood-framed sash windows on either side had been opened to counter the heat. Dahlia prowled back and forth within a few feet of the flames. The cut-crystal wineglass in her hand reflected the fire, filled with blood-red wine that glowed as if teeming with potent magic. Apparently, Declan’s and my arrival called for something more substantial than Chardonnay.

  I didn’t bother setting down my bag or my coat, choosing to stand just within the seating area. The antique furniture hadn’t changed since my grandparents had occupied Fairchild House. Cleaning charms, wielded specifically by Dahlia, maintained the upholstery, the carpets, and the wooden floors. Or at least such charms had been used for the past twelve years.

  For centuries before, brownies had kept the Fairchild houses tidy and our tables filled with food. The members of that rare race of the Adept weren’t servants, however
. They chose whom to align themselves with — usually a bloodline, but occasionally a specific area or parcel of land, regardless of who its owner was. Often, the responsibilities for maintaining estates would pass down from generation to generation.

  The mostly unseen presence of brownies was considered a blessing, and their magic was symbiotic. They kept our homes, even fortified our lands — and in doing so, they maintained their connection and place with the magical world.

  But Jasper and I had severed that connection. No brownies would ever tie themselves to a Fairchild again.

  Grey swept past me toward a sideboard laden with crystal decanters filled with wines and spirits of various hues, partially jostling me out of my tainted recollections. From the corner of my eye, I saw Declan leaning in the archway behind me, not entering the room.

  “Without Bluebell, we might all be dead. Jasmine, Declan, and I,” I said, aware that I was lashing out at myself more than anyone else in the room. “Or starved, at a minimum.”

  A vicious snarl flashed across Dahlia’s face. Grey raised a cautioning hand in her direction, holding sterling silver tongs and a single cube of ice aloft in the other hand.

  I hadn’t meant to be so confrontational, so up front. Not right away, at least. But the comment had slipped out, just as my magic had been doing for months.

  Directness wasn’t a trait encouraged at Fairchild family gatherings.

  Dahlia regained her composure. In response, Grey turned back to the sideboard, ignoring the decanter of wine and pouring what I assumed was a scotch on the rocks instead.

  “We know what you hold to be true, Wisteria.” My uncle’s tone was patient, almost warm, but definitive.

  “Yes,” Dahlia said with some heat. “We know exactly who to blame.”

  Her eyes darted toward Declan for a split second, then she immediately locked her gaze to me instead.

  I smiled smugly.

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  I carefully schooled my expression. Dahlia was still scared of Declan. Good.

  “When was the last time you saw Jasmine?” I phrased the first of my three questions as politely as I could, knowing that Grey and Dahlia should have answered it when Declan asked them hours ago.

  “Monday. Two days ago.” Grey matched my smooth tone. “She stayed for the weekend.”

  “She was in Litchfield on a job?” My second question.

  “Visiting her parents,” Dahlia said. “Is that so difficult for you to understand?”

  I almost answered snottily, but for the sake of expediency I opted for my third question instead. “Where did she say she was going when she left?”

  They glanced at each other.

  “To see you,” Grey said. “For a belated Christmas celebration.”

  He was lying.

  Witches weren’t natural lie detectors. Not like werewolves, who could hear the slightest increase in another creature’s heartbeat. But Fairchilds didn’t hesitate before speaking.

  “She wasn’t planning to be in Seattle for three more days.” I waited for either of them to respond.

  They didn’t.

  Declan snorted. “Let’s move on, Wisteria. This didn’t matter to Dahlia this morning, and it won’t matter now. Jasmine will have stayed in her room. You can look for residual to reconstruct.”

  “You won’t be performing any magic in this house,” Dahlia blurted out.

  “No?” Declan took two measured steps into the drawing room, deliberately casting his gaze around. “Who’s going to stop me from finding Jasmine? You?”

  “She’s not missing,” Grey said irritably. “You know she’s off with some … boyfriend.”

  “Without her phone?” I asked.

  Grey’s brow creased with the first hints of worry.

  “I repeat,” Dahlia said. “You will not be casting in this house.”

  “She will, stepmommy dearest,” Declan said. “And if you want to try to stop her, you’ll have to go through me.”

  “I’ll throw you out, you ingrate,” Dahlia spat. “Long before you can cast a single counterspell.”

  Declan flicked something at her in response. Dahlia shrieked and spun away, sloshing her red wine across her cream silk blouse and pants.

  Whatever Declan had thrown landed in the fireplace, then exploded harmlessly with a shower of sparks. “Try me,” he said. “I always thought this place could do with some updating.”

  “That’s enough,” Grey said sternly. Then to my surprise, he turned to Dahlia. “From both of you. It’s past time to be done with this nonsense.”

  Dahlia sneered at her husband. Though to judge by her body language, she was more livid about her outfit than by his words.

  “Wisteria,” Grey said. “Please feel free to search any room of the house you deem necessary.” Dahlia opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “I believe you need to change. Then perhaps you can fill me in on whatever information Declan provided you this morning. About our supposedly missing daughter?” He placed heavy emphasis on the word ‘our.’

  My aunt lifted her chin defiantly.

  I turned away from their escalating argument, swiftly crossing out of the drawing room before I got entangled in it any further.

  Declan was a constant reminder for Dahlia of Grey’s infidelity. But having known of his existence for almost twenty years — and not divorcing Grey — it seemed more than past time for her to let it go.

  The same logic didn’t apply to the grudge I carried, though. Leaving Jasmine, Declan, and me to the mercy of Jasper’s so-called training was another matter altogether.

  Crossing through the entranceway, I quickly jogged up the foyer stairs toward Jasmine’s bedroom on the second level. For a brief moment, I thought Declan might not follow me, and I wondered if I should be worried about him bringing the house down on our heads. But before I was halfway up the stairs, I heard his heavy footsteps behind me.

  I couldn’t imagine what being in the house and talking to Dahlia with any sort of civility was costing him.

  Actually, I couldn’t imagine what calling me had cost Declan. My betrayal was much more destructive than that of a father and a stepmother who’d never even pretended to love him.

  I had loved Declan beyond anything and everything. And I’d still walked away.

  Oak hardwood inlaid with walnut ran throughout the upper levels of Fairchild House. The bedrooms branched off from the top of the stairs along a central corridor, with guest rooms at the front and family rooms closer to the rear. Jasmine’s room was on the far left, beyond the main bathroom.

  Tugging the first of my pillar candles from my bag, I pushed open the door to her bedroom. Crossing through to the window without bothering to glance around, I immediately placed my green candle — for earth — on the north-facing desk.

  Only then did I notice the piles of electronics occupying every surface in the room. Multiple laptops were stacked on the white-painted antique desk. Tablets and cellular phones were tucked among rows of fantasy and sci-fi titles on the built-in white-painted bookshelves. Monitors and computer towers had been haphazardly stored in the corners of the walk-in closet, which stood with its paneled doors ajar as if Jasmine had grabbed something from within its depths, then left in a hurry.

  I spun around, scanning the pink and green decor of the room.

  Declan paused in the doorway, watching me.

  Jasmine had never bothered to redecorate, simply layering more items on top of the colors and fabrics she’d selected for the room as a teenager. Electronics also littered the white canopy bed and its side tables, most of them in some state of dissection.

  “Was … is she … building something?” I asked, retrieving my three other candles, then leaving my bag and coat tucked out of the way on the deep windowsill.

  Declan shrugged.

  I stepped to my right, skirting the edge of the large rug that ran underneath the bed, then placing my blue candle on one of the side tables. Blue for water.


  “What do you need the candles for?” Declan asked.

  “For my circle.”

  He snorted. “You know this room. You know this house. Use the walls as your edge, the wards as your final boundary.”

  “My collections are contained. Precise. Without flaw.”

  “Yeah. I get that about you now.”

  If we were still nine years old, Declan would have just called me a scaredy-cat. If we were still nine years old, I would have effortlessly proven my magical prowess to him, then laughed when he begrudgingly acknowledged my superior ability.

  But we weren’t nine. And adults didn’t goad each other into botched castings.

  I eyed him without speaking, maintaining as much poise as I could given the circumstances.

  He frowned, crossed his arms, and didn’t bother me any further.

  Nudging as much of the technology to the outer edges of the room as I could move easily, I placed my two remaining candles — red for fire at the south, white for air at the east. There was a chance that the reconstruction I was about to cast would damage Jasmine’s devices, but I hesitated to remove them from the room because I wasn’t sure what, if any, clues I was about to uncover. My spell would call forth only residual magic. If Jasmine had interacted with something nonmagical, I might not be able to piece together what was happening if I couldn’t get a visual sense of what she’d been working on.

  I knew without bothering to drop my personal shields that the entire room would be coated in layer upon layer of Jasmine’s magic. Despite living with Declan and me at Fairchild Manor from the ages of nine to sixteen, this had been her bedroom from the moment of her birth. If she’d been here within the last few days, I would need to extricate that point in time from years of older residual impressions.

  I retrieved my lighter from my bag, expecting Declan to make some crack about me using nonmagical means to light my candles. He didn’t.

  Pacing the room in as much of a circle as I could, including crawling across the bed, I lit the pillars one by one.