by Mindy Klasky
The stone fit on the book. The moroccan leather reached up somehow, embraced the crystal, accepted it, melded with it. Intellectually, I knew that they remained separate, that they remained gold and green, stone and leather, mineral and animal, but my witchy senses told me that they had become more, that they had merged, that they had bonded. Next to me, Neko shivered, and I knew that he sensed what we had accomplished as well.
As did David. He nodded his approval and prompted, “Take the power of the citrine, now, and bind it to the book. Meld it with the pages. Spread it through your gift.”
I understood his words. I knew that I was deeply enthralled, that I was bound up in my powers, but I also knew I could ask a question without breaking that spell. “Am I trying to create a barrier?”
“You’re creating a cover. A protective wrapper. Only you can decide what shape that cover will take. You can craft a shield that only Teresa Alison Sidney can penetrate, so that none of the other witches will know your gift. You can make a layer that is more welcoming, more open. You must decide what you want to say. What message you want to send to Teresa Alison Sidney. To the Coven.”
What message did I want to send?
David had told me more than a little about the Washington Coven during our last year of training, even though I had shied away from the topic whenever possible. The Coven was the very core of witchcraft in our region. The women members—all witches were women, even if they relied on male warders for their protection—met regularly to educate one another on arcane practice, to learn new spells, new ways to harness the powers of runes and herbs and crystals.
The Coven also acted as a social center. Each woman could share the unalloyed joy of magic, the surge of energy that came from using her powers, and each member could commiserate on the frustrations—the spells that didn’t work, the magic that could not be bridled.
The Washington Coven wove into a network of witches throughout the country, the world. The Coven gave its witches a spiritual home, an anchor. It gave them a place to belong, a place where they would be welcomed by sisters, no matter how odd—to a mundane eye—the magic they worked. Behind the Coven’s walls, a woman could be sheltered, could blossom, could grow—with guidance and protection from others who had walked the same—or different—magical pathways.
But I had never been one to join clubs. In college, I had disliked the chummy exclusiveness of sororities, and I’d actively distrusted any group that required hazing to join. Or maybe that had only been my reaction because my first-and second-choice sororities wouldn’t have me. In any case, David had made it clear multiple times: Witches belonged in covens. Witches were safest in covens. Witches learned more in covens.
So, how exactly should I present myself to Teresa Alison Sidney and the Washington Coven?
I could be brazen, showing off every last drop of my power and strength, pouring it into the citrine, over the book, building up an edifice that spoke of pride and power and arrogance.
I could be humble, submitting to the Coven completely, showing my figurative underbelly and asking for support and guidance, for protection.
I could be rebellious, mining the book with spikes of power, with jagged edges that reflected my refusal to submit to any will not my own.
Each image that rose in my mind was accompanied by a vision of the citrine’s field. I could never change the stone’s essential aura of generosity, of well-being. But I could groom it. I could shape it. I could craft it into whatever I wanted it to be.
Another deep breath, another gathering of my thoughts. More tendrils stretched toward Neko, reaching for his familiar-power, for his unique skill in magnifying and amplifying my own magic.
And then I shaped the citrine’s bonds.
I felt as if I was organizing a miniature library. I could place each spark of power precisely, line up my witchery like books on a shelf. I could make every element straight, place every figurative spine in a precise spot meticulously measured from the front of each imagined shelf. I could shape the citrine like the most rigid of academic libraries, create an autocratic blanket of power that would stretch smooth and unbroken over the treasure of my book.
But I wasn’t an orderly witch. I wasn’t even and heavy, passive and calm.
By nature, I was a wilder person, a more tumultuous worker of magic. By comparison, I was a comfortable hometown bookstore more than an academic library. I was a series of rooms holding hidden treasures, nooks and crannies, where someone was likely to find an overpadded reading chair and a dozing marmalade cat. I was carefully controlled chaos, not perfect organization.
I laughed out loud as I shaped the citrine. I spread its force over the book like a bibliophile unpacking a treasure trove of boxes. I had fun at the edges, stacking new thoughts, new powers, new books into complex designs. I complemented the brass hinges, mirrored the metal lock. I thought of every bookstore I’d ever visited in my life, every sudden discovery of a literary treasure, every serendipitous find in a lifetime of browsing.
The citrine responded well to my lighthearted approach. It captured my sense of goodwill, my hope, my optimism, and let itself be shaped. I could not say how long I worked with the stone, how many times I checked my design, modified my wrapping.
But I knew when I was done. I knew when the package said exactly what I wanted it to say. I knew when the Illustrated History of Witches had been transformed into something that was my unique offering, my special gift.
I opened my eyes at last. I saw Neko step away from me, watched him shrug his shoulders, regain his own balance and sense of self. I looked down at my gift, at what seemed to be an ordinary green-bound book, with an ordinary yellow stone sitting on its cover.
And then I looked at David.
He was staring at me. His lips were frozen in a bemused smile; his eyes were locked on mine. He scarcely seemed to acknowledge the book between us.
“What?” I said, and my voice was too loud for the room.
“Nothing,” he said, but he didn’t stop looking.
“Why are you staring at me that way?”
“You never fail to surprise me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that I don’t think anyone has ever presented Teresa Alison Sidney with a gift precisely like this one.”
“What do you mean?” Suddenly, the goodwill from the citrine dissipated, became a melody that I could remember humming but couldn’t sing out loud for the life of me. I clutched the edges of the book, recognizing what I had created but suddenly doubting what I had done. “I should have gone with the library, right? I should have made it perfect.”
“You did make it perfect,” David said. “Perfect for you.”
I didn’t believe him, though. “It’s not right, is it? I should do something else. Use my powers another way.”
“I wouldn’t let you, even if you tried.”
“You’re my warder! You’d have to!” Self-doubt sharpened my voice.
David only smiled. “Trust me. I know what’s best for you here. What’s best for your safety. What’s best for your life as a witch.”
“And this is best?” I felt like a child, like a little girl, suddenly unsure of herself in patent-leather Mary Janes and corded tights.
“This is best,” David said. “The best that I can imagine you ever doing.”
I tried to believe him, but I wished that I was meeting with Teresa Alison Sidney then. That very afternoon. I wasn’t sure that I could stand to wait six long days.
Neko stepped forward, planting his hands on the book stand. “Well, I can’t imagine going one more minute without something to eat. Preferably shrimp. With a side of crab salad.”
I laughed unsteadily and let my familiar lead the way upstairs to the kitchen. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder at the citrine-wrapped Illustrated History of Witches.
5
I stared balefully at the pile of clothes on my bed. I had come home from work at six o’clock and immedi
ately discarded my layers of colonial clothing: hoops, jacket, petticoat, neck kerchief, sleeve ruffles. All were lying on top of my comforter, competing with each other to develop the deepest, most hard-to-press wrinkles.
On top of my costume lay dozens of other outfits—skirts, blouses, T-shirts, slacks—all in black. After all, black was basic. Black was dramatic. Black was sexy.
And I had enough to choose from. I had clingy black and sloppy black, goth black and elegant black, temptress black and too-fat black. I’d spent the evening combining separates that had no business being in the same closet together, much less on the same body. I’d dug out clothes that I hadn’t worn since I’d last tried to drag Melissa to clubs, over a decade ago. I even tried the outfit that used to be my favorite one for work, before I was forced into the finest that Martha Washington had to offer.
Nothing was right for my date with Graeme Henderson. Nothing conveyed the energy that I wanted, the carefree, devil-may-care insouciance of a girl meeting a guy for late-night coffee.
(Who drank coffee at night, anyway? What sort of strange relationship disaster was I setting myself up for?)
Frustrated, I collapsed on my bed and stared at my nearly empty closet. If I were going to a formal dinner party, I was all set—I still had the emerald sheath dress that Neko had chosen for me last year, the one that was shot through with golden threads, the one that had made me feel like a princess at the Concert Opera Guild Harvest Gala. Somehow, though, I thought that was a bit much for a Wednesday-night get-together.
Green, though. A shot of color. Maybe that’s where I was going wrong. Maybe I should look at the five percent of my wardrobe that wasn’t black.
I tugged open my dresser drawers and dug to the bottom of a pile of T-shirts. (Yes, I needed four black ones. What girl didn’t?) The tourmaline blue had been a gift from Melissa; I’d teased her at the time that she’d chosen it because it would look great on her. She hadn’t appreciated my sense of humor.
I pulled the seamless garment over my head and checked in the mirror. It was streamlined, sleek. It looked as cool as the water in a swimming pool, promising a refreshing splash on a sweltering summer night.
And there. In my closet. A sapphire skirt. Now that I thought about it, the skirt had also been a present from Melissa. Maybe she was sending me a message. Maybe she thought that I needed to change up my wardrobe a bit.
In this instance, though, I couldn’t argue. The T and the skirt worked perfectly together. They combined to look cool and breezy, fresh. It seemed, in fact, that I’d simply reached for two garments readily at hand, tossing on any old thing, because what girl has time to fuss with getting dressed? No one would be able to tell that I had decimated my wardrobe to get to this point.
Next up: hair. I could take a quick shower and blow-dry my unruly auburn mop. Years of experience, though, told me that I’d be fighting fate. The dryer would take nearly half an hour, and my hair would frizz in the late-August heat within seconds of my stepping outside. I decided not to fight reality. A simple barrette would keep my mane off my neck.
I ducked into the bathroom and washed my face. Continuing my theme of summer simplicity I decided to do without a full makeup session. A bit of blush, a hint of indigo eye liner, a dash of lipstick.
Enough. This was a date. Not a marriage proposal. The paparazzi weren’t going to be anywhere in sight.
I grabbed my clutch purse from my dresser and slipped into comfortable, flat sandals. Graeme Henderson might have been the most interesting man I’d met in months, but I wasn’t going to waste the pain of high heels on him. Especially not when I was walking to the restaurant, walking over the scenic cobblestones that still lined many of Georgetown’s streets.
I got to the front door before my plan fell apart.
“Sneaking out?” Neko chuckled from one of the hunter-green couches. I’d been so intent on leaving that I hadn’t noticed him. Him, or Jacques.
“Not sneaking at all!” I said defensively, looking furtively at the door.
Neko had been resting his head in Jacques’s lap, but now he scrambled upright. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Neko pouted. “I bet you wouldn’t answer your grandmother that way.”
“You’d lose your bet.”
Jacques stepped in before Neko could complain again. “You look quite lovely thees evening, Jane.” His accent was strong in the living room’s dim light, and I smiled at the Gallic softening of my name, despite myself. What did that French hottie find in Neko? Especially given my familiar’s rather, um, unorthodox housing arrangement and his invisible means of financial support? Oh well—the things we do for love. Or at least for strong, mutual physical attraction….
Jacques asked, “Who ees the lucky man?”
“Who says there’s a lucky man?” I answered too quickly.
“Any man who will dine with you ees lucky. And at nine-thirty. I am turning you eento a proper French girl.”
“It’s not dinner,” I said, although my stomach chose that moment to grumble and remind me that I hadn’t actually eaten after work. “Just coffee. And dessert.”
Neko pounced. “Food. Drink. It is a date, then. Where?”
“Bistro Francais,” I said. After all, they’d get the information out of me eventually.
“Ah, bon!” Jacques exclaimed. “They are open until the earliest hours of the morning. Perhaps Neko and me, we will come weeth you?” He nodded, as if this were the most brilliant idea he’d ever conceived. “We will join you there. Make sure that thees man you see ees a good one.”
“No!”
I thought of the silver-lined card tucked beneath my mattress, the card that Melissa had made me promise to keep secret from Neko. Even greater than the promise, though, was my terror of the very real romantic damage my familiar could do if he put his mind to it. In fact, even if he didn’t—Neko had a knack for saying precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time. Graeme would flee the bistro in short order if Neko had anything to do with orchestrating my love life.
My familiar hid a delicate yawn behind his hand. “Are you ashamed of us, Jane, or are you ashamed of your mystery man?”
I felt the walls closing in on me. But then, like a ray of sunshine slicing through a fog bank, I saw a way to escape. “If you must know, I’m meeting Melissa. She wanted to keep it secret. We’re going to try the desserts at the Bistro, to see if there’s anything she should duplicate for Cake Walk. We’ll be there, sort of in disguise.”
Both Neko and Jacques deflated at Melissa’s name. After a moment’s blessed silence, though, Neko twitched his nose, as if he could smell my lie. “Melissa? Sampling Bistro Francais at nine-thirty at night? Doesn’t she have to be at her own bakery by four in the morning?”
“All the more reason—they’ll never suspect their competition,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “Please, Neko.” I looked pointedly at Jacques. “The last thing I need is to have her angry, when she’s trying to go unnoticed.”
Jacques let out a long Gallic sigh, as if all the chateaux in France were weighing on his shoulders. “Poor Meleessa. I never meant…” He sighed again.
Neko stroked the poor Frenchman’s hair, flashing a look to me that implied I had overstepped my bounds. “Go on, then,” he grumbled. “Go enjoy your tarts.”
I thought about challenging his tone, but I realized that I’d won the battle. Waggling my fingers in the guys’ general direction, I ducked out the door, pulling it shut behind me.
Time was running short; I had to hurry through the heavy August night. The sun was still setting late; a faint hint of crimson afterglow remained in the sky. Despite the hour, heat shimmered off the sidewalk, and I wondered once again why our founding fathers had insisted on building their capital on a swamp.
When I was a block away from the Bistro, I stopped to catch my breath. I glanced at my watch—9:25. Perfect timing. I didn’t want to get there too early, but I didn’t want to be late. Receptive, I wa
nted to project. Open. But not eager. Not needy.
I resisted the urge to run my fingers through my hair. I even managed not to nibble at the nails on my right hand. I took three quick breaths to calm myself, and then I walked the last block to the restaurant.
“Bonsoir, madame,” the maître d’ said, his accent challenging Jacques’s for Continental grace.
“Um, hello.” I said. “I’m meeting someone here, at nine-thirty.”
“You are Meess Madison?” I nodded. “Right thees way.”
Graeme stood as the maître d’ escorted me to one of the booths in the back. The dining room was well lit, hardly a secret, romantic getaway, but Graeme had contrived to secure a quiet corner. Facing his movie-star good looks once again, I found my breath catching in my throat. His smile lit a tiny fire deep beneath my breastbone, and he said, “I’m so pleased that you could make it.”
Before I had a chance to worry about how to greet him, he stepped closer and leaned down, kissing me lightly on my cheek. I breathed in the scent of him—fresh air, with just a hint of evergreen—cool and quiet on a summer night. His greeting was more intimate than a handshake, more alluring than Jacques’s Continental two-cheek kiss. And it was infinitely more satisfying than the awkward dances I shared with David.
Graeme waved me to my seat, waiting until I was settled before he sat across from me. I cleared my throat and said, “I hope that you didn’t have any trouble finding this place.”
“None at all. I’m learning my way around.”
“How long have you been in the States?”
“For quite a few years, actually. I’m based here now, although my business takes me back to London regularly.”
